The Establishments of Man

source

Every now and again a man just needs a getaway. This necessity has spawned things such as "the two-car garage that never has a car in it" and "hunting camp." It has evolved into the Den and the Mancave. But could it go farther? Has it already gone farther and we just haven't concisely defined it yet? (All homoerotic overtones will try to be avoided, but at times may appear inevitable).

Here is a rough hierarchy starting from the most primitive and least involved to the least primitive and most involved.


The Hunting Blind

Whether it be six feet in height on the ground, or 6 inches in height and on a tree, very few things in life connect man with nature better than the Hunting Blind. Invented by Fred Bear sometime in the 1930s, the hunting blind was one of modern man's first retreat destinations. The ground mounted hunting blind was simply constructed, yet detailed acoustic consideration was taken into account (i.e. the rectangular slot machined for accommodating a gun barrel).

The predominant color of these blinds was black, with a few avid hunters opting for green (possibly an instinctual gravitation toward deep woods covert-ness). During harsh winter months, the Hunting Blind sometimes doubled as an Ice Shanty (which ranked slightly behind the Hunting Blind in our Establishment Survey results due to a smaller amount of mantime usually spent in it).

Hundreds of years from now, Archaeologists (and surviving hippies) will venture into the woodlands that were once fauna-filled and find these dry-rotted plywood artifacts. Amazingly enough though, with the last name and address of the owner of the blind still in tact, they will find out more about the Cabela's bargain hunting generation than they ever thought possible.


The Fishing Hole

Ahhhhh... The Fishing Hole. The most likely place to find a man looking to escape his problems during the summer months. A place where you can silence your Mariner outboard motor and let your troubles whisk away... until you snag your line on a hidden underwater sea log. A place where you can wear your fishing lures on your hat and nobody will judge you. A place where a babbling brook is much better than a nagging significant other. Okay... you get the point.


The Old Sports Bar

Keno. Cheap beer. Worn out barstools. Has beens. Never was's. This place has it all. Probably the last place in your area to comply with anti-smoking legislation. You have your regulars: Dale, Tim, Jeff, Mike who just got laid off, and of course Alfred, who hasn't had a job in 23 years but somehow can support a pretty steady diet of booze and Marlboro Golds.

This place has been a retreat for men in nearly all relationship situations (divorced, about to be divorced, contemplating divorce, calculating the cost of an attorney, and Alfred). The bartender knows everyone on a first name basis over the age of 26 and is either drying off glasses or asking "what'll it be?" The combination of the bartender also being the owner, and the friendly atmosphere amongst life's losers is kind of like a small-town version of 'Cheers,' minus the fact that midlife crises are actually not that entertaining... at all...


The Man Cave

Kegerator... Check. Dartboard... Check. Scattered collection of un-redeemed beer tabs for a 1996 softball fundraiser... Check. Welcome to "The Man Cave." Ranging from the size of a two-car garage to a 49 foot high tin pole barn, the Man Cave has recently gained steam and become one of the biggest and best hangouts for men in their early 30s to mid 50s. Decorated with italicized NASCAR numbers and mid-80s pin-up models, the Man Cave has become a glorified 'Little Rascals' clubhouse for middle-aged men of the current generation. Baby boomers be damned.


The Mantropolis

All of your superheroes live here. Superman, Spiderman, Aquaman, and the like... What do all of these superheroes have in common? The word MAN. Welcome to Mantropolis. Opinions are necessary but open-mindness is not. After intense litigation to smuggle the rights to this name from what could have been a very successful gay bar, Mantropolis now defines the sprawling area needed to finally create the Man Kingdom. Steve Garvey lives here. There is not one DSW shoe store within 85 miles of Mantropolis. Arguments are resolved via fistfights, and all of the members of Man Parliament have thick beards and wear flannel. The one problem with Mantropolis? The population only grows smaller due to the absence of women.


The Manpire

No, this is not a Man Vampire. That would be a Vampire. This is a Man Empire (think back to ancient Greece and Rome). This however, is a modern Man Empire. The roads are paved with aftershave, and there is such a thing as PBR beer plants. Unfortunately the only antiperspirant available is Old Spice due to their unbelievable 97 percent market share in Man Scent. But that's okay, because nothing can overwhelm the scent of motor oil and over-worn brake pads that dominate this Man Land. This is a place where every Sunday morning before football and/or "the race" you can find a man beneath his truck with a crescent wrench. This is a place where 3 ounces of Whopper mustard on your shirt pocket is held in the same regard as a merit badge. The infrastructure is 100 percent steel, the bar is always open, and the game is always on. By Law... or shall we say, Mandate.



Need more rugged Dude content? How about this? Or this? Or... This

He's A Mustache Machine!

He shaves it off. It reappears above his lips two days later. Some call this a blessing. He regards it as a curse.

This upper lip follicle factory has been in constant “eager beaver” production mode since shortly after his 13th birthday. Since this time, he has been irresistible to both women and pedophilic freight handlers alike.

“At first [when growing mustaches] I thoroughly enjoyed the attention... but now, it’s out of hand... how in the hell can I get out of the limelight, especially when the world has suddenly become infatuated with this style of facial hair?”

That is just a microcosm of the hell that Luke Langley has to deal with on a daily basis.

When TWID first found out about this man and his mustache growing ability, one word came to the minds of our staff almost unanimously... “Awesome.” It wasn’t until we talked to Luke Langley, that we truly learned that heavy is the face that wears the mustache.

“Honestly, it just sucks. I go to a professional sporting event, and within minutes of sitting down, I’m noticed on ‘fan cam’... My ‘stache gets blown up on the jumbotron, and people graciously applaud... Truth be told... I hate the attention and I hate the scrutiny.”

Well Luke, why don’t you just shave it off?

“Because in 48 hours, it has completely grown back.”


What an unbelievable life Luke leads.


Luke reported to us that he has spent an estimated $26,000 on razor blades over the course of the last 3 years. “That’s nearly one-third of my taxable income,” he says.

But what about all the attention he gets from women? “It’s great at first, but within weeks I realize that they were only dating me to get to my mustache... have you ever delivered flowers to the doorstep of a woman whom you thought loved you, but she ended up slamming the door in your face because you were clean shaven? It’s happened to me... It has happened to me.”

Those words resonated deeply with us. However, we too were hypnotized by this man’s brilliant mustache, and could not gather much more substance from the interview. A lot was said when we sat down with Luke, but little was actually recorded.


After the conclusion of the interview, we were left with a mixed bag of emotions. A part of TWID really wanted to reach out and just give Luke a hug. The remaining majority of us though, had a strong inkling to exploit this mustachioed maverick into the cash cow that he truly is.

All of this brings us back to a common theme prevalent in Society today. Do we merely use talented people for their talents? Do we truly appreciate them for who they are, or do we whore them out for the service they provide? We’re not really sure there is a good answer to any of these questions. Then again, we really haven’t been able to think too clearly ever since we first saw that dazzling ‘stache.



Need more scintillating reads for your lip-sweater? Try this. Or this. Or... This.

The GIF of Personality

Emotions, for the most part, are what separate us from the Apes. They are a thick cross-section of our personality, and although many emotions are shared, they are also uniquely our own.


That used to be true to the truest extent of true. Then somebody got this idea:


FINDING A BUG IN MY ROOM



That thing above was called a "what should we call me" or a "how I feel when" animated GIF.  It's a tapestry of images that runs its course in a matter of seconds (depending on your bandwidth). The little file upload that has become so outlandishly popular that it is setting a new standard on what is viral, on what is possibly mindless, and it is making a big impact.


If you have received no fewer than 250 of these in your email inbox and/or Facebook newsfeed by this point, feel free to stand up and take the name of your deity in vein loudly.

Welcome to the midpoint of 2012, a time when instead of actually expressing emotions interpersonally, we convey how we feel through a series of animated GIF files and YouTube videos. Today we rely much less on words to express how we feel, and I don't know how I feel about that.


Email chains have become a rat race to see who can find the funnier GIF that someone else created before someone else finds it. It's a mindless juxtaposition for actually making an effort to make someone smile. And those of us that peddle these creations the most, come off looking like drones. Drones that appear to be saying "fuck it!, I'm not funny, but at least I know someone else who is!"

Don't get me wrong. I love memes, I love the newest pictures on Reddit, but I don't love them so much that I would use them as a catalyst to conversation as an alternative to... well... conversation. And I certainly refuse to treat my friends as dead horses by viciously beating their temples with this shitty form of new non-novelty.


Did you know that there are actually blogs reaping dividends off of this new niche? Here's one. Here's another. This is our new "claim to fame." Entire websites devoted to equivocating someone else's ideas to express your own.

Hopefully this is just a fly-by-night ridiculous little fad that will make people realize its lack of substance in hindsight. Because as a collection of online avatars with a pulse, I think we're much better than this. I think we're capable of being creative, and I still think that the 2% of genetic code that separates us from the Apes is a bigger chasm than it sounds.

Rome wasn't built in a day, but it was seemingly destroyed over night. A domino effect that brought down an entire empire. Another sad example of lemmings following each other off of a cliff.

The acute influx of these GIF files could be bigger than Farmville and Cityville combined. Screw fetching online lumber for your imaginary pole barn. Screw warding off child predators. This is the new problem at hand in cyberspace. Yes, sometimes they are funny, and yes they are usually appropriate, but the foundation of humor was not built on implied and predictable nuance. It was not forged with the work of other people being whored out to misrepresentation. It was from novel thought and effort-fueled creativity. It was from the purest of quick-witted conjecture that didn't have so much evidently obvious factual basis that it could just be sharp and immediately elicit laughter. It was for those of us who like to laugh because we can't help it... not because we're supposed to.

Let's not destroy the "Rome" that Facebook accidentally created. Let's propagate original thought, and let's actually express our actual feelings once again (without going to the point of making our subscribers think we have suicidal tendencies).

Let's pause our gait, and quit taking steps backward into becoming an idiocracy, and let's collect ourselves and take a step forward into becoming a free-thinking society.

Perhaps this is a call to revise the constitution of online interaction. A time to bring back original thought. Perhaps we have a revolution on our hands.

This is how I feel when I want to start a revolution




Dear Christ, now I'm doing it...

If the "trending now" powers that be don't buck this trend soon, our personalities will be completely and inevitably hijacked by what other people/notable figures declare how we should react. We'll become boring regurgitators of movie lines and scenes, and this overwhelming amount of GIF will become yet another non-renewable resource, and due to how compulsively we overuse the shit out of everything, it will eventually become the GIF that doesn't keep on giving.

Everyone Talks Shit

As our society approaches infinity, each and every person will have had something bad said about them by someone else.

It doesn't matter if it's a byproduct of personal inadequacies, or if the person being shit on is just a real piece of work, the odds of defamatory shit-talking taking place hit better than even. And unless you’re lying to yourself, you’ve done some shit-talking as well. Don't be afraid that you aren't immune.

Talking shit about someone while they're not in the room is one of our oldest and most reliable social quaaludes. It's destructively soothing in the sense that it helps you calibrate your sanity- a free therapy session overseen by those unlicensed and unprofessional. A way of molting away an ugly emotional layer. 

Exercising this too much will make you an asshole, but doing it sparingly for the sake of soundness of mind is perfectly acceptable. Because nobody is perfect (not even Tim Tebow), and nobody is above a fair amount of criticism without being hypocritically critical.

Reasonable shit-talking is a hidden social norm (everyone does it, yet nobody acknowledges that everyone does it).

People tend to get up in arms in saying "don't talk shit behind my back," or lean on the sophomoric adage "true friends stab you in the front." But that's vintage bullshit. You should damn well know that they've done the same thing that they are accusing other people of doing, and their brief spout of piety is usually for the sake of wanting to project an image of stellar character. It’s the same reason this kind of person boasts the coordinates of the moral high ground each time a divisive issue grips our country. They take a complex subjective situation and turn it into a simple objective problem that they suddenly have the expertise to solve. 

Yeah, true friends will 'man up' and be honest in their criticisms of you once-in-a-while. But that's the reason they're still your friend, because that's something they only do "once-in-a-while."

Our lives are not all on record within a court of law. We're not dealing with slanderous libel each time we’re allegedly blasphemed. Saying a few things about a buddy behind their back when it's a true and honest insight is just a way of vetting out possibly fabricated ideas from true feelings about that person. I'm not saying you have free-reign to talk shit about every nuance you find in other people, but you also shouldn't double your guilt because you may have said something bad (yet true) about another person. You're not a slime ball, you're a person. And probably a decent one too.

People need to vent about things while at the same time not coming across as ungrateful assholes. And one of the best ways to accomplish this, is to confide in another friend. You don't want the person that annoys you ever-so-often to think that you bitch about everything, so you bitch about everything to someone else. And it somewhat makes you feel better, both helping you to tolerate the focal point of your interpersonal rant and possibly receive some affirmation that you’re not off base. Letting a little steam off is better than exploding and inevitably alienating yourself from this person over an end sum of grievances that will appear trivial in hindsight.

Remember, this is therapeutic. Go ahead and give qualifying statements. Statements such as "he's not a bad guy, but..." or "I'd hate to say something bad about this person, but..." So what if you sound like you're on the fence? So what if you might think you're acting like a pussy? Don't let the misguided ideal of machismo get in the way. These are things that need to come out, one way or another. And it's better that they come out through a venting session than a stomach ulcer.

"I don't care what other people think" is something stupid people say to protect their ignorance. Or a lie that some people have convinced themselves to believe. We all have feelings. Of course you care about what other people think, or at least you should. Because much self-improvement comes from evaluating your legitimate criticisms. You're an evolving, changing person, not a cinder block. What you should say is "I don't care what most people think," or "I don't care what some people think." If someone is just seeking to tear you down, then you invalidate their opinion. It’s easier said than done, but it's key for strong mental health. 

We would like to think we have most things under control, and we would like to think we have a grasp on what 'reality' really is. But at times we don't. And at times, it's very intelligent to admit that we have absolutely no fucking clue. If you could understand exactly where this world was heading, you probably wouldn't be reading blog articles underneath the fluorescent radiance of your stuffy office. And you most certainly wouldn't need to be deriving any sort of "pep talk” from me.

It's an unwritten truth that some people suck. Okay...a lot of people suck. And it's sad to say, but safe to admit that we find comfort in other people agreeing with us as to the extent at which they suck. No matter how independent you think you are, we are a social species. We thrive off of interaction, and we tend to bolster ourselves through reinforcement of our opinions, thoughts, and feelings. 

Everyone talks shit, and its continued practice will most likely not change. There are probably people talking shit about you right now. But don't let it get to you, don't jump to assumptions, and don't take it personal. It's their opinion, and it's probably just an emotional extrapolation from misconstrued facts (simply put). But that’s them, and you’re you. If they happen to be right, then maybe you needed to find out eventually. If they happen to be wrong, guess what? They were wrong. Ultimately you define who you are. You are the captain of your own ship. And just because they are talking shit, doesn't imply that you have to eat it.

Father of the Groom

Welcome back to another wedding season. The summertime ritual where you can't help but think to yourself, "holy shit, my buddy is getting married." It's a time to find a date, get a date, bring along the ole ball-and-chain, or clean up the sideburns and go stag. The heat is on.

It's time to bargain hunt the Mens Warehouse clearance rack, and redeem any Banana Republic coupons you've printed from your Firefox browser. It's a ridiculous rat race, and that's only from your perspective. Just imagining what it must be like for the parties involved makes spending way too much on a suit, abandoning any future plans for that weekend, and purchasing an outlandish outdoor grill set from the gift registry not seem all that insane. It's the least you could do for your former slovenly drinking buddy turned dapper groom.

And if you're just one of those people that doesn't typically carry around "compassion," let's explore this scenario and see if I can extract some.



The Father of the Groom versus The Father of the Bride

We all know that giving away your daughter's hand in marriage can be tough on the father. She's your angel, and you've been protecting her from men harder than any Marvel comic hero has ever protected their home city (alone or in tandem). But on the other side of the Chapel aisle is the giving away of the son to be married. This can be much, much, easier.


He's not your "Baby," and he's not your "pride and joy." If anything he's the result of sperm meeting egg in the back of a freshly vacuumed back seat adorned with empty beer cans and bargain champagne on a sloppy Friday night back in 1983.

The Father of the Bride looks forward to the relief that he's finally fended off all of the assholes trying to stick it in his daughter ever since she hit menarche. This is the celebration of the day where either the best asshole succeeded, or ideally, the best suitor has been found for the sacrament of matrimony.

The Father of the Groom on the other hand, sets the goal of drinking as much as he possibly can during the open bar, and can look forward to comparing his daughter-in-law to his wife during future light beer drinking heart-to-hearts with his son.


The Father of the Bride uses the antiquated and sexist cliche "I'm giving my daughter away."


The Father of the Groom wishes his son good luck on nailing his newlywed wife following the reception.


This is the one day that it is guaranteed that his son won't do something to completely piss him off, or disappoint him with yet another misguided decision.


This is the day when all eyes are on his son and future addition to the family, and it's not at all nerve-wracking from his perspective because he has been half in the bag since the photo-op back at the church.


This is the day when the Father of the Groom will be taking sips from a flask during the sermon, talking about Stephen Strasburg's 98 mph fastball with long lost friends at a buffet table over a few bud heavies, and getting cake all over his face in a suds soaked absence of shame.

The Father of the Bride will be drinking too, but he will be chasing shots of Crown Royale with antacids.


One father is a nervous wreck, the other, a train wreck.


For the Father of the Groom, this is where the rubber hits the road, and where his son's rubbers hit the storage closet. And while the father of the newly espoused spouse doesn't even come close to sharing this sentiment, the double-standard goes by both intentionally unrecognized and gladly embraced.


So here's to you this wedding season, the Father of The Groom. Crack open another Miller High Life, and toast to getting toasted on the day you're giving your son away.

Dude Versus Bro

Bro versus Dude. Dude versus Bro. PBR versus Natty Light. Flannel Shirts versus Lacrosse Pinnies. Classic Muscle Cars versus New Model Year Crossovers. Corn Dogs versus Ramen Noodles. Van Halen versus Deadmau5. So many subjective metrics to evaluate, but only one decision that ultimately can be made. A debate that will determine what makes up Dude DNA and what comprises Bro Building Blocks. A debate that will compare this Dude DNA with Bro Blocks in every facet short of harming the general population with a tainted blood transfusion supply. And from all of these findings, I shall once and for all decide the true victor in the pitting of Dude versus Bro.

* * *

1978 was the year. A year which the release of Animal House unofficially birthed the divide that has become Bro versus Dude. A movie that was responsible for mainstreaming the fraternity house experience. It started the popular notion of keggers and debauchery that many fraternities are now known for. Animal House's inside portrayal of early 60's frat life made it a cult classic, and turned what was just a sliver of frat life into the accepted and common reality of the fraternity social sphere. As this small sample of fraternity living evolved into something bigger, another social transformation occurred. Back in '62, the Animal House was filled with Dudes. Today, your typical fraternity is filled with Bros.


In the years during the phasing out of Dudes, and the simultaneous evolution of the Bro (basically the 1990's), the debate had begun to simmer. There was the genesis of the Bro, and the decline/deportation of the Dude. The transition from Budweiser and Jack to Natural Light and Smirnoff. And eventually, Dude and Bro became almost completely independent of each other, two easily identifiable entities, as polar opposite as possible. As with every polarizing issue, it became a topic of debate, and this debate now rages harder than any Bro has ever raged before. Bro versus Dude.


So why are they so different?


And what makes someone "definitely a Dude" and someone else a part of "Bro Boulevard"?
The answer to both of these questions? Sean Payton.




No, not really. But Sean Payton is a Dude in the same way Ashton Kutcher is a Bro.


Ashton Kutcher is the kind of guy who will hang out with you at the bar, the Bro who will help you pound beers in your dad's garage beforehand, and on every step of the prowl, even to the point of forwarding you an Express for Men Groupon during the work week. But... all things considered, Ashton Kutcher is merely a Bro. He's gonna let you down, and sooner or later, you'll find out that he's only there for the superficial aspects of your life.




Sean Payton on the other hand, is a Dude. He'll give you advice after you fuck up, tell you how much he enjoys your Gchat status, drive you to the airport when nobody else will, get the most out of you as a person, and put a bounty on your enemies head... all while still remaining your friend. All of this because of nothing, and all of this because he's a tried-and-true Dude.

* * *

Throughout the lives of men, at every stop, we're confronted with an inordinate amount of peers. At each of these stops, we ultimately have to ask ourselves, "Who are my Dudes?" and "Who are my Bros?"


As many a wise man have said, and/or written: "Keep your Bros close, and your Dudes closer."
This determination isn't always as easy as it first appears. Many times, a Dude can come across as a Bro when we first get to know them, and many times, a person we have initially pegged as a Bro eventually reveals himself to be a Dude. It seems at times that the only way to discover the difference is to feel the consequences of the experience. Sometimes to find out that your buddy may not be a Dude, is to get burned by a Bro. And that is how many of us learn. It's a fact of life: you learn from the burn.


For example, here are some cases based on shallow assumptions and absolutely no independent research.

• A Dude doesn't really listen to techno and/or club music. All Bros on the other hand, firmly understand that 4x4 = 12.

• Bros can be hipsters, and so can Dudes. But that is the only loophole accessible in the case of A and Bro Dudeality.

• Dudes like to eat chili, drink beer, and talk about sports with their comrades. Bros compete for faux lacrosse supremacy, wear backwards hats and casual white sneakers, spend an inordinate amount of time trying on hats, and say things like "come at me," "come get some," and "come on, Bro."

• Dudes drink Bud heavies, and up until 2010, Bros thought that PBR stood for Penetrative Bro Rape (since this discovery, Natural Light sales have acutely plummeted).

As previously mentioned, Sean Payton is a Dude, and Ashton Kutcher is a Bro. But what about other notable figures?

• Lance Berkman is a Dude... but he is nearly a Bro.

• Seann William Scott is nearly a Dude... but he's a Bro.

• John Wayne, if he were alive today, would definitely be a Dude.

• Sam Elliot is a Dude.

• Jeff Bridges is "The Dude," and his lack of recent irrelevance does not affect his current Dude status.

• Any minor male character in the American Pie series is a Bro.

• The Dutch Boy is neither Bro nor Dude, and is possibly lacking genitalia.

Sometimes it takes more than examples and creative analogies to really explain the chasm between Dude and Bro. So here's a crude attempt at a table.
Top Three Things a Dude Has That a Bro Does Not

• Mustache

• Muscle Car

• Mustache

Dude	Bro
Bro	Dude (who can swim!)
Dude	Neither Dude nor Bro. Possibly lacking genitalia.
Nearly Dude, not quite Bro.	Tim TeBrow.

Sometimes, visual stimuli just isn't enough. Sometimes, you need to get analytical. So let's tackle this algebraically.

1. Liam Neeson = Dude

2. Ashton Kutcher = Bro

3. Liam Neeson/Ashton Kutcher = Dude/Bro = Undefined (since you cannot divide by Bro)

4. Ashton Kutcher/Liam Neeson = Bro/Dude = 0 (since Liam Neeson is an infinite quantity).

Once you've established an algebraic relationship, you can then dissect the issue logically and philosophically (it is imperative that you cover all of these disciplines).

A. All Dudes are Men, and that's a given.

B. However, all Men are not Dudes.

C. We also know that Bros are not Dudes (given).

D. Therefore, Bros are not Men.

Some Hipsters though, are Bros. And unfortunately, so are some Dudes...even though Dudes have unsuccessfully campaigned three times to exterminate Hipsters.


Bros play lacrosse and drink light beer. Dudes play football and pound PBR. Bros shop at Hollister and listen to dubstep, Dudes shop at fucking Sears. Dudes have a creative sense of humor. Bros usually employ someone else's.




  Dudes rarely use the "Two Thumbs, This Guy" combo (i.e. "Who is hungry and has two thumbs? This Guy!"), whereas this is the conversational staple of the Bro, a way to communicate with/discern their brethren. Along with the word "totes," the phrase that sounds like an antibiotic "chillaxin," Bros have put together something that in most countries would be considered an independent dialect. As with many languages, this too has some incongruent meanings. For example, it is common to find Bros preying upon women who had never learned to cook, only to constantly ask them to "make me a sandwich." It really doesn't make sense. As has been pointed out before: Bros think they're funny, Dudes actually are funny.

Rarely can a photo distinguish Bro from Dude.


Yes, Dudes may belch, fart, and release sounds/smells from every orifice from time to time during "guy time," but at least they don't act like the latest best-selling feminine hygiene product. Dudes may even use the word "bro" in casual conversation, but it carries nowhere near the same intent. And when it is not used in jest, it is purely derogatory.


Let's face it, many Bros are aspiring Dudes who just haven't made the leap yet. Even though they graduated from high school and earned a lacrosse scholarship, they still live in that translated reality several years later. It is not until they stop shopping at Hollister, not until they hang up the lax sticks, and not until they develop a sense of originality, that they will make the leap to becoming a Dude (or at least a man). It is then, and only then, that they will give up their incredibly feminine inhibitions, and ascend to the primitive level of that which is the accepted connotation of Dude.


Now, this may appear to be a tremendously biased argument, especially coming from me (an admitted Dude). In fact, if you're still reading this essay, and your interest is piqued, then you're probably craving some "hard data." Well... I've got that data... and it is definitely hard.


Through hours upon hours of re-search, I have formulated the following measure, aptly named the "Systematic Coarse Rating Observation Tabulated Ultimate Metric," or as it's better known, the SCROTUM.


Let's first see the calculations that go into a "Scrote-Score," and then look at the SCROTUM results.


Meaure 1: Prototypical Conservative Disapproval Percentage

Hundreds of right-wingers were polled, and after observing three confirmed Bros, three confirmed Dudes, and three placebo males performing simple everyday tasks, the staunch conservative judges quantified their respective disapproval. The score was subtracted from 100 and tossed into the SCROTUM.


Here were the results:

Bro: 100-83 = 17 Dude: 100-56 = 44 Placebo: 100-50 = 50

Measure 2: Ability to Survive Mountain Cat Attack

Again, three Dudes, three Bros, and three placebo males were subjected to this evaluation. The possible scores attainable were 0, 33, 67, or 100. The score was solely based on the amount of people from each group surviving attacks from various mountain cats (i.e. pumas, mountain lions, cougars, panthers, and the like).


Here's how they fared:

Bros (1 survivor): 33 Dudes (2 survivors, 1 life-long friend made): 67 Placebo (3 of 3 dead): 0

Measure 3: Ounces of Hair Product Subtracted from 100

In this final measure, three Dudes, Bros, and placebros... err... placebos were again evaluated. This time, each of their bathroom vanities were raided, and the aggregate amount of hair product (gels, mousses, sprays, conditioners) were measured and confiscated. The average amount of hair product (in ounces) was subtracted from 100 and then donated to the Jersey Shore cast.


Here are the results:

Bros: 100 - 89.4 ounces = 10.6 Dudes: 100 - 6.2 ounces = 93.8 Placebos: 100 - 24.4 ounces = 75.6

*Please note that one Dude participant was a Mountaineer, and "pork back-fat" did not qualify as a hair product.


So, now that we have the three measures, let's tally the final SCROTUM:

Dude SCROTUM: 68 Bro SCROTUM: 20

It doesn't take a studious scientific eye to see that in fact, Dudes have bigger SCROTUMS. In fact, over three times as big! It really is refreshing to prove something that you knew was true, while having little knowledge of the subject beforehand.


As with all statistics, metrics, and opinionated takes, though, there is certainly some wiggle room. Ultimately, it is up to you, the reader, to choose a reliable source, examine the facts, and determine what you believe in. If I'm not that source, well, that's perfectly fine. But I would gladly side with you if you were to side with me. No offense, Bro.

Cho-ed Football: Douche Bags in Rec Sports

Floor general.


Vocal leader.


Douche Bag.


All of these labels resonate synonymously with the guy that “takes recreational athletics a little too seriously.” If you’ve played a rec sport, you may know all too well exactly what or whom I’m referring to.


In the world of business, two of these above labels allegedly don’t often coincide with the third.  In recreational sports, they couldn’t be more equivalent to each other.


Along the line between dashed dreams and an unwillingness to embrace reality, there is a permeation that is just wide enough to offer room for the “Rec Sports Douche.” The RSD is widespread, prolific, and  usually seen in just about every league across the country, regardless the level of competition.  They argue every call, they celebrate a little too much when things go their way, and they are the main reason that refereeing is no longer a commonly volunteered for position.


He’s the quarterback of #Winning! and he calls plays from his wristband. He wears high socks and sports dual ankle braces. He never earned a Varsity letter in high school, but that’s okay, his presence will be known out on the public park field. He’s an athlete only in the sense of being relatively not awful compared to beergut-bearing 40-year-old bald men.


He runs a 5.3/40…  He can bomb the ball 30 yards… and he also has a monster 4 foot standing long jump to add to his combine profile.  But since forward leaping really isn’t allowed in rec football, he usually has to rely on his 22 inch vert instead.


Standing at 5’9″  and 155 pounds (he’ll round that up to 160), he isn’t exactly imposing, nor do his other attributes leap off the page (which is the page of attributes that he attributed to himself and then uploaded to his Myspace page), but in light of his inadequacies, he’s got loads of heart. Loads upon loads of it.  He loudly leads his team with unwavering compassion, he keeps on his players like a Lion over his pride, and he stays tough until his team’s lead is relinquished… and when that time arrives, he begins to act like an absolute bitch.


This chronic bitching leads back to the aforementioned point of most referees no longer volunteering, and this ups YOUR registration cost. If you can’t hate him for being a douche, then you should definitely hate him for being a douche.


Just where did all of this douchey-ness begin?  How do we explain the general phenomena of rec sport assholian actions?  I’ll try to attempt to trace the psychological derailment back at its source… or at least in the vicinity.  Here we go.


After his 6th year of University club athletics, our Rec sports all-star had to keep the fire alive. He had to search and find mediocre competition to dominate. His best bet? Yup. Recreational sports. He immediately commandeered and then captained a team. At first it was a guise to “bring people together,” and to “get to know one another.” But it soon became a Red Army that meets once a week.  It didn’t take long for him to find this team of incredibly unlucky people, and it didn’t take long for him to stoke his competitive fire (read: stroke his ego). This competitive fire is stoked in the only fashion possible for a marginally athletic person… by pissing off everyone else that plays rec sports that isn’t like him and doesn’t act like a fat 7-year-old after dropping a twice-licked lollipop in the dirt. He’s knows it’s only for fun, but the only thing that is fun to him is winning. No matter what the cost. Whether he wins on sportsmanlike terms or not is moot to him. It’s binary, you either win or you lose.  No in between, no gray area (except in a loss). It’s either a 1 or a 0. When he wins, he rubs it in the face of whom he has conquered in the most obnoxious way possible. When he loses, he whines like Nicole Ritchie having to fly coach.


Think it’s bad when his team wins one game? Try dealing with him after a run to the championship.  Coming from a guy that ceaselessly brags about his fantasy football stats, is a Facebook rampage that rivals only that of digital ultrasound photos. If his team brings home the ‘ship, you’ll be reading about it in your newsfeed constantly, and the picture of him hoisting a faux metal trophy will be anchoring his profile for at least three months.  And when his team wins a championship once every 29 spring/summer/fall/winter seasons, he not only brags over Facebook, but also raves over every social medium at his disposal. As if his teammates couldn’t possibly hate him any more, he proves to them that he has one more dick move left in the bank.  Shortly after the championship game, he runs the world’s shortest trophy negotiation.  The trophy ultimately ends up at his place the day of the championship finals, and never leaves.  Hell, he even has his own personal engraver… and it’s some 92 year-old guy named Lou who can barely muster the strength to hold the stylus.


But for those of us sympathetic/deeply psychological types, SAVE IT!  There is no need to offer this man sympathy… HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND. Yeah, that's right. He somehow has a girlfriend... I’d be the last person who’d be willing to say that some women actually have bad taste in men. C’mon… he’s not a Loser! He’s a winner! You know this. He’s told you countless times by online proxy. Even though everybody hates this guy, the one person that doesn’t hate him… is himself… until he gets home, comes back to the realization that he elevates himself artificially, and then cries underneath the jet streams of a cold shower.


Having a large ego has its peaks and its pitfalls, and there is no more obvious example of the latter than in the case of the Rec sports douche bag. As we go through each stage of life, it is truly understated how important it is to have an identity and what it means to be truly self-aware. Having one without the other is nearly impossible, and having neither is nearly impossible for other people to deal with.

Dude Journal Entry #9641

We live in fast-forward in a world that is backwards...

Our society subscribes to a weird set of rules... and the way we interpret them can be even weirder. One standard set by society (at least when it comes to female anatomy), is the accepted standard that the nipple completes the boob. Without the nipple, there is absolutely no cause for concern. The nipple is what censorship has used as their limit when it comes to upper-torso nudity. Without the nipple, a boob is just a pound or two of useless fat and flesh, parents have no need to shield their children, Cinemax has no need to push programming until after midnight, and we have no need to pull down the blinds. All of this because of two little milk ducts. The nipple is where the public beach lifeguard draws the line. While scoping the skimpy swimwear, if he sees what could be the border of a nipple, he's gonna have to step in.


What is it about the female nipple that drives most guys crazy? We'll see an ad in a magazine that features a well-endowed woman, wearing the slimmest of bikini tops, showing more cleavage than a diamond mine, and the most brilliant thing we can bring ourselves to say is, "Man, I can only imagine what the whole thing looks like!" The WHOLE THING? This ad is showing you 98% of it! Just what is it about the nipple? If you take it by itself, it's possibly grotesque. But if you put it on a boob... you better lock the door and get some toilet tissue.

While still on the topic of boobs, have you been to Match.com lately? I don't want "Local Singles," oh no... I prefer to look long and far for my singles at the far reaches of the Earth.

Match.com basically provides organized prostitution. In other words, prostitution on the street is just pick-up, drop-in, or sandlot prostitution, but Match.com provides the facilities and pretty much creates a recreational league for sex. After two people meet online—once they've passed the eye test and satisfied the "idealized profile requirement"—they go on what they call a "Match Date." The whole idea of a "Match Date" makes it seem as if Match.com has us under a corporate tie to sponsorship. We can't just call it "a date," because this date is brought to you by Match.com. So it's a "Match Date." 1 in 5 relationships start online, and most of them start on Match.com. That's Match.com. Is this a job interview? NO. It's a Match Date. As soon as you've convinced your date that you're not a wildly violent serial killer, or as soon as she reaches the point where she could care less whether or not you were once a violent serial killer, you've become another Match.com success story.


Maybe it's only men who view Match.com as organized, and hopefully (fingers crossed) disease-free prostitution, though. I mean, when women talk about the "perfect man"—or even what they want in a man—they almost always give us this ordered list: "I want a man who's smart, funny, and good-looking." That's actually true, isn't it ladies? Well I mean, if you reverse the order of the list and throw out "smart" and "funny."


Let's segue from getting screwed to getting fisted...
I've learned that you're never too young for a prostate exam. It's one of the few situations where getting fisted can actually earn you a pat on the back.


Honestly, when I visualize the whole prostate exam situation, I don't see a man about to shove his hand up my ass as being in a position of power ("Are you going to start eating better, and straining less when you urinate? Or should I shove my hand in even deeper?"), I think the biggest thing on my mind will be the physical aspects of the practitioner. Will this person be male? Female? Large-handed? Instead of worrying about whether or not there's a medical malady associated with my 'tate, I guarantee I'll be much more concerned with my doctor's sex and hand-size. I guess kind of like the thought process that occupies my mind prior to getting a full body massage. In either case, I just hope Oleander is playing softly in the background.



I have never been too intimidated by nurses.... Seems to me, they've always been into scrubs.


Okay... one or two more "social insight(s)."


Pretty much all of us have had roommates. For better for worse, for poor and for poorer. But with all of the conflicts of living with roommates, we did learn some valuable skills, especially guys. Escaping judgment and having privacy is nearly impossible when you live with your peers. But you adapt, and you adapt like a virus. I've learned during my shared-living experience that I can go from "obviously masturbating" to "possibly combing my hair" in just under 0.45 seconds. It's those kind of adaptations that result from a near-constant lack of privacy and the constant need to fulfill an urge.


While on the topic, have any of you guys ever been walked in on while "giving self-love?" Anyone? How many of you had a housemate barge in on you while you were pummeling your rod? Anyway, for those of us who are truthful, what is with the "elevated ‘yeah'"? In the back of your mind, you've already laid out "Plan A" as to what you would do in the event of being walked in on. But when this actually happens, and you go to execute the plan, you end up giving out an "elevated ‘yeah.'" Try to put yourself in this scenario: It's 2004, and you're fantasizing about Jessica Simpson (but JoJo keeps creeping into your head) and then BAM! Door swings open, you may or may not be exposed, and your roommate goes "Dude?" and you nervously, yet loudly bellow, "YEAAAAH!... I mean... errhg... yeah?"


But what's even more alarming than the idea of providing your roommate with a mental version of a "solo sex tape" is the whole idea of calling the unrelated people who live with us "roommates." Why do we Americans call them roommates? Don't get me wrong, England is a goddamn goofy country, but at least they have a label like "housemate" correctly nomered. Unless you're sharing a room and one room only (in which case "roommate" is intuitively proper), why don't we call them "housemates?" Must be that Pilgrim spirit still flowing strong.


And finally, before I go, Journal...


Writing an insignificant message on someone's Facebook wall for everyone else to see is not called "socializing," it's called "being a douchebag."