COLUMN: Pages from the man diary
Dear man diary,
The Statesman ran something about how girls can fit themselves for bras. I’m all for breast-related content, diary. It’s about time we got some cleavage in the Statesman. More boobs. More bras. Maybe bring back girls jumping on trampolines? It can only benefit mankind.
But what’s the man’s answer to bra measurements. Given, some guys do have some pretty sweet jugs, but for the most part, we don’t need chesticle support.
Aha! But we do need testicle support and protection. The athletic cup.
A cup fitting is simple, though.
It goes something like this, diary: You just stroll into his local sporting goods store, and, with your own stellar, manly sense of direction, find the athletic cups and jock straps. Your eye moves from child’s small to adult medium, all inadequate, of course – those would barely suffice as an ashtray in a subcompact car. Up the rack to the adult large, and then the extra large, a piece of molded plastic worthy of Valhalla.
You proudly display your purchase, allowing everyone to clearly see the “XL.” The sheer bulk of the thing is straining the muscles of the forearms, building a sweat on the brow, but you still manage to puff out your chest. You nod through the pain at any old lady on the fake putting green looking for a putter and some pink, Flying Lady golf balls. Old or young, women need to know. Everyone needs to know.
At the register, you hand the WWI war helmet over to the blond 20-something behind the counter. Her arms droop under the heavy weight. Through her struggle, she shoots you a smile, blushing slightly. Her lips start to form the syllables, “So does..”
You put a single, stout finger over her mouth. “You don’t have to say a word. I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is yes … tightly, ” you say.
Other customers around nod as a sign of respect. Some men shamefully slump their way toward the register with their adult mediums – average, ha.
You stride out the door like Napoleon – wait, he was short. Bad simile, or is it metaphor? Damn literary devices. Do over. – Your stride is Herculean – that’s better, more epic or epicer. I can make up words, I’m a man, damnit – as you glance at the still-wet, pink ink of the 10 digits on the bottom of your receipt. You stuff it into your pocket, maybe you’ll call.
Then you get home and realize you could use the athletic cup you just bought for $14.99 to strain two or three pounds of pasta at a time. With slight adjustment, it could serve as the bowl portion of a king-sized toilet.
Or, it’s big enough – just plug up the holes, don your Viking helmet, put on your furry boots, grab your battle axe and your copy of “Raping and Pillaging For Dummies” – to sail to some small island and conquer the indigenous people. Maybe force Christianity upon them, if you’re religious.
You also think, “Hell, if they had these things on the Titanic, Leo Di Caprio wouldn’t have had to die. That may not have been a big loss, although he was a hard ass in ‘The Departed.'”
Whatever you do, you sure as hell don’t go to go to co-ed softball with the grill of a Chrysler 300 bulging out of your shorts on all sides.
It’s not about fit. It’s about illusion of fit.
Diary, I guess it’s the same with buying condoms. The scene is the exact same, except the words “Magnum XL latex condoms” are lit by heavenly light, jumping out for every man, woman and child to behold. Most will cower and hide, but the worthy few females will flock to you in droves.
At the cash register, it’s the same awestruck looks. The same cartoonish, jaw-being-reeled-in expression from the brunette cashier.
“Well, is …”
A nod to interrupt her. A stroke of the beard. And a simple, “Snugly.”
When you get home, you pull out three condoms. One to line the 5-gallon garbage can in the kitchen, because in the whole display you forgot your trash bags – the whole reason you even went to the damn store in the first place. The other two work as gators or some sort of wicking system that goes over your shoes and up your legs to make sure your feet and calf area, up to the knee, avoid getting wet.
The other nine will be blown up, some being used to fashion a zeppelin-like air craft, and other lashed together to make a water-tight inflatable raft to use for a fly-fishing expedition.
Dear man diary,
I was at an off-Broadway, local church theater production of “Cats.” I don’t know anything about theater, but was Jesus really supposed to be the brown burmese kitty? That makes no difference, with all the bad singing and nauseating cat noises, I couldn’t sleep.
But thank God – who was a black and white tabby in this play, I think – I had some ESPN Classic games, Iron Maiden concert footage and a conversation with Bill about fuel injection vs. carburetors – the one we had while putting those new mudders on the ’85 Blazer – on reserve in my Manly Mental Bank.
I can call that stuff up whenever I’m in real trouble, diary, and everything will be OK. But I need to watch a lot of sports and do some fishing or kill some small animals soon, because there’s a two-day “Suddenly Susan” marathon on Oxygen, and if Cheryl has her way, that’ll be the only thing on our TV. Did you know, diary, that she’ll miss the UFC fight to watch Brooke Shields, who isn’t even legitimately hot anymore?
Dear man diary,
I’ve exhausted. I’ve been trying for six solid months to bring manly back. Only to have my efforts thwarted by some punk-ass named Justin Timberlake, who claims to be bringing sexy back. What does he know about sexy? He couldn’t grow a mustache or a dangerous beard and probably doesn’t even own a flannel shirt.
There have also been other retro-reenactment campaigns that have pushed manliness to the side. Weird things, diary. People bringing whale oil lighting systems back. Others bringing prohibition back.
Worst of all was when this crazy broad tried to bring Elizabethan English dress back. Everything is covered up, diary. I don’t need to tell you how erotic I think female wrists and ankles are. You already know. And if you were real, and not just a black vinyl notebook covered in Power Ranger stickers, you’d get the same tingle in your loins when you saw dainty wrist veins or a pronounced Achilles tendon, too. I know it.
Dear man diary,
They came out with another razor. More blades. More cutting power. Diary, real men only need one blade – a five-inch hunting knife, sharpened to precious on Paul Bunyan’s mass of chest hair.
It’s a lot less accurate and a lot more dangerous, but there’s nothing manlier than getting out a shiny silver implement of death and, without the crutch of shave gel, making your face smooth and presentable.
Dear man diary,
I’m sick of all this pansy beeping from my alarm. That’s no way for a real man to wake up. If the alarm really wanted to roust me out of my terribly explicit dream about me and the female members of the cast of “John Tucker Must Die,” all it would have to do is call me out – accuse me of being less of a man than my razor-sharp jawline and Amazon Rainforest of chest hair suggests.
At any hour of the day or night, that will stoke my fire. I’m always ready for a good testosterone-fueled pissing match, especially if fisticuffs is the likely endgame.
That’s one school of thought. The other involves either the bugle of a bull elk or the mating noises of the human female. Men will only get up for three things, diary: a challenge with the promise of extreme violence, the chance to stalk and kill big game animals – and selected, ferocious small game animals, like the turkey – or sex. That’s really it.
Dear man diary,
Women talk a lot. They waste a hell of a lot of energy just babbling about feelings or soap operas.
Men don’t need to waste the energy involved in talking. Diary, we need it in case some emo kid lip
s off to us and we have to tune him up – that’s send his ass to the hospital, for those who don’t speak man. We may at anytime have to kill a deer with our bare hands to feed our family. You just never know, diary.
That’s why men have found a more energy-friendly way of communication. We have a system of understanding nods, facial expressions, grunts, farts and hand gestures: farts being the profanity of non-verbal man talk.
If a buddy brings you a beer without you asking, you just make brief eye contact and nod. In that nod, it says, “You’re a gentleman and I appreciate your effort. You’re a real mench.” All this is stuff that just can’t be said aloud.
And what’s a more hearty gesture of approval than the thumbs up? Someone wins a sprint car race, has a potentially hazardous campfire going in their back yard, kills a sizable stag or is leaving the bar with a hot older chick, nothing needs to be said. Simply thumbs the guy up. It’s the manly, gold star stamp of approval.
Dear man diary,
Facial hair ought to give me privileges. I’m a man. I have a beard and I’m just not going to stand in line anywhere. I’m going to wear my flannel to the fancy restaurant. I’m not going to settle for less than two pounds of beef and 32 ounces of beer. I’m not going to go sit through “Atonement” when I’d rather be watching “Semi Pro.”
Unless any of this stuff costs me a chance at fornication. And in that case, I’m going to shave, stand in line for hours, wear my mustard-colored paisley shirt, eat a salad and pay $15 for two tickets to a movie that’s going to depress the hell out of me, just to get some points.
David Baker is a senior majoring in print journalism. If you see him sporting a beard, compliment it. Comment and questions can be sent to da.bake@aggiemail.usu.edu