Men: Gettin’ All Metaphysical

Men have done their damnedest to convince us that they’re very solid, logical, sensible creatures – no woo-woo magical stuff for them, they don't believe in it. If they can’t see it, smell it, scratch it or “rearrange” it (heh), it does not exist. Well, sorry to break it to all you boys, but this DOB knows better and is blowing your cover.

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place for me as I drove around in my Quest of The Neverending Errand: men absolutely must believe in a whole host of psychic phenomenon. One can draw no other conclusion, based on typical male behaviors. I present to you proof of my startling hypothesis.


Example 1: Turn Signals (That Final Puzzle Piece)

Men don’t need no stinkin’ turn signals – because they obviously believe you can read their freakin’ minds and thereby avoid rear-ending them when they turn without warning at the very last second. (Yeah, yeah, I know: quit yer bitchin’ & consider it a freebie cardio workout, but I may have soiled myself.)


Example 2: Answering Any/All Questions With A Grunt

She: I can grill steaks or chicken breasts for dinner. Which sounds better?
He: *grunt*
She: Which one was that?
He: *grunt*
She: So either one is fine?
He: *grunt & scratch*
She: Ohhh-kay, shit-on-a-shingle, it is! (This dialogue could’ve gone through several more grunts, but She has been married to He for more than two decades - her patience is wearing a little thin.)


Example 3: Honey, Have You Seen My (Missing Item)?

Yes, please let me use my congenital psychic-chick GPS to pinpoint exactly where you left your keys/wallet/cellphone charger. Pffft. The only thing I can definitely find is your dirty socks & boxers; I can guarantee they’ll be on the floor, about 6” from the hamper…cuz that’s where you *always* drop ‘em. (I can also use my staggering psychic powers to tell you that the socks’ll be in an inside-out, wadded up, stinky ball – but that’s an attitude & argument for a different post.)


Example 4: Not Telling You He’s Used the Last…

…just about anything that needs to be replenished on a regular basis. He expects you to magically know he took the last roll of paper towels to use in the garage, or that he took the last of the AA batteries (particularly frustrating, take my word for it). Or maybe he put that very last roll of TP on the holder- HA!

That last one was a trick – everybody knows guys do not *do* TP replacement, cuz it just ain’t manly AND, belief in psychic abilities notwithstanding, will never happen without a little divine intervention or an act of Congress (which is still pretty heavy on the testosterone, so good luck with that).

So yeah, as you can see, He-man's secret is revealed and the gals are not falling for it any longer. Next time your sweetie mumbles one of his requests for you to perform miracles, get that unfocused look in your eye, have yourself a good scratch, then answer him with…a grunt.

Twisted Knickers Indeed

So the Underwear Bomber, as he is affectionately known, was in the news last month. He was finally getting his day in court to present his side of the story, his defense for filling his undies with explosives and boarding a plane at Christmastime ’09 with the intent to blow up said plane. Hello, martyrdom and an F-5 wedgie; goodbye, cruel world and family jewels. Ouch.

Luck was with his fellow passengers – UB either didn’t get his wick lit properly or perhaps he didn’t keep his powder dry enough, because rather than achieving his gruesome goal, he roasted his chestnuts on an open fire. You know that’s gotta sting; poor aspiring terrorist learned the hard way that Karma is a bitch sometimes.

He decided to plead guilty, saving us all from the media circus that accompanies a drawn-out, high-profile trial, but in this era of reality (crapola) TV I’m surprised that some slimy promoter hasn’t latched onto the hot property that is UB. Think about it: the guy is already famous in that reality TV sort of way (infamous), he may actually generate a bit of sympathy because he’s wounded himself in such a sensitive body part that even women wince at the thought, and his situation presents a golden opportunity for a product tie-in, the Undie Bomber Undergarments.

For the ladies:

Boom-Boom Bikini – make your sweetie’s heart beat a little faster in this stringy style.

Martyr Midrise – for those who prefer that extra bit of coverage (you know who I am).

TNT Thong – for those who prefer practically zero coverage and can ignore that “I got a wedgie” sensation (sorry, hubby – not gonna happen).

Kerpow Knickers – a tap pants/hot pants hybrid (hot pants, get it? Sorry, I crack me up sometimes).

Great Balls of Fire Granny Pants – self-explanatory and very comfy for tennis (they tend to stay put; don’t ask me how I know this).

For the gentlemen:

Light My Fuse Long-Johns – perfect to keep you toasty during the chilly winter months, includes drop-seat capability for emergency situations (excellent access point for the fire extinguisher).

Blastoff Boxers – come in a variety of vibrant colors to match your mood (the manufacturer suggests you actually NOT try to blast them off, cites example of UB).

Big Bang Briefs – not just your average tighty-whities, they’re also available in prints and dark shades (cough, skid marks, cough).

I realize the Undie Bomber Undergarment line is a bit of a stretch and may be considered by some to be in poor taste, but since when has that ever been considered a good reason to not go to market? Consider how many geniuses have paid good money for “amateur hour” porn vids (Kimmie, Pammie and we'll always have Paris) or to buy that Snooki book.

Yes, as Mr. Barnum is rumored to have said, there’s a sucker born every minute and I say we go for it. It’ll be a risky venture, we’ll be flying by the seat of our pants initially, but I predict a very healthy bottom line.