Genitals. Everyone has them...well...everyone who hasn't been the sad victim of some sort of industrial or farming accident has them. Use the clinical terms, your own cutesy lingo, or give it a proper name and identity, but there is a special bond that exists between a person and his or her happy parts. This week I'm feeling very equal-opportunistic, so both male and female fun-zones will be discussed in two seperate posts.
First, there has been something that has been bothering me as of late. A big, blue, glowing problem. Recently, I went to see Watchmen, the highly anticipated film adaptation of the graphic novel of the same name. I'm not here to critique the film in any way; there are plenty of other whiney fan-boys on the internet to do that. The only thing from the movie that I will speak about is Dr. Manhattan's portrayal. Not his acting though; his penis. In case you're not familiar with Watchmen, Doc Manhattan is a blue superhero with the ability to manipulate all matter and has grown increasingly distant from humanity. To this end, he spends most of the story as naked as the day he was born. After all, the man of the future doesn't need to wear clothes, so the reader/audience is in full view of his Übermensch dong on more than one occasion.
My issue is not with the showing of his radioactive package. If a character wants to flash a little wang-chung in a movie, I'm cool with it as long as it serves the film's overall purpose. I understand that the Doc is meant to be a superhero...but c'mon! I cannot in good taste post an image of the cerulean wonder, but I suggest you Google it and see for yourself so that I'm not discounted as some kind of raving idiot. I shudder to think if this is what women expect of my gender, or if this is the standard to which many young boys aspire. No wonder we men are so wrapped up in the never ending game of dick comparison. I'll admit to my own fits of wanker inferiority, but that swinging azure schlong made me realize that something needs to be done and clear the air of any misconceptions about the male member.
Ladies: don't expect a slithering trouser python when you meet a guy. Think about it, does the idea of a massive kielbasa pounding into your cervix sound like a good time? If it does, "a salud' to you, but for the rest of you reasonable women out there, be kind to your man's little friend. I know that there aren't as many size queens out there as we men fear, but we need to know that. Remember, it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. To prove my point, there are some sex toys that you could hide in an easter egg (a great idea for this Easter by the way). Also, not every weiner looks the same on his off time as he does when he's on the clock. In case you haven't heard of the case of showers vs. growers, take a minute to enlighten yourself.
Now, fellas: did seeing that movie make you uncomfortable? Did it make you feel like less of a man? Well knock it the hell off! This is probably exactly what most women feel every time a big ol' set of boobies goes bouncing across the silver screen, and there is way more T&A on celluloid than there is C&B (Cock & Balls). Stop worrying about the status of your petzl, because you know what? Every guy lies about his junk. Really. Don't let the well-endowed end of the bell curve dissuade you from digging who you are as a man. After all...all he wants for you is to be happy; the least you can do is be happy with him in return.
Next time...the vajay-jay gets stripped bare.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hair to Stay
I know we all just recovered from celebrating the first birthday of my blog, but there is another birthday today that deserves recognition (I guess this time of year is my time for change and personal growth). This time, it is even more personal, because I am celebrating something that is literally a part of who I am. St. Patrick's Day also happens to be the birthday of my rockin' beard.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Why, is one missing?
I just took the greatest shower ever. Maybe to say "ever," is a bit hyperbolic, especially at my young age, but I would at the very least include it in the top five. The only other one that even comes close is when I was twelve and realized that I could masturbate in the shower as well as my bedroom. This time lacked as erotic a context, but that in no way made it any less memorable.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Still Waiting On That Champagne
Well, it's official: it was exactly one year ago today that I embarked on this blogging experiment. It's interesting to think that a whole year has gone by, so I thought I would take this time to reflect on where the river of time has carried me.
So why exactly did I begin in the first place? I was never out to change the world with my earth-shattering ideas. Hell, I didn't even care if anyone read the damn thing. I was a sad, miserable human being who didn't have much to live for. Maybe I did it as some kind of record that I even exist, or maybe it was meant to be a big, "Fuck you!" to the person who put me in that place, or perhaps somewhere in the middle. So I wrote for no apparent reason than to do it. It was the same kind of thing that prompted Forrest Gump to run across the nation however many times he did it in the movie.
Today, I'm still sad and miserable, but for different reasons. This isn't to say that I'm a boring or lame person, but why be happy and cheery all the time? This way, happiness has the same potency as the finest Turkish hashish. I've seen a lot, done a little bit as well, and am generally satisfied with the way those Fates are weaving my life together. Who says people can't change? So how special does it feel to get a brief insider view of the insane genius behind the "Mind Munch?" Pretty sweet and humbling I'll bet.
Now for some formal things. The next year is going to be a little different from the last one. For one thing, there won't be any more random posting whenever my fancy gets tickled (although I do love the way it feels). Consistency is important in a long term relationship, so rather than some weeks of no posts and some of three or four, everyone gets a single portion every week. When will it be? Could be Sunday, could be Friday, could be Tuesday, who knows. I sure as shit don't; gotta keep some of that flakiness to keep things interesting between us. So one post a week. Second, I still don't actually care if anyone follows me regularly, although apparently there are a few dedicated members out there. All of you who offer support and encouragement get a gold star. So if you consider yourself one such person, I want you to go ahead and post a comment. I don't care what you say, just make your presence known to the world. There's nothing to be ashamed of; I can guarentee you that at least one more person out there is nuttier than you.
So now my blog is a year old, and I'm going to be busy for the rest of the night taking pictures of it getting all messy eating its first birthday cake. They're so cute when they're young.
So why exactly did I begin in the first place? I was never out to change the world with my earth-shattering ideas. Hell, I didn't even care if anyone read the damn thing. I was a sad, miserable human being who didn't have much to live for. Maybe I did it as some kind of record that I even exist, or maybe it was meant to be a big, "Fuck you!" to the person who put me in that place, or perhaps somewhere in the middle. So I wrote for no apparent reason than to do it. It was the same kind of thing that prompted Forrest Gump to run across the nation however many times he did it in the movie.
Today, I'm still sad and miserable, but for different reasons. This isn't to say that I'm a boring or lame person, but why be happy and cheery all the time? This way, happiness has the same potency as the finest Turkish hashish. I've seen a lot, done a little bit as well, and am generally satisfied with the way those Fates are weaving my life together. Who says people can't change? So how special does it feel to get a brief insider view of the insane genius behind the "Mind Munch?" Pretty sweet and humbling I'll bet.
Now for some formal things. The next year is going to be a little different from the last one. For one thing, there won't be any more random posting whenever my fancy gets tickled (although I do love the way it feels). Consistency is important in a long term relationship, so rather than some weeks of no posts and some of three or four, everyone gets a single portion every week. When will it be? Could be Sunday, could be Friday, could be Tuesday, who knows. I sure as shit don't; gotta keep some of that flakiness to keep things interesting between us. So one post a week. Second, I still don't actually care if anyone follows me regularly, although apparently there are a few dedicated members out there. All of you who offer support and encouragement get a gold star. So if you consider yourself one such person, I want you to go ahead and post a comment. I don't care what you say, just make your presence known to the world. There's nothing to be ashamed of; I can guarentee you that at least one more person out there is nuttier than you.
So now my blog is a year old, and I'm going to be busy for the rest of the night taking pictures of it getting all messy eating its first birthday cake. They're so cute when they're young.
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