Public Service Announcement

Okay. First, a disclaimer from the author of this blog...



Allow me to apologize in advance to any person or persons I inadvertently offend with what you are about to read. You have to know that this not my intention. Something has been weighing on my mind and I need to talk to you all. I know that this is an extremely touchy subject and there is a possibility that some of you will be made to feel uncomfortable...for that I'm sorry.


With that being said, let's get right into it. Gas. That's right. G-A-S...as in belching, bloating and flatulence...specifically from you women. You might be laughing now but some of you front like you don't have any - ever. And that's some bull nuggets.

First, we're going to go back…to the beginning. To where it all started. To that pivotal moment where you let one out by "accident". Whether you burped and said, " Ooh. Excuse me" in a surprised and puzzled manner or you farted and said, "Oh my God! I am SO sorry" or the classic line, " I can't believe I just did that. I'm so embarrassed".

Yeah right. I call bullsht.

See, you got away with it. You knew that we were smitten with you and you capitalized on that fact. You knew that it was a gamble but the odds were in your favor. You figured that in all of the newness and puppydogism, of all the things you could potentially get away with…passing gas was one of them. And you were right. You let one slip and silly us, we thought it was funny and cute. Why? Hell if I know.

But you know what's not cute? The way you all took it too far. Me? I'm considerate when it comes to the flatulent. I don't let the silent ones go in front of you. I send mines out with an announcement. Surprise smells are no fun. I learned that when I was in high school and my German Shepherd would walk by and leave a little silent killer behind as I watched television. That's the kind of tomfoolery I reserved for my boys. The look on your friends' faces when they caught a whiff of the end result of the McDonald's (or better yet…those beef patties with cocoa bread) you ate for lunch is like nothing else. Now when I say you took it too far, I mean just that. It's like your sphincter can't stay shut. Months after you've gotten too comfortable with your male friend, your boo, your snookey bear, your boyfriend, your husband, your sweetheart…you're letting them fly. Sometimes, there's no acknowledgement. No responsibility taken for the crime. Baby, men have been farting all their lives. We know a fart when we hear it no matter how well you think you're muffling it. Then in all of your audacity, you throw us THE most disgusted look when we let one out the chamber. And then, as if part of your master plan, you have us feeling bad for something that should come as no surprise from us. So much so, we actually sit in your presence with all types of cramps and pains and such from holding them in longer than humanly possible as to not nasally offend you.

So let's compromise. I'm not suggesting you hold it in like you did before you realized that there was a loophole in the system...a virtual glitch in the matrix. All I'm saying is maybe do the ladylike thing on occasion and act like you have to run into the other room to get something…you know, like you were doing all those times you acted like you had to run into the other room to get something.

Thanks for listening.

Porn flicks, undercarriages and overhead

Funny story. When I was just taking up running, I went in when it came to having the right equipment. The shoes, the aerodynamic looking long sleeve shirts and even the biker shorts [the knowledgeable term: compression shorts] looking things that you wear under your running shorts. So there I was, getting my run on. Looking cool while doing it. All is good…until I had a snag. No, literally a snag. It seems that the compression shorts’ seams were situated just perfectly enough to catch on to a hair or two from the underside of it all while I was mid-stride. Needless to say, I didn’t hesitate in separating the two parties immediately while simultaneously making a note to make sure that I never have to experience that unpleasantness again. Asterisk and all.

Later that evening, I stood in front of the full-length mirror with the cheap trimmers in hand. I stood there and just hesitated. Rapidly moving little blades powered by electrical current are not any of my choices of things I want in the area of my groin. I never imagined a time where I’d find myself in that scenario but there I was. So I flipped the switch, took a deep breath and got to work. For those of you who don’t know, that area is the most sensitive skin on a man’s body – bar none. Needless to say, I maneuvered with a surgeon’s precision.

So then, one day, I was watching an adult movie (I've been known to view a few. I'm a man dammit. See the 6th sense for clarification) and I noticed two significant things. One, there was no storyline. Just some small talk after a staged situation and then it was straight to business. No complaints from me at the time, because I would have fast-forwarded through all of that filler anyway. I'm just saying.

The second thing I noticed was…there was quite a bit of hair…missing. I mean, I know it’s the thing now for the female stars to have the Brazilian thing going on whether it be the “landing strip” or “back to the essence” but either I’ve been really, really oblivious to it or it’s a somewhat recent (when I say recent, I mean the last some odd years) occurrence that the dudes are doing the same. Now chests shaved, stomachs shaved and backs too…I know about that. But down there? All gone? I find myself taking pause on that latest trend. In my wonder years, I was a kid that could not wait for the hairs to sprout down yonder. For me to go back to that look is not something I see myself doing - ever. I mean, trimming the underbelly of the beast was for practical purposes. The land above the beast’s dwelling is a totally different thing. On a weekend morning after getting your moonlight on, a man likes to sit in front of his television in his shorts, boxers or pajama pants and get his Al Bundy on. To find nothing there but skin and stubble is not my idea of solace.

“Well, that’s gonna be a problem – I laser. It’s like a turtle shell down there.”

Dennis, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, ‘Manhunters’ Episode

Later that evening, I found myself in front of that same mirror holding those same cheap clippers. This time, however, I paused not from fear but because I was surveying the land. I knew damn well I wasn’t going to do my best military barber impersonation down there. I had land somewhere in the middle because what I was noticing was a patch of land with no boundaries and no neatness. I had to tip-toe the line between getting too involved in the process and doing my part since women go through the regular task of having things presentable. It’s the least I could do. And the could do, I did…with some impressive results. So here I am, writing to you all…proud…to be a manscaper.