Hmm. I heard they were updating the D&D rules … but I never imagined …
You kidding?! I love that dog! He is my mutant, deranged, killer attack dog, at least to hear my neighbors tell it. Now WHY would I do anything so CRUEL to him as make him ride with my mum in law?
No no no, you’re thinking of the B&D rules.
Which, as all straight men know, stands for “Black & Decker”, the maker of power tools. Right?
Dear Straight Guy
I’m a straight guy… I’m married with a daughter, and I’m in the military.
I don’t like football, or really any true sports all that much, but I really like fast cars and WWF (WWE my ass) wrestling.
I love art museums, but I also am planning a trip around the intersection where James Dean wrecked his porsche.
I don’t like to hunt, and don’t own any guns, but I love to get drunk and fish.
I don’t care about the decor in our apartment, and dream of buying a “Christmas Story” Leg-lamp, but I can’t stand for the place to be dirty and disorderly.
I wax my car once a week, and detail it with religious zealousy, but it’s a sensible, gas-saving Toyota Echo.
I like to drink beer, light bonfires, and play poker, but I don’t go tailgating to games.
I rip ass and belch in public, but my wife always outdoes me.
Am I hopelessly confused. Do my straightguy tendencies outweigh my gayguy tendencies? Does being in the US Military tip thescales? Help me, I’m scared and confused.
- Steve
Dear Steve:
Straight Guys do not let any other man tell them how to run their lives. That’s what wives are for.
I’ve looked over your list and found nothing to be concerned about.
Well, almost nothing. There is one thing that made me pause. Perhaps it’s nothing. Or perhaps it will decimate your life and bring you down in sorrow to the grave.
But really, it’s probably nothing. I’ll get to it in a minute. (You’re not in any hurry, right?)
First, let’s discuss what you are doing right. Namely, leglamps. What’s not to like? It references great cinema, it is an artistic reflection on the human form, and it looks weird as hell. What you should do is install one in your family room, sign up for “Trading Spaces” and gleefully watch Doug or Hilda have a seizure, fall down and start gnawing the carpet. And then dash out front and set up the leg mail box so that they see that, too, as the ambulance crew carts them away.
You say, “I like to drink beer, light bonfires, and play poker.” So far, so good. Even better would be to drink beer and set your poker buddies on fire. But you’re obviously on the right track. As for museums, nothing to worry about there, either. There have, throughout history, been several notable heterosexual artists – for example, J.M.W. Turner. And I am something of an artlover myself.
But now for that matter I mentioned earlier. It concerns this part of your list: “I rip ass and belch in public, but my wife always outdoes me.”
I can see no good coming from this.
For a man to be surpassed in this all-important arena surely calls his very manhood into question. Now, I assume that you are talking about the volume and frequency of these eructions, rather than the smell. It is no shame for a man to be outdone by a woman in terms of sheer blistering, sulfurous pungency. Farts are nature’s way of showing men what evil can actually lurk inside such sweet and fascinating creatures as women. We compare them to angels, to nymphs and goddesses. And then they silently slip one out that knocks off your glasses and sends you diving to the floor where there still might be air to breath. And all the while they smile and say “But that wasn’t me! How could you even say that! It must have been the dog.” And indeed it could have been the dog, because he died a year ago and probably smelled pretty much like that.
But if we’re talking about loudness and deep, rich bass tones – that’s the real test of manhood. In wind instruments, women should be playing alto and men bass. I could date any woman who farts with a dainty little squeeeeeeeeek, but if she blasts 'em out like an ocean liner horn, all the cleavage in the world isn’t going to help. It’s like this: women always marry a man who’s taller than them, right? A 6-foot-2 woman will bide her time until she finds and acceptable 6-foot-4 man. Am I right? You don’t see a lot of tall women married to a shorter man. You don’t see a lot of rich women marrying bricklayers. Bottom line: She’s not going to respect you unless you’re taller, earn more, and fart louder. Try doing some sit-ups. Get those abs in shape for the push! Remember, your self respect is riding on this.
Now that summer is near to an end, we must look forward to fall and winter fashions. What, dear Straight Guy, is the discerning man supposed to wear in the coming seasons?
Or, if you’re like me and you hate doing sit-ups, you can cheat:
Perfect the manly art of making very loud fart noises with your hands. Or with your hands and mouth. Just put the bases of your palms together, press them firmly against your mouth, and blow a great big honking brapper. The more pressure you apply – both with your hands and with your lungs – the more stentorian your faux farts will be.
This technique also has the added advantage of allowing you to “fart” when you haven’t eaten any refried beans or other methane-producing comestibles. You can sit there innocently next to your wife on the couch, wait until the most touching, tender moment in the weepy romance movie she’s forced you to watch, and then, with perfect timing, punctuate Bogart’s mention of “a hill of beans” with the sound that naturally accompanies said hill.
Satisfying Andy Licious - you have some amazing writing skills, cowboy,
My question: What would the prototype Straight Man envision as the “Perfect Date?” Specifically, what where would they go/what would they do?
Coming seasons … huh? You gotta wear something while you …
Oh, I see what you mean. Seasons that are approaching. heh. heh.
Ahem. Ah, that’s an excellent idea, Bippy. A fall fashion edition of Straight Eye for the Gay Guy. Let me put some thought into it and get back to you. Maybe I can have the fall catalog done real soon … like in time for spring.
Fall fashions: Well-worn jeans and t-shirts.
Winter fashions: Same pair of well-worn jeans, same t-shirts.
Spring fashions: Same pair of well-worn jeans, same t-shirts.
Summer fashions: Same pair of well-worn jeans, same t-shirts.
See? Straight guy fashions are so much easier to plan for than the alternative.
One of toughest test of true Straight Guy manhood is the ability to handle chick flicks without crying. As with all other things, you must not let on about how much pain you are in.
No doubt about it, chick flicks are one of the harshest and most punishing aspects of being a Straight Guy. When you sit down to watch a chick flick, you are through the looking glass, you are in a carnival hall of mirrors where all normal, sane thoughts are reversed, distorted or banished. Suddenly, death becomes a happy occasion, where everone comes together and hugs. (Except the dead person. That would make it a guy flick.) And happy events bring tears. (Huh?) And if you’re terrified, it’s a bad thing, instead of really cool. It’s a strange, bizarre universe where people often settle their differences by talking things out instead of hurling explosives.
But go through with it you must. If a woman told you that you needed to have your teeth fixed, you’d go through with it, wouldn’t you? So with chick flicks. They are like a root canal, only painful.
But “Casablana” – that wasn’t such a bad movie at all. Bogie is the epitome of cool, and the movie has lots of great lines: “Round up the usual suspects,” “I am shocked, shocked …” and that scene where he actually doesn’t say “Play it again, Sam.” A Straight Guy would do well to watch this one to learn how to talk to the ladies.
For example, I once looked deep into a woman’s eyes and said to her, “We will always have Decatur.”
The relationship didn’t last, for some reason.
Dear Blonde:
I’m somewhat of an expert at dating, having watched a lot of movies about it, alone, on my couch, eating chips.
This has given me a remarkable insight into the mind of Woman – as much as it is possible for a Straight Guy to have, anyway. I have learned that the perfect date, where a couple falls in love, invariably involves the following:
[ul]
[li]Walking along the shore[/li][li]Window shopping[/li][li]Horses[/li][li]Carnival rides[/li][li]A romantic dinner[/li][li]Being reduced to the basest, most instinctive levels of lust and going at each other like animals, like beasts, like howling, shrieking …[/li]oh, wait, I’m back in guy-flick territory again. Sorry. [/ul]
So disregard that last one. Straight guys can use this list above – but beware! It’s absolutely true, authentic pattern for falling deeply in love. So you might prefer to take her bowling instead.
So, Blonde, that’s the pattern I would follow for the Perfect Date, adapting it only slightly for guy purposes. We start with:
Walking along the shore: It’s a beautiful day. The sunlight on the waves has a rare sparkle, just like it was photographed through some kind of lens filter. A ballad plays in the background. It’s a perfect time for you, your honey, and that brand new Thomas & Thomas Spey rod with sinking tip lines and string leeches. What’s not to love? It’s a great day to be with the one you love. Just take that beauty in your hands and go breathless with admiration for the smooth curves, and no flat spots. Yep, has to be one of the best fly-fishing rods we’ve ever handled.
Window shopping: You can dream, can’t you? Imagine the star-struck quality of strolling down the aisles of a really upscale Home Depot. Look! They’ve got a sale on bench grinders.
Horses: We can’t all own them, plus our own private pasture for leisurely, scenic, sexually charged rides. But hey, there’s always Pimlico.
A romantic dinner: And what better way to start it than by offering her a drink? Head down to the Palm Tree Lounge. They got them “yard ales” there where they serve beer in a yard-tall glass. Great nachos, too.
No, I haven’t forgotten the carnival visit. I knew a guy (and his name was not Andy, it just wasn’t, okay?) who once took a girl for a romantic date of walking by the ocean and going to the theater and dinner at 8, and it turns out she wanted to do was go to the place with dart games and peanut shells on the floor and two-fer-one boilermakers. So the carnival visit is highly recommended. Try to find one with a mind reader.
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Sorry, Prof(essor), this board doesn’t have enough hamsters to allow imbedded IMG code. Try reading the FAQ, using a URL link instead, and always PREVIEW.
I think this is what he meant to say.
Thanks, Prof!
At long last, here is the Straight Eye collection of fall and winter fashions for straight guys. I have given long and careful thought to the fashion changes as we move into new seasons.
What should you do when summer gives way to fall and winter?
You should dress warmer.
And that about does it for this edition of Straight Eye.
I mean, what else is there to add? Winter is when you turn in the tank top for a rugby shirt, or you see if the logo on your favorite T-shirt is available as a logo on your favorite sweatshirt. The big fashion change in winter is that you can break out your Ole Olsen hat. Or you can get real serious about head warmth. And, of course, the ladies can get serious about keeping warm, too.
But the concept that clothes go out of style from season to season is lost on the average straight guy, who has trouble realizing that clothes go out of fashion from decade to decade. Just look at the number of guys still wearing Elvis hair.
In researching this article, I dug up the fact that you’re not supposed to wear white bucks (white shoes) after Labor Day. C’mon, folks. Straight guys have enough trouble remembering anniversaries for wives and girlfriends. Now we’re supposed to memorize an anniversary for shoes? I’ve got a simple solution: Don’t wear white bucks. Period. Face it, they’re like an open admission that you need Viagra.
Maybe I’ve got a chip on my shoulder about white bucks because a buddy once totally misled me on the white-bucks rule. He had me believing that you weren’t supposed to wear them after Saint Paddy’s day, the reason being that you have probably thrown up on your shoes. (Ah yes, once again we’re back to Irish hurling.) But I’m just ticked about this whole “no white after Labor Day” rule. How many colors do they think T-shirts come in? (Well, lots, but don’t be a smartass.)
Now as for guys not knowing when their clothes have gone out of style, I have invented a simple method that I will call the Nick At Night system. You ask yourself, “What rerun does my wardrobe most resemble?” If it’s a show that’s available only in Kinescope, you might want to update.
So, does your wardrobe most resemble:
Miami Vice: Now here is one of the real examples when your fashion should change with the calendar. When we move into West Nile virus and Lyme Disease season, you should wear socks. Preferable ones that match.
As for pulling up the sleeves of a suit coat, it was cool for maybe the first five times Don Johnson did it. Now it just looks like you had to retrieve your cell phone from the toilet.
Fame: Oh, grow up. We are not going to remember your name. Not unless it’s connected with “that dweeb who dressed like a ‘Fame’ character.” You are not going to live forever. You are going to die with clogged arteries and broken dreams, just like the rest of us.
Love Boat: Here’s the acid test: If you dress like a guest star on “Love Boat,” the only advice I can give you is, burn your clothes. Please. It’s not that I object to clothes that allegedly “clash.” But I draw the line at plaids that induce a migraine. Then there are those big, pointy collars. How do you keep them out of the soup?
Helpful hints: Cut your neckties in half and make two normal ties out of them. Cut up the suit coats and make them into a manly kilt of the MacPolyester clan.
I Love Lucy: Hey, Ricky Ricardo was cool and suave. Back then. If you still dress like this, you’re a baba-looooooooo-ser.
The Untouchables: So old it’s almost back in style again. I wish slouch hats would come back. I bet I’d look cool in a slouch hat.
The Cosby Show: Face it. You want to grow up and have a sweater just like dad, right? Which reminds me of Lisa Bonet in “Angel Heart.” Not that her performance has anything to do with clothes.
Saturday Night Fever: You look good. In fact, you look great. Keep dressing exactly that way. Unbotton the shirt a couple more buttons. There.
(If I can convince more guys to dress like this, it should really cut down on the competition.)
Happy Days: Actually, this show pretty much represents the basic straight-guy wardrobe. Timeless pieces of understated elegance, simple yet tasteful. True classics never go out of style.
If, after you review this list, you realize you need more clothes, here is some advice on shopping: Buy the stuff and get out of the store. Who wants to hang around a store all day? There’s TV to be watched.
Which brings me to the truth about guys and clothes. We don’t really care to shop for ourselves. But we love to shop for our girlfriends. It’s about our generous nature and the warm feeling we get from giving. It’s about our innate spirit of being a provider. It’s about strapless corsets and open-nipple bras. I just need five minutes in the men’s Dockers section, then I’m ready to max that credit card at Frederick’s of Hollywood.
Decisions, decisions. Where do we start? If she’s going back to college, get her a new school outfit. And maybe something nice to wear
around her neck. You could encourage her different choices of careers or healthy activities in the great outdoors. Now what woman wouldn’t love you for bestowing all these generous gifts on her from the goodness of your heart?
Dear Straight Eye,
I was hoping to get your advice on proper behavior and attire in a Gentlemen’s Club, or, in the vernacular, a “Tetty Bahr.” Should one talk to the entertainers, or merely ogle, stuff dollar bills in their T-bars, and make loud comments to your friends about anatomy and acrobatics? Can you go alone, or should you bring all of your cheapest and rudest beer buddies?
Thank you,
Senseless in South Dakota
Dear Senseless:
Oh, what memories you bring back. I recall the first time my buddies said to show up on Main Street at 8:00 because we were going to have a “tetty bahr” night. They all came with rolls of single dollars and a mood to party. I showed up with a teddy bear. I guess I heard them wrong.
Going to topless joints and strip clubs is definitely a group thing. I never, ever go to a topless joint by myself. Well, except for the Cypress Lounge. It’s just because it’s near were I work, and they have good hoagies. That’s all I go there for. Just for lunch. Good hoagies, yessir.
As for proper decorum, you can chose one of several attitudes. There’s the Cool Guy attitude. He’s really above all this. He eyes the women, of course, but mainly he watches his friends with a distant, detached amusement over their uncontrolled excitement at seeing an actual nekkid woman without the benefit of binoculars. He’s too cool for all this. He’s so cool, he wears sunglasses, even in a darkened bar. Proving he’s not too cool to walk smack into a support pillar.
Then there’s the Shy, Embarrassed Guy pose. He’s so flustered at seeing the pretty dancers that they all have to mob around him to take off his hat and wear it or pick up his cigarette and have a puff – preferably by mouth. The Shy, Embarrassed Guy has always gotten me lots of … I mean, can get you lots of attention.
Then there’s just the rest, the Rowdy Guys. The proper way is to hoot and holler and whoop it up and look like you’re actually having fun while giving money to strange women who would really prefer that you just drop your wallet on the floor and leave.
There are different codes for your reglar old joints and your fancy, upscale gentlemen’s clubs. The biggest difference is that in gentlemen’s clubs, your feet don’t make that squishing, smucky sound as you walk across the floor. Proper attire is required in a gentlemen’s club. This sets them apart from the reglar old joints that draw a crowd of roofers and punch-press operators who get their pockets cleaned of a couple of hundred bucks. It’s different in the classy gentlemen’s clubs because you have a bunch of middle managers having their pockets cleaned of a couple thousand bucks.
But regardless of wheter it’s a reglar joint or a GC, the Number One rule is that you don’t touch the dancers unless the two of your have a relationship, this relationship being based on mutual respect, admiration, and a credit card that has not maxed out. For example, say that a dancer named Millie comes over to your table, takes the cigarette from your lips, and balances the burning cigarette on one of her nipples. And then dances around. Then invites you to take the cigarette back, but you can’t use your hands. You have to take it back with your mouth. Proper etiquette dictates that this is exactly what you do, rather than “accidentally” missing the target and mashing your face into her boob. This will only send that burning cigarette either down into her cleavage or right onto my … uh, your lap. I had to grab a drink from the next table and douse the fire. This leaves you with two unfortunate outcomes – One, the front of you pants now is soaking wet, which is a really bad thing to have happen in public. And two, you now face an enraged biker who was using that rum and Coke to ease the heartbreak of being told he couldn’t live in his mom’s tool shed anymore.
Ah, I miss Millie. Such a graceful, poetic dancer. I still remember the last time I saw that lithe and graceful figure, dancing merrily through the expressway traffic as she dodged the bullets of her pimp. I wonder were she is today.
Maybe I’ll go check under the expressway.
Andy,
What does the Strait Eye manual say about guns? I live in one of the more liberal cities in the country and have a number of firearms in my possetion (mostly shotguns of the second mortgage variety). I am single and generally try to avoid discussing this with women until they know me well enough to know that I’m not some militia freak who is going to go postal on them. What is it about women and guns? Is is just one of those things? The funny thing is that the very few women that I have taken out to break a few clays (you got to be really carefull here), generally like it.
Frankly whats more distressing is some guys reaction to gun ownership here. Aren’t guys supposed to like (or at least tolerate) guns? Isn’t this like football? So many of the guys I talk to at work are complete wimps on the subject and its not just the black turttleneck brigade. So tell me Andy, are these guys really gay, super liberal or are they trying to impress women by the “senthitivity”?
Thanks.
Dear Longboard:
Sorry for taking so long to reply. For some reason, I read your name Longboard Dude as Landlord Dude, and this spurred a reflex action to go into hiding.
Now as for those guys who seem squeamish about guns, I’ve noticed this, and I think it could be a class thing. If you’re “uppah clahss,” the only people around you who carry guns are the servant class, like the security guards who ensure that nobody without a blue blazer with a crest on the pocket can get past the guard shack of the gated community. The only others who would have experience with guns are those who have gone into the military. And if you’re rich, you don’t join the military, you just buy one. So knowing about guns is obviously declasse.
Plus, we’re not supposed to hate people for their race, sex, or sexual orientation anymore, so you gotta have somebody to look down on, right?
But check to see if any chicks are around when they say it. They sort of assume chicks don’t like guns, so making a big display out of this might be their way of getting chicks. Because remember, the Number One Straight Guy Rule is Everything’s jake if it gets you chicks. If you meet a great-looking vegan chick, you drop hints about how you found a great vegan restaurant or, depending on how committed she is to the cause, how you just set fire to a meatpacking plant. Or maybe you find out that she is dedicated to social justice for Albanians. In that case, you sign up to make sure there won’t be no justice for whomever the Albanians hate. It’s little things like this that demonstrate your worth as a caring person.
As to why we assume that chicks don’t like guns, I blame biology. No, I’m not talking about Man as the hunter and Woman as the nurturer. I’m talking about the fact that guys have to take aim when they piss.
Face it, we have to train little boys to take aim at a very young age. And we praise them to the skies for being good shots, and criticize them when they miss. Huge amounts of a boy’s self esteem from a very impressionable age are wrapped up in hitting the mark. Little girls, however, just have to learn to plop down in the right place. Thus from a very young age we are sending boys in to a regimented, structured, quasi-military life where they must stand up, toe the line, take aim and strike home, no matter how great the pressure is. Meanwhile, girls are trained in a more passive role of sitting there.
Hey, you could mine this for a thesis.
Once the training of little boys gets under way, they proceed from novice to qualifying for marksman, then working on becoming a sharpshooter. First you learn the rudiments – angle, deflection, windage, etc. – then you put it all together in the Zen-like perfection of placing the arrow in the bull’s eye. Remember as a kid? You are no longer just “going potty” – you are Jet Fighter Zero sinking the enemy fleet.
How many battleships or enemy planes did your kid sister ever sink?
And if you have a boy who doesn’t catch on to this routine by himself, you can always encourage his sharpshooting skills by using a product like Piddlers.
This product sounds so good, I might by some just for the men’s room at work. (Yeah, hint, hint, guys. You know who you are.)
Obviously, the fascination with aiming it doesn’t stop with childhood. Cecil Adams did a column on the clever tactic of putting the image of a fly on urinals so that users will aim better. Just to make sure he wasn’t jerking our chain (Hah! I kill me.) I looked it up on the web and found this page about fly targets in a urinal in Amsterdam. After perusing the picture, my only question was: Why do people in Amsterdam urinate on their telephones? I’ve heard of being pissed off at telemarketers, but still.
Now this is not the only reason men are more interested in shooting at and hitting things. Nature has practically discouraged women in this regard, because they can’t really see where they’re going. I blame this biological difference for women’s fascination with horoscopes. They need someone else to tell them where things are going.
I think this is why women just don’t love camping as much as guys. Imagine that each time you finish a bottle of Gatorade, you have to drop your pants. There was a time in my life when I would finish a bottle and take off all my clothes, but then again, that bottle usually came from a distillery in Scotland.