Drawbacks of Testosterone

The BBQ Pit
1

Here’s something that I only partially understand, but still pisses me off when I’m subjected to it. And I’m a guy.
Whenever I tell anybody how long it took me to drive from Point A to Point B, virtually any guy (and by that I mean a real man’s man), will twist his larynx out of joint to be the first one to chime in, “That’s nothing, I did the same trip in half the time.”
Why do these cretin’s have to tell me how fast they can drive as if the ability to press an accelerator pedal was directly related to penis size.

Guy 1: “I drove down to LA last weekend, took about 5 and half hours.”
Guy 2: “That’s nothing, I did SF to LA in 2 hours and 10 minutes, once.”
Guy 3: “Pussy. One time I left at 12 noon and I got there at 9 AM the same day.”

Or am I the only one secure enough in the size of his johnson, not to attempt to break the sound barrier when visiting the in-laws?

2

I’ll be the first to fess up. I do this all the time.

I’m not really sure as to why. I can say with a fair amount of certainty that it has nothing to do with any preoccupations about the size of my “johnson”.

It’s interesting (to me, anyway) that I do not do this when I am driving somewhere new.

OTOH, I have driven from Atlanta to Pittsburgh more times that I’d care to count. I always try to see how quick I can make it. Maybe it adds a tiny sense of adventure to an otherwise boring as hell ride? I dunno.

3

Ok, I’ll give you that, testing your limits, comparing your best times. I’ve done the same. It’s just the attitude I get in these conversations.

Ok, If I came right out of the chute with, “You wouldn’t believe how quickly I got there,” and then got a “That’s nothing” thrown back in my face, I would deal with it.

It’s when I casually mention how long it took, that some schmuck has to verbally beat me about the head and shoulders about how much faster a driver he is than me. It’s a non-sequiter as far as I’m concerned. Who gives a shit? I didn’t see a checkered flag when I left. Hell, I didn’t even know what your best time was, how could I have possibly beaten it?

4

On this line, how annoying do you find it when someone zooms ahead of you to a red light? Ooh baby, so you beat me to a red light. You know, you’re hurting your car by stopping like that . . . and wasting gas and making an ass of yourself. But other than that, great show, tool!

I see single parents (and by that I mean one adult in the car with children) do this more than anyone else . . .

5

What I hate is when you go over to somebody’s house, fighting your way through traffic for an hour, and you get there and they say, “Oh, which way did you come?” and you tell them, and they say, with a superior air, “Oh, that was the wrong way!” and they go on to tell you the way you SHOULD have come, and you sit there thinking, “Well, why didn’t you tell me not to get on the Dan Ryan BEFORE I left the house, when you invited me?” but they’re your friends, so you just sit there and smile.

I hate that.

6

I work with a guy like that. We both happen to drive the same kind of truck. Before I had learned my lessons about him, I made the mistake of chatting about it.

I commented on gas mileage, which I measure with odometer miles divided by gas pump gallons. And yes, I did check my speedometer for accuracy. Magically, he manages to get 50% better mileage with his truck by estimating gas gauge gallons sorta divided by how many miles that trip musta been. Wow, neat trick.

I mention speed over the pass. His truck with the same goddam motor can easily pull the pass 20 MPH faster than that, naturally. Must be his superior driving skills. Usta drive semi, ya know. Thar’s tricks ya gotta lurn. Riiight. Tricks that miraculously add 100 HP to his mill?

I pull a trailer one weekend. He pulled a trailer that weighs twice as much as the truck once. Doing 80 MPH over the pass into a stiff headwind. During an avalache. Yup.

We go 4 wheeling. He got stuck. I got stuck. Hell, everybody got stuck on that trip, the 3ft deep snow was melting. He gets bent out of shape because a peice-a-shit little wheezer truck pulled his real steel Amurricun iron out of the ditch. Me, I’m fucking grateful if a 10 year old on an Italian tricycle pulls me out of a ditch.

I ace a 1 1/4" group at 100 yards from the bench, even punched two through the same hole. Shit, that ain’t nuthin. He did that at 400 yards with a derringer. Offhand through gusty wind. Uphill. Through the left eye of a grizzly that was about to maul a church group. Of course.

I hike a trail that gains 3600 feet elevation in 2 1/2 miles. Including laying in a heap at the top and the return trip, it takes most of the day. My ass is kicked. What’s that? Why, he jogged up Pike’s Peak in three hours once, wearing a 70 lb pack (in addition to his 70 lb gut). He actually got sorta winded that day. Slightly. Once. Uh-huh.

So now we don’t have nearly as many things to chat about anymore. Too bad, in many ways he’s a cool guy. But I refuse to waste my time competing with his delusions.

7

Of course, we real men know that this type of thing goes a long way.

Guy1: “I twisted my ankle last week.”
Guy2: “That’s nuthin’, last year I broke my arm in 11 places.”
Guy3: “Pussy, My got cut in two pieces at the torso when I was a kid.”

Guy1: “I was pretty drunk last night. I must had a 12-pack in me.”
Guy2: “That’s nothin’. I polished off a whole keg by myself.”
Guy2: “Pussy. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol left in Milwaukee after I got through drinking last night.”