 
Hey, It's a Guy Thing

David A. Bates

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010.David A. Bates

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A Boy and His Car

Everyone has a "first car story," particularly those of us who came of age in the Car Era as I did. As teenage boys in the Midwest in the 1960's, my friends and I had deeply ingrained senses of priorities. Owning an automobile was easily Number One on our list. A car of one's own made it much easier to achieve the teenage boys' second priority, i.e., attracting the attention of teenage girls.

I bought my first car during my senior year in high school. It was a 1955 Ford my father found for me in his cousin's field in Southern Michigan. The asking price was $50.00, a bargain no matter how you sliced it. "I know where you can get a car," my father told me one morning. "A nice one, too. Get your boots on so we can go take a look at it."

"Where is it?" I inquired. "Up to its doors in a swamp?"

"Nah. It's in my cousin's pasture. His cattle have been grazing there, so at least the weeds won't be too thick. We need the boots so we don't mess up our shoes, if you get my drift."

I did indeed get his drift. My father maintained a well deserved reputation as an experienced car scavenger. He was not the type of person to limit his search merely to automobile dealers. Any parcel of property larger than three acres was, to my father, prime car hunting territory.

We drove to said pasture to take a gander at the car. "How can a car that's been sitting in a field for two years possibly run?" My ever-curious mind demanded to know. "I mean, that can't be good for it, can it?"

"Do you want a car or don't you?"

Of course I did, and he knew it.

"Alright, then. Don't be so picky. It's not like you've got money or anything." I should have suspected something was slightly amiss, but my unbridled glee at impending vehicular freedom overrode any nagging doubts I might have harbored.

We arrived at the farm and, without fanfare, drove right on out into the rolling meadow. Then I saw the car. It was dirty and dented and more than a little rusty, but to me it was the most beautiful thing ever created.

"There's one, little thing I probably should tell you," my father said. "You're going to have to drop another engine into her. The one it has is pretty well shot. But that's not a problem. I know a junkyard where we can pick one up for fifty bucks or so. We'll just get your cousins and uncles together and we can have you on the road in one weekend." To my father and his family, auto repairing was tantamount to a religion. They were renowned in ten counties for their particular brand of Sunday afternoon automotive engineering. My uncle's back yard in those days was a veritable cathedral of engine hoists and spare parts. This thing was rapidly turning into a serious family project.

To my disbelief, the engine started after a bit of assistance from my father's car and a set of jumper cables. It became immediately apparent why the engine needed replaced. Blue smoke billowed from the vehicle's aft, sending the curious cattle scurrying for cover. The trip back to my uncle's house required two dollars worth of gas and an equal quantity of motor oil.

My father, true to his word, obtained an engine. The car proved to be a handyman's dream, or nightmare depending on one's perspective. It did in fact require the better part of a weekend to make the swap, but once the job was completed, I was actually able to drive the thing. As with many do-it-yourself projects, however, this one was not without its share of minor maladjustments.

I discovered not long afterward that we hadn't realigned the hood quite properly. As I was roaring down one of our world famous Michigan dirt roads at 60+ mph, said hood gave in to the forces of physics, came unlatched and flew open, crashing into the roof and completely covering the windshield in the process. Needless to say, this seriously narrowed my field of vision. Fortunately, I had heeded another of my father's highway survival tips and never left home without an assortment of hand tools. A quick pit stop along the side of the road to remove the hood and stow it in my trunk and I returned to the world of happy motoring.

Now, however, I was faced with a new set of problems. I soon discovered that one very important function of an automobile hood is to prevent motor oil from spraying onto the windshield. The car boasted a set of wipers, to be sure, but its hiatus in the field had forever altered the operating character of the electrical system. The windshield wipers and the radio worked, but never at the same time. Those times when I was able to hear a forecast of rain while motoring bode major problems regarding navigational ability. To a teenager, a working radio is of primary importance in any vehicle, so using the wipers to clear away the oil was simply out of the question.

My second problem became horribly apparent when I shopped for a replacement hood. Body parts for 1955 Fords were not found in every supermarket, so I was relegated to a visit to the local boneyard. I was now faced with the prospect of driving an off white car which boasted a blue hood, certainly a color scheme no teenager would envy. The only thing possibly worse than owning no car at all was owning one that clashed.

Still another minor oversight of the great engine swap was revealed one Saturday afternoon when I attempted to cross a busy intersection one block from my home. I released the clutch, only to have my ears assaulted by the cacophony of the drive shaft bludgeoning the undercarriage and road surface. It seems my father, in his haste to get me on the road, forgot to bolt the drive shaft down properly. The shaft twisted loose and dropped to the ground, resulting not only in awakening the entire neighborhood, but in my having to push the car back to my house in full view of the local girls. By this time, I was beginning to wish I'd kept my bicycle.

Of all the memories I cherish of this car, probably my fondest was of the day my friend Greg and I were cruising along another of our world famous Michigan dirt roads not long after a hard rain. "You know," Greg said offhandedly, "these back roads sometimes get washed out when it rains. You just might want to slow it down a touch."

"Not to worry," I responded in complete confidence. "I've got everything under control. This baby handles like a sports car."

Greg shot me one of those "You gotta be kidding me" looks. He stared uneasily at the landscape hurtling past him at a far greater speed than I'm sure he wanted. "Still think you ought to slow down. We're gonna crash," he kept muttering.

We rounded a curve to find the roadway completely submerged. I stood on the brakes, but momentum carried us into the lake from which the water had come. In moments, we found ourselves in water about halfway up the doors. Greg gave me a look which might have driven lesser beings to tears. "See. I TOLD you. But did you listen? No! NOW what are we going to do?"

I sat in stunned silence, listening to my friend rave and wondering if the water was deep enough to drown him without much resistance on his part.

We waded out of the water and hiked to the nearest house to call a wrecker. In about half an hour, one showed up. Hopping out, the driver just stood there shaking his head.

"You ain't a'gonna get this car out real easy, kid. Gonna cost ya twenny bucks."

"Okay," I replied, as if I had any other options.

He hooked his chain to the bumper and began hauling the car out of the quagmire, to the creaks and groans of protesting sheet metal. It took about twenty minutes to extricate my car from its watery prison. The wrecker driver stood there, still shaking his head.

"You ain't never a'gonna get that car started, kid. I was inna Army an' I seen lotsa Jeeps in water like that an' they never started, so I know that heap ain't a'gonna start."

"We'll see." I opened the door. Coffee-colored water poured out onto the ground. I climbed into the front seat, depressed the clutch pedal and the gas pedal and turned the key. The engine cranked once, twice, then fired into life. Water spewed from the exhaust pipe. The wrecker driver's jaw dropped to about ground level. I paid him the 20 bucks he demanded and drove away, leaving him standing in the middle of the road shaking his head.

Whenever we rounded a curve, either Greg or I opened our door to drain more water out, depending on which side was leaning. I could only imagine the sight we must have been to other drivers. The car had several pounds of muck attached to the undercarriage which took me several weeks to clean off. It also boasted a floor that would have done Fred Flintstone proud, which meant it also had several pounds of muck in the passenger compartment. The soggy mess eventually dried, but the swampy odor remained long afterward. For all its outer beauty, my car boasted the ambiance of the Everglades in August.

Not long after the swamp expedition, my car passed into the great beyond with neither a whimper nor a bang, but a shudder and a gasp. One afternoon while cruising down a highway, horrendous clanking echoed from the engine compartment and smoke billowed from the exhaust, both signs of impending trouble. Sure enough, a cursory examination by my father sealed the vehicle's doom.

"Looks like she's spun a main," he announced with the clinical tone of a surgeon. "Think you're gonna need a new one."

"A new main?"

"No. A new car. It's gonna be cheaper for you to buy another car than to overhaul this one."

"Great! There's this spiffy little red convertible I've had my eye on for sale in town and..."

"I think you'd better think more along the lines of something you can afford." There was nothing like a parent to shatter a young mans' dreams.

"I have about thirty bucks to my name," I announced sadly. "What kind of a car can I buy for that?"

"Well," my father said thoughtfully as he stroked his chin. "If you have your boots handy, we can go looking. I know a few likely places not far from here, and the weeds aren't too tall yet..."
Car Lot Memories

Some of the last remnants of the Great American Car Culture can be found in almost any town in the nation at the local used car dealer. On any given day, one can find examples of vehicular transportation in various states of disrepair on display for all to see and purchase.

As a young man, I regularly visited one or two of the larger car lots in my home town strictly for entertainment. I'm not speaking here about the front lot, that smoothly paved and well lighted parcel where "previously owned vehicles" are sitting all polished and ready to provide you and your family with years of comfortable transportation. What I'm referring to is that automotive dead zone commonly called the "Back Lot." This is where one finds the real driving challenges. For this is the domain of that four-wheeled blue light special sold "As-Is."

One will not find any clean family wagons or gleaming sporty cars here. Nosireebob! This is where you shop for your work car or your fishing car. If warranties, reliability, resale value or solid bodies are what you seek, don't venture back here. It's a jungle and only the strong survive. Those faint-of-heart who want cars that always start and are able to make it a full 3000 miles on the same oil had best turn back now. This is no place for wimps.

One recent weekend, having nothing in particular to do and in need of excitement, I decided to find out first-hand just how much the back lot had changed since my last visit. This back lot was typical in that it was well hidden behind the billboard sign advertising the great buys available, in the front lot of course. No self respecting dealer really wants to acknowledge the existence of such a place as the notorious back lot on his property. This fact creates an ideal situation for the casual browser such as myself. Few salesmen dare to venture too far into the back lot for fear the grease and grit will smudge their white bucs. Thus left to my own devices, I embarked on a journey of rediscovery.

This particular lot was a veritable time line of automotive engineering. First in view was a 1970's vintage Mercury which had oxidized into a state of near collapse. "Great Second Car" read the hastily scrawled chalk lettering now slowly fading on the dusty windshield. Apparently the average car buyer didn't share the dealer's appraisal. From all outward appearances, it had been there quite awhile.

Almost directly across from the Merc was a Dodge Diplomat of undetermined vintage, its bare wheels standing as mute testimony to past sacrifices of hubcaps to the Spring Pothole Gods. The car had about the number of dents and dings expected in one boasting such a long and distinguished service record. It had performed its duty well and now awaited the clarion call in the form of "$100 Down" to continue its trek toward the oblivion of the boneyard, the ultimate fate to which all rolling stock aspire.

I continued down the row, examining a 1970-something van with tires resembling misshapen bowling balls, a 1981 Ford station wagon complete with visqueen rear window and a late '60's Chevrolet hunched over a fresh pool of thick, dark liquid when I stopped dead in my tracks.

There it was!

In one moment, I was swept back to the summer after my high school graduation. There before me stood a piece of America frozen in the time when rock-n-roll was in it's infancy, when Elvis was setting female hearts a-flutter, when American-built automobiles were the unchallenged kings of the road.

There, amidst the gloom and doom of the back lot, was a jet black 1957 Oldsmobile 88 almost the spitting image of the one I paid $350 for in the Summer of 1966. It had been my first car purchased from a dealer. They told me it was sold "as-is."

Forget about electronic ignition systems, anti-lock brakes, AM-FM stereo CD players, and power sun roofs. Erase from your mind all those modern conveniences today's car owners take for granted. Don't look for fuel economy devices or weight saving design in this chariot. Here is conspicuous consumption at its zenith. No wimpy plastic or nylon parts will be found on this car. Here stood 3,500 pounds of Detroit iron propelled by 350 cubic inches of high octane hungry V-8 power. A true auto enthusiast's dream.

Of course the car was not locked. Most backlot specials even have the keys in the ignition in the hope that some desperate soul will steal them and thus save the dealership the trouble of otherwise disposing of them. I opened the driver-side door and stepped into a brave old world.

The dashboard was all metal. The hottest July sun on record could never faze it. You never needed Armor-All to protect this shield from cracking and peeling. It had the tensile strength of an I-beam.

The radio was as big as a medium-sized suitcase. It had real numbers painted onto the face, a dial and push buttons one had to set manually. None of that newfangled digital stuff for this beauty. You had to tune it by hand and ear. That took skill. How many younger drivers can claim to have had the experience of cruising down the highway while attempting to fine tune a manual radio? Having the ability to receive the full resonance of Jan and Dean without all the static was an achievement worthy of legend. Forget about FM. This was a purist's radio. From North Central Indiana, you could receive stations all the way from Chicago and points beyond. Just try THAT with your fancy high-tech sound system!

You want to talk about chrome? The interior of this buggy was embellished with enough plated sheet metal to panel a medium sized bedroom. To drive a '57 Olds in the Summer sun meant either wearing very dark sunglasses or risking total blindness. There were even chrome-plated strips on the door panels wider than most of today's car doors. It was like driving a hall of mirrors.

My hand dropped to the ignition. Of course, the key was there. I held my breath, pumped the accelerator pedal twice and turned the key. The car awoke from its sleep with a smoky roar and then settled into a raspy vibrato vaguely reminiscent of an asthmatic in a field of Goldenrod. It was a sound I'd thought forever lost to history.

I stepped out and walked to the front of the car to raise the hood. Before doing so, however, I took a few moments to admire the front bumper. Here again was a prime example of excess. This piece of highly polished steel would no doubt tip the scales at better than 100 pounds. It was mounted directly to the frame. No miniature shock absorbers here. A collision between two of these mobile steel mountains was a true test of the carbuilder's mettle. Why the military never utilized these cars as offensive weapons is a question crying out for answers. A direct hit at 60 miles an hour could literally demolish any wall man could build. I can only imagine what a defending army would think as it watched a division of highly polished Rocket 88's roaring toward their fortress.

After a moment or two of groping beneath the hood, I found the latch and gave a mighty pull. The hood popped open with a squeaky metallic lurch. I raised the hood, no mean feat for someone the least bit out of shape, to reveal the power plant. And what a power plant it was! This engine was wider than an entire Yugo. No excess plumbing could be found anywhere here. Pollution control devices were in the distant future when this monster was designed. What belched from the rear pipes was pure hydrocarbon waste, unfiltered and unfettered. This car could leave in its wake a cloud of particulate saturated smoke that would do Los Angeles proud.

A few twists of a wing nut removed the air filter housing to reveal a carburetor the size of a Xerox copier. It boasted four butterfly-valved throats that inhaled enough air per minute to sustain a complete ecosystem. Whenever THIS car was started, hearts in the OPEC nations skipped a beat. I could literally feel the air moving past my body as it was sucked into the fiery void.

I simply had to drive it.

No salesperson had appeared so far. I assumed I was safe from annoying inquiries, at least for the time being. It wasn't like I wanted to take a joyride all over town or anything. All I wanted to do was cruise from one end of the lot to the other, just for old time's sake. What harm could it possibly do?

I got behind the wheel, pulled the door shut with a creak, put the gear selector into "D," revved the engine and eased out of the space, or rather attempted to do so. The car lurched forward a foot or two, hesitated, began shaking and then emitted a horrendous backfire that rattled windowpanes for at least two square miles. Smoke billowed out from under the hood through every possible opening. The scent of the fumes put me in mind of a fire at the county landfill. Every mucous membrane I possessed began to revolt from the odorous assault. In the sudden silence, I could hear dogs barking and mothers frantically calling to their children. Inside the dealership, heads were beginning to pop back up from beneath desks and tables. At that moment, I suddenly remembered why it was I sold my '57 Olds in the first place.

The mechanic called it a brazed brake drum. As he explained it, when a brake shoe is overheated, it sometimes develops a hard spot. The car will still stop, but under certain conditions will act in a "nonstandard" way. In the case of my Olds, if I was attempting to stop on a bumpy street, it would make a sound unlike anything I'd ever heard. The car would go "BBBRRRAAKKKKKK!" and shake loose any part of your body not strapped down. I could live with a little shaking. I was young. Nothing was going to fall off. The downside to this was that it scared the bejeesus out of anyone within earshot, which included anyone and everyone in an area of roughly ten city blocks in any given direction. It was humiliating enough to be 17 years old and relegated to driving a car which resembled an armored personnel carrier, but to also have it make a noise designed to awaken the dead was simply too much to bear.

I opened the door and stepped out of the car. One of the salesmen had finally mustered the courage to personally investigate the disturbance. He walked toward me warily. My feeling was that he assumed anyone crazy enough to attempt driving that Oldsmobile might not be completely under control. "Is there anything I can tell you about this classic?" he asked me in all seriousness, perhaps hoping to disarm me when I dropped my guard.

"Nope!" I replied. "I've just seen all I need to see."

"She's a beaut, isn't she? Boy, they sure don't build 'em like this any more."

"That's a fact." I was about to walk away, but I couldn't resist the one question.

"So," I inquired. "Just how much are you asking for this car anyway?"

"Three hundred and fifty dollars. It's a real bargain."

I couldn't believe my ears. My first actual car purchase all those years ago was a vehicle which had already reached the unwritten bottom level beyond which no car could sink in value.

"Fifty bucks down and you can take her home." This guy wasn't about to give up after having risked life and limb to walk all this way. "What do you say?"

"I say. . .thanks but no thanks. I already have a car. All I was really doing was taking a little trip down memory lane, so to speak." Memory lane was turning out to be a pothole-filled dirt road, if this experience was any indication.

"Ok, but you won't find a car like this one anywhere else in town," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I can certainly believe that." I stated as I sauntered back to my modern plastic and vinyl-trimmed, air conditioned, electronically ignited automobile, slid onto the cloth seat, started the engine and revelled in the quiet.

As I drove toward home, I determined that it would be much safer to pursue more vicarious adventures. Backlot Specials, I decided, were younger men's games.
HO HO HO, YERASS!

Okay, all you assholes out there. I've been listening to all your wants and desires and bitches now for hundreds of years with a shit-eating grin on my face and haven't ever said anything. I sit there and go "Ho Ho Ho" all day long while some little ankle-biter pulls my beard or pukes all over my clean suit, then asks me for some damned electronic doo-dad that costs more than a Dodge sedan and will turn his brains to mush in less than a month. Do I ever get so much as a "Thank You?" Hell no. It's always "Santa, I want this" or "Santa, will you bring me that" but I never once hear "Santa, thanks for damn near killing yourself every year just so I can add one more expensive toy to my already landfill-sized pile of expensive toys." Is that too fucking much to ask?

Now, it's my turn to get a load off my chest. So sit back, crack open a can of Bud and shut the fuck up for a few minutes if that's remotely possible.

If any of you think it's easy doing what I do, I'll gladly let you try it. Let me see you drag your ass out of a nice, warm bed before the crack of dawn, put on that damned red suit that I can't even mend anymore, let alone replace, wolf down a breakfast of cold Rice Krispies and even colder coffee and then try to lug that forty ton bag of cheap junk we make across the yard. Then I gotta tie the damned thing down with bungee cords so everything doesn't fly out while I'm in a holding pattern over some godawful cesspool like Moscow. Let me tell ya, you ain't lived until you've tried to bring a wooden sleigh down into Red Square while those damned Commies shoot everything but the kitchen sink at you. And they aren't as bad as the Arabs. Those crazy bastards think I'm a fucking Israeli missile or something and chase me with Phantom jets. Then there was the time I had to set down in Biafra and they tried to eat the fucking reindeer - alive. Christ, what kind of a crazy fucking world do we live in now?

I'd be willing to bet my last peso that you'd be in a piss-poor mood too after stuffing yourself down about a million chimneys, most of which aren't even connected to a fireplace anymore. Wait until you get your ass wedged into a fake fireplace so tight you can't even fart and see how the hell you like it. And all those helpings of milk and cookies. Please! I had to steal a NordicTrac from one of my best customers two years ago just so I could keep getting into my suit. Just once, I'd love to struggle my way out of a sooty fireplace and find a joint and fifth of Jack Daniels sitting on a tray. A nubile young woman wouldn't hurt either once in a while. I mean, I love Mrs. Claus, but the old girl just doesn't make me get it up any more, know what I mean? Hell, I'd even settle for a cheap hooker if that was all you people could scrounge up on Christmas Eve. Some years, I get so damned horny that watching Blitzen's fuzzy ass wiggle in front of the sleigh gives me a woody.

And these toys the kids want today... My Gawd! I couldn't dream up some of those ugly sumbitches even after one of my world famous pepperoni pizza and beer nightmares. What the hell ever happened to the days of dolls that looked like babies and just plain old cars and trucks. Now we gotta have dolls that piss their pants and puke green shit all over their clothes and cars that turn into something that reminds me of something I thought I saw after one too many tokes. It's no fucking wonder we have a whole generation of serial killers. It's gotten so bad that the damned reindeer won't even go near the sleigh unless I blindfold them first. One year, we almost didn't have Christmas until March because I had to chase those damned deer down and convince them the toys weren't going to rip out their underbellies.

Actually, I wish I could get rid of those fucking reindeer. It's bad enough they're so damned slow, but every year they wait until we get into a severe headwind before they have to take a collective shit. It's a Pure-D miracle I can even get into most houses by two AM considering the fact I smell like a fucking shithouse. I swear every year that the next time I get a warm piss shower over Cuba that I'm going to find out how they like being bisected and hung on a hook in a giant cooler. Then I could do this damned job in style with a Lear Jet and still make it back home in time to catch Letterman. I mean, tradition is all well and good, but sooner or later you gotta move into the Twentieth Century. Hell, if I had a Lear, I could cluster bomb every shitty little berg in the world with toys and shit and never have to rub my ass raw climbing up out of some fireplace every ten minutes. I can see it all now. I'll install a kick-ass PA system on the ass end of the plane and get a CD player to just keep repeating "Ho Ho Ho" and playing those damned jingle bells the whole time I'm up there and I wouldn't have to listen to them all frigging night. I could drop down to about a thousand feet and push those Morphin Aliens or whatever the hell those fish-faced motherfuckers are out the door and into a heap in the center of town and let the little rug rats fight over them the next morning. Now THAT would be a Christmas worth videotaping.

If the reindeer weren't bad enough, I have those fucking elves to deal with. At least the reindeer I only have to work with one night a year. Those other little bastards I have to see every shitting day. Those sawed-off little fucks must have learned the fine art of bitching from the world's expert. They'd piss and moan if they were going to get hung with a new rope. First it was too cold in the workshop, so I had to install central heating. Then the female elves had to have their own bathroom. I mean, it isn't as if the fuckers can actually do anything to each other. They're drones, for Christ's sake. Every fucking one of them pisses squatting, so how the hell can you tell if one of them is a girl? No matter. I had to put in an entire bathroom, complete with lights and a mirror. Two years ago, the cocksuckers threatened to join the Amalgamated Toymakers Union if I didn't give them all a raise and toss in some bennies. Since I didn't have the fucking time to spend countless hours at "Toys -R- Us" buying a whole shitload of Betsie Wetsies and Street Sharks, I caved in. Now the little assholes make more than I do and I own the fucking place. So what do you suppose they want this year? They want me to set up a home page on the fucking internet so the damned computer geeks can order their goodies by modem. What kind of nonsense is that? About the only pleasure I get in this damned job any more is traveling to all those malls and having those little 12-year-old girls sit on my lap. I even take some of the elves with me, to be my "helpers" don't you know. Hell, I thought they enjoyed doing that shit. Just because that one elf got smotherfucked by a gang of Kindergarteners in Cleveland is no reason to go over the edge. Shit, they thought he was just a big Smurf. I told the stupid bastard not to wear that blue jump suit.

It wasn't so bad when all I had to do was make a shitload of wooden wagons and simple shit like that. Those kids back then were satisfied with homemade toys. Some of them you could even satisfy with a couple of apples. God, those were the days. Now, I gotta go out to Best Buys and load up with fucking computers and video games and all that shit and even those aren't good enough. The same little bastards I gave Nintendos to last year came back this year bitching because the damned thing doesn't have the best graphics or some such bullshit. Hell, if their toys don't let them blast some ugly fucking monster into raw hamburger on the television screen, it isn't good enough. Maybe I'll make my own video game for next year where Santa drops reindeer shit on top of as many little rug rats as possible and the one who makes the biggest pile wins. Wouldn't that be a fucking hoot?

Well, now that I've gotten all this off my chest, I suppose I should go out there in the damned cold and start loading up the sleigh. Mrs. Claus is already nagging me about not being late, like she gives a shit whether or not I freeze my balls off. Why the hell I can't do this happy horse shit in fucking July I'll never know. One of these years, I'm gonna just say to hell with it and spend Christmas in the Bahamas drinking rum and getting my belly rubbed by some nubile native girls with big bazongas. Let the little curtain climbers get their fucking toys at Wal-Mart like they should be. Fuck it, I'm gonna retire.
The Lawn From Hell

or

Summertime Greens Blues

I have the Lawn from Hell. This is a conclusion reached after months of intensive research. There is quite simply no other explanation for it. Over the course of a single mowing season, I became intimately familiar with the Lawn from Hell. From this intimacy developed a grudging respect for, and not a small fear of, what has become one of the most time and energy consuming projects I have ever embarked upon. Perhaps a brief description is in order for the benefit of those Doubting Thomases among you.

The Lawn from Hell has more ruts than the Oregon Trail, life forms unknown anywhere else on the planet, quite likely due to divine intervention, and huge dead limbs which appear to grow directly out of the ground. These limbs, if collected over the course of a season, would provide enough lumber to construct a fair-sized dwelling. That the trees in the Lawn from Hell aren't completely stripped of leaves and branches is a wonder to me, considering the size and number of limbs dropping from them. These limbs, I am convinced, are designed by nature in such a way that they fall to the ground in the hour immediately preceding my mowing activity. The result of which is that I must spend at least thirty minutes, often longer, picking them up lest they destroy my lawn mower. If that weren't bad enough, the grass itself has mutated into an alien organism that doubles in length approximately every ten minutes. On calm nights, with the windows open, one can actually hear these mutant blades grow. Common woodland creatures, unaware of their fate, have wandered innocently into this green purgatory only to be swallowed up and consumed. I try not to think about this as I perform my required trimming. The crunching sounds I hear beneath my mower are only small twigs, I tell myself. Only twigs.

Then there are the weeds. These are flora which have yet to be scientifically classified. Their only common trait is an uncanny resistance to trimming. While I have no evidence with which to support my theory, it is my opinion that these weeds are able to somehow detect the approach of a lawnmower and duck at the last moment, only to pop up once again once the mower has passed. My first summer as owner of the Lawn from Hell, I attempted to implement a weed management program. I covered the turf with virtually every weed control chemical known to modern man. This only served to further strengthen their resolve. In no other lawn in Middle America can one find Dandelions still blooming in October.

My neighbors, who are blessed with normal, ordinary grass, possess lawn tractors. I watch them, green with envy, as they cruise effortlessly over their mirror-smooth lawns, whistling as they ride. One man went so far as to install a portable television set in his tractor. It was one of those enclosed models with air conditioning and power steering. This vehicle was more luxurious than my automobile. My neighbor entered the rig in early May and wasn't seen again until late October.

I, on the other hand, happen to have a wife who has established as her life's goal "seeing to it I get into shape," to use her words. I am therefore forced to subdue the Lawn from Hell with a mere power mower. Three or four times each week, I go to my shed, roll out my trusty five horsepower, self-propelled, 21-inch mulching mower. I do this with considerable trepidation because I know I have a full two to three hours of torturous labor ahead of me.

The Lawn from Hell is divided into separate and distinct segments, each with a unique personality. I begin my journey in the "grass that grows an inch an hour" segment. This is the portion of the Lawn from Hell situated directly over the septic tank. It was also at one time the location of a garden, thus residue from numerous fertilizings remains in the soil. Suffice it to say I have actually observed blades of grass magically restored to their pre-mown length within minutes after I pass over them. If I could but transfer this phenomenon to the heads of balding men, I could retire tomorrow wealthier than my wildest dreams.

Once I've completely clogged the underside of my mower with grass clippings, I move on to the "fight my way around the shrubs and bushes" portion. Here is where the superior maneuverability of a push mower shines through. Whatever alien force transformed my grass into its present form did not stop when it reached the shrubbery. These prickly demons grasp any object, living or nonliving, which dare to venture too near their domain. At least twice per week, I singlehandedly confront one of these snarling green beasts when it attempts to snatch the mower from my grasp. I proudly wear numerous scars on my body, graphic evidence of past battles fought and won. I have yet to succumb to the horrors of the brambles.

Next comes the "millions of miles of mole hills" portion. This is where the mower wheels crash through the surface of the soil, leaving behind a circular shaped earthen icon where the blade scours all vegetation from the area. As if the ruts weren't obstacles enough, the Lawn from Hell/Mole Hill Segment is a veritable sponge. On more than a few occasions have I stepped into one of these hidden tunnels and gone sprawling. That I haven't broken any bones is no doubt a miracle. Of course, the moles dwelling within these tunnels have taken on the same personality as their adopted home. No controlling agent known to modern man even begins to faze these critters. They simply gain strength from whatever I throw their way move on to yet another part of the yard.

The "millions of miles of mole hills" segment of the yard is also the home of the Very Strange Fungus. The VSF, as it is commonly called, is a yellowish tinted globule approximating a flattened baseball in both size and texture. The VSF grows within a four square-foot depression that, I believe, was once the site of a large tree. This rock hard toadstool on steroids is capable of withstanding a direct blow from a power mower, a full-force kick from a human foot and fifteen minutes of dedicated shovel work. It boasts a root system elaborate enough to be the envy of the Army Corp of Engineers. I was successful on only one occasion in removing a VSF from its place. The following day I discovered three additional VSFs had grown in or near the same site. My guess is they were there purely to avenge the untimely demise of their brother. That they thrive on the same chemicals I fed to the moles has not escaped my reckoning.

The next part of the yard, the beginning of the second half, is known as the "increasing angled slope, ankle twisting" segment. It is here that my mettle is most severely tested. I have already endured more than an hour of muscle straining, back wrenching labor at the hands of the Lawn from Hell by this time. After a few moments to refuel my mower, it's back to the conquest.

This segment of the Lawn from Hell would no doubt challenge the worthiest of Mountain Goats. It is only by pure miracle that my legs are not of uneven lengths. One misstep and the unfortunate stroller would roll unimpeded into the water and beyond. This might not be so bad were it not for the presence of one other creature common to the Lawn from Hell - the Canada Goose.

I always thought of Canada Geese as beautiful birds until I moved to the lake and learned firsthand of their singular bad habit. To put it as delicately as possible, geese have a very short retention time between eating and elimination. There are precious few square inches of the lower half of the Lawn from Hell not covered for the majority of the year in goose droppings. It is for this reason that falling and rolling toward the water's edge while mowing is not a pleasant prospect.

After spending months physically chasing these feathered digestive systems out of my yard, beating two skillets together, waving my arms in the air, and screaming obscenities at them, I discovered the magic of bottle rockets. Yes, one match and my troubles are gone! All I need do is step out onto my deck with an empty soda bottle, a lighter and a handful of bottle rockets. I place a rocket into the open bottle, aim it in the general direction of my target, the aforementioned gaggle of geese, flick the lighter and touch the flame to the wick. A slight hiss, then a flash of light and BOOOOOM! Geese go flying and squawking in every direction. My penultimate moment of glory came earlier this very summer, when by a quirk of glorious fate, one of my launches landed directly beneath the derriere of one of the male geese. I never realized until that moment that it was possible for a goose to fly straight up like a helicopter. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Of course, the poor critter reacted in typical goose fashion, making a fresh deposit to its already sizable account on the lawn, but he was now a believer in my "pay as you play" philosophy.

By the time I've reached the lower one-third of the Lawn from Hell, it has actually begun to level off into a nearly normal suburban lawn. One might think my troubles nearly over. However, those who believe this have yet to reckon with the Great Willow Tree.

The Great Willow Tree consists of three identically sized trunks. It occupies a place of dubious honor at the very edge of the Lawn from Hell. Had this tree grown anywhere else on Earth, it would have been like any other tree. Since it had the misfortune of becoming a part of the Lawn from Hell, therefore having as its only purpose in life adding to my lawn care misery, it boasts a root system that at any moment can erupt from solid ground and bring my mower to an immediate halt. Even worse, it has no fewer that five hundred million branches which either reach down from above and snag my shirt or fall onto the ground directly in front of me, forcing me to bend over and pick them up lest they crunch into sawdust under my mower. These limbs are inbred with suicidal tendencies. Like Kamikaze pilots, they toss down a last drink of lake water, snap free of their moorings and dive directly into the path of my power mower. One huge limb fell earlier this summer from the Great Willow Tree into the lake and, rather than simply floating away as would be expected, it remains to this day, bobbing up and down in the water, awaiting the moment when I wade into waist-deep, ice cold water and drag it ashore. The Lawn from Hell has the ability to cast its spell even into the water.

Finally, after more than three hours of strenuous, sweaty labor, the Lawn from Hell is momentarily subdued. It lies, twitching and straining, under the hot sun, awaiting the moment I return my mower to the shed to begin growing anew. I trudge up the incline toward the comfort of my home, knowing that it is only a matter of days, perhaps only hours, before I must repeat the entire process.

To complicate matters even further, it was discovered that whatever unknown force exists in the Lawn from Hell can be transferred to other places by simply walking across it. All visitors must go through a complete disinfection/detoxification regimen before being allowed to leave the premises. This is a very recent development. The mutation which so radically altered my grass was found to have the same effect on clothes hangers and paper clips. They suddenly begin to multiply without warning and intertwine until they've grown into a wiry globule the size of Pike's Peak. Three office buildings in Goshen, Indiana had to be abandoned when they were overtaken by a paper clip avalanche. Even worse, my wife innocently strolled into a dry cleaners in Battle Creek, Michigan last August after taking a walk across the yard. Rescue units from six counties required three days to cut their way through the resulting hanger maze with acetylene torches to rescue the shocked and disbelieving cleaner staff.

One of my lawn tractor-owning neighbors suggested, after watching me one hot July afternoon locked in mortal combat with the Lawn from Hell, why I didn't simply allow it to return to its natural state and apply to the state for a permit to turn my property into a natural habitat. It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. I could allow the moles to have their way. The geese would be free to fertilize all the acreage they wished. The underground-dwelling limbs could pop out of the topsoil at any point. The Very Strange Fungus would have its own protected ecosystem. The Great Willow Tree would be able to landscape its immediate surroundings at will. It sounded to me like a great plan, until I became cognizant of the total implications.

Turning the Lawn from Hell into a natural habitat would not only prevent me from mowing, thus effectively neutralizing the last line of defense in three counties against a complete takeover by vegetation run amuck, it would also call into life the most feared of all known organisms - the dreaded Form Filled Out In Triplicate. Not since Tyrannosaurus Rex has such an all consuming creature existed on Earth. The mere thought of resurrecting this horror made my blood run cold. I toyed with the notion of abandoning my property to the mercy of the elements and fleeing with only the clothes on my back to the Mojave Desert, or any place totally devoid of anything resembling grass.

Then I collected my senses long enough to ask myself: "What's the absolute worst that could happen were I to follow through with this plan?" I mentally plotted it out and found the ultimate result far worse than I imagined. By the simple expedient of requesting a Form Filled Out In Triplicate, I envisioned the following scenario:

I would drive the already overburdened US Postal System into chronic gridlock by first requesting then returning these forms First Class, thereby forcing an increase in postal rates, thereby fueling inflation, thereby driving the national economy into recession, thereby dismantling the fragile Global marketplace, thereby creating political and social chaos in the third world, thereby sparking numerous bloody revolutions, thereby causing the needless deaths of millions, thereby forever altering the course of civilization, thereby ending the domination of man over the planet, thereby leading to our premature extinction.

The future of life as we know it was in my hands. Try as I might, I could not bring myself to drop the curtain on modern civilization by locking up my power mower, as tempting as the thought might be. Instead, I gazed out of my window as the sun slowly set on the Lawn from Hell, already three inches taller than it was only an hour earlier. I knew it would be only a matter of days before I would steel myself to do battle against the green monster once again. It was the price I must pay in order to save mankind from terminal vegetation.
LIES WOMEN TELL MEN

Since male bashing is all the rage today, particularly among feminists and politicians seeking their votes, it is high time men had their say. One of the most popular pastimes among the feminists is to list, ad nauseum, the lies men supposedly tell them twenty-four hours a day. While it is acknowledged that few men come close to being true saints, it is also true that we have other things to occupy our time than inventing new and creative fibs with which to deflower innocent women. To that end, the following lies, directly from the lips of these same saintly women, are humbly submitted for your information and survival in a decidedly hostile female-oriented society. These lies are listed in no particular order and include, in most cases, the literal translation.

Before embarking on any discussion of the actual lies, however, it is incumbent upon us to make note of a few of the assumptions women make about men. Doing so serves both to provide men with some insights, albeit considerably limited, into how females think and also to put the lies that follow into their proper perspective:

1. All men ever think about is sex: This one is obvious to any man who has had any contact at all with women because the woman will tell him exactly that. This isn't a lie, per se, because the woman actually believes it.

2. Men cannot share their feelings: Unless a man continually cries, most women believe him to be cold and unfeeling. They cannot accept the fact that men tend to internalize their feelings much more than women, therefore consider most men selfish. Of course, the other side of this particular coin is the fact that if a man actually does show his feelings too often, he is then assumed to be either gay, putting on a phony show in order to get sympathy which leads to sex, or is not a real man after all, but only a baby.

3. It is in men's nature to lie to women: Here again is an example of female assumptions regarding the activities of men. Since men tend to internalize feelings (see above), they also do not tend to provide minute by minute narratives on their activities. A woman will interpret this internalization as covering up something insidious, therefore the man must be lying.

4. Men do not like kids: Unless a man is totally involved in the everyday care of his children, women believe that he does not like them. It doesn't matter one whit that he takes them places and plays games with them, not to mention provides for them, the moment he has to make the choice between going to work and staying home with the kids, if he decides to go to work, he is a child hater.

5. Once the kids are raised, men are of no further use to women: This one is all too often sad but true. If the particular woman in a man's life has as her singular goal the procreation and raising of children, then once this has been accomplished, the man might as well be a piece of furniture for all the attention he will receive.

Now to the meat of the matter:

1. Women never lie to men: As we shall soon see, this is perhaps the most blatant falsehood of them all. The chief problem with this particular statement is that of perception. Most women believe that, unlike men, they are psychologically and morally incapable of telling lies, that the things they tell men are merely defense mechanisms designed to protect them from pain and suffering which men perpetually inflict upon them. Therefore, a woman can look a man straight in the eyes and, without a morsel of remorse, tell him a lie, thinking all the while that what she is telling him is the complete truth or, at the very least, a smoke screen to keep him off balance.

2. Looks aren't important. It's what's inside a person that really counts: This one is closely related to:

3. Money isn't important. It's what's inside a person that really counts: These statements are most often uttered by a woman who has recently ended a bad relationship with a wealthy and/or drop dead good looking guy and is on the rebound. Such obviously tainted comments are nothing more than the by-products of temporary bitterness and should never be taken seriously unless you thrive on pain and confusion. Men who are neither wealthy nor handsome should be particularly wary upon hearing either of these comments. In most circumstances, the woman who makes either or both of these statements will be in the arms of yet another smooth operator with the bank account of Bill Gates and/or the looks of Antonio Banderas before the end of the week, regardless of your efforts. If you happen to believe these lies and actually make an effort to establish a relationship with the woman who says them, you are setting yourself up for a major fall. Beware.

4. Call me anytime: This is one of the most insidious falsehoods you will hear, particularly if you take the speaker up on her offer and actually phone her. In almost every case, your call will find her: in the shower, just leaving for an appointment, just flitting through the house between appointments, just falling asleep, just waking up, or, perhaps the most commonly used reaction, "kind of busy now." [TRANSLATION - "I'm with someone I REALLY want to spend time with." OR "I'm waiting for a call from someone I REALLY want to talk to." See the Looks/Money lies above.] She will most likely express first utter shock and then anger that you would actually have the nerve to call her and disturb her at such an inopportune time. "Call me anytime" is on the same level of truthfulness with "Come see me." It's an often-used blow-off with no real substance. When you are told to "call me anytime," what you're really being told, politely, is "Buzz off. I've got too many important things to do to waste any more of my time talking to a loser like you."

5. I like you as a friend: [TRANSLATION - You aren't good enough for me.] Breathes there a man anywhere on Earth who hasn't heard this one at least once? If you've ever taken her out for a nice dinner or bought her flowers, you are more likely to hear this one than if you are just a casual acquaintance. She knows a meal ticket when she sees one and isn't about to give you the complete brush-off. After all, she might get bored one night when Mr. Wonderful is out of town and she knows who the soft touch is. If you can live with being a "friend" who gets the pleasure of her company, from a distance, for as long as you're willing to pick up the tab, and you can accept the fact that she will be sending you straight home with a handshake while she offers her fruits to someone else, then feel free to accept this one at face value.

6. I'm not ready for a relationship just now: [TRANSLATION - You aren't rich enough/good looking enough for me to get serious about.] Closely related to the Looks/Money lies above, but usually used after the initial bitterness has passed and she begins to regain her normal womanly sense of priorities. This one might have a bit of credibility if you were certain you wouldn't see her the same night sucking face with some dude in gold jewelry and tight jeans. Most women, when in the company of other women, regularly bemoan the fact that they "just can't find a good man." What this means, in female-ese, is that they "just can't find a man who trips my trigger." Women understand this completely, but men tend to take it literally. WARNING: If you happen to be one of her "friends" (see above) and happen to be the recipient of one of her patented "I can't find a good man" laments, NEVER tell her that you would like a more serious relationship with her unless you're the type who enjoys multiple blows to your ego. If you don't want to hear in vivid detail what exactly is wrong with you, don't express your desire to get serious because she will tell you with no holds barred. Since you're such a "good friend," she won't think you'll mind a bit of "honesty."

7. I can't go out tonight because [plug in your own excuse]: [TRANSLATION - I wouldn't go out with you if I had to choose between that and root canal work without local anesthesia.] This is one of several customizable fibs you'll encounter. Younger women, up to about age 30, almost always use "I have to wash my hair" as the second part of this one while older women tend to lean toward "I've had a hard day and I want to just rest." "My [Aunt, Grandmother, Sister, college roommate, former neighbor, any other warm body I can think of quickly] is coming to visit" is another popular selection, and is used about equally across all age groups. Almost without exception, the warm body who is about to move in is another female. That keeps the door slightly ajar in case you win the lottery and she suddenly decides to re-evaluate your offer. If the "washing my hair" story had even a ring of truth to it, the owners of American shampoo companies would now be the wealthiest human beings on the planet, considering the fact that every female under 35 has the cleanest hair in Christendom. Women over 35, on the other hand, must by necessity stop washing their hair four times a day because their 22 hour a day work schedules and the numerous daily visitors they welcome into their homes simply don't leave them enough time for hair care. Perhaps the most interesting of all experiences associated with this fib is seeing the woman whose [Aunt, Grandmother, et al.] is supposedly coming to visit out for a swinging night on the town. As tempting as it may be, avoid the temptation to inquire as to how her Aunt or whomever feels about being left all alone in a strange town while she parties hearty. Doing this may provide you with momentary satisfaction, but can also have long-lasting negative effects, such as giving you a reputation as being cold-hearted. It is perfectly acceptable for women to be cold-hearted vis-à-vis men, but it is absolutely not permissible for men to come across this way. The "I can't go out tonight" lie is one of the most popular among women because, by modifying the lie to fit the proper age level and associated lifestyle, women can use it throughout their lives with equal effectiveness.

8. It's my time of the month: [TRANSLATION - I can't think of anything better to use as an excuse at the moment and I KNOW this one will work.] This fib might be believable if the woman was savvy enough not to use it for six straight weeks. Women understand completely the fear and loathing men have about touching anyone during their time of the month and play it to the hilt. However, they sometimes fail to realize that many men are also able to read a calendar and have the ability to count beyond the number of beers in a six-pack. It's a scientific miracle most of them haven't bled to death by the time they reach age 40 if their time of the month lasted as long as they would have us believe.

9. Not tonight. I [have a headache, am too tired, am too sick, am not in the mood, am too hot, am too cold, select your own]: Several translations for this one: "The other guy I'm seeing has one the size of a utility pole, so why should I waste my time with you; I can't stand the idea of any man getting that much pleasure from my body; I don't like having to wash dried semen off my stomach afterwards; I hate faking it; the kids might hear; I'll miss Jay Leno." This fib is heavily weighted toward married women. Single women, unless they want to remain single women, don't want to use this one too much lest they'll lose out on a potential divorce settlement at some future date. Since women believe that men have nothing but sex on their minds most of the time, they have learned to use sex as a lure. Up to the moment you slip that ring onto her finger, she's a willing partner. Once she's married, however, the need for using sexual favors to obtain security is no longer necessary and you'll begin hearing variations of this particular lie. Having been cut off from your source of sexual release and all the closeness women claim men lack, you are left with four choices: masturbation, hookers, an affair or celibacy. Which you select depends on your level of bravery.

10. Size doesn't matter. It's how you use it: [TRANSLATION - In your dreams, Shorty.] Unless you have one that can make her gag from the inside, you run the risk of complete humiliation the first time she sees you naked. If she keeps a tape measure next to her bed, your best bet is to run and not walk to the nearest exit, unless of course you can max out the tape. If you can't, it's a safe bet she knows someone who can.

11. I like you just the way you are: [TRANSLATION - You're a total dweeb anyway, so why should I bother trying to help you improve?] This one is particularly dangerous because at first it sounds so innocent. The luckless recipient of this little white lie may actually believe the woman likes him. Imagine his shock upon discovering later that she's been telling all her friends what a geek he is, but he does drive a cool car, so she supposes she'll keep stringing him along until she meets a "real" man. Besides, he spends oodles of money on her.

12. I'll love you forever: [TRANSLATION - I'll put up with you until a better deal comes along.] The problem here is, once again, one of perception. Men tend to think "forever" means from this point onward until the end of time. Women, on the other hand, think of "forever" in terms similar to the television season - thirteen weeks and you can start fresh. Exactly how long "forever" is depends entirely on the depth of his pockets and the state of her moods.

13. I have to work late: [TRANSLATION - I'm having an affair with my boss.] If you start hearing this one a few months, or even a few weeks, after you begin the relationship, better pack your shorts and make tracks. If she has to choose between you and her job (and, by association, her boss), it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who will come out the loser. Best to cut your losses and get on with your life before she gets the both the house and your savings account.

14. I have to go out of town on business: [TRANSLATION - I'm having an affair with someone from out of town, OR, I'm going on a trip with my boss, with whom I'm having an affair.] Same advice as above. The best way to gauge how much time you have before she gives you the heave-ho is to keep close tabs on how often these little trips take place. When they get to be a weekly event, it's time to boogie. If you wait too long, you run the risk of coming home to find your clothes in a heap in the front yard and someone else in your side of the bed.

15. Love me...love my pet: This is a classic. The pet may be anything from a horse right down to a guppy, but whatever genus it is, it will almost certainly serve as a very large buffer zone between you and any relationship you may try to foster. In truth, she'll hold the pet in much higher esteem than she ever will you. It isn't that much of a stretch from trying to hug her while a snarling Rottweiler sits between you on the sofa to her calling you to ask if you'd be a sweetheart and look in on Adolph while she goes on her honeymoon. That's a good boy!

16. What's mine is yours: [TRANSLATION - What's mine is always going to be mine and what's yours soon will be as well.] Any man who believes this one might as well hand over his bank account to the first person he spots on the street. If you choose to marry a woman who already owns a home, do yourself a favor and buy a new house together. If you decide to live in her house, or if she refuses to buy another one with you, you might as well accept the fact that it will always be her house and you will always be a Johnny-Come-Lately. If she has kids at home, your problems are compounded by a quantum leap. You will become an unpaid maintenance/clean-up/bill payer. If you're lucky, you might even have sex privileges for a while. If she's in an especially generous mood, she might even allow you some closet space. Enter only those rooms you have permission to enter and never spend excessive amounts of time in the bathroom, on the telephone or in the kitchen (unless of course you're washing the dishes). WARNING: Do not, under any circumstances, violate the privacy or in any way attempt to alter the lifestyles of her kids. This is the Kiss of Death for any relationship and a sure ticket to divorce court, if not a charge of child abuse. Proceed with caution.

17. I need my space: [TRANSLATION - Come within twenty feet of me and I'll scream rape. - OR - I found someone else whom I want in my space instead of you.] This is the Mother of All Lies and almost certainly means adios the moment you hear it. You can safely assume that any or all of the other lies we've discussed are already being bandied about if you get the "I need my space" scenario. She wants out - period. No amount of pleading or bargaining is going to salvage this relationship, so don't embarrass yourself further by pursuing it. Back off, quickly and totally, and make a new life for yourself.

18. You're a nice guy, but...: This is a kinder and gentler version of "I need my space." The results are the same, however. She's still giving you the bum's rush and you're back to pork and beans and living at the Holiday Inn. Sometimes, "You're a nice guy but..." is followed directly by "I need my space." In that case, you might as well move to a different state, because by nightfall she'll have told everyone she knows that not only are you an asshole, but also that you were suffocating her and not allowing her to grow. No man ever understood exactly what this means, but every man knows what it means to him. It means that no woman within earshot of your former Significant Other will touch you with a ten-foot pole. They may want to be wined and dined, maybe even hugged and touched (as long as the hugger and toucher is a moderately wealthy Brad Pitt look-alike), but it's a surefire bet they never want to be suffocated. Say goodbye, big boy!

19. I just want you to be happy: [TRANSLATION - Like Hell!] This is another hall-of-fame classic. A happy man in the presence of any woman is doomed. The moment she thinks he's happy, she'll stop at nothing in her effort to make him miserable. For reasons that escape logic, women blame men, any man will suffice, for the pain they felt giving birth and, by God, it is their sworn duty as Sisters of the Flesh to make him pay. If she tells you she wants you to be happy, it's time to find a hobby or a second job or anything that will keep you out of the house and out of her way or else you'll pay dearly. What's even worse is the fact that she will first tell you that she wants you to be happy, then proceed to tell you exactly what it is that will make you happy. If you thought that being happy meant watching a football game on Sunday afternoon while drinking a beer, you may be surprised when you learn that, in fact, the only thing that will make you truly happy is for you to take her first to the mall and then to visit her mother. Nothing else will do it in her mind.

20. I want to have your children: [TRANSLATION - Since I'll probably play hell in this male dominated justice system getting alimony, I'm going to get as much child support as I can squeeze out of you.] Women love kids, especially their own. They love picking out names for them and all the other things associated with having kids. Sometimes they'll even include you in the plans and schemes, particularly if you're the one with the insurance. But, once the kids arrive, you might as well move into the garage because she'll have about as much use for you as she would a grease gun. You'll be lucky if you aren't sharing a bed with the family pooch within a month after the blessed event, on the porch, so she can have "her" child close by and not have to worry that your influence can permanently corrupt the child.

21. I worry about your health: [TRANSLATION - If you think I'm going to waste the best years of my life taking care of your sick ass when I could be on a cruise, you better think again.] This is one place where all men start out at a disadvantage. Women outlive us by an average of ten years and they know it. Sometime around the age of fifty, they reach what is commonly known as "The Cruise Age." This is the time of their life when they begin to think of a life beyond marriage, a time when all grieving widows get together and sail the Caribbean in search of soul-mates with whom they can swap tales of what horrible marriages they had and how glad they are that the old coot finally had the good sense to die. If you are a middle-aged man and your spouse begins checking your pulse every morning, it's time to shuffle off into the sunset because she's got plans for the years after your untimely demise. If she starts feeding you fried foods and red-eye gravy, you might as well figure she's already got the ticket and the Ports of Call Agenda safely tucked away somewhere.

22. I think of you as a big brother: [TRANSLATION - You've got about as much chance of getting into my pants as a tourist in Queens has of not getting mugged.] This one is similar to the "Friend" lie, except that you won't even have the dubious pleasure of an occasional evening alone with her. The second you hear the "Big Brother" speech, you might as well prepare yourself to be on the receiving end of numerous phone calls asking for advice on how to deal with the bad habits of all the men in her life. Since she does acknowledge that you are a man, she figures you must know what makes them tick and are more than willing to share that information with her. She'll introduce you to each and every new squeeze and will never understand why you aren't simply bubbling over with enthusiasm over her happiness. She may realize you are a male, but it is completely beyond her realization that you might have any feelings toward her beyond that of protector and advisor. Move on, ya big lug ya, and don't forget to write.

23. I want you to be successful: [TRANSLATION - I sure as hell don't want to have to struggle along on your crappy salary for the rest of my life, so you'd better get out there and make enough to support me in the style to which I'm entitled.] This little ditty is usually uttered not long after she meets someone wealthier than you are, and who, by the by, IS able to give her all the goodies she believes she's entitled to. This particular fib is only heard early on in a reasonably happy relationship. If the relationship is longer term, this fib is almost always supplanted by:

24. I'm holding you back: [TRANSLATION - Our paperboy probably makes more money than you do, you loser, so I'm going to let you live in the sewer by yourself while I go for the gold.] If you hear this one, you can bet your bottom dollar that she's already got your replacement picked out and will be sunning herself on his new deck boat before the ink is dry on the divorce papers. Of course, that won't stop her from showing up at the property settlement phase to stake her claim on everything except the clothes on your back, and she'll get those if you're anywhere close to the same size. REMEMBER: All the good intentions in the world cannot possibly make up for being average in the wage department. Unless you suddenly win the lottery, there's a CEO with your significant other's name on him waiting in the wings.

25. I really want to know what's on your mind: [TRANSLATIONS: 1. Let's see you weasel your way out of this one, buddy; 2. I already know what you're thinking; 3. I already have your opinion in mind, so don't even try telling me anything else; 4. As if I really give a damn about your opinion. I just need a good fight.] This is the Big Enchilada. There is absolutely no way any man can escape from this one unscathed. Nine times out of ten, she's been thinking about this for the better part of the day and already has worked out what your answer better be. You, of course, don't have a clue what that answer is, but if she doesn't hear it flow from your lips verbatim, you've had it. No matter what you say, or how sincere you are in saying it, it will be the wrong thing to say. Your best defense is to try to give her the answer she wants, no matter how far from the truth it may be. She will expect you to lie anyway, so you might as well do so in self defense and you just might escape with your gonads intact. WARNING: NEVER, EVER tell any woman, with the possible exception of your mother, what is really on your mind, particularly if doing so might reveal to her your deepest feelings. If you do this, you will be from that point forward her prisoner. She will own you, lock, stock and alimony. The only thing worse than a woman scorned is a woman who knows your innermost secrets. If you believe she won't use those secrets against you in some future dispute, I have some prime real estate in Florida to show you.

Well, there you have them. Twenty-five of the Biggies. I'm sure there are others, the normal CYA types of fibs that everyone keeps in stock for those times when the truth just won't do it. If you learn to recognize the above misrepresentations for what they really are, and are able to translate them quickly enough to maintain your balance, you just might survive couplehood, or marriage, or whatever sort of relationship you are in. Remember, the person you are dealing with is not like us. She doesn't think or act as we do. She will probably never accept you as an equal. In fact, she may never consider you as more than just another household appliance to be used whenever needed and discarded when you become obsolete or a pet to be kept only as long as she finds pleasure in you. Learn from your errors and don't believe for a minute you won't make them. Your survival in a hostile environment depends on it.

P.O. ED'S

REAL MAN'S TEST

So you think just because you have a little hair on your chest and drink an occasional beer that makes you a Real Man? Well, let old P.O. Ed tell you, the only way you can be sure if you really are a Real Man is to take and pass this test, that is if you have the cojones for it.

Well, what are you waiting for, one of those fancy, frilly invitations like the women send out to their friends for tea and crumpets? Go to the fridge and grab yourself a cold one, then sit down in your favorite easy chair and get to it.

A. MULTIPLE CHOICE - Pick the answer to the following that best fits what you would do in each situation. If you are a Real Man, at least one response to each question will fit you like a wet T-shirt.

1. You and your woman are riding around in your 4-wheel drive Jeep with the top down and it starts to rain. What do you do?

A. Stop immediately and put the top up so she doesn't get wet, catch a cold and then blame you for her misery for the next week and a half.

B. Keep driving and tell her to shut up or walk home.

C. Speed up to impress her with how well you handle a motor vehicle on wet surfaces.

D. Open another beer.

2. You are in a library. What should you check out first?

A. Sports stories

B. Fishing and Hunting Magazines

C. Fiction

D. War Stories

E. Magazines with pictures of Naked Women

F. Magazines with pictures of Naked Men

G. Behind the counter to see if the cute librarian has a nice butt.

H. You would never go to a library, especially if there's a game on.

3. The real reason the US has a military is:

A. So we have a place to send our kids when they mouth off.

B. So we can kill people who don't agree with us.

C. So we can take over the countries that have oil so we can keep driving our gas guzzling American-made trucks.

D. So the government can spend huge sums of money inventing neat toys for us to play with.

E. So we can have a few holidays throughout the year when we can barbecue meat and drink beer without having to shop for presents.

F. So we can blow things up.

G. We really don't have a military. What they call a "military" are actually nothing more than highly trained secret operatives of the CIA bent on insuring that our firearms are taken away from us and only they will have them and then they can take over.

4. Your boss tells you that you have to work on Saturday, which happens to be the same day as you and your buddies planned to go to the Game of the Year. What do you do?

A.Tell him that you would love to work, then call all your buddies and tell them why there has been a change of plans, then give them your boss' address.

B. Kill him.

C. Call in sick the next morning accompanied by fake sounds of retching.

D. Kill yourself.

E. Show up wearing fatigues in a borrowed Abrams Tank, parked so the barrel points directly toward his office.

F. Spend the remainder of the day painting large red spots all over your face and hands, then stumble into his office at five, spit up a mouthful of half-chewed oatmeal all over his desk and tell him you'll see him bright and early in the morning.

G. Go to the game anyway. On Monday morning, act like you have amnesia. If your boss still doesn't believe you, drop to the floor, kiss his toes and call him "Your Holiness."

5. Your wife makes plans for the two of you to attend the opera. What do you do?

A. Throw used motor oil all over her new dress.

B. Leap out of your second story bedroom window.

C. Throw her out of your second story bedroom window.

D. Eat the car keys.

E. Call your boss and volunteer to work all day for free.

F. Go with her, then snore loudly through the entire performance, waking only long enough to pick your nose and pass wind every half hour.

G. Paint your body green and yellow and wear your Cheesehead. During the most dramatic part of the performance, start doing the wave.

6. The real reason we have a government is:

A. So people without marketable skills can earn a living.

B. So there will always be someone that we can legally hate.

C. There aren't enough telemarketing jobs available.

D. It is God's way of preventing us from making too much money.

E. We really don't have a government. What they call a "government" is nothing more than a brilliantly conceived plot perpetrated by heathen Commie spies to make us think we're being watched and throw us off guard so they can pillage our society unimpeded.

7. Your wife decides to go away on a business trip and leave you to take care of the house and the kids. What do you do?

A. Wait until she's out of sight, then call all your buddies and invite them over for a four-day beer party.

B. Sell the kids to a band of wandering gypsies and use the money to buy a set of tires for your truck.

C. Smile sweetly and act supportive because now you can eat all the fried foods that she won't let you have when she's at home.

D. Forbid her to leave the house because the house is where she belongs and she has no business working anyway.

E. Begin planning your own business trip to the boundary waters in Minnesota.

8. Your wife complains about the smell you leave behind in the bathroom. What do you do?

A. Point out to her that if the Good Lord had intended for human farts to smell like flowers, He'd have made us all roses instead of people.

B. Agree to stop passing gas in the bathroom, then begin passing gas in bed.

C. Blame it on the dog.

D. Inform her that in certain Asian societies it is a gesture of respect to the cook to pass gas often and that you are simply trying to become more continental.

E. Advise her that this is your house and that you will fart where and when you damn well please and that this is a tradition passed down from man to man.

F. Tell her that her farts smell worse than yours.

9. You arrive home after a hard day's work to find a note from your wife telling you that she's run off to France with an artist named Raoul to find herself. What do you do?

A. Build a bonfire in the back yard out of her clothes and furniture and roast her poodle.

B. Send all the letters to her from her mother back with a note stating that she no longer lives at this address and her new address is the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

C. Post a very provocative photo of her on the internet with a caption that reads: "Hot and Wet - Seeking bald, overweight men with serious body odor and open sores for mind boggling lovemaking."

D. Buy a three month supply of beer on her bank account and invite everyone you know over for a celebration.

10. The same scenario as Number 9, except that she and Raoul also took the television set. What do you do?

A. Hire a hit man.

B. Rent a Lear Jet with attack capabilities and begin hunting.

C. Convince the government that France is a threat to our oil reserves and that they need to initiate an immediate nuclear strike.

D Post pictures of both Raoul and your wife on the internet with a caption that reads: "WARNING - Escapees from Government Viral Testing Laboratory. HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS. Dispatch With Extreme Prejudice."

E. Sell all her worldly possessions and buy yourself a big screen TV with SurroundSound.

11. Your wife decides it's time to sell your tools and remodel your workshop to make more space for her knitting room. What do you do?

A. Build a box out of heavy-gauge steel, lock her in it and bury it under the site for the new freeway.

B. Wait until she goes shopping, then change all the locks and the house numbers.

C. Run naked through the house swinging your chain saw back and forth and screaming: "Trees! I want more trees!"

D. Fill her knitting basket with Tarantulas.

E. Tell her that if she really wants to knit something, to go knit herself a hangman's noose, tie it around her neck and leap off the turnpike overpass.

12. Just as the game gets exciting, your doorbell rings. When you answer it, you find three Jehovah's Witnesses standing there. What do you do?

A. Immediately turn around and moon them.

B. Ask them to wait just a moment. As they wait, quickly remove all your clothes, paint your body with silver primer, run out the back door of your house and around to the front door screaming something about looking for a brain.

C. Offer them a beer.

D. Take them to your workshop and tell them you'll give them all the money in your wallet if they'll allow you to test out your new radial saw on their index fingers.

E. Agree to give them money, then hand them a paper sack filled with fresh dog poop.

F. They really aren't Jehovah's Witnesses. They are actually undercover operatives for the Internal Revenue Service bent on discovering your total wealth by extrapolating the amount you donate to them using sensors hidden inside their garters.

13. You find yourself with a day off and decide to watch a little TV with your wife. Of course, you can't agree on what to watch. You can flip between a football game and a Clint Eastwood movie while she wants to watch "Heidi." What do you do?

A. Give her your credit cards and the car keys and tell her you'll see her in a week.

B. Hand her a Harlequin Romance novel and wait until she's engrossed, then change the channel to what you want.

C. Go to your workshop, grab your chainsaw and threaten to slice the TV in half.

D. Begin to fart and belch as loudly as you can until she leaves the room.

E. Sit in your easy chair in your undershorts with all the drapes wide open until she leaves the room.

F. Pretend you are actually watching "Heidi," then ask her to let you know when the sex scenes begin.

14. Your teenage son comes home with spiked, pink hair and five nose rings and informs you he's fallen in love with his Phys Ed teacher, who is also the football coach. What do you do?

A. Tell him you'll be supportive no matter what lifestyle he chooses, then lace his Coke with saltpeter.

B. Tell him you've decided to re-name him Vinnie VanGogh and slice off his ear.

C. Say nothing, then help him move into his new home - the crate your new workbench came in.

D. Take clandestine videos of him and the coach in compromising positions, then show them over the large screen television during halftime ceremonies of the homecoming game.

E. Take him to your workshop and allow him to select the tool he prefers for you to use to carve his heart out.

15. Your teenage daughter comes home and informs you that she is pregnant and the father is the Pastor of the strictest church in town. What do you do?

A. Begin attending that church. During the sermon, play back a tape recording of loud, exuberant sexual activity that you have connected into the PA system.

B. When the collection plate is passed, drop in a package of condoms.

C. Call the Pastor and ask for a meeting with him and the church elders. Show up in your dirtiest, most raggedy work clothes, smelling of beer and cigars and with a three-day growth of beard. Embrace him and in a loud voice announce: "Welcome to the family" then burp loudly.

D. Keep a photographic record of your daughter's condition and send a copy at least once a week to the church headquarters and the local newspaper.

E. Tell your daughter how much fun she will have living on the street.

16. At a party, you become engaged in a conversation with a local automobile salesman who tells you he can give you a good deal on a trade - your pickup truck for one of his Japanese imports. What do you do?

A. Hog-tie him to the rear bumper of your truck and drag him through town.

B. Hoist a Japanese flag over his lot while screaming "Tora-Tora-Tora."

C. Erect a sign reading "Tojo Motors" on the top of his office.

D. Dress in camouflage and drive your truck full speed through the windows of his showroom.

E. Douse him with a bottle of brandy and set him on fire.

F. He really isn't an automobile salesman, but is in fact an agent of the Japanese government whose mission is to subvert the American industrial community by planting subliminal suggestions into the minds of innocent consumers to buy only Japanese goods.

17. Just as you are about to take your first bite of a nice, juicy venison steak that you've barbecued for your dinner, the doorbell rings. Standing on your stoop is a group of bleeding hearts wanting you to sign a petition banning all hunting. How do you respond?

A. Invite them in and ask them if they prefer their venison rare or well-done.

B. Invite them into your den and proudly show them your collection of big game heads on the walls, making sure to indicate the spaces remaining on the walls.

C. Lovingly polish the barrel of your 12-gauge while telling them that hunting helps to control overpopulation among certain species and that the same strategy works on liberals.

D. Grab your measuring tape and measure the height and width of the largest person in the group, then say: "Yup. If I chop off your feet, you'll just about fit into my fire pit out back. Just hope I've got enough Worcestershire Sauce."

E. They are not really an anti-hunting group, but are in fact unrelenting stooges of a secret government operation whose objective is to identify and terminate all red-blooded American gun owners before they can organize an effective defense.

18. Your boss calls you into his office and tells you that the centerfolds hanging around your workplace offends some of the female employees. He gives you one week to remove them and write an apology to the offended parties. What do you do?

A. Remove the girlie photos and replace them with photos of naked men. Paint your workbench pink. Start wearing eye shadow. Say "Toodle-Oo" when you leave the break room.

B. Remove the offending photos and replace them with blow-ups of the female employees taken at the last company picnic.

C. Find out the name of the ringleader of the offended persons. Take a frontal photo of that person sitting on a chair. Hang a blow-up of the photo in the employee lunch room with a typewritten sign pasted over her genital area which reads: "This space for rent - cheap."

D. Advise your boss that all those photos of other employees husbands and kids offend you and you demand their immediate removal. Offer to replace the removed items with last year's centerfolds.

E. Remove the photos. Instead of writing the apology, offer to visit each of the offended women and give her your apology in person. Show up at their homes at night wearing only a raincoat and carrying your camera.

19. You get called to your son's elementary school because he has beaten up every other kid in class. What do you do?

A. Request that the school hold an assembly so you can give him a reward in front of the entire student body.

B. Offer to teach the other kids the same tricks you taught your son for a hundred dollars a pop.

C. Cuss the teachers and principal out for taking you away from a winning hand during your break for something so trivial.

D. Bet the teachers and principal that your son could beat them up too.

20. You find out that your favorite watering hole is going to be torn down and a dancing school built in its place. What do you do?

A. Race down to the site and chain yourself to the heavy equipment.

B. Demand a hearing before the Supreme Court.

C. Point out that tearing down a bar is Un-American.

D. Decide, once you get to the site, that the heavy equipment is a turn-on and offer to drive it for free if they'll let you make the first hit.

E. Buy a case of beer and mourn all weekend in front of your TV.

21. Your wife starts ragging on you about helping her around the house. What do you do?

A. Tell her you'll wash dishes and do laundry only when she grows a penis and knuckle hair and you start peeing squatting.

B. Tell her you'll be more than happy to help her with the housework just as soon as she finishes mowing the lawn, washing your truck and putting a second coat of paint on the garage.

C. Go immediately to the bedroom, stuff her clothes into a suitcase and toss it out the front door, then tell her you've finished reorganizing the closet.

D. Ask her when she plans on starting her second job.

E. Tell her you like the house just like it is.

F. Burn all her women's magazines.

G. The woman you thought was your wife is in reality a skillfully disguised agent of a coalition of feminist rights groups whose purpose for residing in your home is to collect information which is to be used for anti-male propaganda when the female revolution begins.

B. DEFINITIONS - Match the following terms with the best definition.

1. Power Tool

A. A device used to drown out your Mother-in-law's voice.

B. A Phallic symbol.

C. A device invented as an acceptable alternative to spending money on frivolous items such as life insurance.

D. A device which, by comparing sheer numbers, separates Real Men from pretenders.

2. Beer

A. Sex fuel.

B. One-third of the basic food triangle along with pizza and potato chips.

C. Urinary tract cleansing solution.

D. Wisconsin's State Liquid.

E. Manna from Heaven

3. Football

A. Our national religion.

B. Wife repellent.

C. Anti-ballet.

D. Filler between Miller Lite commercials.

E. The only activity on Earth where men wearing tights is acceptable.

4. Television

A. A device which changes color when we use the remote.

B. The source of All Things Great and Powerful.

C. The closest we ever want to get to a politician.

D. Our national shrine.

E. The real reason we have recliner chairs.

F. Justification for not wearing a shirt while we eat dinner.

5. Firearm

A. The Great Equalizer.

B. Papa's Little Helper.

C. Device used to regulate the breeding practices of government agents.

D. Device used instead of a credit card to provide meat and clothing.

E. Phallic symbol.

6. Pickup Truck

A. Anti-Rice Burner.

B. Device used to make trails in the wilderness.

C. Portable gun rack.

D. Portable tool crib.

E. Really big phallic symbol.

7. Woman

A. Life support system for a female sex organ.

B. Individual whose sole purpose in life is your edification.

C. Individual whose sole purpose in life is to destroy your hearing.

D. Voluntary housekeeper.

E. In-house beer server.

F. Money Vacuum.

B. PERSONAL TRAITS - Select the traits from the following list that best describe you. Check as many as you want, just remember that you can go to Hell for lying as fast as you can for admitting a taste for Spinach Soufflé.

1. Physique

A. Adonis

B. Semi-Godlike

C. Beach Bum

D. Rested and Ready

E. Sofa Spud

F. Makes a sponge look buff

2. Intellect

A. Pure Genius

B. Can quote Shakespeare

C. Can spell Shakespeare

D. Able to recognize a book when I see one

E. Can barely spell own name

F. Makes a box of rocks look smart by comparison

3. Personal Habits

A. Could write a book on manners

B. Could properly carry a book on manners

C. Able to differentiate between clean and dirty underwear

D. Able to recognize clean underwear, but prefers dirty

E. Picks nose and scratches crotch in public

F. Passes gas on crowded elevator, then asks for another kiss

G. Not allowed out in public without supervision

4. Political and Social Philosophy

A. Accepts diversity and alternative lifestyles without question

B. Accepts diversity and alternative lifestyles, but asks questions

C. Accepts only people who look and think as I do

D. Hunts down and kills anyone who doesn't agree with me

E. Completely believes he should be the only person allowed to breed

F. Refuse to answer this question because they're all plotting against me anyway and why give them ammunition

5. Religious Activity

A. Church member highly involved in church activities

B. Attends church nearly every Sunday, but leaves activities to the women

C. Shows up every once in awhile after football season is over

D. Shows up only at Communion to have free wine

E. Thinks church property would be better used as private men's club

F. Believes any activity requiring clean clothes on Sunday must be subversive

6. Work Ethic

A. Will work at any job available, even as dancer

B. Will work at any job available as long as it requires use of tools

C. Will only accept work that makes me sweat

D. Will only work if I can't find a wealthy woman to support me

E. Would rather steal candy from my kids

F. Cannot work - fish are still biting

7. Shopping

A. Will spend entire weekend shopping with wife for clothes

B. Will go with wife to mall, agree to meet her at entrance, walk straight to hardware store

C. Will drop wife off at mall, drive to bar

D. Will give wife car keys and money

E. Will shop only for fishing tackle or new shotgun

F. Will only buy merchandise from catalogs

G. No need to shop - can make anything needed in workshop

8. Sexual Prowess

A. Can satisfy the Radio City Rockettes all at once.

B. Can satisfy the Radio City Rockettes one at a time, but all on the same night.

C. Can satisfy one or possibly two of the Radio City Rockettes on the same night. Can make dates with the rest.

D. Can watch the Radio City Rockettes while breathing heavily.

E. Can watch a smutty video while breathing heavily.

F. Capable of having wet dreams.

G. Can't even remember what it is I can't remember.

9. Physical Prowess

A. Can lift fully loaded Peterbilt over my head without breaking a sweat.

B. Can unload a fully loaded Petetbilt.

C. Can drive a fully loaded Peterbilt.

D. Can stand beside the road while a fully loaded Peterbilt drives by.

E. Afraid of being knocked down by anything bigger than a mountain bike.

F. Can't get up off the couch without groaning and breathing heavily.

10. Personal Hygiene

A. Bathes at least once daily, also shaves and uses deodorant and cologne every day.

B. Bathes two or three times a week. Shaves once or twice a week. Uses deodorant if it can be found in the medicine cabinet.

C. Walks into bathroom right after wife showers to steam clean. Have seen soap in the house. Once owned a razor.

D. Stands in the rain to clean off. Believes that all women are turned on sexually by the scent of male perspiration.

E. Kids regularly write "Wash Me" in the dust on my backside.

F. Believes that cleanliness is a Department of the Treasury conspiracy designed to render us vulnerable by forcing us to remove bulletproof clothing long enough to allow them to make clean shots.

SCORING THIS TEST:

Since there really are no wrong answers here (Lord knows no man on Earth is ever wrong), this test is scored by the number of traits that most closely fit you. Remember, you can check each category more than once, but you'd better hope you are able to carry the load. Count 'em up, then refer to the following scale:

7 OR FEWER: After getting her permission, put one of your wife's aprons on and get busy on those dishes, ya wuss.

8 TO 12: Better stick to softball. Make sure your football game isn't on at the same time as the Teatime Matinee.

13 TO 20: Sell your minivan and buy a 4X4, but make sure you read the owner's manual.

21 TO 28: Women want you and fish fear you.

29 TO 33: You can truly say you are a Real Man, but there is still room for improvement.

34 TO 38: YOU DA MAN!!

MORE THAN 38: We aren't worthy

The Official Real Man's

Guide to Almost Everything

by: P. O. Ed

Okay, all you red-blooded American men out there, listen up. I'm only gonna tell you this stuff once, so you'd better pay attention. The information I'm about to pass along might just save your asses if you get cornered by one of those simpering bleeding heart liberals whose only goal is to separate you from your hard-earned wages so they can give it away to all those crooked politicians and other ne'er do wells who aren't nearly as deserving of it as you and I are.

If you're anything like me, P.O. Ed, all you want to do is mind your own business and collect your paycheck every week so you can spend your weekends like Real Men should, namely either hunting or watching pro football with a six-pack and a pizza. What you DON'T want to do is sit around listening to a bunch of pansy-assed whiners pissing and moaning about how bad things are and about how it's all your fault just because you're a man and aren't afraid to act like one. So hold onto your fishing hats, 'cause here we go.

RELATIONSHIPS: First of all, Real Men don't have "relationships." Those are only for women and sissies. Real Men shack up. Anyone who tries to tell you differently is either a homo or else is so butt-ugly that no woman would want him anyway. These are the same people who think that a woman is equal to a man and that men should help out with housework and taking care of the kids and such. What falderol! As any Real Man knows, the only thing a woman is good for, as long as she's younger than 35, is to give you backrubs and satisfy your God-given sexual urges. After she gets past about 35 or so, her only real function is to make sure you have a hot meal on the table when YOU want it and to see to it that you and your buddies never run out of beer.

If you have a woman in your house, and NEVER let her forget that it's YOUR house, the best way to keep her out of your hair is to make sure she always has something to clean. That way, she won't be constantly riding your ass about taking her shopping or, worse, visiting her mother. The bathroom is the best place to do this. Always leave your whiskers in the sink after you shave (with a straight-edge razor, obviously), conveniently forget to flush the crapper after going so that the whole house stinks to high heaven and, most importantly, toss your sweat-stained work clothes all over the furniture. After all, this was the way our caveman ancestors lived and they knew how Real Men should behave, so why should it be any different for civilized folks?

Speaking of houses, it is very important that you, as a Real Man, always reserve your right to fart wherever and whenever the mood strikes you when at home. After all, a Real Man's home is his castle and, as such, not one square inch of it should be exempt from flatulation. One of the differences between men and women, aside from the different plumbing, is the fact that women never fart. This is why they become so bitter as they get older. All that gas and pressure just builds up and, having no natural outlet, turns them into angry old bags. It's a scientific fact. If your spouse, or whatever, tells you that farting isn't a nice thing to do, simply remind her that regular farting is the only thing that will keep your outlook on life as cheerful as it should be. Your old buddy P.O. Ed is only looking out for your best interests.

Keep in mind that once a woman gets the idea that she's in charge, she'll try to boss you around. She'll find chores for you to do on your days off and actually expect you to do them. What's even worse, she'll get the idea that she has the right to withhold sex from you if you don't do them. Of course, the same thing doesn't work in reverse. She'll start thinking that she is some sort of princess and that you are supposed to do whatever she wants without question. Furthermore, if "she" decides she doesn't want sex, she might actually attempt to cut you off, no matter how you feel about it. This is how a "relationship" works, so as you can plainly see, it's much better for us, as Real Men, to shack up.

ECOLOGY: You're probably asking yourself why this is important to a Real Man. What, you might wonder, does ecology possibly have to do with the important things in life like beer drinking and bowling? Well, believe it or not, this whole ecology movement is nothing more than a well organized Communist plot to prevent guys like us from letting off a little steam by mowing down wildflowers with our off-road vehicles and blasting away at baby deer with our twelve gauges. What do you expect from a bunch of weenies who think that reading books that don't have pictures of naked women is actually fun?

Let's take global warming, for instance. Those lily-livered tree huggers are trying to tell us that all the exhaust fumes from our 4X4's are burning all these huge holes in the atmosphere. Well, hell, didn't we all buy those things in the first place because they had plenty of power? If they'd let old P.O. Ed work on this problem, we could solve it overnight. All you gotta do is go out and buy the most powerful air conditioners and fans you can find, plug 'em all in, then open all your doors and windows and crank those puppies up as high as they'll go. I guarantee you that within a month, it'll definitely be cooler outside. Then, rather than sitting around worrying about such mundane things, you can be sitting on your front porch in your underwear drinking a cold one, smugly secure in the knowledge that you've done your part to help clean up the environment.

I heard a report the other day on the news about this little bug that's killing all the trees. The tree huggers are all standing around pulling their hair out trying to figure out how to stop these bugs. Sure doesn't sound like a problem to me. All we gotta do is fire up our chain saws and cut down the forests. End of problem. Take away the food source and the problem goes away, same as with teenage kids. Not only that, but there's the added benefit in the fact that we'll all have plenty of wood for our hunting campfires this fall. I just can't understand why all those high falutin' thinkers don't let us Real Men solve these problems. They're probably all afraid that we'll fix everything so good that they'll all be out of a job and might have to actually work for a living, like we do, for a change.

The same pansy asses that are trying to stop us from driving our four-by's are also, believe it or not, trying to make it against the law to hunt. Since none of these marshmallows ever eat real meat, why should they care? I'll bet if they passed a law making it illegal to eat yogurt, they'd get head up for sure. The way I see it, it is our sworn duty, as Real Men, to maintain our obvious superiority over all other species by killing off as many of them as we can and eating them. What we need to do is to go out and shoot us a bunch of deer and anything else we can find, then build us a huge charcoal bonfire and roast them all and invite these tree huggers over for a cookout. I'm certain that once they've had a taste of real home-cooked game, they'll quickly give up their fruitless quest to deny us our manifest destiny. Hell, they might even pick up a double barrel 12 gauge and join us on our next hunting trip. We might even make Real Men out of a couple of them.

WORK: I doubt there is a Real Man alive today who doesn't know what work is, so I won't waste your precious time defining it for you. What I will say is that there are certain kinds of work that Real Men are supposed to do and other kinds of work that Real Men would rather eat fresh horse poop than be caught doing. For example, any job that requires using tools and/or machinery and makes enough noise that you have to shout in order for the guy next to you to hear you is acceptable while any job which has somewhere in its description the words "cleaning," "dancing" or "cooking" or some similar ilk is something better performed by women or fairies. Real Men are best suited for two types of work: that which builds something or that which tears something down. You won't find a Real Man sitting around drinking Cappuccino while punching some computer keyboard for a living. No sir! Any Real Man worth his tool belt will spend his daytime hours banging one piece of steel with another piece of steel in order to make something that will, when completed, either stand as a permanent testimony to his sweat, like a building, or else enable other Real Men to move about accompanied by a lot of noise, like a muscle car or, better yet, a truck.

Another aspect about work for Real Men is the fact that no true Real Man will ever shun work, no matter what the consequences. If there is only one job and two people want it, and if one of the people is a Real Man and the other isn't, the Real Man better get that job or else. This thing about women in the workplace is just a bunch of hooey as far as old P.O. Ed is concerned. It would be alright if they were satisfied with the kinds of jobs they were suited for, such as waiting tables, cleaning motel rooms and exotic dancing, but they insist on not only doing the kinds of work that should be done by Real Men only, they also have the nerve to expect and even demand equal pay for doing it. As any Real Man knows all too well, this kind of activity leads to all sorts of problems. Once women start working in jobs we deserve more, and making the same money we do, it won't be long before they start telling us how to spend the money. If you don't think this is a problem, consider this. You go out to buy your regular, weekly supply of beer and beef jerky and your wife suddenly decides that you should use part of that hard-earned cash to take her shopping for a new outfit. Why? So she can look better at work so she can make even more money and get the confidence to tell you how to spend even more of your money on things you don't give a damn about. So take it from old P.O. Ed, hang onto those jobs, guys, and never let them start hiring women or else it's curtains for you and your rights as a Real Man.

TRANSPORTATION: Okay, here's the thing about transportation. First and foremost, anything you drive must be built right here in the good, old US of A if you want to continue to belong to the Brotherhood of Real Men. If you insist on driving a rice burner and you see a notice for a meeting of the Brotherhood, just keep right on driving, pal, because if we see you pull in, we'll rip your traitorous heart out. We don't give a damn what your wife drives because she obviously can't be a Real Man anyway, but you'd better show up in American Iron if you want to stay alive.

Next, if you want to drive a car, that's fine as long as it's American-made, but if you want to REALLY belong to the upper echelons of the Brotherhood, P.O. Ed advises you to buy a truck. I'm not talking about just any old truck, but a truck worthy of the name. It's gotta have four-wheel drive and it's gotta have the biggest, knobbiest tires you can get so you can really get back into those isolated spots in the nature preserves where the absolute best hunting and fishing is. It's also gotta have the biggest, most powerful engine available - at least 400 cubic inches and supercharged if possible. What you want is a vehicle that is capable of throwing gravel at least a quarter of a mile behind you while you're digging ruts in the prairie and can climb right up the side of almost any mountain there is. If you can't get to the top of the hill, how the hell do you ever expect to become the King of that hill? Your monster truck also should burn up copious quantities of gasoline as you drive. You need to send a clear message to all those prissy doomsayers who keep prattling on about fuel conservation and running out of crude oil that you, as a Real Man, have the absolute right to spend your money on gas if you want to and it's none of their damn business. After all, YOU earned that money by your hard work and you should be able to use it to buy whatever you damn well please. If these pantywaists try to stop you, tell 'em to just stand in front of your truck for a few minutes and you'll show 'em how a Real Man takes care of these kinds of problems.

HOBBIES: Okay, you've put in your forty hours for the week, plus a little OT perhaps if things are really busy, and now it's time to kick back and do something you enjoy. Like most guys, you need a hobby. Problem is, being a Real Man, you can't just have any old hobby. You have to have a hobby befitting your exalted status as a Real Man. Hunting and fishing could count as hobbies, but are usually considered more as aspects of the Real Man lifestyle than as relaxation. You're expected to do those things. Hunting and fishing are true Real Man activities, to be sure, and they do have the added benefit of keeping you away from your old lady and any chores she might have in mind for your precious time off, but let's face it, Men, we all do those things. How many times can you brag about the one that got away or the one that didn't before it gets to be a drag?

What you want to avoid as a Real Man are things like collecting stamps. Only fairies do that. Collecting coins is acceptable because that allows you to carry a gun. If you absolutely must collect something as a hobby, try collecting beer cans or condoms. Better still, collect both beer cans AND condoms. You can display them together by stretching the condoms over the beer cans. If you can document when and with whom you used the condom, preferably at the same time you emptied the beer can into your gullet, so much the better. P.O. Ed hangs his condom collection in his trophy room on the walls, complete with a photo of the recipient of P.O. Ed's attention that particular time. I tell 'em that they can't be first, but they can be next. Get's 'em every time.

Another guy I know has a fart underwear collection. What he does is carry a tape recorder with him so he can get the sound of the fart on tape, then he hangs the shorts he was wearing on the wall turned inside out so people can see the hash marks and at the same time hear the actual fart that made the fudge. Some of those puppies he has to keep under glass because they are truly unfit for sensitive female noses, if you catch my drift.

Some other hobbies that have the Official Real Man Stamp of Approval include things like road kill photography, inventing and using interesting new racial slurs, forehead rock breaking, creative welding, inventing recipes for raw meat, composing concertos for gas passing and armpit noises, wedgie applications in the workplace and dwarf tossing.

SPORTS: Closely related to hobbies are sports. There are basically two categories of sports in the world of Real Men - those they watch and those they participate in. Often, they are one and the same. As in most other aspects of Real Manhood, there are selected sports which are acceptable and others which are not. We've already discussed dancing, which is actually considered a sport in some circles (which we refuse to acknowledge). Other unacceptable sports include tennis (you have to wear those silly-assed white outfits and any sport which uses the term "love" for a score isn't worth spit), swimming (you have to shave parts of your body that no Real Man should ever allow to be bald), gymnastics (you have to wear tights, so it might as well be ballet), and ice skating (you also wear tights, but even worse is the fact that the best skaters are limp-wristed).

Some sports are marginal. Baseball requires you to wear those dumb uniforms, but you do get to chew and spit tobacco and scratch your crotch, so it's included among Real Man sports. Basketball requires you also to wear a skimpy outfit and you often have to grab another guy in places best left untouched, but you can also knock someone to the floor and sometimes even bust a glass backboard, not to mention the fact that the noise level in the arena is so high that you can fart and burp and roar to your heart's content and nobody is the wiser. Skiing is okay too because there is always a chance of crashing into the crowd and causing mass mayhem and it takes a lot of strength, so you can show off your pects because you wear those skin-tight suits.

The upper echelon of Real Men's sports are obvious. Number One has to be football. Where else can you get dirty, sweaty and bloody while at the same time busting about a dozen other guys in the head and throwing them to the ground - and be rewarded for doing it? Not only are sissies not permitted on a football field, they are actually hurt if they show up. This is a true Real Man's universe.

Second on the list is boxing. Here again, you can get sweaty and bloody while beating the crap out of someone else and getting paid for it. What a deal! The only reason boxing is ranked beneath football is because in boxing you can only beat up one guy at a time and in football you can beat up a whole bunch of them at once.

Third on the list has to be stock car racing. Formula One and Indy car racing are high on the list, but not as high as NASCAR because there isn't anybody named Bubba driving an Indy car. Most of those guys aren't even Americans, so what the hell could they possibly know about crashing two tons of American-made steel into each other for money? They even drink milk after winning. Only Real Men can win a race and still have the balls to chug a cold one afterward.

Wrestling and weightlifting are tied for fourth. Both require a lot of body-building and both allow you to sweat and make lots of manly noises. The only downside with these two sports is the fact that you have to wear that silly outfit that gives you a permanent wedgie.

Bowling is next, not so much because it is a sport that only men can participate in, many women and even some pansies bowl, but because of the fact that it is almost considered part of the game that you consume copious quantities of beer while bowling. The only thing that prevents bowling from moving up a few notches on the list is the fact that they still haven't invented bowling shoes that look more like hunting boots and less like faggoty dancing shoes.

Other acceptable sports include draw poker (you get to smoke cigars and nobody cares if you cuss), rattlesnake roundups (enough said), rodeo riding (ditto), and anything that makes your insurance rates go up.

SOCIAL FUNCTIONS: At some point in time during your tenure as a Real Man, you will no doubt be invited to attend parties, receptions and the like. Since you probably spend most of your waking hours either on the job or in the wild, proper behavior in social settings may be alien to you. As a public service, P.O. Ed will clue you in to some of the finer points of social intercourse (no puns, please).

If the event includes a buffet table, there will probably be lots of unrecognizable foods prepared that you, as a Real Man, must be aware of. It is doubtful that there will be any raw meat and perhaps not even any steak. There will be plenty of fake meats made out of something called tofu, dishes made primarily of weeds and leaves, things that don't crunch when you bite into them and other effete items that are fit only for women and fairies. As a Real Man, you shouldn't eat too many items that weren't at one time alive and running around and I doubt you'll find much of that unless the party is held at the local hunting lodge. If you can't kill something right there at the party, the best thing to do is make up a good excuse to leave for awhile, such as faking a sudden case of the trots, and head out for the nearest burger joint or steak house where you can get some Real Man's fare, such as meat, potatoes, gravy and, of course, draft beer.

Then, having found sustenance once again, you can return to the party, which is when the second P.O. Ed social hint kicks in. At most of these social events, you are going to find yourself in the company of individuals who may not fully appreciate the physical aspects of Real Manhood. What this means, in basic terms, is that you need to refrain from passing wind and/or releasing pent-up beer gas in your normal exuberant manner. Doing so may result in your being asked to vacate the premises before they serve dessert. On the upside, of course, is the fact that your wife may not speak to you for several days, or weeks, thus providing you with a period of peace and quiet. As a Real Man, it is a threat to your health and well-being to hold in your natural ventilation needs, so what you need to do is learn P.O. Ed's Proven Method of Silent Depressurization. Walk as far away from the crowd as possible without appearing to be seeking an escape. Place the part of your body you wish to depressurize facing toward a wall. Smile sweetly and let 'er rip very slowly. To the other people at the event, it will appear as if you are enjoying a private moment - relishing a recently heard anecdote, for example - when in fact you are simply doing what comes naturally to any Real Man, only in such a way as to avoid creating a scene. Once you've gained relief, simply return to the party and commence porking out on those little sausages or groping the hostess or whatever strikes your Real Man's fancy.

It is also important that you learn the proper method of ignoring people. Very few of the guests at most of these social events are capable or willing to become involved in an intense debate over the relative merits of natural versus artificial baits or whether or not you can still get your buck if you bathe beforehand. These fine folks are more likely to attempt to engage you in discussions about such mundane topics as current events, the stock market or, the Real Man's ultimate nightmare, relationships. As every Real Man knows, current events that don't involve gun control are irrelevant, investing in the stock market requires cash better used to purchase beer and ammunition and we've already discussed relationships, so it is important that you learn how to develop an insipid smile while allowing this useless prattle to slide right on through without catching and taking up space in your mind which must be reserved for Real Man ideas. If, by some stroke of extreme good fortune, you encounter someone at a party who actually initiates a discussion of football, then you can take part without fear of offending the person. You might even get that individual to drink a beer or two with you and the night won't be a total loss. Your wife might even comment on what a good time you appeared to have had. Just don't mention the silent fart you left behind in the powder room.

HOME REPAIRS AND MAINTENANCE: Other than hunting, fishing and football, home repairs are about the only area in modern life where a Real Man can actually be a Real Man. Of course, there are various levels of home repairs and, as a Real Man, you must be able to discern them quickly if you value your status in life. Anyone can slop a coat of paint on a porch floor or pound a nail into a hunk of plywood. Even your kids are capable of those mundane acts. It is generally accepted in the realm of Real Men that any home repair project worthy of the name must be performed with power tools. If anyone can pound a nail into a piece of plywood siding, then it stands to reason by all known human measurement techniques that it requires nothing less than a Real Man to drive a nail into a concrete wall using a 45-pound power hammer. The noisier and dirtier the job, the better it is for purposes of maintaining one's status as a Real Man. Not only do home repair projects provide the Real Man with an opportunity to prove his prowess in building something of substance (see the earlier discussion about work), they have the added benefit of allowing him to wear grubby old clothes and smell like an open sewer by the end of the day. Not only that, but many repair projects afford the Real Man with many chances to make copious amounts of loud noises, both with his power tools and through his various grunts and groans as he hefts heavy items. If the repair project requires dismantling something prior to doing the repair or replacement, so much the better. Then you can make use of your sledge hammer or a similar instrument of destruction. Never forget that anything anyone can put together, a Real Man can take apart.

Well, there you have it, P.O. Ed's condensed list of survival tactics for Real Men in an openly hostile world. Memorize them and then eat this booklet so that if you're taken prisoner, you can plead plausible deniability. Your future as a Real Man is in your hands.

What's Eating Ya?

Ask P.O. Ed your

Real Man Questions

Okay, listen up. Ever since I started trying to educate you guys about how life for Real Men oughta be, I've been buried with questions. "P.O. Ed, how do I do this? P.O. Ed, why should I do that? And on and on and on..." So, being the smart businessman I am, I figured why not cash in on all this waffling and start up my very own question and answer column, just for Real Men. Since I did that, my mailbox has been stuffed tighter than the seat of my old Aunt Margie's capri pants after one of her marathon buffet visits. So sit back and pop a cold one and let your old bud P.O. Ed give you the sort of answers to your questions that would do John Wayne proud. Here is just a sampling of what's eating ya.

Dear P.O. Ed: Every year round about Christmastime, my Old Lady decides she wants to invite her whole family over to our house for about a week of partying. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind that, but these people aren't here an hour before some of them, particularly her mother, start ragging on me about my habits. They tell me I drink too much, eat too much, spend too much time sitting in front of the TV and don't help my wife with the housework, and that's just for starters. After about three days of this crapola, I'm about ready to use them for target practice. How can I put a stop to this without my wife shutting me off for six months? Signed, Ragged On and Wore Out.

Dear RO&WO: Sounds like you've got a real problem, but not one that can't be solved with a bit of underhandedness. First of all, keep a record of what you spend buying these freeloaders all the food they eat and booze they drink and then the next time they get on your case about your dining habits, show them what it costs you to keep them in silage and slop and ask them when you can expect payment. That ought to shut them up at least long enough for the air to clear. As far as the TV is concerned, I assume you bought the thing yourself. If so, it is your God-given right as a breadwinner to watch as much TV as you damn well please. Next time one of these holier-than-thou intruders bitches about how much TV you watch, point out to them that an hour of Jerry Springer is a helluva lot more intelligent than a week with them, and a damn sight more entertaining. If that fails, then take your own advice. Get out your 30-06 and begin blasting. You might create a minor panic for awhile, but it's a sure bet you won't be bothered by in-laws ever again. For more information, you can send $12.95 in care of your local newspaper for my booklet: "101 Delicious Recipes for In-Laws and Other Pests."

Dear P.O. Ed: I've got this problem with the lady next door. She strolls around her house and yard wearing this skimpy two-piece bathing suit and she is a real babe. That isn't the problem. I can appreciate a babe as much as anyone. The problem is that whenever I try to put the moves on her, she gets all insulted like and calls me a pig. I mean, I figure if she doesn't want guys hitting on her, she shouldn't strut around almost naked. I realize I'm no Charlie Atlas, but my beer gut isn't all THAT big and I do change my shirt a couple times a week. I just don't understand women, Ed. What can I do to make her like me? Signed, Dazed and Confused.

Dear Dazed: If you're looking to P.O. Ed to explain women to you, boy have you barked up the wrong tree. Not even women can explain women. This dame sounds like a real snob to me. If she can't see all the good qualities you possess, she doesn't deserve you. Just the fact that you wear the same shirt more than three days in a row means she wouldn't have to do your laundry every day. If you're like me, you can live on pizza and beer, so her cooking and shopping chores would be pretty simple too. Most women just don't appreciate the finer qualities of guys like us. They want some wuss who recites poetry and follows them around and treats them like princesses. Do yourself a favor. Stick to the centerfolds and XXX-rated videos and leave her to her fantasy world. One of these days, she'll realize what she's been missing and beg you to go out with her. Trust me. If you're still dazed and confused, enclose a check for $14.50 in care of your local newspaper for my booklet: "T&A – How to Gaze and Grope Risk Free." Included with this booklet is a free listing of bail bondsmen and men-friendly attorneys in all fifty states.

Dear P.O. Ed: Got a tool question for ya. Ever since I started doing most of my own home repair work, I find it taking more and more of my free time. I don't mind the work, you understand, but I'm starting to miss my football games and hunting shows on TV because I'm in the middle of a remodeling project or something. Any suggestions? Signed, Up to my Arse in Sawdust.

Dear Up: I've got three suggestions: power tools, power tools and power tools. I keep telling you guys that any job worth doing can be done in half the time if you use enough power. If I were you, I'd start selling off everything that you don't need, such as all those clothes and shoes in your wife's closet (hell, she probably looks better in her bathrobe anyway), and buy yourself a garageful of power tools. Then you'll be able to rip down those walls and replace them in no time. You'll have your project finished in plenty of time to catch the kick-off. Just remember the P.O. Ed philosophy on power tools – make sure they have enough power to rattle the shingles on your neighbor's house when you fire 'em up. That way, you know you have the ponies to do the job. Be a good sport, though, and include a good vacuum cleaner in your purchase so the little woman doesn't spend too much time cleaning up the mess you made. After all, she might not want to spend all afternoon cleaning and besides, you're gonna want your dinner before halftime. For the always low price of $19.95, I can rush to your workshop the latest edition of my handbook: "Power Tools That Create Brownouts and Other Necessary Home Repair Equipment."

Dear P.O. Ed: I hope you don't mind my slipping this letter under your front door, but ever since I found out the Post Office is filled with Commies, I refuse to allow them near me. Anyway, here's my question. I'm making preparations to move to my redoubt in Montana where I plan to hold off those bogus government agents when they come after my guns. I know they aren't really government agents, but are in fact aliens from the Andromeda Galaxy bent on conquest and I refuse to take it lying down. Anyway, my question is, what sort of equipment would you recommend I take with me? I already have a set of camouflage fatigues and a survival kit, plus of course my guns. What I don't want to do is call any undue attention to myself because I know those aliens are watching every move I make. Anonymous.

Dear Whatever Your Name Is: What makes you think I'm not also an alien agent from the Planet Poobah? For all you know, I'm faxing a copy of your letter to every government agency on the planet even as we speak. If you simply must have an answer, then I'd suggest you pack the following into your ditty bag. A wild game cookbook, plenty of matches, a shovel so you can bury yourself and a copy of my just published booklet, "A Pictorial Guide to UFO's and Their Occupants." The booklet will be especially useful when it comes to telling friends from foes when they land on top of you. Actually, I'll just mail you a complimentary copy. Don't bother sending me your address. I already have it on file. Don't worry, I'll make sure the postman wears a blindfold when he comes to your place. There is more information in this reply, but in order to get it, you must view this message through the base of a P.O. Ed Secret Decoder Beer Stein. My patented stein allows you to read all those nefarious government messages that are printed in code on cereal boxes and in the classified section of The Washington Post. You can get your very own Secret Decoder Stein by slinking into the alleyway behind the FBI Building at least one hour after sunset on the first and third Tuesday of every odd-numbered month. Rap three times on the door (the heavy steel one, not the glass one) and ask for Big Ali the Arab. Make sure to slip him $45.00 in unmarked bills when he answers. Do not give your name. Good hunting.

Dear P.O. Ed: My 17-year-old kids are twins, but I think they got mismarked at birth. The boy wears makeup and carries a handbag and the girl arm wrestles with the school quarterback and shaves. How do I keep my friends from snickering when they come over and see these two? I mean, it's embarrassing to have to explain why my son wears his Momma's pantyhose while my daughter borrows my Jockies. Signed, Perplexed in Pittsburgh.

Dear Perp: Sounds to me like someone played a cruel joke on you. When your buddies come over, tell them the kids are rehearsing for a school play. It's better to have people thing they're training to be actors than that they're like that in real life. If your friends keep coming over and begin to wonder why the rehearsing is still going on after a few months, tell them the play is a huge hit and is about to go on tour. Then, in order to bring closure to the whole sordid affair, enlist your daughter in the Marine Corps and sign your son up as a Radio City Music Hall Rockette. Once they're gone, sell the house and move without leaving a forwarding address or, better yet, have yourself declared dead. If you still need help, simply dash off a check or money order for $19.75 and I'll rush you a copy of my best selling cookbook: "Kids – They Taste Just Like Chicken. How to Forget Your Worries and Wow Your Friends with 24 Kick-Ass Stew Recipes."

Dear P.O. Ed: I sure hope you can help me, Bud. The problem is my wife. She's got a body that won't quit, if you know what I mean. Just watching her walk through the house gives me a woody. You're probably asking yourself right about now what exactly is the problem. Okay, here it is. The other night, she sat down on the couch beside me and told me she was having an affair. Now, that's bad enough, but then she tells me she's having this affair with a WOMAN she works with. After I picked myself up off the floor, she goes on to tell me she wants me to stick around even though she thinks of me as just another one of the guys. What should I do, Ed? On one hand, I love the way my buddies drool whenever they see me with her, but on the other hand, Mr. Wiggly just doesn't seem to have the old drive he used to. I just can't seem to muster up the old enthusiasm for a night of sweaty screaming lovemaking with someone who would rather borrow my ratchet set than get all dewey-eyed over a bunch of roses. Just sign me: One-Way Only in Walla Walla.

Dear One-Way: I can certainly understand your dilemma, but why you'd want to stay with a women who likes two flavors is beyond me, especially when one of the flavors is the same as hers. What's the appeal? Does she let you watch or are you more into taking videos of her and Ms. Duelly while they ring each others chimes? Listen, you sound like a fine, upstanding fella, so why don't you say sayonara to Mrs. Flip Flop and get yourself a REAL woman? If you can't do that, then the best thing I can tell you is to go out and buy yourself a long, blonde wig, some miniskirts and a bunch of makeup, because the only way you're gonna appeal to her is to look less like you and more like your mother. Then tie Mr. Wiggly behind you and go to town. Better learn how to scream at the right times, too, because it sounds to me like your loving wife wants to wear the pants in the family, in more ways than one. Take Ed's advice. Send her over to her "friend's" house for good. Change the locks on the door, though, before she comes back and takes your tools and fishing tackle. For more information on this dicey type of situation, send me $10.95 and I'll send you my booklet: "This House Ain't Big Enough for Two Real Men - What to do When Your Wife Decides She'd Rather be Your Fishing Buddy."

Dear P.O. Ed: I'll bet my antique fly rod you haven't heard one quite like this before. My wife just got a really good paying job that she likes. The thing is, now she wants me to stay home and take care of the house and kids. She claims I can do it better than she can and she doesn't want to hire a sitter and a maid. I suspect she's just saying that to get me to do it without a fight. That's just like her. Up to now, this isn't all that strange in the Nutty Nineties, but here's the rub. I'm actually starting to enjoy staying home and, I can barely say it, I get more pleasure out of vacuuming the carpet than I did from hanging drywall. Sometimes I wonder if I might be turning into a fairy or something. What's wrong with me, Ed? I can't even think of a good reason to give my wife why I SHOULDN'T stay home and be a househusband. I'm afraid I'm gonna turn into Mrs. Doubtfire if I can't find some answers to this dilemma. Any advice? Signed: Wearing an Apron in Akron.

Dear Apron: Better wrap up that fly rod and buy some stamps, because your little problem doesn't even make the Top Ten these days. This is what your old buddy Ed feared was gonna happen if the feminists took over. They aren't gonna rest until they have all our jobs and every Mother's Son of us is scrubbing pots and changing diapers and they're all banging on sheet metal eight hours a day. You wanted an answer, so here's mine. If your old lady wants you to stay home so she can prove she's a better man than you are, then stay home. Let her think she really is a better man than you are. Before you go thinking your old bud P.O. Ed has gone off his rocker, think about this thing for a minute. Since you are now in charge of the house, take charge of the house. Rip all that pansy-assed floral wallpaper down and put up some dark wood paneling. A few stuffed heads wouldn't hurt either. Since she won't be needing all those dresses any longer, toss 'em out and give her just enough closet space for her hardhat and coveralls. Use the rest of the space for your fishing tackle and outdoor magazines. Reprogram the VCR so it only tapes Bill Dance and NASCAR events instead of soap operas. What you gotta do here is put a positive spin on this thing. Turn the house into your own domain. As soon as she steps in the front door, start bitching about being cooped up with the kids all day and throw a tantrum until she takes you out to dinner. Harp at her about leaving her dirty work clothes all over your nice clean floor. Gripe constantly about the bathroom being messy and the kitchen sink being always full of her dirty dishes and how she never raises a finger to help you out around the house. Believe me, after a few weeks of getting a taste of her own medicine, she's gonna beg you to go back to work and will be ready to hire Saddam Hussein to watch the kids. Then, if you REALLY want to stay home, you can do it on your own terms. Ed wonders if you aren't really crying out in your own way for help and I feel your pain. If you want more bits of manly wisdom, send $34.50 in care of your local paper for a copy of my new book: "Bitching Your Way to Freedom – 250 Ways to Deal With a Modern Working Woman While Keeping Your Gonads."

Well, that's it for this go-around, Men. As you can see, being a Real Man isn't easy in this modern world. Keep on sending those cards and letters and P.O. Ed will do whatever he can to set you straight. If you need even more help, send a check or money order for $24.95 in care of your local newspaper for a copy of my latest handbook: "Grab Your Socks and Stroke Your Cocks – Living the Real Man Life in a Fairy World." And watch for the next installment my ongoing collection of the best of your letters: "Son of What's Eatin' Ya," soon to appear in bookstores and bait stores everywhere. This is P.O. Ed sayin': "Catch ya on the flip-flop."

Women are different from men.

The above statement is accepted as fact by most rational, thinking human beings and is not especially profound. It has also been studied and analyzed ad nauseam by almost every type of research group in existence. Most common people (and I count myself among that group) probably rarely if ever think about this. I just accepted it as the way of nature and went on about my daily life. The difference between the two was driven home to me over a recent weekend by the simple expedient of my accompanying my wife on a shopping trip.

We went to one of the larger area malls, ostensibly to get some ideas for Christmas, as she told me.

"Christmas," I responded, aghast. "But my summer tan hasn't even faded yet. How can you possibly think about Christmas?"

"It's never too early," she said. "Besides, you know how much I love the holidays."

I sighed, knowing that I had several hours of walking ahead of me. I told myself that maybe, just maybe, I could salvage a small part of the day by browsing the Walden's book Store that I knew was there. My wife, however, has learned never to allow me near a bookstore with either cash or credit cards. She had an agenda already in mind the moment we left the house.

This way of thinking has been handed down from generation to generation since before time was actually recorded. My daughters are now experts in the field. On rare occasions, I would wax domestic and do the family grocery shopping. I would head off to the local supermarket, list in hand, and return home an hour or so later victorious from the hunt. The females in my family would circle the bags of groceries like a pride of lions around a freshly killed Wildebeest. From their disdainful looks, I just knew that something was wrong.

"I just know something is wrong," I would demurely say.

"You just don't know how to shop," they would reply in unison.

"But I got everything on the list," I would retort defensively.

"Exactly! That's the problem. You just got what was on the list." I knew right then and there that I had lost both the battle and the war.

Now I know that a good many men shop regularly with their significant others. Most of those who do so have already discovered that there is a basic difference in the philosophies of men versus women regarding shopping.

As an example, I submit the following scenario. Some of the dialogue has been changed to protect the innocent, but the gist of the conversation was as presented.

We began going into ladieswear shops. "I thought we were here to get some ideas for Christmas," I inquired of her as she began to look at blouses. "We are," she replied. "Christmas for me."

We went from ladieswear shop to ladieswear shop, stopping to examine each and every display rack. To my mind's eye, the merchandise on these racks all looked pretty much the same. I made the lethal mistake of inquiring as to why we needed to look at so many of the same items.

"They aren't the same," she told with probably more patience than she felt. "You just don't understand the rules of shopping."

"Rules?" I asked. "You mean there are rules here."

"Sure," she explained in her tolerant tone. "There are always rules for shopping. Everyone knows that."

"Suppose you clue me in."

"You have to know what it is you're looking for, in what color you want it, and what price you are willing to pay. Then you shop until you find it. It's out there, somewhere. You just have to take whatever time is required until you find it."

"That's crazy. I already know what I want before I even go to the store. Then I walk into the store, pick up what I want, take it to the checkout, pay for it, and leave. Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops."

My loving spouse shot me a look like I'd just uttered an obscenity in church.

I've always been of the opinion that if the Good Lord had intended for men to spend inordinately long periods of time in stores, He'd have seen to it that they were all equipped with recliner chairs and big-screen televisions. That seems only fitting and proper to me.

"But you've got to look at colors and styles, and fit. All the important stuff."

"What colors? You've got three choices in men's clothing: blue, brown or gray. You pick whatever you want in one of those three colors and go with it. If it's on sale, then you got lucky. If not, you're stuck paying the full price."

She wasn't convinced. "Nope, you've got to keep on looking until you find exactly what you want, and at the price you want to pay."

"Like I said, whatever store you go into, you've got three choices: blue, brown or gray. That's exactly what you want, right?"

By now, we had actually found our way to a menswear department. I could tell it was a menswear department by all the blue, brown and gray items. This particular store was offering Texas-style leather dusters, a kind of an old west look, for the bargain price of $350.00. "I could have bought the entire State of Texas for that back when they wore those things for real," I commented to no one in particular. My wife came back with: "I'll bet if we shopped around, we could find one for less than $100.00. See, you've got to be willing to look."

Then she discovered a shirt that actually had some colors to it, and some slacks that were red, of all things. "See," she gloated, "not everything is blue, brown or gray." The shirt was a polyglot of every color on the spectrum. "I'd look real good wearing that to work," I told her. The slacks were not made to actually be worn by an adult male. It is a well known scientifically proven fact that no middle-aged male exists in America with a 32-inch waist. "Let's look over here in real world sizes," I suggested. "Over there, where all those blue, brown and gray slacks are."

After about two hours, I became bold enough to suggest that we each go off on our own. I was willing to indulge her browsing and testing and pricing as long as I could do the same thing, at Walden's. Bookstores are the only retail establishments that are set up for and actually encourage long-term browsing, in my humble opinion. "You can't leave the store," she said. "You've got the credit cards."

"Ok," I sighed. "I'll stick around, but I want to go look at some men's clothing."

"How will I find you?" she asked.

"No problem. Just look for a lot of blue, brown and gray things. I'll be there somewhere."

I never did get to Walden's.

About the author:

David Bates is an environmental administrator for a small city in Indiana. He has a Bachelor of Science degree from Ball State University and a Master of Public Administration from Western Michigan University. He has written numerous articles for water environment journals and has served as President of the Indiana Water Environment Association. He enjoys photography, reading (and writing of course), traveling and nature. He lives with his wife, two cats and a Shih-Tzu in Southern Michigan.

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