"How can you be a man? I don't believe it."
I can't believe I am defending myself here, but I am a man.
Sure, my last few posts have been a bit, shall we say, "girly". I mean, what man in his right, straight mind would write about a future princess, Easter Egg hunts and a story one of their first grade students wrote?
I suppose in a way, my blog is like Redbook magazine: Women love it and their husbands will eventually read it if it sitting around the toilet for any reasonable amount of time.
The truth is, I AM a man, and I don't need Donald Trump to request my birth certificate or even a doctor request that I turn my head and cough to prove it. No, I've got your proof right here...
- I can still name every member of the original Olympic "Dream Team". Yes, even Cheryl Miller.
- I listen to sports talk radio every morning and afternoon on my commute.
- I can name every song from Pearl Jam's first three albums. And Alice In Chain's. And Soundgarden's. And Celine Dion's*.
- I watch Wipe Out for two reasons: 1. To see people get smacked in the face. 2. For quick glimpses of that girl that talks to the contestants.
|See, I waxed but I am still a man!|
- I have, or had arm hair.
- Some of my favorite movies are The Shawshank Redemption, American History X and Moulin Rouge*.
- I once changed my own oil in my car - and I did it with a bloody finger - just the skin around my cuticle, but it was bleeding alright.
- I eat hamburger on my steak on top of a giant platter of bacon.
- After I shave, I use Old Spice on my face and vinegar on my eyebrow.
- I can bench 100. Or 200. What's a lot? ((Not sure.)) Forget it, name it and I'll bench it.
Clearly, I have proved beyond a reasonable doubt that I am in fact, a male human. The problem remains that if I write about sports and violent movies and hamburgers, I would lose 85% of my followers. So I will continue to try and entertain by being sissy. Deal with it, sistas!