I received an email today asking if Sophia and I got along during our road trip.  And the answer is, “Yes.”  This is very surprising because we usually have our worst fights while on the road.  All the new stimuli can create a lot of tension.  So, what was different this time?  Did therapy help?  Prozac?  “The Secret?”

No. 

It is something I would like to nominate for the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize.

For generations, there has been war.  Each time a man and woman get together to travel to a new destination, the fragile harmony is always broken by bickering and verbal insults.

“Why don’t you ask for directions?” the woman asks, her voice shrill with nagging.

“I have a c**k, woman!” the hot-headed male responds.  “It will point me in the right direction.”

“It certainly had a lot of trouble pointing anywhere last night!” she answers, throwing the first grenade, signalling a readiness to use weapons of mass destruction on the male’s Achilles heel — his ego.  

Soon, the male brings up the female’s “weight,” which means only one thing —  all-out war. 

How many divorces have occurred over asking directions?   Throughout history, this event has occurred over and over again – on camels, on horse and buggies, on Volkswagen Bugs (I punch you).  The Trojan War — started over bad directions.   Henry VIII killed his third wife for constantly bringing up a right turn he made in London once when he was supposed to go left.

But now — FINALLY — there is peace and love on our modern highways and freeways.   There is fraternity among the sexes.   The automobile has become a friendly place again.  There is less fighting over directions, and more lovemaking in the backseat — all because of one invention.

The Future Winner of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize — GPS Navigation!

How can you argue over a robot chick with a pleasant voice who knows how to go EVERYWHERE? 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Really Extreme Makeover:  Home Edition

I’ve never done speed dating before, but I know I would be good at it. I’m an immensely interesting person for one minute, and then I become a total bore, so with speed dating, I could capture a woman’s attention before she saw “the real me.” Also, since the woman finds it OK to interact with me for just one minute, I assume she won’t be rattled by my perennial problem of premature ejaculation. She’ll already be used to me making it through one minute, and then the conversation is over.

New York can be a tough place to meet someone, and speed dating is popular in the Big Apple. I was especially intrigued by this new form of speed dating that I read about on Zandria’s site.   The sponsors included New York Magazine and was titled the “Natural Selection Speed Date” — Rich Guys and Hot Girls.  The application requirements were very specific:

Men (solely based on wealth)

Salary:

• Age 25 or below $200K +
• Age 26-30 $300K +
• Age 30+ $500K +
• Invested Assets: $1 million +
• Trust: $4 million +

*Men will be asked to provide documented proof

Ticket Price $500

Women (solely based on beauty)

• 5 pictures will be submitted for judgment by celebrity Matchmaker Janis Spindel
• Pictures are judged for beauty
• No additional information will be accepted

Ticket Price $50

The first meet-up took place two weeks ago in a Upper East Side supper club. Now, if you’re expecting me to be all P.C. and all, and call this disgusting, I’m not. The company’s website makes a compelling case for this type of natural selection:

[Our company] is honoring the age old union of wealthy men and hot girls. Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious - no longer dear friends. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman – this is a factual force of nature. Women don’t ask “So, what does he do for a living?” because they’re interested in his personality and guys don’t ask “is she hot?” because they’re concerned with character. Guys know that money buys them the car, the house and the trophy wife. This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stay beautiful.

My main problem is that the match-ups don’t adhere to true scientific testing. The qualifications for the men can be easily documented, but the choosing of the women seems as rigged as a Russian figure-skating event.

First of all, is Ms. Spindel really that qualified to judge what I find beautiful? She isn’t THAT attractive herself.

And does she just pick stereotypical-looking blonds like I might see on FOX drama as CIA agents? Where are the hot Asian chicks? Where are the slightly-eccentric looking redheads who you just know will show you a wild time? Look at the three women that Ms. Spindel considers beautiful.

#1 — Eh. Looks like my cousin Miriam.

#2 — Flat as a board and thinning hair.

#3 — She is OK, but has a pig nose. She also looks like she is very quiet when she has an orgasm.

Of course, if I were drunk and lonely and “American Idol” wasn’t on TV, I wouldn’t say no to any of these women saying, “Neilochka, let’s ****!” (this does not include Ms. Spindel, no offense… she just seems like she would be too aggressive). But are they THAT BEAUTIFUL? For five hundred bucks and opening up my bank records, I would expect more. I could easily come up with a list of BLOGGERS who are prettier than these women. Just go on Flickr, which is my new pornography.

I think many of my problems with Sophia are based on our total disregard for the rule of “Natural Selection.” After all she is beautiful, but I’m not rich. If the world worked perfectly, she would be with someone rich.

But alas, I’m not rich. Only beautiful. Why can’t I exploit my beauty as much as women? Maybe I was destined to be with a rich but ugly woman. After all, that still maintains the idea of natural selection. Are there any speed-dating services for rich, ugly women and beautiful, poor men? It’s the same principle of Natural Selection, just updated for the twenty-first century — I’m all for the equality of the sexes!

If a woman was really rich, I could deal with her being ugly. Hopefully, not THAT ugly. I mean it would bother me if she had warts all over her face. But then again, if she was rich… and let me feel her up while watching TV… hey, why not? It’s natural selection!

(Update: After reading some more about this, I’m beginning to think the speed-dating service was less a legitimate operation than a crass way to create some publicity through an actual speed-dating event. By creating a dating scenario as ugly as possible, they were able to get media attention from both the networks and bloggers like me. Now, they are in talks with VH1 about doing a show about this concept.  I look forward to seeing what advertisers want to get involved in a project that uses terms such as natural selection and genetic cleansing.  What fun!  So, I am now going to take out most of the links and names in hope of not giving them any more publicity)

sorry, Fabio, you were voted off.

model for Mr. “Valentine’s Day”

model for Ms. “Valentine’s Day”

OK, we’re on for Valentine’s Day! I’m in the process of emailing out tentative time slots now (read here to learn more).

We will be open for business from 9AM EST until 3AM EST! Anyone who is lonely or needs some Valentine’s Day cheer can IM mister_valentinesday on yahoo IM and get some lovin’ from a real live person. I gave myself the last late night slot, thinking that this will be the time when most single women will be drunk and desperate. Ha Ha –I’m not stupid!

There is one problem left. Yesterday, I was talking with a blogger, and she said, “I like Stacy from Jurgen Nation and all, but I’m not sure I really want to log in and chat with her on Valentine’s Day and have her think that I’m a Valentine’s Day loser.”

Let me make something clear. All the people who are doing this experiment with me are hand-picked exactly because they are as miserable as you in some aspect of their lives. Think about it. What type of NUT would volunteer to participate in this? These are EXACTLY the type of people you want to chat with in order to feel good about yourself on Valentine’s Day.

And remember — you are NOT chatting with some anonymous blogger or Stacy from Jurgen Nation. You will be chatting with the very handsome and romantic Mr. Valentine’s Day or the glamorous Ms. Valentine’s Day, depending on who you want to be YOUR VALENTINE.

But we still need your help. We still need to create these wonderful personas — Mr. Valentine’s Day and Ms. Valentine’s Day. What are their characteristics? Since Valentine’s Day is supposedly about romance, I think these icons should have the traits of the “ideal” man and woman. Your input is essential in helping us “understand” our roles. Like Robert De Niro, we want to BECOME the characters. This means if I am on IM duty and a man shows up, depressed because he didn’t get any Valentine’s Day cards, I should be ready to immediately jump into the role of Ms. Valentine’s Day and “make his day” by telling him he is “my valentine.”

So what are the characteristics of the ideal man AND woman, so we can all better play one on Valentine’s Day? Attractive? Romantic? Honest? Sense of humor? Great ass? We need to hear from both men and women.

It used to be that women had all the insecurities. They worried that they were too fat, too talkative, too this, too that. Now men are as insecure. We feel bad if we don’t have flat abs, thick wavy hair, or look like the model in some underwear ad. Let’s not even talk about money, or some other personal issues that I would just have to delete from this blog later tonight.

As a connoisseur of “male insecurity” I’ve been fascinated by the amount of spam I get for increasing the size of my penis. Is this really what men are worrying about? Obviously most of these men are NOT married. Believe me, after marriage, that concern falls way down on the list. WAY down. I don’t care if you have the smallest penis in the world, I just can’t imagine a woman telling her husband that she wants a divorce because his “penis is too small.”

Back to the email spam. It’s always been unclear to me how these pills actually work. Do these pills increase your penis by 3″ just once, or can you consistently increase it by 3″, like Pinocchio’s nose, or a tax-free CD at the bank which you can rollover at the end of the year for more interest?  And why is it always 3″?  If I took the pills for say, three months, would the results be an increase of 3″ (cubed), or a 9″ increase.  And at what point are you supposed to STOP taking the pills?  At a 3″ increase?  A 6″ increase? A 9″ increase?  If you take only 1/2 of a pill, which I sometimes did when I was trying Prozac, for instance, will you only get a 1.5″ increase of your penis size?

I think it would actually cool to have a 12″ penis because then you would always have a handy ruler. Forget about looking for a dirty ruler in your “junk” drawer when you want to measure the size of your penis. Your penis IS the ruler! Think how much fun it would be for a young couple building their first IKEA-bought entertainment center:

Girl: “The directions say the shelf needs to be exactly 7″ from the edge of wood piece #D.”

Boy: “No problem. Let me just get my “ruler” out.”

Girl: “I’ll help!”

Part of getting older is learning there are things you should feel insecure about which you didn’t even know you were SUPPOSED to be insecure about. Remember that whole tighty-whitey debacle on my blog a year ago, where you told me that white Fruit of the Loom briefs were for mama boys living in their mother’s apartment in New York?

Obsession with penis size is nothing new. I was not surprised by the selling of miracle pills in my email spam. Penis size has been a male obsession since Cain and Abel had their famous duel. But lately, I have been getting some penis-related email spam that just confuses me, which is unusual for a self-proclaimed “penis” expert like myself.

Look at my junk mail box today.

What is it with this recent onslaught of spam extolling ways of “increasing the volume” of my ejaculation. And by 500%!? Huh? Is this some new standard that modern women hold us to — volume?

Girl One: “How was your date with Bob?”

Girl Two: “He was amazing in bed!”

Girl One: Oh? How “big” was he?”

Girl Two: “Nine Quarts!”

How much volume of ejaculate is a man supposed to have? Is this supposed to impress a woman, like the more volume, the more a man’s virility, as if “When I impregnate you, you will give birth to quintuplets!”

I already can hear the banter in male locker rooms across America as this type of email spam becomes the norm:

Guy 1: “Oh, man. Did I f**k Angela good last night. The condom became the size of a beach ball with all the volume of my ejaculate!”

Guy2: “Yeah, big deal. I was f**king Susie this morning and when I came, it was like Katrina hit the bedroom. We almost had to row out on the bed.”

Guy 3: “I once ejaculated so much, I create a hole in my girlfriend’s ceiling and killed a bird flying over head.”

Guy 4: “Big shit. By federal regulations, I’m not even allowed to have sex anywhere near a major airport in case the volume and velocity of my ejaculate shoots up and knocks down a 747.”

As for me, I’m waiting for the pill that causes my penis to play Mozart during orgasm. That would be impressive.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: The Truth About Olive Garden

When I was a child, I used to ask my mother on Mother’s Day, “When is Children’s Day?” and she would give the tried-and-true answer, “Every day is Children’s Day.”

I was perusing through some blogs this morning, and noting all the buttons and links, and how so many of them are female-centric, like BlogHer and Blogging Chicks. I once wrote a silly post about what I thought BlogHim would be like, but today I thought about the subject in a more serious manner. Why do women feel so comfortable teaming up together, while men like to go it alone (or at least fake that they do)? For a second, I thought of starting a Blogging Guys group, but then I realized — I would be the last person to want to join it.

Is it because “Every day is Men’s Day” in this “patriarchal society” and men don’t need to join together — or are men just uncomfortable with each other and fear looking unmanly?  Is it any wonder that women can talk for hours together, complimenting each other on their shoes, hair, and bodies, while men are more comfortable talking with their penises than talking with other men?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka’s Favorite Things 2005

This afternoon, Sophia and I watched some reality/food TV show called “Take Home Chef” on TLC. In the show, hunky Australian-British chef, Curtis Stone, accosts clueless women shopping in a Los Angeles supermarket and invites himself over to their home to cook an elegant meal. In the episode we saw, Curtis finds a pretty brunette in the cereal aisle, a stay-at-home mommyblogger in the making, who finds it impossible to say no to Curtis’s offer of a “surprise” dinner for her vegetarian husband (or be on TV).

As Angelenos, Sophia and I recognized the supermarket as the upscale “Gelson’s Market” which must have assured the producers that the “victim” would be in the right upscale demographic. As Curtis and the wife drive home (from now on I will refer to her as FM — future mommyblogger), Curtis asks FM to call her husband to make sure he won’t be home until five o’clock, plenty of time to prepare the surprise meal.

FM calls her husband on the phone. They blab a bit. Before FM hangs up, the husband says, “I love you,” and FM answers, “I love you, too.” How cute!

Later, in the show, as Curtis prepares his eggplant and risotto, FM calls her husband again, to double check his arrival time. Just like before, the conversation ends with mutual “I love you”’s.

As Sophia and I sat on the couch, watching this nonsense:

Neil: “Did you see how they always said “I love you” to each other? Every single time. Maybe that was our problem. Maybe we didn’t say “I love you” enough.”

Sophia: “We always said, “I love you.”

Neil: “But not after every phone call.”

Sophia: “That was not our problem.”

Neil: “Maybe we should try their technique. Always saying “I love you” at the end of every phone call.”

Sophia: “Now?”

Neil: “Why not?”

Sophia: “We’re separated. Just because you’re here doesn’t change our status.”

Neil: “We still love each other, right?”

Sophia: “Sure… but…”

Neil: “Maybe this will just help us to relate better…”

Sophia: “It’s cute, but…”

Neil: “But don’t you love me, regardless of…”

Eventually, I wore Sophia down and she agreed to try my experiment.

The rest of the TV show sucked. The dopey husband came home to his big surprise, tried to look happy while really looking pissed, and the couple ate their vegetarian meal while Curtis said goodbye and left their lives forever.

Later, I went to Starbucks for a cup of coffee. As I tried to do the crossword puzzle, Sophia called me up and asked me to pick up some groceries at the supermarket (not Gelson’s).

Neil: “Sure.”

Sophia: “Thanks.”

Neil: “I love you, Sophia.”

Sophia: “Oh, right. I love you, too.”

As I drove to the supermarket, Sophia called me again.

Sophia: “You know, I’m actually pretty hungry now. Rather than going to the supermarket, could you go to the Thai restaurant and bring back some soup and a noodle dish?”

Neil: “OK.”

Sophia: “I’ll see you soon.”

Neil: “Wait… wait…”

Sophia: “Yes… yes, I love you.”

Neil: “I love you, too.”

I made it to our favorite Thai restaurant, which we think is run by three Thai teenagers, who take turns cooking, serving, and singing Thai karaoke.

I ordered some spicy noodles.

“What type of meat?” asked Thai Teenager #1.

I called Sophia on the phone and asked her the same question. She wanted “beef.”

“Beef,” I told the Thai Teenager, then sat down to wait for my order. As I listened to Thai Teenager #2 singing some Thai disco song, I realized that something was wrong with the world. I quickly dialed up Sophia on the phone.

Neil: “You forgot to say “I love you.” at the end of the last conversation.”

Sophia: “No, I did say it. But you hung up too quickly to hear it.”

Neil: “No, you didn’t. I said “I love you,” and then I was waiting for your response.”

Sophia: “You never said ‘I love you!” You asked me “What type of meat?” I said “Beef.” And then you hung up.”

Neil: “No, you said, “Beef.” I said, “I love you.” And then nothing.”

Sophia: “You’re crazy. You didn’t say anything after I said “Beef.”"

Neil: “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Maybe it was the reception. Or you thought I said “Beef” when I said “I love you.”"

Sophia: “I’m not going to mistake “Beef” for “I love you.”"

Despite wanting to continue with my experiment, I knew this was not for us.

Neil: “You know what? I think if we continue saying ‘I love you” after every phone call, we’re not only going to get divorced, we won’t even want to talk to each other.”

Sophia: “Thank God you realize that!”

Neil: “Do you want white rice or brown rice?”

Sophia: “Brown rice.”

Neil: “OK, see you soon.”

Sophia: “Bye.”

Later, I went home and we enjoyed our Thai food lovingly prepared by Thai Teenager #3. The rest of the night was very nice and we didn’t say “I love you” even once.

Sometimes, love is never having to say “I love you.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Dating for Liberals

For the second day in a row, women complained to me via email about how I objectified Sophia in her photo when she is sick with the flu. The truth is that no man wants to see a girl looking bad, even when she has a 101 temperature.

Women, take note: If you want to attract men and keep them, you need to learn the dos and don’ts of acceptable gender behavior. One of the main reasons we are with you is because you are hot-looking. Why should we have to suffer looking at you without lipstick just because YOU feel shitty?

Hey, hey, hey, hold on there! Before you call me a misogynist ass, let me tell you that I didn’t learn about these “rules” in the male locker room. No, I learned about them today while standing in line at the supermarket leafing through the November issue of a women’s magazine — Cosmopolitan. On Page 58 of the “Cosmo Men” insert, there is a compelling article titled “Things Guys Just Don’t Want to Know About You.”

“There are certain topics that weird out dudes or bore them silly or simply annoy them…. Here’s a list of what to avoid bringing up if you want to keep your dude around…”

First of all, I don’t like being called “dude,” but that just might be my own personal rule.

Here’s the Cosmo list:

Your Weaknesses

“Spilling your guts to a guy you barely know is a surefire way to turn him off or, worse, make him think you’re a head case. Bottom line? Keep your eBay addiction, midnight binges, and obsession with bad reality TV on the down low.”

However, your addiction to oral sex is acceptable to discuss on a first date.

How Tired You Are

“In this fast-paced, snooze-you-lose world we live in, complaining about how beat you are just makes you sound whiny.”

Just like we don’t want to see you sick, we don’t want to see you tired. Erica Kane can be trapped in a mine shaft for a month on “All My Children” and still walk out looking fabulous. If you want to keep a man you must always be bubbly, vivacious, and eager for sex — even if you worked a sixteen hour day at your job. Leave your work problems at the office so you can focus on us listening to us talk about our jobs!

That Your Hair Is Different

“If the guy you’re with doesn’t notice your new do on his own, forget it! When you have to point out that you switched up your look, here’s what goes off in his brain: “Alert! She’s fishing for compliments.”"

Hear! Hear! We don’t care about your hair, your nails, or your new shoes. Just look slutty. That’s all we ask.

Your Choice of Feminine Hygiene Product

“I’ll keep this one short and sweet: Most guys use the words tampon and pad interchangeably — and trust me, we’re completely happy not knowing the difference between them. If it stops the flow (or has anything to do with below-the-belt issues), we don’t want to know!”

Unfortunately, marriage has ruined me. I do know the difference between a tampon and pad. I just wish I was able to turn back the clock to those days when I was innocent and pure.

That You Read the Latest Mind-Blowing Sex Tips in This Magazine

“We don’t want to hear about them — we want you to do them.”

And if you do read this magazine, read it in the supermarket. I can use that $4.95 to buy Stuff Magazine.

The Fact That You Think Another Guy Is Good-Looking

“It’s not an insecurity thing. It’s a we-don’t-care thing. For example, calling another man handsome is a conversation stopper.”

Except George Clooney. He is sort of handsome.

Your Diet Strategy

“The goal of every diet is to get to a certain body weight. And just like vacations, nobody cares how you got there. We just care that you’re there.”

Do you know there is now negative zero sizes coming out by Nicole Miller? Don’t talk about it. Do it!

How Smart You Are

“Guys are looking to avoid that overeager girl who goes out of her way to show everyone exactly how intelligent she is. If you find yourself using the names Hemingway, Dostoevsky, or Nietzsche more than once per conversation, you may be guilty of academic name-dropping, which reeks of insecurity.”

This is probably the most important rule to follow. There’s a reason the librarian always TAKES OFF the glasses. We like the woman to be stupider than us. Of course, a woman should read, but preferably material like Cosmopolitan, chick-lit, or maybe a few mommyblogger blogs. Nothing too heady. Men are known to be better in math and science, so please don’t try to show off any of your math skills. It is a real turn-off. The only mathematical term you should be using in conversation with a man you are dating is “big,” as in “My Gawd, you are so big!”

Now, are these simple steps THAT complicated to follow? Believe me, we’re worth it.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Stars of David (or my Mother will Find this Funny)

In the tradition of Poetry Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings, I’d like to welcome you to the hottest blogging craze — Make Me Insecure Friday!

Yes, it’s Friday.  You’ve worked hard all week.  But before you go home and have a relaxing weekend, why not sit back while I tell you what a loser you are.

Today’s topic is:  Numbers.

Numbers. 

Is there anything that makes us more insecure than numbers? 

The Top 10.  The Big 5.   The Technorati 100.  Hah Hah, I’m sure you’re not ANY OF THOSE!  

Have you looked at your blog stats today?  The numbers are down… way down!

By the way, what exactly is your net income?  Is that ALL you make for doing that?

Ooh, is that the Infiniti M35 you’re driving?   Nice, but NOT as nice as my Infiniti M45!

Are you really a man who is under six feet tall?  What woman is going to date you other than Linda Hunt?

Jeez, are you a woman with only an 32A cup?   Is your father Flat Stanley?

And you’re over 35 and still not married?  Crazy woman, crazy woman!

You’re not partner yet?  What kind of man are you?  You should be making twice as much as your father!

My friend Trish is a size 4 and laughs at the big women who are size 6 and 8.   I have news for you, Trish, the laughter is over.  Nicole Miller is coming out with sizes that are LESS THAN ZERO.    That’s right — NEGATIVE ZERO clothes.

Let’s make believe you’re a condom manufacturer in Japan.  You’re coming out with a new brand made specifically for men who want a condom that is, uh, of average length and narrower than others.  What would be a good name for this condom?  Let’s see… how about Beyond Seven! 

Imagine the happy woman who sees you take out your Beyond Seven condom, and then…

This is Jiro Okamoto, President of Okamato Industries, maker of Beyond Seven Condoms.  He sure looks funny, doesn’t he? 

I also bet you he makes 100x money than you will in a lifetime.

I hope you’ve enjoyed Make Me Insecure Friday.  Make sure you come back next week for another installment!  

Have a great weekend!  I’ll be cleaning up the house, and being insecure.

Cover Your Mouth wrote this comment on my last post after I worried that my post was being taken too seriously:

Listen Neil, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t give a shit about your financial stability or whether or not you’re “getting what you deserve from your marriage.” I come to this site everyday because your posts make me laugh. As long as you’ve got the 6 bucks a month it takes to keep a blog going and your relationship with Sophia continues to provide humorous post material, then I’m happy. I hope my callousness has lifted your spirits.

Why did I actually enjoy this comment?  Why am I actually more comfortable with a comment like this than a caring one?

Men usually write comments like that.   I usually write comments like that. 

MY father was not a strong man physically.  I never saw him get into a fight.  He wore Woody Allen type glasses, but you couldn’t pay him to actually watch a Woody Allen movie.  He loved movies about men.  Real men.  John Wayne.  Clint Eastwood in his spaghetti westerns.  James Bond.  Men who never complained, but always got things accomplished.  In reality, he was nothing like these characters at all, but I think he felt like he was the man in charge and the moral compass of everyone.  He never complained about his health or let anyone pick up a bill.  That’s what Gary Cooper would have done.  He would go bonkers to learn that when I had dinner with Sarah last week — SHE picked up the check.   Now that’s a shonda.  (Yiddish: disgrace)

Sophia’s step-father, Vartan, is an elderly man.   He walks with a cane.  He has trouble lifting one of his arms.  He never lets his wife carry the grocery bag.   Even I need to fight with him to do something for him.   It would hurt his pride to be seen by others as needing anything.

Every day I watch All My Children, along with Sophia, and countless other viewers.  Every man on that show is like a rock, always there to rescue Erica or Kendall or Babe from some traumatic event or emotional breakdown.  The man’s main role in life seems to be “a rock” for their woman.

I don’t consider myself a stereotypical male.   I love Broadway musicals.  I’m more than happy to let Sophia use all the tools in the house.  I do not touch a hammer or a nail.  I’ve never opened the hood of my car without the presence of the guy from AAA.  But during the last two posts, I heard my male ego scolding me: 

Neil’s Male Ego:  “Why are you setting yourself up on your blog for people to care?  And women, especially.  You don’t want anyone to worry about you.  That’s unmanly.  A man doesn’t take advice.  A man manages on his own.  A man takes care of his own marriage.  His own career.  He doesn’t ask for help or show any concern.   Does Clint Eastwood ask for help?”

Neil:  “You got a point there.  Like a quarterback.  He can’t have any doubt.  Win one for the Gipper!”

Neil’s Male Ego:  That’s right.  Just laugh away everything.  You spend way too much time with the girls.  Stop reading those knitting blogs and those poetry blogs.  Join a fantasy football league.  You need more male readers.  They write the comments you are comfortable with — the sarcastic, uncaring ones, you know — like the ones you write.   Write less about Sophia and more about your “dinner date” with Sarah of “The Delicious Life.”  So, why exactly is her life so delicious?” 

Neil’s Penis jumps up in protest.

Neil’s Penis:  “F**k your male ego, Neilochka.  Don’t listen to him.  You just keep on doing what you’re doing.  Anything that gets their panties off.”

Neil:  “But, Penis, I thought women like the strong, silent, manly type.”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “You see.  You’re doing it again.  You’re setting yourself up for female bloggers to say, “Oh, Neil, that’s not true!  We love sensitive men like you.  We are modern women.  We don’t like those boring manly types. We feel bad for you…”

Neil’s Penis:  “Good, Neilochka!  Let them say that.  Maybe one of them will finally f**k you!”

Neil:  “That’s not why I’m blogging, Penis.  I just don’t want readers to lose their respect for me.  I don’t want to appear needy!”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “That’s right, Neil.  Be a man.  Be strong.  Remember the Alamo!”

Neil’s Penis:  “Your male ego is so old school it ain’t even funny.  He’s never going to get you f**king again.  Listen to me!  Be a puppy dog if it will work!  Women like vulnerable.”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “Shut your mouth, Penis. No woman wants a man who makes LESS than she does…”

Neil’s Penis:  “Bite me!  He’s an “artist.”  Let her pay the bills while he does the shagging…”

Neil:  “Help!  Someone help!”

Arthur Kramer, Neil’s father, comes down from heaven.

Neil:  “Dad?!”

Arthur Kramer:  “What is it, Neil?  I’m in the middle of watching “The Guns of Navarone” on DVD.”

Neil:  “I’m having an internal conflict over being a man.  I need you… as my father… and as my main male role model.  Can you help me?”

Arthur Kramer:  “Well, I’ll tell you one important thing.”

Neil:  “Please do, Dad.”

Arthur Kramer:   ”And I want you to forever remember these words of wisdom that are coming from the afterlife itself –”

Neil:  “Yes…”

Arthur Kramer:  “No man lets a cute food blogger pay her own restaurant bill!  And pay for you too?  What a shonda!”
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Heaven or Hell

(Manneken Pis in Brussels)

Male Bloggers,

Let’s be honest with ourselves. Female bloggers are selfish. We write posts about issues that matter to them: body image, fashion, mommyblogging, breast cancer, etc. — but when it comes to OUR issues, they are strangely silent. How else do you explain the lack of outcry on this story from Norway — ?

The head of The Democrats Party, a splinter group of former Progress Party hardliners, Vidar Kleppe, is outraged that boys at Dvergsnes School in Kristiansand have to sit and pee.

Kleppe accuses the school of fiddling with God’s work, and wants the matter discussed at the executive committee level of the local council, newspaper Dagbladet reports.

“When boys are not allowed to pee in the natural way, the way boys have done for generations, it is meddling with God’s work,” Kleppe told the newspaper.

… [School Principal Anne Lise] Gjul told NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting) that the young boys are simply not good enough at aiming, and the point was to have a pleasant toilet that could be used by both boys and girls.

Can you imagine the humiliation that boys in Norway are going through? Why do we send troops to Iraq and not Norway? Is there anything more central to being a man than the joy of standing there, taking aim, and peeing? What boy wants to sit like a girl?

No wonder why Europeans are turning into a bunch of wusses.

I believe this is another step towards world domination by feminists. Does it surprise you that it it is School Principal ANNE Lise Gjul who is destroying the manliness of Norwegian men, a country once so famous for it’s virile men that a song was written about them — Norwegian Wood?

Pretty soon, I fear that men will be put into metal cages and President Hillary Clinton will sign a bill enabling women to marry their vibrators.

“Do you, Susan, take this pink vibrator…”

I say, enough is enough.

It isn’t our fault that we can’t aim very well.

Years ago, when men were really men, we used to shoot animals with bows and arrows and guns. We achieved our aiming skills through ACTION. Now “feminists” have decided that “hunting” and “killing” are bad for society. Is it any wonder we piss on the seat? Mothers teach their daughters about having their first period. Fathers DO NOT teach their sons how to pee.

I love you, Dad, but you really failed me in that respect.

Men, as a minority in this Dooce-worshipping female world of the personal blogger, I say it is time to turn back the clock. I want you, whether you or at home or at work, to STAND UP — Yes, right NOW, stand up, proudly walk to the bathroom, pull down your zipper with a sense of purpose, and take a PISS! Take that PISS standing up! Feel the cool Fall air. Listen to the sound the water, so much like the mighty Colorado River. Feel a bond with men throughout history — Abraham Lincoln, Alexander the Great, Douglas MacArthur — all men who urinated standing up. Yes, even Adam peed standing up in the Garden of Eden. Shout it out loud, “I am a man and I take a PISS standing up!”

You’re a man, for god sakes. Pee like one!

P.S. –

Neil’s Penis: Right on, Neilochka! That was so inspirational. Finally, you got some balls.

Neil: Thanks, Penis.

Neil’s Penis: Hey, how about tonight we go over and say hello to those two pretty roommates who moved in next door. Maybe we can **#$@ both of them in the $$%&, then *%$#* until the morning.

Neil: Are you crazy? “Lost” is on tonight!

Neil’s Penis: (sigh)

UPDATE –

Talk about feminists taking over European society! It seems as if the statue of Manniken Pis (little boy peeing) wasn’t good enough being Brussel’s long-time city’s trademark. In 1987 this statue of a girl urinating (Jeanneke Pis) was erected on the east side of the Impasse de la Fidélité / Getrouwheidsgang (Faith Alley), a narrow dead-end street some 100 metres long leading northwards off the restaurant-packed Rue des Bouchers / Beenhouwersstraat (Butchers’ Street). Now parents tell little boys that they have a “choice” over which method is more appropriate, but usually add that “George Bush, Ugly Americans, and “bad men” pee standing up and “peace-lovers” sit like a woman.”