Console Wars: Mistakes Were Made (or were they?)

There's a weird part of me that thinks video game companies during the "Console Wars" of the 90s, especially Sega and Nintendo... were trying to market to dudes... and being very successful at doing it. I may be wrong, but... what do I know? Of course, chicks play video games too, and always did, but it's almost like these companies didn't know or something because... well... something about how these things were marketed... I can't put my finger on it... doesn't seem like they were trying to appeal to "feminine sensibilities."

Yeah, here's why that was a bad idea:

1. Bigger is better confirmed.

2. Haha sex!

3. Underwear is all you really need.

4. OK, a second pair of underwear is all you need... (cuz poop)

5. Haha! OK, this one still works. 

6. Not so much this one...

7. You can lose your masculinity. 

8. Uh... not sure how I feel about this one... give me a few minutes...

9. "Groveling, spanking, decapitation, nut bustin', flying spit... rippin' a good long stun gun fart... suckin' heads up Rhino butts, BALLZ... and all the other stuff that makes life worth living." 

I KNOW how I feel about this one!

10. Haha. Playing with yer worm.

11. And finally: 

Luckily, times have changed and this would totally not happen now... right?

Something Else Worth Being Alive For...

A E S T H E T I C

Any kid of the 90s knows how popular America's Funniest Home Videos actually was... in the 90s. Perhaps just as popular as "home movies" were. But unlike "home movies," apparently America's Funniest Videos (or AFV) never went away... like the original theme song... which is still tattooed into my brain forever. It was stage two of what would eventually become Bob Saget's final form, half way between Danny Tanner and Funny Bob Saget. But apparently, while camcorders and "sending your VHS tape to the PO Box on your screen" don't exist anymore, what does still exist (besides the theme song on rotation in my head) is the hallmark of their video adulation: namely, dudes of all stripes... getting whacked in the nuts.

Yeah, they did other things, and yeah, now we got Tosh.0 and Ridiculousness... but those are explicitly adult shows. With AFV, there was always something so much more charming about the whole family being able to gather together around the TV, prime time ABC, and enjoy a nice wholesome home movie, perhaps... of a dad and son... havin' a catch ... only for dad to end up on the ground, holding his groin. Or brother and sister... havin' a sparring match in the living room... only for brother to end up sterile for life.

Ahh... the memories.

So, in the spirit of looking back, the geniuses over at AFV (now sans saxophone intro) compiled 600 groin shots in 600 seconds from across the years of user-generated content submitted to the show, once stored deep in their archives, now unearthed once again as the marvel that it is... proving yet again that... yes, guys getting whacked in the nuts is still funny.

And so... without further adieu, AFV brings you, for your viewing enjoyment... "600 Groin Shots in 600 Seconds"...

How is this show still on the air? Because some things... never get old. 

Tramways and Gondolas

Every couple weeks I search out more and more odd things just to give the couple dedicated readers I (probably) have yet more insights into everything that was quintessential me as I was growing up. Nothing quite says "8yo Me" like the excitement of a gondola ride up a mountain, for the highlight of any trip north to the White Mountains all those Precambrian years of my life was undoubtedly the five minute ride along those waves of cables and towers. 

If I'm not mistaken, I believe Mount Canon was the one with the tramway, which was like a bus-sized lift bringing people to the summit and back, and Mount Loon had the more intimate gondolas, which I liked better. I remember the tramway actually had only one big tower post in the middle doing all the heavy lifting while the gondolas had them marching up the side like a ski lift. Mount Wildcat also had the gondolas, but that was more of a skiing destination, so we didn't ascend that one much. Ironically the biggest one of them all, Mount Washington, is a drive up, which is also the most harrowing ascent of them all for reasons those of us in the know will know! "This Car Climbed Mt. Washington" is a popular bumper sticker up here for all those who've done it and survived. But at least they give you an audio tour guide when you're driving up that is both informative and hilarious to play along the way if you should ever find your front end dangling off a ledge! "Make sure to take this opportunity to view the beautiful vista to your left..." Ahhhh!  

When riding the gondola though, I actually wasn't so much interested in the views my dad was constantly trying to get me to "stare out at." Like most boys, I was way more interested in the mechanism of the actual lift itself, its lonely outpost towers sticking up the blinding-white snow slope like advancing high-tension lines every here and there, that slight "bump-bump" I'd hear every couple minutes, and of course all the waving at the other gondolas passing on the way down. Once at the top, the excitement cooled as we'd enter that Enterprise docking bay, although coming up on it was always a contest of "who could spot it first." "Oh I see where we're going now!" I'd usually spend the whole time at the top just dreaming of the way down, and at the bottom be all like "let's go again!" 

Now all this was rather odd because I had a deathly fear of heights, but something about taking off in one of these guys was more exciting than fear-inducing, probably because I figured if they ever fell off at least the enclosure might break the impact a tad. This love of riding the lift itself (and never the actual skiing experience, for I have never skied) may seem rather trite now compared to all the grandeur going on around it, but you got to imagine what these things were to the proverbial 8yo Me. When these guys came sliding down the line into place and those futuristic doors opened, they ceased being a mere lift device and became Enterprise shuttlecrafts! You step in and it's nothing but "God help us in the hands of engineers!" and "warp speed ahead!" It was nothing but a little futuristic escapism in the great middle of nowhere. 

The "Soda Bark"

Fun fact:
Sprite cans
don't look like
this anymore.
*Mind blown*

To this day I am addicted... URRRP! (aw yeah) ...to all things fizz. Even plain old water, just put some bubbles in it and I'm good to go. These days I'll usually be in the process of finishing off a can of something or other any given hour of the day and my palette changes a lot (I've switched sides in the Cola War... sorry Pepsi, I still like your diet though), but when I was a kid my thing was Sprite, maybe because it was sweeter than 7up. I lived on the stuff. I drank it like water. You know how when people can't sleep they usually go for a glass of water or a swig from the ol' milk carton at 3am? I was not one of those people. When I was wandering the house in my undignified attire at 3 in the morning looking for fluids, I was gunning for the Sprite, because hey, it's "caffeine free" after all. That means I could have it before bedtime and not have to worry about being up at 3am and unable to sleep... which obviously didn't happen.

And not only did all this carbonation excess from the Sprite never fail to induce a powerful spell of deep-throated and continuous burping, it also made those burps taste their very best. That is, like pure monstrous awesome. And I don't care if you're going to hate me for saying it, but if you were ever your 8-year-old self once, you should know what I mean when I say that the second best part of putting soda into you was what it causes to come back out of you! I might polish off a can and lay back bobbing my head for minutes as the "rolling thunder" was wrought, or I might go a whole minute, the pressure building like a volcano, and then just release it like a beast! Loud and proud enough to make Simba blush, and especially if there were other maturity-impaired persons in the area, or just anyone who can appreciate ART when they hear it. 

Later I moved on up and outgrew such silly pursuits. I mean, why practice such an immature pastime as the "soda bark" once you've figured out how to burp loudly on command? My friend Nick taught me how to burp on command in the 3rd grade, and at school no less! It was like learning a super power. Now my burps were no longer tethered to food and drink, but anywhere and anytime, and with some practice (and a lot of accidental puking), I was able to make them at least as loud as the good old "soda barks" of yore. I know, it's a useful skill for any boy, but then again, seen any mammoths lately? We gotta do something to feel like true champions of manliness in a world with no mammoths! This is what we have to work with.

The only problem, besides the fact that girls avoided me like the plague (either grossed out or genuinely scared of the fucking TIGER I had roaring in my throat!) and teachers either thought I was just priming myself for the principal's office or about to explode ("are you okay Mark?), was that burps on command never came with that sweet, fresh, lemon-lime zest that just made the soda barks all the more special. But no worries, that's what burp-talking was for! And that usually consisted of me saying "penis" over and over, delivered in the key of tiger roar level belch. I was just a few letters away from the full alphabet.

It really is an art. And like any art, anyone can do it (anyone can pick up a paintbrush or bang on a piano too), but it takes talent and practice to REALLY rip 'em out loud and proud, like beautiful crescendos of throaty bullfrog blasts. I was never a prodigy, but I could hold my own. I mean, nothing was funnier sometimes than being around mixed company, like other parents or teachers, sitting there and letting out this ear-piercingly loud monster URRRRRRRRRRRRP!!! like a fucking subwoofer blitzing out, a tire popping, a lion roaring, or whatever else a deep-throated, full-throttle, earthquake-inducing, rip of esophageal man-thunder could be compared to... only to follow it up with a cute little "excuse me!"... like, you know, because that makes it all okay. And then do it again! Ah... memories.

Sometimes I swear I sucked so much air in, some of it would go missing inside me, only to come out as a fart instead. I mean, you'd be sitting there just clenching up again and again, sucking in air, putting stress on your whole body, and suddenly it would come out the other end.... FRRRRPF! And then it's like, wow, that was an unexpected treat! Yeah, nothing was wasted! Me and Nick both got a kick out of that, and wondered if it could work the same in reverse, or if we could master burping and farting at the same time, which is to be living the dream. We never reached that level though. That's beyond manly. That's God tier.

Still, with a little more practice...

Super Soakers aren't "Squirt Guns"

Who you callin' "Squirt"?

For all of human history, guys have taken joy in shooting things at other things... whether it was the bow and arrow, the slingshot, the cap gun, the paintball, the BB gun, or... whatever other long, cylinder-shaped, obvious-metaphor-for-something-else your mind will inevitably (and correctly) include. The joy of it goes back to our origins as hunters (I'm guessing), but over time it evolved into sport, and then into shooting harmless substances at each other for kicks. A useful skill, I know, but then again, seen any mammoths lately? (And yeah, before I get gunned down, I know girls are into projectile weaponry too, it's just... for some reason it's just dumber that guys are, like pretty much everything.)

See, besides the obvious built-in "gun appendage" strapping young lads could always have fun squirting off with (distance contest anyone?), they might've also been given the classic slingshot, usually so they could make themselves useful killing small rodents on the family farm. When this was no longer necessary, the weaponry became more of a toy... all the fun of sling-shotting rodents but without the unnecessary cruelty. Besides, now you could take aim at your friends! And so, in the 1950s, we had the introduction of the cap gun, the "burp" gun, the "BRAAP!" gun (both ends represent!), and the BB gun as the quintessentially sexist "boys toys." But despite the look, the sound, and the feel of a death machine at your fingertips, the fire power was still all imaginary. So in the 80s, Sega and Nintendo developed video game shooters, and most notably Duck Hunt, using a gun-based controller to make the carnage look a little more real... but still, nothing actually came out of the gun. The evolution of toy weaponry had yet to mature beyond making funny noises, broken skin, and make believe. We were still shooting blanks.

So enter the early 90s, and the generations'-long desire to shoot your friends in the back for fun (without causing injury like a paintball or BB does) was finally unlocked! Yes, there were "squirt guns," but please. Please! Mine's bigger! The early 90s did have one major innovation in the history of toy weaponry, and it was the SUPER SOAKER. Way better and badder, and therefore more awesome, the original Super Soaker, released in 1990, could hold about 1 liter of water and fire it a good 50 feet! It also finally looked like a pretty badass futuristic "gun" like you'd expect in a Predator movie or something. The major innovation of the Super Soaker was that, unlike squirt guns, it had a "pumping action," which not only made you look like a badass Rambo-warrior when you were out prancing around the backyard with it, but also compressed the water so that when it actually did fire, it would explode like MJ at a Chuck E Cheese! And when you got hit with these jets, you were bound to be streaked and squishy-heeled in short order!

Thus, the ultimate in toy weaponry was finally achieved in our lifetimes, and the world was not safe from the chemical warfare about to be unleashed. Sure, H2O is recommended, but you could put anything in them things, even piss. The male psyche never surprises, and the circle was complete.

Over the years these things just got bigger and meaner, holding more water and firing it farther and farther distances, with all kinds of accessories, like lazor guides and multiple shots with less pumping and easier "pump" refill (much easier than having to take the water jug off!), but whatever form they took, these things just about ruled whatever birthday party I was ever invited to. Once the guns were dusted off from the garage, there was no stopping the blitzkrieg... until they had to be reloaded of course. And so it was that after decades where toy weapons were only for target practice, kids were finally allowed to use other kids as the bullseye, thanks to this device. Boys will be boys, but only because a little water never hurt anyone.

But do yourself a favor and stop calling these things "squirt guns." I had many of those small see-through plastic pistol-shaped squirters with the push-button trigger, and I don't even see how they can be compared. Every squirt gun I ever had only carried about a cup of water at most, and it only fired it about a foot or two. Please. Totally not manly. You maybe got one or two decent tiny squirts out of it before you had to pour water down that impossibly tiny hole in the top or submerge the thing and wait for it to "glub glub" its way to being stocked. There's no question that the Super Soaker and its band of clones blew the squirt gun out of the water.

Wetter is better indeed. And bigger is better. 

Home Improvement

After Rocko, Home Improvement was my favorite show. It was the show I listed in my 4th grade portfolio under "favorite show," so I guess that makes it official. Every few weeks I tuned in to ABC to see what crazy shenanigans Tim could put his house through again and again, and I don't know if it was all the unbridled guy-isms on display, but something about it just "spoke to me." From that intercom, to the exploding dishwasher, to the always-disastrous rooftop Christmas light displays, something had to break to keep that unbridled machismo in check, and that law of the universe is what sustained the show. 

Even the opening used to get me with the grunts, the fake video game with the kids getting chased by power tools (seemed like a pretty cool game!) (and much better than the actual Home Improvement video game... (real men don't need instructions!)), and the fact that the house logo always turned into some flying contraption. I remember thinking about how cool it would be if they actually did make the house sprout propellers and take off! ...Speaking of which, what was with all those surreal logo guys running around between scenes? I kept waiting for one of the people to just look down and go "what the heck is that thing?" or even just acknowledge that a little Home Improvement logo guy just jumped off the counter, or swung on a light fixture, or painted the screen blue... but I don't know, I guess they were all blind to it. The show was surreal at times.

In any case, Home Improvement taught me what being a "man" is all about.... blowing stuff up, trying to hide it, and saying something funny when people get mad about it. I blame Tim for all the bone-headed stuff I've tried to get away with or just barely escaped from in one piece over the years, like this cautionary tale. It's really just cuz I'm a guy, right? Yes. We all are... we all are (or at least, 50% of us). Unlike me though, his poor choices were always rectified by going out to the fence to seek the wisdom of their wacky neighbor without a lower face, stomping back only to fumble at reiterating what he just heard, and setting it all right somehow just in time for the end of the episode. To say that this show was "formula" is just too... formulaic at this point in the description. But just like being a guy, it's only fun if you don't take it serious. 

More importantly though, to say that this show had me grunting along in total amusement is just too... absolutely correct, I'm afraid. People still say I grunt, but it's more like a lazy "uh...", which is just Manspeak for "uh-huh." Grunting is a language all its own that only guys really get, you see, because when a grunt is less belch and more nasal, it's a "yes". When it's more belch, it's a "what?". And when it's a deep throated "oh no!"... well, that's self explanatory. Besides that, I also thought the Tool Time "Man's Bedroom"/ "Man's Kitchen"/ and "Man's Bathroom" segments were pretty cool, and quite accurate. What man wouldn't want a bed that becomes a pool table, a dirty-laundry compactor to make room for ever-more dirty laundry waiting for a "10th of Never" wash, or a toilet you could recline on? Why those aren't real things, I don't know.

There were other characters besides Tim though, like the nagging, feminist wife Jill who had this inability to cook like it was a genetic dysfunction... and those boner-ific toolgirls on Tool Time who just... handed Tim power tools (and boy did they ever!). There was also that wacky neighbor Wilson Wilson who was smarter than everyone combined but had no lower jaw for all I knew, and was also black sheep cousin of the Beach Boys apparently. Then there was Tim's sensible and non-macho (and even slightly effeminate) sidekick mama's boy Al with his typical 90s flannel shirt, but all he seemed to do was wait for Tim to say something stupid, wait for the audience to pipe down, and then deliver the five words we ALL knew were coming: "I don't think so Tim."

I am not Mark...
oh wait, I am!

There's no question which of the brothers I related to: the dork, the punching bag... the one who is unfortunately also named Mark. Coincidence? Are Marks just doomed to be dorks? At least I wasn't like the oldest one, Brad, who got all the worst lines and then got dumber as the show went on... but Mark was no smartalec like Randy (who got all the best lines and then got whinier as the show went on). Mark only got creepier. JTT (Randy) was HUGE in the mid-90s, and I can't express this enough. Girls loved him. I even once heard a girl in my (4th grade!) class say she wanted to touch his butt! I was never able to figure out exactly why, but I had other reasons to want to be him. I remember in one episode Randy went to a monster truck show and, according to Tim, "let out a burp so big one of the drivers thought he blew a tire!" Now that I had no trouble getting behind.

Like I said, most of the show was either built around corny jokes-- the only ones I was capable of getting... ("what rhymes with matrimony? schmatrimony!")--  or blowing things up like a 21-nail-gun salute gone wrong, or a whole house-- or dropping a beam on a car, or driving a riding mower at highway speeds (cutting many lawns in the process), or dancing a washing machine across the garage, or launching a BBQ grill into orbit (all thanks to Tim's "improvements"). The other part of the show was built around pure Stooges-style slapstick, usually involving Tim gluing something to his forehead. And while there was always some kind of life lesson tacked on somewhere, some moral, and even a couple "Very Special Episodes," those parts were the "talky bits" as far as the 8yo me was concerned, and this little man's mind was eagerly awaiting the next random explosion or mechanical malfunction.

It's great being a guy. 

Leafblowers Rule

Here's me in the leaf corpses.

When given the task as a kid to name my favorite season and draw a picture of it, I thought for a while, and chose "all of the above." I know that's not a season, but there was just something about each of the four seasons that I liked. I probably got a C-. Okay, maybe when it comes to autumn, I get it, it's crisp, it's colorful, but I don't go nuts over the season like most do. Screw pumpkin spice creamers! And screw pumpkin-spice pie scented candles! (Well... okay... I will admit that that autumn-loving apple-pumpkin-cranberry-spice-smelling Yankee Candle store we got around here sure is a great place to make a quick stop in to mask a fart when you're at the mall with your girlfriend... Amirite fellas? True story.) So, okay, point taken. 

Anyways... What? Chick stuff... autumn... making it more cool. Oh yeah! So... is there any hope for autumn to be as awesome as the other seasons, as in, something even the 8YO me could like?

Well, when it comes to autumn, of course, the big thing on my mind is the leaves literally dying all around us, their copses being raked into piles to be trashed, burned, and jumped in by small children. Suddenly all that stuff "up there" hits the ground, you get crispy leaf corpses underfoot and blowing around, and they need picking up. It's payback for the free air, I thought. Well, you could rake them up, but come on, that's not nearly fun enough. Mankind has not always done a great job making life easier on this planet since the time of the mammoths, but one of our greatest achievements since our glory days of prehistory has got to be the "leafblower."

Don't get me wrong, it's not that they're completely useless. They may never actually get the lawn clean, and may actually end up making it worse at times, as you go scurrying around to chase after leaves in every which direction, but no, they do have their purpose, and it's a purpose that could've only been originated in a guy's head. That their actual use, and therefore why they were invented and why we continue using them, is more about, how shall I say this... allowing their users to have the most fun being an idiot while still making it look like "work" was being done. For that, I'd say the leafblower is a level of genius worthy of a Bud Lite commercial.

Every kid, raised in a temperate climate has memories of raking a big pile of leaves and jumping in them, throwing them around, and then generally needing to rake them back up... so I won't bore you with the details of that. Trust me, there was a lot of it. My dad did have some pretty ingenious ways of raking leaves though, involving a leaf blower and a big tarp. Hell yeah. So you pick one of those up as a kid, rev it on, and have yourself a little mini Wizard of Oz in your front yard. Find a pile, blow it to pieces. Make it rain! Get those leaves cornered and make it tornado! Play volleyball with a leaf, blower style, and see how long you can keep it in the air! Stick the nozzle between your legs backwards and pretend that the sheer power of your retro-rockets are blowing the front yard clean! Blast the nozzle in your brother's face and watch his mouth gape open, his eyelids curl up, and his hair fly back in the breeze! Chase your sister and really screw up her hair from behind! The possibilities are endless. The yard never gets clean, but it's sure fun.

Anyways, something about autumn (November included) always reminds me of childhood and family... perhaps it's because Halloween is around the corner (for childhood that is... I assure you, my family doesn't make me think of Halloween!), and perhaps it's because this is the time my family used to start getting together (...nice save!). Something about the fall made me think of the mundane routines in life--going shopping, going to the Laundromat, going to school, raking the leaves... and as the weather got colder, how we'd always start paying attention to things that could get us out of the cold... like all the big sales.

The second thing I picture is a gourd... not for any particular reason, other than it being a funny word, and the fact that you just can't think of autumn without picturing gourds. I have no affinity for them or eating anything involving pumpkins, and actually had a pretty daunting experience with one that I'd rather not relive (so definitely expect a post on it soon). Maybe it's just because I like the word "gourd."

You know what? I take it all back. I love the fall.

School Floor-Time Farts

Me, probably mid-fart.

I tell you, all that time on the classroom floor is a killer on your body, and boy did we ever spend a long time on the floor at school. From K to 4, we'd be down there for small group instruction time, reading time, easel time, project time, movie time, auditorium time, song time... any time they needed to call a "time." All that time, I'd just be looking up from under the tables and chairs and wondering how that vantage could've come to dominate my day, and, who stuck that gum up there? Seriously, what were they thinking by subjecting kids to this?

Anyways, you read the title right, so here it goes. Aside from the sheer uncomfortable yoga positioning they were forcing us to do on those rock hard carpets, spending so much time on the floor has its other follies such yoga stuff is known for. It also turns out that when you spend a lot of time hunched over sitting Indian-style, sprawled out, or bent over on a hard rug...etc., any disturbance or show of force when coming to a stand can cause unintentional and unexpected internal "shifts" (especially true after eating anything they served in the cafeteria). This knowledge comes from personal experience.

It was the 4th grade. I was ten. Probably around the same time as my other, far more impressive physical feat (man I was on a roll that year). The floor group thing was over and we were all to go back to sitting in our chairs like people. I forced myself up, and from out of you-know-where (and without even checking with me first), as if just to say "hi!"... out blurped this low and sputter-y "bluRRRp!" Yes. It was a real tumbler rumbler, a real beefer, a real bullfrog croaker, a real butt blunderbuss, a real... you know what? It was just a fart... not very loud, but just loud enough. I just froze. It was a pure "whoa!" kind of moment, and I didn't even know it was me for a half second. I did a mental damage report. All systems were go. Butt was a go. Jeans were a go. Awesomeness was... definitely a go! At least I could be thankful it was deployed from a half stand position because if I had been still firmly planted it probably would've launched me at least an inch into the air. "Houston, we have liftoff." But let's not exaggerate. I'm not taking Apollo 13-style liftoff, I'm talking more like Apollo 13-style explosion. "Houston, we have a problem..."

I wouldn't have thought much about it from there (well, I probably still would have...), but these two girls (who didn't like me much already) were sitting just a few feet behind me on the floor, and I tell you they had front row seats to that performance, both forced to weather the storm. One quickly remarked to the other, "ugh, Mark just farted." Now I didn't know if I should've been ashamed or extremely pleased, but I got to admit that one minute of embarrassment for 16 years of "ah! gotcha!" pride is pretty good in my book, even though it's always more of a deal breaker than an ice breaker. At least it's never a mystery why chicks break up with me. 

The Greatest Scene In 90s Movie History

Sorry, but even the T-Rex breaking free in Jurassic Park can't top this... and it's not all that different anyway. It's still a better love story than Twilight. So beautiful, so universal, so poignant. Finch's struggle is our struggle. We feel it through the screen. Such tension. Such climax. Such absolute relief! It transcends time and place. It is humorous. In fact, from the song "Run, Don't Walk" by the Ventures playing to the tension-inducing, holding-it-in schadenfreude of watching this poor sap, to the inevitable explosive emptying of the chick's bathroom, to the whistling ending, it may be the funniest constructed scene ever in movie history (no joke!). It got my vote for the 1999 Oscar... by far. And still does. 

And yes, I've been there.

Snow Writing at the Sled Hill

Let me just stop and say it should be no surprise by now that I am endowed with one of them "things that shall not be named." It's not anything special to be honest... and rather hideous to me (as all of them are)... but it works. (What chicks have down there is sooooo much nicer.) But yes, I do use it. It's a cool gadget to have, I got to admit, even if having one makes you stupid... which it does. And I would know. In fact there are precisely 2655 ways to have fun with it by yourself, and they're all devilish and naughty, especially the... very fun things... but number one has still got to be the most basic. The fact about this boy is that anywhere he went in the great outdoors, whenever he'd come to a high cliff, his first thought always went back to the ole: "This would be a great spot to pee off." 

I know I am not alone in this... at least 50% of the population will concur with this truth invariably. The other half will forever turn me down after reading this. But see, arms and legs just ain't like this appendage, oh no. This one really does have a mind of its own. That may have been why writing your name in the snow with it was always more work than it may have looked... at least to anyone who ever tried it. BUTT then again, if you never tried it, you probably weren't born with that particular drawing tool, and so therefore you never suffered like we guys do. All guys have done this, either to practice our writing skills (or aiming skills) or just out of giddy curiosity and fascination with whatever comes out of us (you know, birth envy and all). But here's the thing, if The Lost World: Jurassic Park taught me anything, it's that when you go off to take a leak in the woods, make sure you don't end up stranded out there by your girl cousin.

It was on an after-Christmas sledding trip and my same-age girl cousin came along with us. She was only related to us by marriage, so I felt safe having the huge crush on her that I had. She and I rode the wussy slope a few times together on the same sled, but I insisted we try the steeper and icier one... the so-called "big kid ride." She refused of course, but I won the day because it was all to easy to push her off and down in the sled by herself. I got a kick out of terrifying her until she landed us both in the ditch at some point. She applied the breaks so hard we skidded on the ice and flopped over sideways into the snow-covered stream bed. Though she had put us down there, I was still the one who had to get the sled out. That sucked because the snow was as hard and slippery as ice. It was ice!

The whole time I became aware I had something to take care of though as I worked to pull it out, and holding it in was not an option anymore! I was even wetting myself a little, which sucked because it was effin cold! So when I'd finished hauling that sled up the hill, I ran off without a word and left her alone there in the white field to die. Though she was curious about what I was doing back there in the trees she didn't wait up for me at the top. She took the sled down again on her own, unbeknownst to me, leaving me stranded. At the time though, I didn't care. I really, desperately, had to squeege. But first, I had to find the "perfect" spot in the snow by the trees (because Marks like me always like to "make their mark"), and then had to coax that turtle out of his shell in the freezing cold for a solid minute (You think it's easy? Try it!). Then finally, finally, I could let it go!

"Come on! Come on! Can't! Hold! It! Stupid zipper! Come on! ...Oh-oh-oh!!!
...ahhhhhhh-ohhhhhh-ahhhh!!... ... ohhhhh yeeeeah.... finally... "

Oh man what a feeling that is! But then I got this "inclination" half way, so it  became a stop-n-go adventure for a good thirty seconds on. It came out all bent, crooked, and disjointed like chicken scratch (because a squirt here and a squirt there does not a straight line make), and I couldn't even work up enough to finish! "M... A ..." Come on, just a little more... just a little more... Nothing doing. Dead stop. Oh well.

I soon abandoned my sloppy "pen...manship" and emerged back into the sun and the blinding snow at the top of the hill only to find my girl cousin waving to me from the bottom, having just enjoyed the steeper "big kid" sled run by herself. I guess it was easier to steer without me, since she'd made it to the bottom this time with no problem. But she wasn't about to leave the sled, much less lift a finger to drag it back up the slope to come back for me. I told her "no way" to helping her, and she never let me back on that thing, even though it was mine. She was carrying that thing all over the place like it was hers, and I don't even remember if I ever got it back. So yeah, I learned why girls don't do any of that stuff in the woods. I don't know what they do.

Ripping the "Big One"

Let's start the new year off with a bit of class. Like most guys, I always had a deep appreciation of fart jokes, fart noises, and farting. Farts are funny as heck and admit it, if you're a guy, there's nothing like the pride of popping off a huge one as loudly as possible and reveling in the after effects (especially when they happened in your brother's face). And when it came to farts, the bigger, louder, longer, and smellier, the better... but any old pop, squeak, squeal, rumble, blast, gurgle, grind, gust, creak, crack, rip, breath, or fluff that could be cut, ripped, blown, snuck, or burped out from down back was enough to make my day. In short, I liked farts.

And why not? I'm a guy, so... amiright? "Ripping a big one," "tearing ass," "rolling down under thunder"... etc., really is a sacred rite of passage for males. It's the closest we ever get to giving birth, so... yeah. It's not just a joke to us, it's in our psyches. You want proof? I cite the 1996 movie Jack as a reference, where the "grownup kid" (Robin Williams I think), when asked for a "manly rip," farts into a tin can and the boys all go throw a lid on it to keep it fresh, pass it around, and then drop a lit match into it to light it on FIRE (the first time I learned this was possible), and it goes Fpoof! Aww-right! That stupid movie taught me many important life lessons I forgot, but that was the takeaway for me: that farts are downright awesome... magical even.... but most importantly... taboo!

Oh yes. Farts are "dirty" and "evil" and "good people don't do them." They were equal to doing things like playing with Ouija boards or finding a girlie stash... things you do in secret, under the cover of darkness (or just under the covers), and only with friends you could be "evil" with. And as such, they were out to pollute our minds and corrupt our ways! Mwahahaaha!! (To be fair though, they are the easiest way to summon some form of demon.) Heck, even just the word was an incantation... "fart"... the funniest most evil word ever. But even despite how acknowledging the very existence of flatulence makes you an evil progeny and a naughty little rebel, for some reason I was still feeling this sense of "shame" and guilt over this natural function of my body. Imagine that! "I can't help it, so what's the big deal?" I'd say, but then I'd have to go back to my double life where I was a "polite boy." And so... I'd usually try to save them for when I was either alone, gaming with a friend, or pinning my brother... for greater effect.

Unfortunately, I was alone when the infamous monster fart I named the "Big One" was born (of course I would've preferred it in my brother's face, but no such luck that time). And yes, I named my farts. "Big One," "Gigantor," "Uh-oh!"...etc. I was 10 at the time, and one day for some reason saw me crippled with abundant gas, so I decided to have that terminated. I was in the basement when it hit me, either coming in from the yard or going out (I can't remember which) and decided to get it over with right then and there where no one would see and hear, and where the aftermath would be least hazardous to innocent bystanders minutes or even hours later.

Your reaction to this post.

Here's how it went down. The urge came upon me, freezing me in my tracks as they sometimes will. I stopped what I was doing, stood still, and assessed whether I could exercise the demon or if I'd need to run to the bathroom fast. Determining it to be releasable on the spot, I applied force as usual, and... and... ka-BOOM! There it was. This super loud dozy suddenly dislodged and came blaring out all at once! It started in a titanic blast like lower pitch roar, then built speed and went off like a chainsaw, and ground to a slow finish. Brrpfannerrpff! It was a huge fart, perhaps the biggest ever (I'd like to think so). After that I took a breath, straightened up, and sighed a very satisfied sigh of relief. My bloating was gone! Hooray! And to my surprise, though it had been a beast on exit, there was very little bite. This was a de-fanged fart, for there wasn't much of a smell, thank goodness! But I was satisfied enough to make a mental note of the event... which I've obviously thought important enough to cherish all these years.

Even though there wasn't much smell to it, I did close the basement doors on my way out and just walked away whistling. Yes soon after that my mom passed through there on her way out to the backyard, so once again, sorry mom, your oldest son was just experiencing his coming of age and the joy of giving birth all rolled into one!

Anyway, though glad to be rid of it, I was moved to see it go, even though I knew there'd always be more where it came from. And there were, and are, but few have been as awesome. My pants must've fit a little better that day. And as our farting hero "Jack" so well put it before dropping one so bad it made another kid faint when he pealed back the lid: "Out demon spirit!" Maybe I've matured somewhat, but I've outgrown nothing.

Happy New Year!

Boxers or Briefs?

It ain't easy being a guy. We have it hard too. There's so many issues we have to deal with, so many hardships we have to endure. The hardest one by far comes at that time in every guy's life when he's forced to pick a side. Forget political ideologies, right and left, right and wrong, underwear choice is one stance you can't afford to waffle on. You have to make a choice and live with the consequences, and the consequences can be many, and last a lifetime.

Girls have it so easy in life. Their underwear's best use is when it's worn as outer-wear, with nothing else on... obviously. Especially when it's lacey and and comes with a Star Wars logo right in the front (or better, Superman!... no wait... Jurassic Park!!!) (Aww yeah girl). For a guy though, underwear's best use is functional, to be doing what it needs to do under the covering we call "clothes." To not be seen as much as ... assumed. This is why we wear the same pair for days (erm, weeks) on end, and why (when we're alone), we wear nothing else. We know a lot can be deduced from what underwear we choose to wear though, and we won't compromise once we've made a choice. Underwear loyalty is everything, which is why the question about what we go for in underwear is actually quite a test of intelligence, maturity, character, and (sometimes) what 80s Saturday morning cartoon still inspires us. Forget 20-question quizzes in "Does he really love you?" magazines. If you want to figure a guy out, just ask him: "boxers or briefs?" You'll know all you need to know. If he says briefs, marry him. Trust me, as a guy, this is a good litmus test of guys.

Now I've spent a long time thinking about this, as all guys do, and this was the best I could come up with to explain my rationale for continuing to answer the question "BRIEFS." And it's because while we may not win the battle, we win the war. Sure, boxers give you room, they're loose, comfy, and let you move and "readjust," and they are great to wear on their own as if they were shorts, because they come with a front flap (which just makes life easier). But they have a lot of flaws. One, they bag up under your pants and you got to keep adjusting them. Two, clothing makers decided that since men were wearing them like shorts anyways, they might as well start putting buttons to fasten them, which just makes "life" more of a chore than it should be. Why put buttons on the boxers if the whole point is easy access down there? We could live without those pesky button flies all together, we don't need another set on our underwear!

Briefs on the other hand seem to solve a lot of the problems with boxers. If Superman, Batman, and He-Man can wear them on the OUTSIDE, then maybe there's something to be said about their qualities on the inside. Maybe just wearing them will make YOU a superhero too! (Captain Virgin!!) They are nice and snug, and fit tight enough to ensure everything stays in its own little package. They're elastic, so they conform to your legs and waist, which means they don't bag up, and gaining access is always simple... just flip the flaps! Perfect! But I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge there are some disadvantages to briefs too. They're not as comfy as boxers (they're called "tighties" for a reason), they don't allow any "swinging room" (so to speak), the elastics on the legs and waist give you rashes and indentations. Their slim and tight style also means they can't double as outer-wear either, EVEN if you're by yourself eating Cheetos on the couch, and perhaps especially if you're alone. Tighty-whities are a bit too embarrassing to wear by themselves, and should never be worn by themselves. Unless you're female, then please do so.

Plus, the fact that they're so slim and skimpy makes them perfect for wedgie torture (which is good if you're the torturer, but very bad if you're the sufferer). You can't very easily give an atomic or nuclear or melvin, or any of the other forms of wedgie while your victim is wearing boxers, now can you? More surface area on the skin means less hem wedge up the cracks. Now, of course if you're a frequent sufferer of the wedgie you probably don't like briefs, but then again if you're a frequent sufferer and you're not going commando yet, then it's your own fault. Stop giving them ammo! 

Let's not forget to mention of course that they're easier to wear on your head as a makeshift ski mask than boxers are. You can more easily use the leg holes for eyes and the hole for your nose... or to eat through, especially when you're playing masked luchadores on the living room rug or super heroes in the backyard. 

So yeah, briefs aren't perfect, but the truth is, we briefs aficionados like them because they're more supportive and easier to wear, but we will wear boxers just because they look cooler and are comfier. This is why "boxer-briefs" were invented, and are the obvious compromise. They may just be the ultimate winner here, and the most ingenious idea ever, but we're not discussing the subtleties of the so-called "boxer-brief" because it's not a part of the dualistic question posed.

But enough about function. Let's talk about style. Obviously, boxers come in a wide variety of colors and pictures, and briefs have tried to make it with the colors but it just comes off as if you've color-coded your week. The funny thing though is, there's just something more "mature" about boxers, so many guys wear them just because of that, even if they have cutesy little pictures on them! It's like the life cycle of the average male's underwear goes full circle. We start out as kids wearing Ninja Turtles briefs and then grow into "tighty-whities," and then maybe we either go into the land of colored briefs or we go full-tilt into Boxers. We're constantly on the run from the tighty-whitey, and why not? It's tough to shake that "just escaped from the ward" look every time you catch yourself in a mirror when you're changing. But we still like having pictures on our underwear regardless of age, especially at the boxers stage.

Once you've made the decision to continue with briefs to their next technicolor evolution (one color for every day of the week) and take a step into that proverbial locker room, you're still not sure you're going to be dwarfed by the guys already jumping on the boxers bandwagon. But when they reveal theirs and they're full of all these cutesy "flying toaster" or "valentine heart" cartoons, you'll be glad you're a briefs-wearer. Of course anything flannel or plaid and you're screwed, but then again, at least you can easily get at the merchandise at the urinal quick without resorting to pulling down your underwear like you did when you were five.

So underwear is a complicated thing. Guys think about it a lot. It's on our minds. Our brains are constantly calculating comfort down there. We know we look like mental patients or complete losers in underwear while girls look, well, fantastic in it... so for us it's just about being comfortable, and ruling the world in our spare time.

But which is better? Who knows. What do I wear? I wear briefs. My eight-year-old self wore briefs. I was raised on tighty-whities, mostly around my waist, sometimes under my clothes, and a least a fraction of time on my head. Briefs have always been there for me, they gave me support and comfort through the hard times, they picked me up when I was...well, getting a wedgie, and whenever I adjusted my underwear in public... it was always a "snap."

That's why I was, I am, a briefs guy.

'Man Pain' is Hilarious

Any guy who has experienced "man pain" knows you can pretty much forget about getting anything more than a few chuckles from onlookers when it happens. You could be on the ground, writhing, even cross-eyed and puking, and it's nothing but "ha ha" from anyone in eye shot. This is because "man pain" is different from other types of pain in that only us guys are capable of feeling it, and when we are, it's usually completely our own damn fault. Hundreds of America's Funniest Home Videos clips of "dad and son games of catch gone wrong" prove this fact of life to be true. The concept of objects coming into forcible contact with a guy's genitals is just comedy gold.

I think I know why it really is so damn funny. See, there are two reasons we blush when someone asks us "where it hurts," and only one of which is tied to having the dangling, vulnerable parts in question. The main reason we blush is because in that moment we're finally forced to acknowledge the special brand of stupidity that inevitably comes with having those parts, because chances are, we were asking for it. Those two things are what makes "man pain" so easy to laugh at, and I, regrettably, happen to have both the parts and the hair-brained idiocy that would cause them to get slammed by something. 

Now don't get me wrong, I don't recommend anyone going around aiming for a guy's "weak spot" just for target practice (there are less violent ways of getting a laugh!), nor do I agree with bullying down there (seriously guys?). And okay fine, chicks get a pass at doing it to us for self defense (or just whenever they really want to prove a point to us... which is always... so... Eek.). But see, I only find it "funny" when it happens to guys who are not me, so there's nothing funny about the following story (warning: you may find the following story funny if you're not me). 

This is how I lost my virginity to my bike. The neighbor two houses down used to allow the girl next door and my brother and I to ride our bikes in their long driveway. We spent many an afternoon riding long circles up and down it because we were too wussy to ride in the streets with the cars and the threat of instant death. Somehow, we were supposedly safer if confined to the driveway than we would be on the (somewhat) busy suburban... back road, if that makes sense. Unfortunately, the protectionist driveway culture of the 90's wasn't counting on my temporary "lack of brain" syndrome, and once when I was probably about nine or ten, I got so lulled into watching the asphalt pass below my pedals for a time that the tar failed to protect me. I wasn't watching where I was headed.

Me... on getting hit in the groin.

BAM! It came to a sudden halt and threw my body forward like those crash dummies in the commercials. My butt slid off the seat and hurled my crotch (and all it contained) right into the bar beneath the handlebars with extreme prejudice, and the two of us, bike and I, fell over together on the asphalt. As my brain kicked back out of its haze, I realized what I'd done in my trance. I had slammed into the back bumper of the car sitting stationary in their driveway! That's right. I hit a car that wasn't even moving. My first thought was "I hope nobody saw that." My second thought was "oh no! Not good! NOT good! Ow!"

It was the most nauseating "man pain" describable. My vision was cross-eyed. Drool trickled from my chin. I feebly threw my hands between my legs as if trying to hold whatever was left down there together as I staggered forth, soon dropping down to all fours. I could have puked as it shot right up to my stomach. There's no walking that off! And to top it, there was no "oh he's hurt!" There wasn't even a "are you okay?" or even a condescending but sympathetic "...ouch." There was nothing but "Hahaahah!!," "how does that feel?" and "wow, that was stupid..." Meanwhile I couldn't even freakin' SEE, never mind stand, and damn was it humiliating, but whatever. "No I'm okay..." I squeaked out. Yeah right. Even when my mom found out about the incident later that evening, after I'd managed to wobble home, all I got from her was, "haha, you weren't planning on having kids one day anyways, right?"

Unfortunately, the same force that propelled this boy to slam into a parked car on his bike also prevented him from learning anything from the experience, as more bike accidents were sure to follow, but I did learn that "man pain" really does hurt and that it ... really is freakn' hilarious! I mean, the "oof!", bend-over, the crotch-grab, the wince, the rolling on the ground ... it's good stuff!  But if we bring it on ourselves (and we will), go ahead and laugh, because chances are we are too. If we're not, call 911!!