The differences between the sexes has been analyzed to death and most of it is crap, but every once in a while a genuine difference will surface. For example, men love to find the limits of things. Just how many dishes can I pack into this dishwasher and they still come out reasonably clean? How many days without showering can I go before someone else notices? How much nacho cheese can I pour on these chips without spilling it all over the 7 Eleven. Can my jeep make it over that mountain? How many times can I wear this shirt before it must go to the cleaners? How many lap dances will it take for me to silence the homosexual voices in my head?
You won't catch women experimenting with the above! They don’t test the limits of things just for curiosity's sake. They're too practical. Limits are a man's thing. We like testing the limits of things. Sometimes we even test the limits of our own foolishness.
Have you seen those “Watch for falling rocks” signs on the freeway? Why do they bother to post those? What should I watch them do? I can either watch them crash through my windshield at 85 mph, or watch them vault my car 20 feet in the air as I drive over them. Either way, watching for them isn't going to make things any safer. By the time you see them, I assure you it's too late. If there's even a remote possibility of falling rocks, screw the sign. Put up some damn walls!
I don't like road signs that have a picture you have to decipher. Highways in the border states, for example, have pictures of a family running together. After mowing a few on I-10 I figured out that they weren't pedestrians without the right of way, but illegal aliens fleeing the border patrol. Boy did I feel stupid. But it wasn't my fault. If they would have posted “Beware of undocumented pedestrians seeking a better life for themselves and their families by dodging border patrol,” I would have at least slowed down.
I hope these pictograms don’t become more popular. I don't want to drive past a rest area sign on the highway and see a silhouette of a guy taking a leak. Or worse, a lodging sign that shows a the outline of a trucker and a lady of the evening in bed together.
Picture-signs confuse me. I don't always know what they mean. I saw a picture of a pistol once and thought I was passing Phil Spector’s house. It turns out it was really a gun show off of I-17. I say we stick to text and let the illiterate people guess what the hell the signs mean, not the other way around.
When I drive by those trucks that haul all the cars, I feel sorry for the cars. It's like they've been grounded from playing with the other cars, like a motor vehicle time-out. The only time I don't feel sorry for the cars is when I'm driving directly behind the truck. It always looks like that one car on the top row is ready to shake loose and sail into my windshield. Why is that top car in the back always angled down so it's pointing directly at the poor guy driving directly behind the truck? Have you noticed those trucks don't have a “keep a safe distance” bumper sticker like other trucks? They don't need one. They've got 4,000 pounds of metal-death dangling off the back to ward off any intruders.
You can tell a lot about who's driving by what they're driving. When you're zipping down the street, you see the cars around you, but you can't see the person driving. It leaves you to wonder who's driving -- boy or girl, young or old, freak or dweeb, that kind of thing. Sooner or later, however, you're going to arrive at a red light together, at which time you can take a glance into the car and see whom you're sharing the road with. The car lets you know what you're in for. You can't judge a book by its cover, but you sure as hell can judge a driver by his car. If, for example, you pull up next to an monster pick-up truck with a cartoon character urinating on another cartoon character on the rear window, you'll see a big, white, tattooed, spittoon mutherfucker in a “Fuck Everybody” baseball cap. It's pretty obvious there's not a whole lot of I.Q. points to go with that hemi. Minivans equal soccer moms. Porsche? Middle-aged bald guy. In fact, that's what a Porsche really is -- a $65,000 toupee.
Then there's that wild card in the car-driver guessing game. The old, smashed-up, 4-door sedan, primer/Bondo mobile. You just don't know what you're in for with that one, do you? In fact, it's probably a good idea not to look at all. Eye contact is not a good idea. If you’re on a date, this is the point when you’ll hear her say, “Oh my God. Don’t look. I think this is my ex-boyfriend and he’s crazy.” Keep your eyes straight forward and punch the accelerator when you see the green light.
Do you want to have some fun with a sporting goods shop? Here's how. Call them and ask the clerk for something outrageous, something you know they won't have, like a spice rack, a “Fonzie-style” leather jacket, or non-alcoholic beer nuts. Be creative. Then, after they jerk you around by putting you on hold and pretending to look, and they pick up and say, “Sorry, sir. We don't carry those,” respond with, “In that case, I'd like to price a shotgun. And what time do you get off tonight?”
Have you ever exercised on a piece of fitness equipment (e.g., a stationary bike, ski machine, treadmill, etc.) that measures the calories you burn?
If so, you've probably noticed how much work you do and how few calories you burn. Exercise is like a minimum wage job: you work your balls off and take home jack squat.
Four Oreo cookies (the currency I use for the exercise/calorie exchange rate) are 220 calories. You have to jog for 20 minutes on a treadmill to burn that 220 calories. Twenty minutes. And let's face facts. Who stops at four Oreos? I can rip through a row of Oreos like a wood chipper.
I think a fair rate of exchange would be one Oreo per minute of treadmill. That way, you could kill off a row of those bitches and negate the effects with a brief, 20-minute jog. Am I asking too much?
Folks, I love my Oreo cookies, but I'm not running a goddamn marathon to subsidize my habit. I'm just going to have to start purging like those Olson twins.
When the doctor checks for a hernia, he asks you to turn your head and cough. I understand why you have to cough (to increase intra-abdominal pressure). But why do you have to turn your head? I think the doctor just doesn't want you to see him feeling a man's balls.
Turn your head and cough? Sure, doc. While I'm at it, why don't you bob your head and yawn!
Whenever someone wants to describe the sex act delicately, they use the term "expressing yourself sexually" or "expressing your sexuality." These euphemisms often accompany discussions on homosexuality, trans-sexuality or unconventional sexual behavior. It softens the blow.
Screw delicacy. When I'm eating, I'm not "expressing my hunger." I'm eating! When I'm drinking, I'm not "expressing my thirstiness." I'm drinking diet soda. And when having sex, I'm not "expressing my sexuality." I'm fucking. So give me the five minutes I need to finish, thank you very much.
Here's an old excerpt from The Drudge Report:
"As the whiskey and wine he drank during a fraternity initiation began to kill Gordie Bailey, some of his fraternity brothers wrote racial, misogynist and sexual vulgarities all over his body as he lay passed out in the Chi Psi library.
On the morning of Sept. 17, when it became apparent that the 18-year-old was not breathing, someone tried to wipe off the slurs written on his face. The University of Colorado at Boulder freshman was soon pronounced dead, and at the coroner's office, more markings were found on his arms, legs and body."
...Call me a jerk, but my take on this is, we have one less beer-swilling, date-raping, daddy's-money-spending frat boy disturbing the peace. Has anybody considered that power drinking is just another form of Darwinism?
Good night, Frat Boy. Time to pledge that frat house in the sky.