Body Of Work

The female of the species we call Human Beanies has got it pretty rough. First there was the sending them away when they were menstruating... comment withheld... and these days it's back around to sexual identity. Life is difficult enough without wondering how you look through a pair of night-vision goggles. I blame women themselves. Not "WOMEN" in general, but a blame that is as much as I blame men for each of our own issues. And if you're pissed right now, take a friggin' Midol and whatever pill makes you accountable to yourself and relax.

Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.

Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.

Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.

It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.

I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.

Now drop your top.

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My Blog About My Dad

Marked, Noted, and Streaked

I am officially astounded by the number of guys not using the ass-gasket sheet when hittin' second gear in the men's rest room. Each day I've been in the can there's been at least one dude bare-backing the seat as if it is his Own Private Idahole.

There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.

And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.

I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!

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Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad