Thursday, February 4, 2010

Where's Billy Mays when I need him?

I've got a very important and life-saving invention and I need a good pitchman. And it needs to be a pitchMAN for this one.

See, I've noticed that men seem to be totally clueless about their words and actions and... that... breathing too loud thing they do -  around women, during what I will delicately refer to as Rage Week.

My invention, an Estrogen-Sensing-Pod (or ESP for short), senses the subtle changes in a woman's hormonal status and sets off an alarm that then reaches out and slaps a guy across the forehead because - let's face it - that's what it takes sometimes to get them to pay attention.  There are those oh-so-subtle signals that they're about to die a horrible death by my hand/they should back the fuck OFF/ that men tend to miss, and they would benefit from this early-alerting system.

Example 1:
Old man in a yellow pickup. Driving 25mph in a 40mph zone. It's 5am. Nobody on the road but us. I give him his space, despite my desire to get a running start and ram the back of his stupid little yellow truck as hard as I can. He keeps looking in his rearview at me, causing him to swerve all over the road. This makes him drive even more slowly and erratically than he was before. It's hard to give someone their space when they can't seem to pick a speed and stick with it. Finally we get to a stop light and he takes his life into his hands opens the door of his truck, steps out, and yells, "TURN OFF YOUR BRIGHTS!!"
My brights weren't on. But he got a good look at them when I then flipped them on and lit him up in all his cranky, crochety glory. You want brights, fucker? There's your brights. He got back into his stupid yellow truck without a word.

Example 2:
Half an hour later, at the gym. I put my music on to drown out the Brokeback Grunts and do my bench work. I do a few sets of good-mornings, then check the area where the iso-lateral back machine is. Empty. I head to it, adjust the weight, and do a set. Immediately a thick-necked meathead with better highlights than mine appears at my side: "Can I get on here? I was in the middle of something."

What I wanted to say: "What you were 'in the middle of',  Mr. girly-man, was leaning on the machine across the gym from here, bsing with the other girly-man over there, until you saw me on 'your' machine. At which time, you decided that you'd be the gym big-shot and claim it to be yours. Why don't you just lift your leg and take a piss on it? Or, how about do what I'd do: go find another machine for the minute and a half it's going to take me to finish 2 more sets. Because I don't have time to do a set, walk around looking tough, spot someone on their bench presses, get a drink, spit, scratch my balls, and shoot the shit with someone between sets like you do. I get in, I get 3 sets done, I'm out. But, by all means, you're wayyy more important than me, I can tell by your backward baseball cap, the uniform of self-important gym tools the world over. Oh, and, do you mind telling me where you get your highlights done?"

What I did say: I said nothing, but the "Really??" look I gave this tool would have set his ESP sensor into hyper-drive, had he seen my informercial and purchased one. He was so crunched for time that when I hustled out the door at 7:30 on my way to work, he was leaning on another machine, talking so some other girly-man. Yes, I can see where I disrupted your entire workout, you tool.

Thank goodness MY guy seems to have already bought and installed the ESP sensor. If not for his understanding, support, and sweetness, these guys might have met a different fate this morning. He's a credit to his gender.

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