My First Spam

Back in the mid 90's, I was in graduate school taking classes at night. We were encouraged to sign up to a "listserv," a new means of communication back then. Listservs were a great way to get the word out. It was also an effective means of effortlessly sending mindless emails to a large group of people. That's what happened shortly after I subscribed to my first listserv. I got my first ever spam.

Jim was a student from Europe. I don't know what country in Europe Jim was from, but he was most definitely European. He wore clothes that were likely once his uncle's. He also smoked heavily. He sported a fedora long before Justin Timberlake. There were three students named, "Jim," in our class. He became known as "euro-Jim." The most notable thing euro-Jim did to identify his European lineage was express his dissatisfaction with our country by saying,

"Americans always discriminate against Europeans."

Euro-Jim didn't mince words. He routinely accused Americans of victimizing the people of an entire continent. Most Americans can't find Europe on a map so it's unlikely they would collectively do anything discriminatory against a whole continent. Euro-Jim always went on about how much better his country of origin was as compared to the United States. He said once,

"The education I got in my country would have gotten me a PhD here."

I've heard this many times from foreigners. We're supposed to believe their high schools are superior to our doctoral programs even though they have to wait two months in a line for a roll of toilet paper. If it was so great in Krackistan, why did they leave in the first place?

Euro-Jim hated Bill Gates and Microsoft. In between expressing his strong belief of America's hemispherical discrimination policy, euro-Jim also badmouthed Microsoft all the time. He said things like,

"Microsoft intentionally displays the blue screen of death even when it's not necessary."

I don't know how euro-Jim knew this, but he said it with conviction. One time, someone sent an email to the listserv informing the readership that March was MS Awareness Month. Euro-Jim followed with an email comparing the symptoms of multiple sclerosis to the Windows Operating System. In it, he wrote,

"Memory loss, fatigue, dizziness, heat intolerance, vertigo, weakness. These are all symptoms of the Windows Operating system as well as multiple sclerosis."

I didn't find euro-Jim's comparison funny at all. Apparently many subscribers to the listserv didn't think it was humorous either. After euro-Jim's attempt at humor, the listserv was flooded with emails containing only one word,

"Unsubscribe."

People always think European movies are more edgy and more artsy than American movies. I don't think my dissatisfaction with euro-Jim's analogy was a cultural issue. I think he was just an euro-jerk. Clearly, others agreed with me as the exodus from the listserv continued. I responded with one word as well,

"Uncouth."

My accusation of no class angered euro-Jim because he countered with,

"Unintelligent."

Of course, I was unintelligent. I was an American with my deficient American education. I sent just to euro-Jim,

"Unglued,"

I made it look like it went to the whole listserv by leaving just one letter off the listserv to ensure it would bounce. Euro-Jim took the bait. He sent back to the listserv,

"Uncivilized."

To which I sent just to him,

"Unravel,"

keeping with my "you're nuts" theme. Euro-Jim sent to the listserv,

"Unscrupulous."

I sent,

"Unhinged."

Euro-Jim sent,

"Unjust."

to which I followed with,

"Unwell."

This went on all day, me sending my slightly insulting "un" word that was a synonym for "lunatic" to euro-Jim, and he responding with his equally childish "un" word to the entire listserv. The difference was no one knew I was doing it except euro-Jim, but everyone was aware that he was spamming the listserv for what appeared to the outside observer no intelligible reason.

Eventually someone sent,

"What is your problem?"

Euro-Jim took time to respond. He obviously looked closely at the emails flooding his inbox. He sent to everyone,

"I thought I was responding to another student."

I guess I was just discriminating against his European heritage when I baited him into making a fool of himself. An inquiry by the IT Department led to an email to the listserv stating,

"The listserv is a tool used by the university to provide important information to the student body, faculty and employees. An environment of intimidation, abuse or discrimination will not be tolerated on the university supported listserv. Subscribers who abuse the system will be unregistered immediately."

Being a consummate dick, I sent to the listserv just before I unsubscribed,

"Does this policy include people from Europe?"

Editor's Note: Originally published on February 21, 2017.

A Valentines Story

I first saw her at a new hire party. My boss told me that it was a casual event, but he was wrong. The only one dressed casually was me. I was dressed like I was going to the mall to buy clothes. She was in a blue skirt with matching jacket. I looked at her for a long time, but due to my inadequate clothing, I figured it wasn't a good idea to try to talk to her. Not a woman like her surrounded by a bunch of dudes in suits, threads way better than my Dockers and Polo shirt. I decided to do what every respectable, professional engineer would do when they were interested in a woman, but elected not to talk to them. I decided to stalk her.

Stalk is probably the wrong word. I was collecting information. Someone as good looking as this woman certainly was going to meet up with some guy once she cleared this lame office party. I followed far behind her as she left. She went to her car and drove off alone. Best I could hope for is she would stay alone, just long enough for me to amass enough testosterone to ask her out. That would likely take a few days.

I saw her again at a new hire lecture. Based on the sign up sheet, she was either "Chris" or "Pat." There was only one woman in a room full of thirty men. I was going to find out as much as I could about ChrisPat. I passed ChrisPat in the hallways at work. We worked for a large defense contractor at a site that had multiple buildings and mostly no women. ChrisPat was often seen in what was called "the old engineering building." I made every excuse to cut through that building when I had to go somewhere. Once I passed her in a narrow hallway. The name on her security badge began with a "C" and ended with "e." Her name was "Christine."

A colleague of mine returned one day with critical intel. He had stumbled across where she sat. Armed with her coordinates in the cube farm, I didn't waste any time. I got a fresh flattop and sprang into action. As I approached her desk, I noticed this square, jawed jock seated next to her named "Rickie." He was talking up a big game as Christine half listened.

"What a dope," I thought.

When guys are young, they always talk about themselves as though women just can't wait to hear about their saving plays in their sports league. I approached with the utmost confidence. I was a successful engineer with a great job who worked out daily. While the rest of my contemporaries were drinking themselves blind on Friday nights, I was getting ready to buy a house.

"I don't know anyone who knows you so I'm introducing myself. I'm Robert," I confidently stated as I positioned myself to block Rickie, cutting short his glory story about his fabulous lacrosse plays.

"I'm Christine," she said.

"Say, can you show me where the Plan Vault is?"

I thought I would get her away from Rickie the Jock to ask her out.

"No, I can't leave my work area," she responded.

What a crock. Christine was a salaried engineer. She wasn't restricted to a particular work area. I immediately interpreted this as "I'm definitely not interested." I collected up the pieces of my shattered pride then excused myself. As I left, I heard Rickie start back up,

"Now, where were we? I was shredding it down the infield as I neared the goal..."

I didn't talk to Christine for another four years. We passed in the hallways, and I doubted she even knew my name. I certainly knew hers. I accepted that some women just aren't attracted to certain guys. I first encountered this in high school with my friend, Heidi, a beautiful, talented writer. I became her friend when I sat next to her in creative writing. Heidi had a great imagination for poetic children's stories. She caught the eye of a senior, Michael, a tall, dark, handsome dude who was planning to move to Italy to study medicine.

Michael was in love with Heidi. He wanted to marry her and take her to Italy with him. Heidi chose a different guy than Michael. She picked Arty, the Whirlybird operator at the local amusement park. When I asked Heidi why she rejected Michael, she answered,

"I just don't like him that way."

Now, Arty was short, balding yet had a mullet, smoked pot, and sported a cheesy, porno mustache. Arty didn't have great career prospects. Along with being a skilled amusement park ride operator, Arty boxed. He wasn’t any good being the kind of fighter a real boxer pummeled to build confidence. The pinnacle of Arty’s boxing career was when Vinnie Pazenza knocked him out in the gym. Why a beautiful, talented woman like Heidi would make such an inferior choice baffled me for years. Arty eventually cheated on Heidi ending their relationship. I know love is blind. I just didn't know it was stupid too.

I always prided myself on trying to be a good catch. I got highest honors all through high school and college. I led a healthy lifestyle, working out regularly. I saved money. I took women on extraordinary dates to shows and expensive restaurants. My competition was bringing women out to cheap, buffet style eateries that had salad bars. There was no sneeze shields on my dates. If I took you out, it would be a memorable experience like meeting Elvis. Elvis never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable encounter. That's the way I approached dating. But I had to accept that all the best prep and iron pumping in the world couldn't make somebody like you. As with my friend Heidi, some women just preferred Arty.

Four years later a small team of top engineers formed to design the next class of submarine, and who was picked to work in that group? Christine and me. Great. Along with pining away for this woman for years, now I had to work with her daily, all while knowing that I was Michael, and she would eventually marry Arty, the bumper car operator at Fun Land. This was going to suck.

After a few months I became resigned to becoming Christine's colleague and friend and later her confident. If she wasn't interested, I would at least make sure she made a good choice even if that choice would never be me. I guess that's when I knew I really liked her because I wanted her to be happy knowing full well that her happiness did not include me. We talked about work, the dates we went on and our families. When we were whispering some gossip between the two of us, and Christine would lean in close, I would jokingly say,

"You're in my personal space."

She would always back away laughing. It was hard enough to be infatuated with her without enduring an occasional physical closeness. One time, I was telling her of a bike frame I had purchased. I was into biking. That was my thing. I brought her outside to my car to marvel at the exquisite piece of engineering I had in a big box. Christine thought it was cool that I had a passion.

"What do you like to do?" I asked.

"Ride horses," she answered.

"Then you should buy a horse," I exclaimed.

Each weekend I visited my parents and at the gym I talked my father's ear off about how great Christine was. My dad always wondered why I wasn't with her, and I would explain that I was Michael and she wanted Arty, the Sit and Spin operator at Coney Island.

So one time our whole department travelled to Washington, DC to give presentations to the Navy. Later when we were free, Christine and I went to some museums together. It was wonderful, just the two of us at the National Air and Space Museum. I held her coat under a big yellow winged airplane when she used the bathroom. As I waited alone I thought that this felt so right, but it just never could be.

A few months later I got another job within the company. I never said "Good bye” to her, choosing instead to just pack up my desk and leave. Two months later she called me at my desk to see how I was doing. She took over some of my work so I figured she was calling about that. Christine asked about my new job, if I was dating anyone, how school was going. We were both getting a masters degree at night and occasionally crossed paths. It was nice hearing from her. Earlier I had read that the Rhode Island poet laureate was retiring, and there would be a formal final public reading of his work. It just kind of spit out of me,

"So do you think you'd want to go with me?"

"Ok,"' she answered.

A few nights later we were well dressed in public going to dinner then a gathering for a poet to read his life's work. When friends are properly dressed and out on the town, it's perfectly acceptable to venture into each other's personal space. It's the "well dressed exception." After dinner we walked arm in arm to a small venue where the poetry reading was being held. It felt so right to be with her. Surely, she felt it too.

When the night came to a close, I wanted to kiss her, but that was outside the acceptable personal space exclusion for well dressed friends out together. I came back to reality, that even though it all seemed right, Christine wasn't interested in me and that was just the way it was. I gave her a hug at her doorstep then sadly got into my car and drove away. It was both a great and awful night. A week later I couldn't stop thinking about her. I figured I would write her a note saying how much fun I had. I thought I would end it with

"If you like me, check this box []"

but, that seemed like a bad idea. She called to tell me that she purchased a registered quarter horse that she intended to show. She wanted to take me out to the barn to meet her new horse. We went that afternoon. His name was "Dubious Conclusion," "Dube” for short. I took great and real interest in the animal. Christine showed me how to brush him down. We made plans for me to watch her ride. While at the barn, I told her that I had a great time the other night. She seemed preoccupied as she asked if I would help her obtain a gate for Dube's stall. Trying to be overtly helpful, I agreed even though we were in my small car which was seemingly incapable of transporting a large metal gate.

The site that was selling the gates was another horse facility. We picked out a gate from a large out building. I got filthy digging through the old farm equipment. As we freed up the gate, it started to rain outside trapping us in the dusty space. Together we waited out a summer thunderstorm in an old barn. I turned to her and asked her out to dinner on Friday night. Unhesitatingly she answered,

"Yes."

There was a long pause as I added,

"This is a date though. You know, not friends."

Then there was a real long pause. I blew it. I crossed the boundary too soon. I thought she might have felt what I was feeling and just maybe missed me a bit, but the long pause was a sure sign I messed up. The rain had stopped. I lifted the gate and brought it to my car. It was obviously too large to fit. I pulled out my bike rack from the trunk and fastened it in the back then proceeded to lash the gate onto the rack. We both jumped into the car. Christine was quiet on the ride back. I figured I would just ignore my comment, and hopefully she would forget it as well. After we dropped off the gate at the barn I asked,

"So Friday at seven?"

I expected her to tell me she couldn't go because she didn't want to be out of her work area unless it was to meet Arty, the Flying Horse Carousel operator at Knott's Berry Farm, but she replied,

"Okay."

That's it. Okay. No enthusiasm. No smile. This wasn't a good idea. She probably didn't want to reject me again right after I helped her. Friday night would be a disaster as I overstepped my bounds. I couldn't compete with the Bumper Scooter operator at Six Flags. There's no way to make sense of it. Women are a mystery. I learned that from watching Titanic. A women's heart is as deep as the ocean. That was especially true when Rose exclaimed,

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife."

Then Rose spit in the dude's eye. That movie is every twelve year old girl's Star Wars, and Jack boffed Rose in the back seat of a car. It was hopeless. I couldn't spit like Jack, but I still was going out with her on Friday night. 

The next few days in the office, I avoided running into Christine. I'm sure she was going to let me down gently as her gratitude for helping with the gate waned. With the weekend approaching, I prepared myself for my Friday night crash and burn. I picked her up at seven and off we went to a restaurant in a nearby town. We had a wonderful dinner and conversation. Afterwards, we visited a small Victorian place called L'Ezabeth's for dessert and coffee.

When we returned to her apartment, we approached her door awkwardly. I was sure I was going to get the "I just want to be friends" speech. I wasn't ready for it so I asked,

"Do you want to walk down by the pier?"

I wanted to extend the night and delay the inevitable rejection. I thought maybe I could have just a few more minutes with her, pretending we were a couple.

"Sure," she answered.

As we walked, I reached for her hand. Sometimes when you hold hands, it doesn't work. Someone's arm is too long, and you don't match up right. When you don't feel right, walking hand in hand, it just isn't right. I know that's not very scientific, but it's true. Christine's hand fit perfectly in mine. We watched the moon rise from a railing at the edge of a pier on a warm summer night. I expected at any moment she would express her disappointment that I crossed the line, that she was head over heels for a guy named Arty who was a talented Scrambler operator at Wally World.

"Do you feel like I do?" she asked.

"That depends on the way you feel."

"This feels so... so..."

Here it comes. I think the word she was searching for was "wrong." This seemed so wrong. Then she would go on how our friendship was ruined. I would agree with her just to salvage our relationship, then I would vow to never let her know that I loved her.

"...perfect," she said.

"Perfect?" I asked.

"Unless you don't feel that way," she exclaimed.

"I thought I was Michael, and you wanted Arty," I blurted.

She looked puzzled.

"You didn't answer when I said we were going out not as friends," I added.

"I thought you were just being nice," she explained.

"I thought you preferred the Whirlybird operator."

There was that look again.

"You know, I didn't do it for you," I offered.

"I just thought you weren't interested in me," Christine revealed.

"I thought the same about you about me!" I replied.

"So what are you saying? You're not interested or you are?" she asked.

"Yes, I mean no. Wait! Which question are you asking?"

This got rather confusing.

"The last one," Christine answered.

"I think that one is yes," I clumsily offered.

"Me too," she said.

I looked into her eyes not sure what to say next. I thought I should just stop now because I think she just said she liked me. In retrospect the check this box question would have been much easier. After what seemed like an eternity Christine asked, 

"Who's Arty?"

I shrugged. Even though I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, we walked back hand in hand. It was perfect. I told her that we shouldn't spend too much time together otherwise we would ruin things, but the next night she called.

"What're you doing?"

"Ironing shirts," I answered.

"Can I come over?"

"No! We can't spend too much time together."

"Why?"

Sensing this might get confusing again I went with,

"Sure, come over."

Christine drove to my house then sat on the couch and read some Dickens while I ironed. We rarely have spent a day apart after that evening. The bike frame I showed her months earlier became hers and the quarter horse, the first horse I ever rode, became mine. Later we would pedal a tandem down the west coast camping along the way. We rode horses in Ireland on our honeymoon. When our first son, Aidan, was in kindergarten we returned to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC to take a picture under the yellow winged airplane. We have one more trip planned to capture a picture of William in the same spot.

That's the way it happened, or should I say the way it almost didn't.

Happy Valentines Day

Editor's Note: Originally posted on February 15, 2017.

Stephen Hawking, Pop Icon

Stephen Hawking

If you’re really smart, like Will Hunting smart, you have to follow Stephen Hawking, the late wheelchair bound genius of theoretical physics. No one ever doubted Stephen's intellect. He was an author of several technical books, and held the same position at the University of Cambridge in England that Sir Isaac Newton once occupied. He was the premier professor of astrophysics. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysicist to the Stars, referred to Hawking as a "badass." He wrote about time, the expanding universe and the existence of aliens. He was married twice which is amazing considering he was a bit of a dependent personality. He attracted women purely on his super genius status. That’s impressive.

Being a professor of astrophysics means Stephen could postulate just about anything, and the lay public was mesmerized by his sheer brain power. He stipulated that black holes emit radiation and the collective brain trust of society gasped at the beauty of his hypothesis. They even named the radiation after him, "Hawking Radiation." It took Stephen minutes to type one letter so writing a book was a monumental task, but he soldiered on against unbelievable odds in a life that was incomprehensibly difficult.

Astrophysics is a tough subject with some equally tough math. I'm talking partial differential equations here. Stuff that will tax your neurons long before you get to “x = 8.” Real math for real smart people like Hawking. The chief advantage of being in the field of astrophysics is that you can postulate just about anything and since the advances don’t do anything beneficial for humankind, no one really questions any of it. If Hawking said Pez was emitted from black holes instead of radiation, no one would have challenged it. It would be called Hawking Pez and everyone would have accepted it. Sure, whatever. In think tanks all over the world, people would be heard saying,

"Did you know Pez is emitted from black holes?"

Everyone would nod in agreement, all thinking that the speaker was brilliant for even understanding the concept. The movie about Hawking’s life, The Theory of Everything, had a scene in which Eddie Redmayne, playing Hawking, sits in a wheelchair in front of the world’s leading astrophysicists in a small amphitheater and rambles on about a whole bunch of hypotheses regarding the heavens. When he finally completes his diatribe, David Thewilis, the onetime Professor Lupin who had a nasty case of the werewolfs, jumps up and exclaims,

“Hawking has done it!”

A foreign sounding scientist, somehow insulted by Hawking’s statements as if what he postulated was an outright insult to his family name, pops up from his seat and yells, “Preposterous!” as he makes for the exit.

I think that guy was on to something. Maybe he knew that civilized society would be sympathetic to Hawking and simply agree with him because of his plight. Or maybe Hawking was refuting this dude’s life’s work. Perhaps this guy was adamant about black holes not emitting radiation. Maybe he had proved it with countless peer reviewed technical papers in which the math showed that radiation could never be emitted from a black hole. Perhaps, he penned,

“Say what you want about black holes, they don't emit radiation. Period. End of story.”

I’m not sure what the deal was but that dude was pissed.

Stephen once disclosed that at Oxford he put in only about a thousand hours of the requisite 10,000 necessary to become a master in any field. He also admitted that he didn't learn to read until he was eight. Stephen’s publicist probably suggested that if he wanted to become more famous he would need to push the Hollywood version of genius which is that of a consummate slacker. This was best illustrated in the movie that launched Matt Damon’s and Ben Affleck’s careers, Good Will Hunting. Will Hunting was a janitor genius who intrinsically understood organic chemistry and had a natural ability with advanced mathematics. The big conflict in the movie was how Will didn't give two quarks about his advanced, superior intellect. Two percent of users on Rotten Tomatoes disliked this movie, ironically the same percentage of actual geniuses in society.

Hollywood loves the concept of the genius slacker, and Stephen wants to be a “pop icon.” He once declared,

“I don’t feel like a true pop culture icon until I’ve been on the Kardashians.”

I’m not sure if Stephen ever actually watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Kim Kardashian

Admittedly, I've never watched a full episode of the show either. Every time I tune in one of them is lamenting about fame, taking a picture of themselves or just doing something so painfully stupid that I had to watch a half hour of Lassie just to cleanse the palate. Last time I tuned in, they were all playing charades. It must have been a special family version that they alone engage in because the word to guess was, and I'm not making this up, "motherfucker." I tuned out when Robert Kardashian started air humping his mom, Kris. Before I could scramble the remote, Kim's expression changed from someone trying to discover the origin of a particularly foul smell to sheer delight as she shouted out the answer.

Exactly how does Stephen Hawking think he would scissor into that scene? If I was him I would fear being in the care of the Kardashians. They’re a little on the surface for me. I’d be scared they’d leave me in the corner with a dead battery, facing a black and white, tube TV tuned to MTV’s Pregnant at 16. Stephen shouldn’t have ever thought he could rely on Kanye West for the Heimlich maneuver if he choked on a piece of chicken. I think they would have discovered something is wrong only after Stephen started to smell bad.

Kanye West

Another time I watched the show the Kardashian clan was visiting their mother land, Armenia. Some of them were being given a tour of a thirteenth century monastery by a religious dude in a tunic who through a translator conveyed fascinating historical anecdotes. It didn’t really matter that none of them could understand a word the guy was saying because no one was listening anyway. Kanye began smiling and circling the guy while admiring his clothing. Kim was narrating when she said something about how she can always tell when Kanye’s fashion senses are piqued. Forget that this guy might be talking about some historically significant devastating tragedy that once befell the Aramean people. Kanye was more interested in the dude’s threads. Stephen would have been a great addition to that episode. At least one person would have appeared to be listening. Problem is they would have likely forgotten him on the bus.

Maybe it would have worked out. I don’t know. I just keep wondering who Stephen would've talked to, and if he did find one of them he could converse with, what would they talk about? Something tells me Scott Dipstick doesn’t have an opinion if light is a particle or a wave. I don’t think Kanye muses much about string theory, and I imagine what Kim knows about worm holes wouldn't interest Stephen Hawking. My money is against Khloe being well versed in special relativity, or Kendall embracing a stance on dark energy. Kylie might have an opinion concerning the Grand Unified Theory because I think it's the basis for her lip kit.

I always hoped one of the Kardashians stumbled across this post and launched an extensive social media attack of my blog, but it never happened. I would've been more than happy if they made this bitch famous.

Editor’s Note: Originally published on September 1, 2016.

Free the Mind

I read an article once entitled “Top Ten Male Body Parts According to Women.” Apparently, a reputable college did a year long study through a government grant to generate this groundbreaking research. Now, I know women are from Venus, and men are from Massachusetts so I expect our ideas on favorite body parts to be somewhat different. Well, here it is:

1. Butt
2. Face
3. Hair
4. Back
5. Smile
6. Chest 
7. Eyes
8. Arms
9. Teeth
10. Torso

I was not surprised that teeth made the list. Bad teeth are a huge distraction. Nothing says poor hygiene better, or British lineage louder than poor teeth. Someone who can’t take care of their own teeth is not likely to be all that sensitive to a woman’s needs. I don’t mean to teeth shame, but it’s kind of important to regularly brush, pick and floss. It's time to change your habits when something you need starts to fall out of your head.

I see that men’s hair and face are not as important as their butt. I’ve said it before; men’s rears are not a thing of beauty. They are more often larger than they need to be, and they're generally unsanitary. There's a lot in the Bible about women's periodic uncleanliness. Forget that, men's butts are unclean all the time. Whoever does the laundry in your house can confirm this. Men are always trying to operate outside of the envelope when it comes to back door sneezes, and while many are experts, they put their underwear under a lot of undue stress.

Horses have no shame. If you’ve been in a barn full of horses, you've likely heard the ever present, and completely acceptable, sound of air biscuits being expelled. I had a horse once that I swear would wait for me to brush his hind quarters before he would let loose. I guess when you have no thumbs you have to exact your revenge anyway you can.

Once at work, I had a cauliflower and legume salad for lunch that brought on a rather poignant rendition of Song of the South. I had recently started using earbuds and was rocking out to some Fergie when my gut started to quake. I thought if I could jettison a little moon vapor, I would be able to make it through the rest of the day. The problem is I was unaware that human beings have a built in feedback mechanism that allows us to push just the right amount so that the gas leak is silent. That’s why raspberries make noise. It’s all in the evolution. With sound cancelling buds blaring Fergalious, that mechanism isn’t as effective. I ended up venting the bilge much louder than I thought. I discovered this when my colleague from over the partition texted me,

“Was that you?”

It didn’t really register right off exactly what had just happened because I didn't hear anything, but it didn't take me long to figure it out. The only thing I could come up with was,

“I think it was Ted, the new guy.”

At work always blame the new guy. Jack Welch said that.

Men’s butts shouldn’t have made the list in the first place because, quite frankly, they’re gross. One time I caught a glimpse of my ass in the mirror when I was getting out of shower. I thought there was a troll in the bathroom with me.

The torso is a bit fundamental. I don’t figure the torso is really a part of the male anatomy because you can’t live without one, and women have one too. The most striking aspect of this list is that it is devoid of the defining piece of the male concoction, the John Thomas. Size apparently doesn’t matter after all; in fact, women don’t really care if you have one as long as you got great hair and a nice smile. You might think you have to believe these results because its science, but I’m not so sure. My top three parts of the female anatomy are all required to be covered with clothing. Four, if you distinguish right from left.

I asked several people with a background in psychology why this list is missing the one particular defining anatomical male feature, and the answer I got from all of them indicated that when women fill out surveys, they presume it to be vulgar to pick something other than “eyes” or “hair.” So essentially women lie about their favorite men's body part because if they tell the truth, they'll be slut shamed or something.

When my wife was pregnant with our first son the ultrasound technician and a nurse were looking to see what color we should use for our reveal party. When they had definitive proof he was a boy, one of them declared, 

"Oh look, he’s grabbing it. What a typical male.”

To which I asked, “Can you at least wait for him to get out of the womb before you start the lifelong penis guilt?”

Before we Free the Nipple, I think we need to overcome our anxiety about public breastfeeding in this country. I think it's perfectly natural. I don't understand why some people are uncomfortable with mothers nursing a child. That’s what those things were made for. Some men get jealous when their wives breastfeed. That’s got to be the definition of selfish. If anything, babies should be jealous of us for playing with their food. In the end, men are just borrowing those things until they're needed later.

If women began to go shirtless like men, the incidences of distracted driving will go off the charts. I know it’s more acceptable in France, both on TV and public beaches. The French think American men are unrealistically infatuated with woman’s chests which, of course, we are. I'm not talking about Canadians here. I mean the real French. They are always acting disinterested, you know, laissez-faire about everything. That's their thing, being bored and smoking cigarettes. Anyway, it's odd that in this day and age, we have laws against women’s nipples.

We should all grow up and Free the Nipple, but before you can do that, let me suggest that you first free your mind.

Editor's Note: Originally published on September 22, 2016.