Do you know, I spend hours, sometimes days, talking about funny stuff my kids say, the funny things they do, and explaining the foibles of the malodorous gender for the ManFAQ. I’ve told you about my experiences in coffeeshops, at birthday parties, at back-to-school functions. Isn’t it time I wrote about me?
Why have I held out on you? Why haven’t you seen the good stuff? Mind you, it’s a lot to deal with – I’m a big guy. Some people say they don’t get me. I tell them “Nobody gets me, baby – I’m the wind.” And that’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. So sit back, get yourself a nice drink, and take your ginkgo balboa.
Because you’re going to want to remember this.
Most hats just keep the sun and the rain off your head. My hats actually encourage the sun and rain to go bother someone else. At night, my hats play stud poker with real money. (I don’t know where they get it.) The magic of the hat has been reasonably well documented, but some folks have speculated about why I wear them, and I thought I’d put some of the more outlandish theories to rest. I do not have a skin condition that requires the constant rubbing of the tops of my ears, nor do I keep a GPS unit under the hat so I don’t get lost. (Obviously.) The hats are, in fact, all bound on the inside with a highly specialize substance that contains my ego. Without this, my unchecked ego would never make it through most doors. It has its own passport, required for travelling through some of the smaller European countries – my ego is the size of Long Island. Unfettered, my ego frightens small children and makes dogs howl for no apparent reason. Some women have been known to faint.
Now you know – I wear hats as a public service, keeping my massive ego from invading other people’s personal space and reading their diaries. Also, I look damn good in them.
Some people have a way with words, and some people, um, thingy. I, on the other hand, rock those words like something very hard falling on top of something else, also very hard. I’m so good, I once had my ass kicked by Charles Bukowski hisownself, just before he told me his view on sex. (“Interesting, but not as important as shitting. A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.”) Eddie Poe consulted me on The Raven, before I was born, and he didn’t even take my advice. (He’d’a gotten more money for it if he had.) Also, I was Coleridge’s laudanum supplier. Even my throwaway doggerel can bring tears. I’ve made up poems on the spot, just to chastise errant waitresses:
Don’t pour me a beer in a wineglass, lass,
Or I’ll send you on off to the beer-pourin’ class!
And the beer-pourin’ class is no place for the ass
Of a stout-hearted lass who’s learnin’ it’s crass
To be makin’ a pass at a wine-drinkin’ glass
With my beer!
For the record, she promptly comped all our drinks, quit her job, and got into the adult film industry where she’s making quite a name for herself; she still sends me X-rated postcards on the Holidays.
False modesty is unbecoming, and I’ve invested so much time becoming who I am that I don’t have time to unbecome. Let’s face it, I’m pretty awesome. All the kids say so:
Friend@Work: “You rock, I just wish all our people were like you.”
BUMD: “Oh, you wouldn’t want them all like me – we’d just sit around admiring how awesome we all were, and we’d never get anything done.”
I saw a mirror the other day and thought to myself, gosh, what a good-looking mirror. Then I realized it was just an average mirror being dramatically improved by reflecting me. It broke as I moved *out* of the frame, because it knew it would never look that good again. Somehow, it just knew.
The police retain me for special projects when they need to gain access to a house; I broke in and the pit bull looked me dead in the eye, then lead me to the stash of drugs the cops were looking for. Even the goldfish swam up to the top of the tank so I could rub his belly. Mind you, he stayed that way when I left… I came home last week, there were 3 deer in my front yard, planting new Hostas. One of them had baked cookies as well. The note said, “Sorry, we hadn’t realized it was your yard.”
So yeah, I’m pretty awesome. I try to keep it bottled up along with my ego, just so I don’t trip the Terror Alert Level sensors and accidentally move the nation to DefCon Mauve, but sometimes, I need to air it out, and flood the world with awesome.
That’s why I’m going to be asking for your support as I become Good Morning America’s next Advice Guru. America needs an infusion of awesome pretty badly and, like the man said, I’m just the Big Ugly Man Doll to give it to them. Together, we’ll take the Friday ManFAQ national. I’ll keep you posted as I move through the application process. Come on, America, let’s wake up to the Big Ugly Man Doll!
After all, what could go wrong?