How It All Began

Since many of the newer fans of the Big Ugly Man Doll are, as I say, newer, I’ve had a few questions recently about how I became the BUMD in the first place. Without further ado, here’s how it all began.

I have been known to escort the children – who are cute – to birthday parties with their peers. Now, it’s well known that one of the fastest ways to get good-looking women to talk to you is to walk around with bait – puppies are good; small, cute kids are even better.

When I used to take Number One Son to birthday parties, when he was younger and cute, he was greeted with cheers and hugs from his friends, mostly girls. Their mothers were always there also; I was often nearly the only guy.

So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women. And by enjoying, I mean leaning against a wall. One of the children was late to the party; the kid ran in and jumped into playing with the rest of the kids. His mother looked straight at me, and through me, smiled brightly and said, “Hi ladies!”

Right. I am the big ugly man doll. This is why.

For those of you who may not yet know the reference, you’ll have to see the second of the wonderful Toy Story movies, called Toy Story 2. (Go figure.) Near the end, the evil misguided Prospector Pete is strapped to the backpack of a cute little girl, next to a brightly painted Barbie. The little girl picks up her backpack, notices the new Pete doll, and exclaims, “Look, Barbie! A big, ugly MAN doll!”

When I take my children to these birthday gatherings, filled with pre-pubescent partying and estrogen energy sharing, that’s pretty much the reaction I get: I am that big, ugly man doll. The nannies, the moms, the milfs, they do not speak to me unless in dire need. (“Excuse me, um, the building is on fire, and, um…”) I used to think that by hanging out with a bunch of cute kids – even my own – the cuteness would rub off on me, and perhaps I would be spoken to. I also used to think monkeys would fly out of my butt if I waited long enough. The monkeys are still the more likely outcome. Er, so to speak. Then again, maybe my monkeys have already flown, which would explain a lot about why people look at me like that when I take the kids to parties. And would explain a lot about my dry cleaning bills.

Case in point: So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women. I was, to the surprise of no one at all, largely ignored – until I overheard someone mention the word Starbucks, whereupon I most cheerfully made it clear that I would certainly be happy to join any such coffee-bound person or group. (Hey, how about a Venti Caramel Milfiato, with extra whip!) As I made my way out the door with one of the women, all the rest – and I am not making this up – decided they’d come too. I can only assume that their decision was based on the desire to protect one of their own. For the record, that one looked like she could hold her own against two of me, the barista, and the truck parked outside, but hey. Women are from Venus, I have a penis, and that’s all there is to it. So, instead of having to actually talk to me, they split into 2 groups – one in front of me, and one in back – and in this fashion we walked to Starbucks. Once there, I ordered something masculine and tossed it back in one shot, crushed the empty cup against my forehead, and nailed the three-pointer by hitting the trash can from 17 feet. After finding a napkin and looking like I’d meant to drip hot espresso down my forehead – which Real Men do all the time, of course – I moved closer to the estrogen constellation and overheard a discussion of the Eighties.

I missed the Eighties, largely due to apathy, but one likes to keep one’s hand in, so I attempted a foray about how old I was getting (relative to said decade). One of the ladies indicated that she’d recently passed her 20th High School Reunion. I mentioned that I had also recently passed – and skipped – the same milestone. Since there was a pause in the general buzz, I asked her if she’d attended high school in this area.

This being MY life, she cheerfully recited the name of my high school and the year of my graduation. When I mentioned that I was in her graduating class, we remarked upon what a small world it was, and checked memories for names in common.

She, of course, didn’t remember me at all, proving that SOBUMD is right – without her, I could build a freaking TIME MACHINE and my chances of having sex with actual women would STILL be zero. I remain grateful that the SOBUMD loves me. I don’t know why, but she does.

Damned birthday parties.