Big Ugly Man Doll

There was a story in the news the other day that is just too good not to comment on.  The Phelpsian Asshats at the Westboro Baptist Church were once again promoting their asshattery – and this time they wanted to prove what a bunch a narrowminded jerks they are in front of Arlington National Cemetery, while the President led Memorial Day observances at the Tomb of the Unknowns.  

They’re out there exercising their right to free speech – letting us all know that “we shouldn’t idolize the dead, especially those who died for an unrighteous cause.”  Like, you know, defending their right to free speech.  Asshats.

Anyway, who’s out there protesting the protesters?  A bunch of folks!  Since this is DC, with a good rally and some social twick-or-tweeting, we can get 4-5 deep:  The marchers, the march-protesters, those protesting the march-protesters, those people out to protest the people protesting the protesters, and so on.  If they’re not wearing badges, you need a scorecard.  And that’s just a Tuesday.

So the Westboro Asshats aren’t there alone.  They have enemies, out to protest them.  Included in those numbers, it turned out, was the Ku Klux Klan.

Neil Gaiman found himself in a public tiff with an idiot a few weeks ago, and was heard to remark:  “If a man is known by his enemies, I think my stock just went up a little.”

When even the KKK thinks your position is outside the pale, and that you might be a little narrowminded about all this, well, I think Westboro’s stock just went down – a lot.   I hadn’t thought they could get lower, but they did.  The best comment I’ve heard on the whole thing was that we should find a way to get both groups in a steel-cage deathmatch.  Who would win?  We would – I’m not opening the cage.  Ever.

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Sometimes, the whole “lack of social graces” is not necessarily a bad thing. Today, as part of the SOBUMD birthday celebration, we dragged the whole family shopping. ‘Cause you know, that’s a good time.

While banging through the Giant in Springfield – we don’t usually shop there, but we were in the area for three other stores and hey, it was there – SOBUMD and the younger two were working off the main list while the Human Tape Recorder and I were on search and destroy missions. SOBUMD reported the following encounter, after we were safely gone from the store.

She’d noticed an “older gent” (which is a very relative term for me these days, but he was probably in his early 60s), about 5’8″ with grey hair and a massive pot-belly that puts mine to shame, going through the same aisle they were in, going the other way – and thought nothing of it. Two aisles later, the same guy walked past them, and he struck up a conversation with Number One Son.

Random Dude: “Hi there again! We just saw each other in the ice cream aisle!”
Number One Son:  “Hi.”
Random Dude: “What did you say your name was again?”
Number One Son:  “I didn’t.”

And that was it.  No compunction about being polite, making small talk, making friends – and Number One Son is one of the most well-mannered 10-yr-olds you’d want to meet, and certainly the most well-behaved of our brood.  (I’ll caveat that with, “when he’s had his meds.”  God help you if he hasn’t.)  It so totally floored Random Dude – who might have just been a nice old guy saying hello – that he wandered off flustered, which was totally OK with SOBUMD.  I realized later that it wasn’t that he seemed creepy or gave off bad vibes or anything – Number One Son just started with the assumption that this guy had his facts wrong, and couldn’t even remember that they hadn’t exchanged names a few minutes ago.  Anyone who can’t even keep up with a few minutes ago just isn’t worth his time to talk to.

Fine by me.

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It’s Friday, and that means answer time! For those of you who have commented with questions from previous ManFAQs, thank you. I’m adding yours to the list of questions women have asked about men over the years, and I will answer them all in turn – to continue to demystify the more malodorous gender for those of the gentler.  Actual questions, posed by real women, and answered by a REAL man. What could go wrong?

Question:   What’s with the skidmarks?  

Answer:   OK, look.  It itches.  Things that itch, we scratch.  We don’t care where, or how, or who’s watching.  Have you ever seen a professional baseball game?  Thirty-five thousand in the stands and a million people watching on television, and the shortstop is scratching his nuts.  Why?  Because they itch.

You’ve seen what we eat, and Hello! I covered the hirsute cheek-horn last week.  What do you think happens when all that hair is displaced by a brief gale?  It gets out of position, and someone needs to make it right.  It itches, and there’s this convenient scrap of cloth Right There! 

So yeah, sorry about that.  Certain drugs list “seepage” as a side effect; it turns out that two of those drugs are coffee and beer – which then makes the little brown rosebud itch.  I would never suggest that prostate self-exams contribute to the issue, because we all know that real guys don’t do that.   Um, much. 

Now you know.  Please, feel free to comment!  Also, forward any questions you’d like answered to BUMD – at – biguglymandoll.com!

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Man, what did we do wrong?  I am just shocked – shocked, I say – to find that we’re all still here.  God must have a soft spot for Bourbon, though – sometime during the Preakness, several mint julips appear to have been caught up in the Rapture.  I’m sure I don’t know where they went. 

Well, back on our heads.  I sure wouldn’t have missed the Donald’s hair, though.

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