Bored Men Make Me Puke In My Mouth

I was in the work truck today and my two companions were discussing how their wives/gfs were away at the time.

To my horror, they both said how bored they were.

WHAT IN THE FUCK.

 

bored man

 

As I quietly retched in my mouth, my internal doorway of friendship came crashing down, crushing several small cute and furry mammals in a mess of intestinal pulp.

I actually felt physically ill after their admissions. These men had degraded themselves to the point that they needed another human to make their lives worthwhile. I could barely be in the truck with them.

What happens to a boy to make him decide that his life is only interesting when his woman is around? Why have they no interests in their pitiful lives that they can enjoy without Les Woman?

I am so proud of my individuality (in the original sense of the term) and independence that to see another “man” (or more accurately “human with a penis” – they are men in only a purely technical sense) dismiss those things makes me weep flaming balls of pissed-off acid.

Yet again I had to reject humans whom I thought were reasonable beings worthy of my friendly company. It is not worth spending energy on friendships that will end with the realisation that they are merely shells of people.

 

Somewhere along the line these men had their development retarded, and decided to believe in the Almighty Lie: that there is a a soulmate out there, somewhere, floating in the mist.  Once found, these men would then be complete, whole, free to travel the world in a cornucopia of polka-dotted delight and companionship.  As a result they felt they could give away their insides, their desires, wants and ambitions, and trade them for company.

I, a man of substance and intelligence, am sick to loathing of these exoskeletons whose thoughts resemble inconsequential soap bubbles.

These men need to build The Rock.

Without a rock inside a man sinks into the quicksand of boredom and apathy. That rock is the sense of self that cannot be vilified by others. It cannot be destroyed until death. That rock is the monument to oneself. It keeps a man strong, chained to his principles and yet buoyed by them. It is like a man’s shadow in bright sun, sharply defined and following him everywhere, keeping him rooted to the ground instead of floating with every whim that captures his imagination.

This rock must be grown and constructed.  A man must spend his life building such a rock, carving his likeness into the granite of his genetic inheritance.  His rock reflect his desire to become what hewants.  His tools are persistence and imagination.

It is an ongoing task.  But it doesn’t take long for the stone to grow from a pebble to a boulder, where it can anchor a man, strong in the knowledge that he needs no other man or woman.

And this is where boredom becomes nullified.

Build your rock.

Your Best Friend – Why Your GF / Wife Is Not It

I love you man best friends husband and wife
We’re Besties, aren’t we… Aren’t we?

 

Don’t fall for that bullshit.  That language merely makes her feel better, and pops you in a ribbon-wrapped box of friendship that’s easy for her to open and occasionally poop in.  It gives her the superficial security that friends give each other: no-pressure, like-each-other, be-there-for-you bollocks.

You are friends, sure.

But first you are business partners and lovers.

Hollywood has again fucked with your head.  A thousand rom-coms have salted your brain in a preserving barrel of feminine brine.  You believe that the perfect woman is out there.  Your Soulmate, decked out in a sultry little black dress, ready with witty one-liners and enough charm to bring a dead orca back to life.  She knows you.  Everything about you. Your fondest memories, your ticklish spot.  She knows how to surprise you, gets the present you wanted without you even telling her.  

Movies have told you this woman is your Best Friend.  And, unbelievably, it’s always the male character who says it, at the altar. Or to one of his mates.  Or to her on the couch. It’s always the same.  And it stinks like a tartan pile of dirty flannies.

So you meet said perfect girl.  There is only one question that needs asking:  Can you be completely, 100%, hand-on-heart, sauté-a-baby-in-onions-if-I-mitigate-at-all honest with the girl?

If you can, congratulations. You have won the feminine lottery of the millennia and deserve a place in history alongside Attila and the guy who invented the penny-farthing.  Which is a pretty good thing.

For the rest of us, Men are the best friends required.

Blokes.  Best mates ever.

One of the greatest things about being a man is the potential quality of a man’s friendships.  Once a certain point of confidence is reached, a man chooses his closest friends with great care based on their honesty, their attitudes, and their accomplishments.  These friendships are pure diamond.  Brutally hard, vibrant, cutting and beautiful.  A good friend pushes you. He is incredibly honest. He makes you laugh.

He holds a view of the world distinctly different from your own while still accepting and even encouraging that difference.

Sit down with your mates and discuss cooking children, ironing porn and off-colour jokes and no one will bat an eyelid.  Does your wife know about that?

You may read this and think I am a misogynist.  I am not. I love my wife heartily.  She is an incredible woman.  But though we share a house and children and a bed, she is not and cannot be my best friend.  She simply cannot, through basic biology, understand my most basic function: that of being a man.

My Best Friends MUST be men.  The women in my life cannot understand what it is like to have a hard cock, or to feel the fire of Jupiter running in my veins. They cannot know about the passion to strive, to fight, to want to endure pain hardship and incredible anxiety for only a possibility of success.

In my life, only another man can understand.

A stranger stabs you in the front
I call bullshit.

 

This poster illustrates the difference between men and women.  To a woman only a stranger would dare be truly honest to her face.  Meanwhile, her friend is only truly honest about her to other people behind her back.  Only then, when all honesty has been used up, do her best friends ensure that nothing real ever gets shown.  They can share only those air-filled platitudes which collapse upon transmission like a shiny, useless soap bubble.

There is a profound saying that sums up a man’s Best Friend:

Best friends stab each other in the front.

Brutal honesty is only possible with a friend who is a man.  And if something bothers you about your friend, you better make damn sure he knows about it from you.

 

 

Who’s the Boss? A Marital Questionnaire

Who's the boss stars wearing tshirts saying "I'm the Boss"
Exactly.

Who’s the boss?

Maybe your kid asks it.  Maybe some friends bring it up in a drunken conversation.  Maybe your father-in-law teases you about it.

Who’s the boss?

Is it you?  Or is it her?   Who do you want it to be?

If you even need to ask this, she’s the boss.

You’re both the boss… right?  So in other words, she’s the boss.

She laughs under her breath… you got it, she’s the boss.

Ask yourself these questions. Then ask why you are not the boss.

Who is the strongest?

Who is the smartest?

Who earns the most?

Who would defend the family?

Who would protect the house from attack?

If you answered yes to all these, and you still feel like the bitch, you have some work to do.  Of course, if you’re ok being a fucking pussy to your wife, then cool.  You’re probably not getting laid though, and your missus is nagging you to death.  This is all a function of you not taking your proper role.

Protection is the common theme here.  Physical protection, intellectual protection, financial protection.  Can you protect your family and property from predators?  Can you protect your family from stupid ideas?  Can you protect your family from financial ruin?  A man’s role is protection, and if you are competent at it, you are the boss. No man who can adequately protect his family and provide for them should play second fiddle.  The strongest person in the household should be the boss.

But this isn’t how it works, is it? Decision making is where boss-dom is won or lost.  Solid, non-mitigated decision-making earns maximum respect points from women.  Unfortunately this is where most guys give it away, including myself.

For years I answered “whatever YOU want to do” to questions from my wife.  We were still happy. But I certainly didn’t feel like the boss.

It took me a while to realise that I needed to make decisions.  Strong, fast decisions.  My marital happiness depended the solidity of that decision making process.  My wife wanted someone who could decide what to have for dinner, where to go tomorrow, when to buy a new car, where to go on holiday.

Put your hand up if your dad ran the house when you were a child.  I thought so.  Dad owned the house, he ran the house, you lived there UNDER HIS RULES YOU FUCKING DONKEY.  There was no doubt in his mind or anyone else’s about whose place you were in and who you had to listen to.  I went to my old man’s house recently, ate some ham off a plate with my fingers, and got my ass chewed out for ten minutes.   I’m four inches and ten kilos bigger than him, but it didn’t fucking matter cos it’s his house, his rules.

Men, this is where we need to be.  If you’re having problems in this area, you need to read the Married Man Sex Life Primer immediately and man the fuck up.  It’s not about ruling the roost with an iron fist, kicking ass for minor infractions.  It’s about knowing your place as ruler of your kingdom and protector thereof, and living that life.   It’s not about natural law, it’s about who is more qualified to be the last stand of responsibility in your house.

Who is willing and able to be accountable for any fuckups that occur?

Who is able to sacrifice themselves for their family at last resort?

And if such a sacrifice is necessary, who is to shoulder the responsibility for all the decisions to come before?

I sure as hell will be making the decisions if it is to be my life on the line in the final instance.