12. You Go to Hooters for the Wings

Listen,
1st off, you don’t and you know it you two faced lying piece of home wrecking trash. A little tip, you’re wife isn’t that stupid, no one is. We all know why you go there. It’s not for the wings, they could serve nothing but kumquats and cigarette butts and you’d still file in to watch Southwest Texas State get clobbered by Kentucky on Thursday Night. You go there to stare at a demographic of women that have two things in a common, lack of self respect and a dad that just really wanted a son. No matter what you think, the waitress isn’t “totally lovin” you. She finds you as unattractive and repulsive as every other beer swilling, gut having, obnoxious has been that can’t stand the site or sound of the butter face he accidentally knocked-up at 24 that he now begrudgingly refers to as his wife. All she wants is for you to shut up, leave her the 12% tip that you always do and go about your business so she can go home to her efficiency apartment and dream about becoming a model, or an actress… or a news lady…and if that doesn’t work out, a nurse.
Guess what half wit, this isn’t a way to meet women. I know that you think you’ll stand out because you started up conversations with such gems as “Hot enough for ya,” “Veronica, that’s a pretty name,” or “When I was in court today, oh, I didn’t mention that, yes, I am a lawyer.” You won’t stand out, in fact she’ll forget you before she goes out to warm up her 1999 Chevy Cavalier for the three minute commute home to cry about her boyfriend who dropped her like a hot rock because a met a new girl over at the Show-Me’s.

Josh...
Will seems to be under the impression that if you go to Hooter’s for wings, you’re nothing but a gigantic liar. I have a different theory. A darker theory. Something far, far more frightening. A truth that goes so deep as to strike at your very core, and shatter the foundation of everything you stand for.

I think you really do like the wings.
That, my taste deficient friend, is downright pathetic. The fact that you call those plastic, greasy sticks of disgust food is an insult to food everywhere, but I guess you don’t have a problem with that since you’re already forking over 14 dollars for a plate of dog toys. You may as well just down a shot of vegetable oil and lick the bottom of your shoe and save a few bucks. Or, you could develop some actual taste, and hit up the local Wing Stop right next door.
“But Josh,” you say between bites of third world army surplus rations. “Look around. I’m not exactly the only one eating wings at this place.” Well, no you aren’t. But you are the only one staring at his plate, thinking how this was a great idea for lunch, while the rest of the guys there have one eye on the game, and the other on your waitress. “But Josh,” you say again, the sickly, paltry scraps of overcooked meat rotting straight into your incredibly dense skull. “If the wings really are that terrible, why do people even come here?”

The picture at the top of this post...THAT’S why, you disgusting, tasteless, blindingly inappropriate excuse for a man. Men will shove nightmarish things into their own gullet just for the fleeting chance of one of these girls giving them even the slightest amount of attention, even if it is the most unbelievably fake encounter they’ve had since they tried to convince their buddies that they “totally went all the way” with the head cheerleader in high school. If the lunch ladies back in school looked like that, you could bet your last shred of dignity that no one would have complained about the food there, either. If there’s one thing men know how to do, it’s shut the hell up.
Listen, it’s time. Accept it. The wings are crap. You’re just there for the legs.

Just admit it, cleanse part of you black hopeless soul by saying “Yes, I come here for a two hour tease fest from a group of women who know two things, pad a bra and make hopeless losers stuck in loveless marriages feel attractive for the first time since they won their rec league Frisbee Golf tournament junior year.” You’ll feel better, living an honest life beats saying, “No son, I don’t mind if you join the cheer leading squad, they’re athletes too.” Or looking your wife square in the eye just to tell her “Honey, after 3 kids, a bankruptcy, 2 mortgages, 7 crash diets, 1 affair, and a 3 year prescription to Quaaludes you’re still as beautiful as the night I met you on the Kappa Kappa Kappa hay ride covered in your roommate's vomit and the smell of Clinique Happy.” She’s knows your lying, and she doesn’t care that you go to Hooters, just do her the decency of telling the truth. But, I guess it all evens out, because when she says, “It’s not a big deal, it happens to every guy,” or “Of course size doesn’t matter” she walks back to the bathroom and cries into a monogrammed towel for 30 minutes praying for a life that doesn’t so closely resemble hell.
-Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

11. You're a White Guy with Dreadlocks

People,
Some of the trappings of manhood are accepting who you are, where your place is in the culture, what your plight is in life, and at what point you give up all hope that any that your real dreams will ever come true and realize that you’re simply another cog in the wheel that winds around the road that takes you to a life of servitude and eventually a stress related death. If you are a white guy with dreads….you have failed on all four of these you pathetic Sublime -loving poser. First off, you look absolutely ridiculous. Second, when anyone, and I mean anyone, with an IQ above 90 looks at you they think, “Get a load of this tool. Does he actually think that resembles anything remotely attractive? Does he know that Omaha, NE is nowhere near any kind of island? Does he know patchouli smells like a dead dog wrapped in skunk’s ass covered in three month old cheese?” Guys, there’s nothing wrong with being who you are. In fact, most people find your actual identity more pleasing to associate with than this pathetic persona you have that was built around four days during freshman year when your dorm mate and you sat back and listened to “Legend” on repeat “ for like three days dude,” and got “like totally baked.” Don’t get me wrong, there isn’t a damn thing wrong with liking Reggae, there’s nothing wrong with liking Bob Marley. He was a tremendous songwriter. There is something wrong with thinking you are from Jamaica or that you’re Rastafarian. Trust me, you aren’t. If you have a meal plan, a car manufactured after 2000, the ability to shop at Urban Outfitters or you local head shop to pick up the “dopest pipes in town man”, you don’t qualify you identity crisis having, walking trust fund.

Josh….
“Whaaat’s the deeeeaaaal with dreadlocks?” a poor Jerry Seinfeld impersonator might say. “Are you in dread? Do they lock up? Do they only lock up when you are dreadful? Whaaat’s the deal?”
Strangely, he does raise a point, although in the most annoying way possible. Now, I can be pretty lazy. There have been times when I just don’t feel like grabbing a shower and choose instead to slowly die in front of the TV. At no point, however, did I ever say ‘You know what? I don’t think I’m going to wash my hair for..oh…3 months. I bet mom will like that.”
And then, as if walking around like a wannabe Robert Pattison wasn’t enough, you take it one step further, look yourself in the mirror and say, “My head doesn’t look enough like Japanese tentacle porn,” and proceed to coil your hair into the latest Asian fetish. ..Because that should get you some respect.
You sit there in wonder as to why mommy and daddy don’t take you seriously when you ask them if you can move the band into the garage. Well, gee, I don’t know, maybe it’s the rat’s nest you voluntarily crafted on your skull. There are no good decisions following dreadlocks, except manning up and washing your damn hair. I can only assume this is due to the tight threading of hair pulling mercilessly on your already damaged brain.
If you have dreads, I offer you two alternatives. Either unwrap that spinning mass of disgust , or learn to play bass.

Verdad me amigo…
In closing ladies, your dreads look like a pile of dead snakes covered in stink bait. Do society and yourself a favor. Cut the damn things, give up the dream of becoming one with Ja, and get normal. You’re nothing special. You’re just the guy who caught the reggae train but stayed on a few stops too long after college graduation. If you are in love with delivering sandwiches till 3am every Saturday night or cleaning out the same friolater you cleaned sophomore year of high school when your biggest dream was to make assistant manager…feel free to keep them. If you want to live a life of dignity and self respect, buy some 3 in 1 oil for your old man’s weed eater and give him the joy of cleaning off that mess of failure you call your hair. He deserves it.

Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

10. Your Mom Still Does Your Laundry

Boys,
Are we still 12? If not, do your own damn laundry you teat suckling little waste of space. Give your mom a break for god's sake. She had to raise your sissy ass and kiss every one of your poor little boo-boos until you were 26 and finally moved out of the house because you’ve realized that the phrase “try not to wake my parents” doesn’t really get the ladies going. Your mom had to carry you for nine months, change your diapers, explain to you that yes it’s okay to cry but when you're 14 enough is enough, grow a set, and that no, it’s not okay to still sleep with a blankey. I know how much you love coming home, laying on a twin bed and staring up at your favorite Creed poster but it’s time to sack up and learn when to add the fabric softener. If you’re too stupid or too lazy to learn how to do it, go to the local cleaners and cough up the 72 cents a pound to get all of your pink Polo’s and plaid shorts pressed just the way you like them.

No, your mom doesn’t love doing this, no matter what she says. You are making her secretly resent herself for raising such a maternally dependant little piss ant who would rather brag about the glory days of winning some rec Ultimate Frisbee competition at the local JuCo than putting on his only suit and going to a job interview that his dad had to set up for him because a resume that shows nothing but being the social chair their fraternity doesn’t exactly scream “Management Ready.”

Josh…
There are some things men know nothing about. Purses. Shoes. The Prime Time slot on the CW. And, of course, laundry.

Look, I get it. You don’t know a gentle cycle from tricycle, but you smell like hell. Who better to turn to than the woman who’s been washing your skid-marked tightie whities for as long as you can remember? Newsflash: She doesn’t actually enjoy that. I know the image of Susie Homemaker has been ingrained into your deepest memories due to your unhealthy attachment to Nick at Nite housewives, but soon you’re going to realize that your mom didn’t want to be Carol Brady, she wanted to be Lucy Ricardo.

Let’s be honest here. You haven’t separated white’s from colored’s since that awkward day in grade school when your 4th grade teacher decided to take the hands on approach to teaching about Black History Month. Well, guess what? Your mom doesn’t want that job either, you Aryan prick. That’s where Color Guard comes in. I don’t know if this technology was created by men, but it sure as hell is for men. With this crap, you can throw whatever you want in the wash, and you can be sure your Reading Rainbow t-shirt won’t turn you and your socks into a transgender Rainbow Brite.

So, what’s your excuse now? Nothing. Man up and clean up those pit stains, you sweaty, disgusting pig. And for crying out loud, call your mother and thank her for the years of torment she’s put up with.

Yes...the man speaks the truth. Give your poor mother a break from having to wipe your ass. Soon enough you'll starting dating a woman exactly like her so you can finally exercise those Oedipus like fantasy's you have and get your wash done and folded like a big boy. Until then, if the hamper is overflowing and you don't know what to wear to the latest Nickelback concert, do your mother a favor, man up and try to unwrap the mystery that is the laundromat. "$1.75 per load? What the f@#& does that even mean bro?"

Trust me, it'll be a wild ride.

-Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

9. You Go Dancing

No,

   I don't mean if your wife has ever drug you out to the club, or you had to partake in the electric slide at your sister's wedding to that douche bag Brad last summer. I mean if you've ever gone out with the express reason to dance...to "feel the music" or to "break somethin off." If you ever have the unsupressable desire to hear the latest cut from Lada Gaga or Flo Rida you've lost your all access pass to Manville. In fact you don't even deserve the upper terrace reserve tickets. I know, you think that girls may find it impressive when a man can "tear up the dance floor" but unconsciously we all know this..."that guy doesn't just 'know' how yo do this stuff, he has to practice some where...At home...alone...in front of the mirror at his studio apartment." 

Why is this the physical activity that you choose to spend your time trying to hone? At what moment in your adolescence did you go from playing catch and 1 on 1 to working on your "top rock" or attempting to "pop" and/or "lock?" You know what's more impressive than knowing how to rock it at the club? Having a steady job, self respect and dignity. The stench of a lonely, self loathing dance machine is impossible to cover up with any cologne known to modern man. Here is some advice, take off the dance shoes and learn how to draw female attention without becoming the most effeminate thing in the room.

Josh...

Oh yeah. I’m feeling the groove tonight, boys. Put down your cards, it’s time to fold ‘em. Finish up your beers, and turn off the game. Grab your jean jackets and break out that swagger, my friends. Tonight…we dance.

Look…guys don’t go dancing. In fact, we barely dance at all. Sure, we nod along to the beat if we like the song, maybe even a tap of the foot or knee, but we sure as hell don’t have any need to “hit the dance floor” or “bust a groove.” Guys get dragged onto the dance floor by girls, and we’re momentarily okay with that, mainly because our primary dance partner is the cold beverage in our hand, with a close second going to the stranger of the moment rubbing her inebriated posterior into our exterior. About the only dancing you’re going to get out of most guys is an awkward drunken dry-hump in a smoke-filled dive bar, followed by a slobbering stutter of a pick-up line and the reception of a fake number as she hammers out the first random grouping of digits she can think of, only for you to realize that there aren’t 17 numerals in a phone number, dumbass. But hey, that guy from Sweden was actually kind of nice.

Ahem.

What I’m awkwardly trying to say here is simply that guys don’t “go dancing.” We are occasionally forced into it to appease the ol’ ball and cha..I, uh, mean the significant other, and to make sure the family gets all the appropriate photo ops at Sol’s Bar Mitzvah. Guys go to the club to get drunk and watch other people dance. And by people, I mean girls. So pull up a bar stool with some pals and take in the scenery, and stop ruining it for the rest of us.

Oh, and by girls, I mean strippers.

In closing, lose the Lance Bass and JC Chasez obsessions and come back to glitterless world of manhood. Steve McQueen never went dancing, he just drove his Corvette straight into your mother's bedroom for for a different kinda of Mamba. Did you ever see Paul Newman out dancing? No, he hustled your dad for his week's pay and then put his cigarette out you old man's seltzer and said, "This here pool hall is for the big boys. If you can't handle it, I suggest you stick to your local Boys and Girls Club."

-Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

8.You Use Guyliner

Fellas,

   You gotta be shi***g me. For those of our readers who do not know, Guyliner is when a "so called" man wears eyeliner. This fad was just recently brought to my attention and I am somewhat appalled. Are you in the movies or on TV? If not, then you are never to break into your mother's make-up bag and adorn your girlfriendless face with this nonsense. Eyeliner is not for men. Period. End of discussion. Did you decide this was the "statement" you needed to make after you polished off your fourth Appletini while crying your way through "The Notebook" for the seventeenth time? Did you have the urge to "change your look" while finishing a bottle of Peach Schnapps after venting to your bestest friend about how people need to be nicer to Adam Lambert? Does dolling your eyes up like a some street walking Brooklynite from 1977 make you feel attractive? If so, throw away your big boy pants, you don't deserve them anymore. 

Men, real men, do not use, and more importantly do not NEED to wear any sort of make-up. Real men need pants, shoes, and a shirt. That is it, nothing more and nothing less.  We don't need a paint sprayer and some stencils before heading out for "a night on the town." We put on a clean shirt and "go grab a few drinks." We don't "put our face on" and "meet up with our besties." We "throw on our jackets" and "go meet the guys." These are simple but vast differences. The only accessories we need, are ones we already have, confidence and a set of balls.

And now a message from Josh Yakovitz:

Oh, look at you.. You’re a rock star now, huh? You’ve got the ‘tude, and now you have the makeup to go with it. You’re young. You’re hip. You’re “with it.” You told them you were hardcore.

You were wrong. Look, someday someone is going to call you out on your little facade. And once that happens, you won’t be needing your compact and a steady hand. That’s because some guy is going to catch you giving the raccoon stare to his girl, and he’s going to give you all the black outline you’ll ever need for those pearly blue’s.

Let’s run down the list. Are you in theatre? Hey, that stage is far away and the audience needs to be able to see you. Ok. Are you in the movies? Promo shots are important to that business. Sometimes the mood of the photo demands some changes. Are you going to a Fall Out Boy concert? See, now that’s a red flag. Not only do you have horrible taste in music, you’re telling everyone there that you came because you like the music, not because you’re girlfriend dragged you there since you agreed to go so long as she goes with you to the midnight Terminator premier and Rambo marathon. Additional points reduced if you go alone, or with one of your mascara wearing “buds.”

What was the thought process that led you to even try this? Were you watching Good Charlotte videos on YouTube one afternoon and just thought “Man…I really like the way his eyes just ‘pop’.” Or, more likely, you saw the throngs of girls in the audience screaming and singing along, ready to jump their skinny jeans at a moment’s notice. I’ve got news for you, it’s not the guyliner making them go crazy, it’s the fact that they have no idea what talent actually is.

Lose the makeup. Get a band.

Gents, it's time to give it up and get normal. If you want to stand out do something insane, like develop a personality. Who you are isn't defined by how much Cover Girl your purchase over the counter at Macy's, it's defined by actual substance and depth as a human being. It's 2009, join the rest of us in this thing called reality. If you prefer looking like shi* ran over twice, good luck at that next job interview when you hear the words "Umm, you're just not what we're looking for. We need someone who we can put in front of customers without them deciding to choose Captain D's instead."

-Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

7. Your favorite drink comes with an umbrella in it

Or...

     your weapon of choice is a Zima, or when you belly up to the rail you say the words "Fuzzy" or "Navel." Drinking and the ability to hold your liquor has long been seen as a rite of passage into manhood. As a man you must know your drink, how it is made, and more importantly, how much you can handle. Over the past couple of decades the line between what is acceptable for a man to drink, and what is down right wrong has been blurred to an unrecognizable point by the general acceptance that anything on the drink menu at your local Bar Clevername by owner Douche Baggalo is somehow acceptable. It isn't. You should never order a drink with catchy description as it's name. The name of a drink, should be what's in the drink. Whiskey and Coke, not Golden Dream, Vodka and 7, not Pink Squirrel, and Gin on the rocks, not Creamsickle. There are of course exceptions to this, Screwdriver, Bloody Mary, and Mimosa. These have been long established and fine for any man to drink. 

Now, wine coolers. Unless you're an 86 year old grandmother knocking a few back after bridge club, these are never to be consumed. If you like the taste, just put some bourbon in a glass of Kool-Aid and save some pride. Yea, the two old guys in the commericals from the 80's were funny, but I guarantee you they spit that filth out and downed a glass of Moon Shine right after the director yelled "cut." And further more, if this is your idea of drinking you should look into the mirror and strongly consider what happened along the road of your so called journey to manhood that turned you into a snivelling little sorority girl who's daddy's credit card just got cut off. 

I am a booze man, my friend Josh is a beer man...

Look, if you want something sweet, get a hard candy from your grandma. But if you want a drink, get a beer. Yeah, that’s right, a beer. Not that corn raised swill that commercial America is trying to shove down everyone’s throats, but a real, authentic, FLAVORFUL beer. Yeah. I said it. You throw down your credit card and ask for a Fuzzy Navel because you “like the taste” and “beer just doesn’t taste good.” Newsflash, nancy boy. If all you’ve ever had is a sip of your boyfriend’s watered down horse piss at your cousin’s wedding reception, you’ve never actually had a beer. You’ve never experienced the malty goodness of a Porter, or the kick in the teeth of a Double IPA. You’ve never known that you can have a beer brewed with coffee, fruit, and even chocolate. No, you just assume that you don’t like beer. That beer is all the same. 

I’ll put it into words you can understand. Next time you’re at dinner at Applebee’s because you “just want a really good steak,” and you look down at the drink menu and you think “I really like the blue one, but the yellow one isn’t very good.” . Beer is kind of like that. There’s a variety of flavors and experiences. No one blames you that you don’t like corporate crapwater. This is what’s referred to as a "Good Thing." But don’t let that stop you. Go out and get a beer. Your manhood will thank you.

“I just don’t like beer.” You sicken me. Get out of here, and don’t come back until you’ve ordered something that doesn’t say “Light” on the bottle.

So now that you have received your lesson in manliness for the day what you choose to do with what you have learned is your choice. If you choose to continue down your path of "Toasted Almonds" and "Pink Lady's" I have nothing else for you except this. Never come to my bar. If you are willing to change your ways and accept a life of being a man and all of the responsibilities that come with it, then saddle up between Josh and I and the first round is on us.

Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz

P.S. Other acceptable drinks: Ling Island Ice Tea, White Russian, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fizz

6. You Wax Your Chest

Okay,

   First, never trust a man who waxes his chest. Secondly, waxing your chest isn't a wild hair up your ass idea, this is something you've put time in to and planned your day around. You don't just squeeze in a chest waxing before watching the Saints and the Bears. A chest waxing is most likely something you planned before brunch at the Wellington's residence where you will discuss the market, the Belmont Stakes, and why you sons are both little nancy boys who whine about golf lessons and how their tennis instructor hurts their itty biddy feelings. 

My main question...why? Why in holy hell would you consider this practice? If it's because of a girl, trust me she's not worth it. She'll end up being a controlling, high maintenance, purse dog having, vodka guzzling, life sucking hag of an ex-wife who will drain you of any monetary worth and self esteem and leave you a tattered husk of your former self. 

Is it because you think it looks good? Gentleman, gentleman, gentleman, it most certainly does not. It makes you look twelve, and if you think that looks good, you're on the wrong website, get some help. A waxed chest on a man has never been a sign of virility, it's been a sign of prepubescence. 

Josh...

Alright, you hairless apes, listen up. There’s no reason to live like this. Why anyone would want to bathe their chest in Elmer’s and rip out their man-forest is beyond me. The pain alone is enough to deter me. No, I’m not talking about the pain of the act itself, but rather the pain of single-handily removing your mighty, hairy soul from your pathetic body. Now, let’s get something clear here. No one wants a bear skin rug to puff out like a scared bird every time you remove your shirt. Trim that beast back. Save everyone the horror of having to always wonder “…is…is that guy wearing a sweater in the pool? Oh God, it has Cheetoh’s in it.”

But just don’t wax. There are very few scenarios where this is acceptable. Like, say you’re about to win 8 gold medals for your country. That’s ok. Go to town. But the minute you step off of that 1^st place podium, it’s a one-way train straight back to Being-a-man-town. Another acceptable scenario is professional bodybuilding competitions. Because, let’s face it, a waxed chest is the least of your concerns when you factor in all the backstage towel-snapping.

If you don’t fall into one of these categories, you, my aerodynamic friend, need to man up. I don’t care if your girlfriend says she likes it. She’s lying. If she wanted someone with silky smooth pectorals, she could just close her eyes and remember that magical week at the all-girls Catholic Retreat. Put down that razor and pick up the remote. You’re a man. Look like one

In closing, men, it's time to put down the wax and pick up the pride. There is no need for this display of boyhood well into your adult life. The rest of us are calling you back where you belong, in the kingdom of sports, cars, and body hair. A place where you can scratch your chest and not leave a trail of red marks like Willem Defoe had in that Madonna movie. Remember those times when your grandfather said, "Drink this son, it'll put hair on your chest." he was right, now make him proud and stop pissing on his dreams.

-Will Saulsbery and Josh Yakovitz