SEX SEX TITS FOOTBALL TITS ASS YOUR ASS YOUR TITS HOCKEY BASEBALL PASTRAMI SEX BASEBALL SEX ROAST BEEF NEW SOCKS BLOW JOB MICKEY MANTLE BRETT FAVRE TITS ASS BLOW JOB I WONDER HOW FAR I COULD THROW A FOOTBALL RIGHT NOW NO WARM UP JUST HAUL OFF AND SLING THE GODDAM THING SEX PROBABLY LIKE 40 YARDS CINDY CRAWFORD'S ASS KATE MOSS WITH A RUNNING START I COULD PROBABLY THROW IT LIKE 55 YARDS PIZZA PIZZA WITH A COLD BEER I'M WHAT? MAYBE FIFTEEN FEET AWAY FROM THE WASTEBASKET, BET I COULD TOSS THIS DIET COKE CAN IN FROM HERE WITHOUT HITTING THE RIM JENNIFER ANISTON JENNIFER ANISTON CHEESEBURGER I HAVEN'T SWUNG A BASEBALL BAT IN A LONG FUCKING TIME JENNIFER ANISTON'S ASS JENNIFER ANISTON'S TITS JENNIFER GARNER'S SHOULDERS ARE TOO BIG TITS MY GIRLFRIEND'S TITS MY GIRLFRIEND'S ASS BLOW JOB SEX QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE.
That's why flop sweat sets in when you ask what's on our mind because we KNOW that almost any of these thoughts do not fit the mood you might be in or even make any practical sense. But they're true.
Our emotional makeup is made up of sports and sports memories. We don't cry-unless our favorite player is forced to retire or we're watching a movie ABOUT a sport or a favorite player who retires or any movie connected to baseball-which almost always reminds us of our dads. You may wonder why your man won't shed a tear while you collapse on his shoulder during Leonardo DiPussio's death by freezing ocean in Titanic-but stick a Field of Dreams DVD in the entertainment center and fast forward to the scene where Kevin Costner plays catch with his dad? That's a different story. Ever hear of Brian's Song? Google it. Buy a copy. Slap it in the DVD player. Watch your other half melt into a puddle when James Caan does his deathbed speech to Billy Dee Williams. Guys know what I'm talking about.
Men communicate on a separate plane-almost the way dogs can hear-unless you are one of the species you cannot comprehend. Next time your guy is talking to another guy while they watch a game, listen closely. What they say has a double meaning:
GUY #1: How 'bout those Red Sox, huh? (translation: Hey, how you doin'?)
GUY #2: Yeah, goddam Ortiz, man-he's killin' the ball. (translation: I'm doin' alright.)
GUY #1: You see the game last night? (translation: How's everything with the wife?)
GUY #2: Holy shit. What a catch Ellsbury made. (translation: Everything's great.)
GUY #1: I TiVoed the game so I was skipping through the commercials and shit, I almost missed it. But then I watched it three times in a row-amazing. (translation: Me and the wife had sex so I couldn't watch the game live but I TiVoed it and watched it with the sound down after she went to sleep.)
And so on and so forth.
You will notice a big bisection of The Female Brain contains an overriding interest in children while The Male Brain seemingly contains none.
Look closer. A man's interest in children and work is contained in the giant section labeled "Sex." We go to work to get money to help attract a woman who will want to have sex with us. When we have enough sex with a certain girl for a long enough period of time, our work ethic and the resultant money goes to her to feed and clothe and shelter the kids the sex will produce. It's that simple. And if you die? We will be very, very sad for a long, long time.
Like-three weeks.
Then we will meet another girl who wants to have sex with us and the whole process starts all over again. I know-it enrages you that you could be killed in a car crash or hit by a bus or contract some fatal disease and less than a month after you are placed in the cold, cold ground-the love of your life is bonking a bottle blonde. We all know women who have buried their husbands or lovers and never managed to muster up that same amount of love for another man-sometimes spending decades on their own-a picture of her handsome husband sitting above the fireplace. I know a woman who has had a searing, endless crush on a single guy she works with for over five years now-not only does he have no interest in sleeping with her, he's actually moved in with another woman, who he is now engaged to. The chick I know? Still hoping, still waiting. Doesn't work that way for men.
You have a mega crush on a girl and you make the move and she tells you to take a hike? You move on. More than likely to a girl who kinda looks the same. We don't get picky-we just get busy.
There are countless public examples. Paul McCartney-worth about five hundred zillion dollars. The love of his life Linda dies a long, diabolical death while fighting breast cancer and less than three months later he is banging a one-legged lunatic half his age. Why? Because she offered it. He was horny and hungry and she must have given great head and grilled cheese. Plus, he's a big pothead so he probably figured the fake leg would come in handy for smuggling marijuana on international private jet-set flights.
Why would ex-Beatle Paul pick a gimpy bitch when he could more than likely have had a swarm of two-legged girls to romance and take to bed without having to worry about whether they needed a bedpan or a crutch or maybe even a walker in order to take a piss in the middle of the night? Two reasons: Heather fucked him first and Heather fucked him first.
That's it.
You have to understand the word "smitten." If a guy becomes smitten by you and your body-it's over for him. His money his mind his cock his car-he will give it all up if a girl makes him happy. Her interests become his interests-and I mean pronto.
I live on a farm full of horses. I grew up in the city and the closest I'd ever come to horses were in old western movies and-if I had ever bothered to look close enough-on the ingredient section of some dog food cans. I viewed horses as ten-thousand-dollar lawnmowers. Then I met my wife. She grew up riding and loving and dreaming about horses. So, now I have horses-who I not only love and also dream about-but am learning to ride. If my wife had been into bumblebees, I would stand-as you read this-out in a field full of insects and flowers with a bee-keeper's hat and gloves on shouting "Annie-big motherfucking bee at three o'clock!" I'd have honey stains in my underwear and sting salve sitting on my sink and love every goddam black-and-yellow minute of it.
I met my wife literally across a crowded room twenty-five years ago. When she stepped into the doorway and I first saw her, it wasn't so much that my knees buckled-it was more of total soul collapse. All the blood in my body went into my shoes and then shot straight back up into my brain-twice. Now that was probably a purely visceral response-my penis knew that looks-wise, she was right in my wheelhouse. SO in my wheelhouse that if she was even remotely smart and funny-I was a dead man.
Which I was.
Right after she started talking and making me laugh.
Twenty-five years and two kids and a lot of ups and downs and arguments about everything from how much pepper I put on my potatoes to why I don't bother to put my clothes from today into the laundry hamper tonight (answer? Because I'm planning on wearing them again tomorrow morning) in sickness and in health, in good times and the bad, for better or worse and four marriage counselors later (one was an asshole, one was an idiot and the third one I'm pretty sure was a Yankees fan)-I still wake up and wonder how I got so lucky.
By the way, guys-here's a few quick and easy steps to follow before you enter the first session with your wife and the marriage counselor. I found these to be very, very helpful:
1. It's all your fault.
2. Really. The fault is yours.
3. Still your fault.
Write those down on some five-by-eight-inch index cards and flash-memorize them. Better yet-stick 'em in the glove compartment for safekeeping.
A lot of women I know not only need to be in therapy, they prefer to talk to a male therapist. Why?
Because he's a guy whose JOB it is to listen.
To listen and learn.
About them.
Listen as they register all of their complaints, anxieties, worries, frets, marital woes and relationship friction. Listen INTENTLY as they ramble on and on about their husbands, their mothers, their fathers, their step-dads, their sisters, their bosses-it all gets laid out and the man in the room has to keep two very wide-open ears.
The Man Shrink. The perfect partner.
He nods and squints and murmurs in agreement and when he asks her a question to probe further it's almost always offered up as "How did that make you feel?" or "How did you feel about that?" or "Did that make you feel such and such a way blah blah sympathy blah?"
The Man Shrink takes mental notes and pays rapt attention and is absolutely guaranteed to agree with her. For forty-five minutes. Then-it's time to go.
Man Shrinks are the female version of hookers.
You pay him to provide a necessary service that has a strict time limit and though it involves what seems to be an incredibly intimate exchange-you don't see or talk to him again until the next time you pay him.
Plus, this kind of prostitution is not only legal-it can make your marriage or relationship better. And let's face it-you want her to be happy.
The girl in your life will always be better than a life without your girl. She will make you a finer, more upstanding citizen in our society-and not just in a psychological sense.
Every guy I know has had the experience of seeing another guy he knows amble into a room sporting a fresh new frou-frou haircut, six-hundred-dollar designer jeans and something akin to clown shoes. No one wonders if he joined the circus. No one asks him why his eyebrows no longer meet. They all know he got dressed and groomed by the new girl in his life. Hey-it happens to the best of us. They take your cash and use it to rebuild you.
Which brings up another difference between the sexes. Paul was sixty-something years old, a multibillionaire and incredibly famous when he and Heather hooked up. She was thirty-three and had eight cents in her plastic foot. And claimed she was "in love." Uh-huh. Why is it young chicks-bipeds or single-wheeled-never fall "in love" with sixty-four-year-old janitors. Or hobos?
Would Donald Trump have had such a parade of young pussy pass through Trump Tower over the last five decades if he didn't OWN the fucking thing? Are women at least half his age really that attracted to fourteen strands of dyed blond hair that are teased and tickled and duct-taped into submission until they somehow form a semi-circle of bangs that swoop down like a hair hawk across his forehead before ending up in a nest just above his coat collar?
And the answer is? No. It's the buildings, stupid.
Name the last man in his early thirties or late twenties that you know of who married a rich woman at least twice his age?
Need more time? Go ahead.
Here it is-Donald Trump's first wife, Ivana-listed at sixty years old but you can add a good four or five years to that-and her thirty-six hairgellin'-megaMetro-sexual-year-old ьber-Euro-trash-boyfriend Rossano Rubicondi. You make up your own jokes about this union, his name and his motivations and please feel free to insert them right here.
Because guys can't do it. Unless they're gay and there's no sex involved. Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore is the closest we can come. She was forty-two and he was twenty-seven when they fell in love. That's a difference of only fifteen years. And they may both be fine with it three years later, even as I write this.
But two decades from now-when the kabbalah bracelets and the Botox both stop working their magic, she needs new tits again AND a hip replacement and he's about to hit fifty with a bald spot or two-let's see how much resistance he has when Jessica Alba's daughter is hitting on him during the shooting of Dude, Where's My Car Part Seven.
Straight men don't dance, remember birthdays or marry chicks with hearing aids.
We also don't date women who are on death row, which is another compartment in The Female Brain. If you are a guy and you kill your parents or a stranger or your ex-wife or just snap like a twig and take out thirteen of your co-workers-and society decides not to turn you into a human sloppy joe strapped to an electric chair-women will flock to visit you. It happens time and time again. A guy gets life behind bars and the fan mail flounders in. Pretty soon some buxom chick from Biloxi or a local cookbook author from Columbus is getting hitched to a guy she will only be able to have sex with in a five-foot-wide metal trailer once a month for fifteen minutes. Why? I guess because they know where you are. And you love them. They can tell by all the wonderful sweet nothings you write in your letters, which you are only writing because you don't have access to porn (and she sent you a Polaroid of her tits). And she knows you won't cheat on her-unless it's with Mack the Truck from Cellblock B-whose tits might be bigger but have a shitload of hair on them.
This plan would never work for guys. If Brad Pitt had met Angelina Jolie through an exchange of letters while she was assigned to a Federal Penitentiary for her next nine lives-he may have gone to see her in the trailer twice. MAYBE three times.
After that-just too long of a drive.
Two and a half hours there, five minutes of sex, ten minutes of whining about how much the system sucks and how the guards are all talking about her behind her back and how her mother won't stop telling her how she threw her life away and blah blubbedy I'm thinking of getting your face tattooed on my ass but first I have to have Billy Bob's name erased and do you think the fact that I could fit both his first names on my ass means my ass is too big and blub I wanna adopt my Nigerian cellmate blib and then the bell goes off ending the session and Brad still has a two-and-a-half-hour drive back home.
Not really worth the trip.
