Category Archives: Needs

Motorcycle: Masculinity Itself

The Getting of Motorcycle Wood.

I recently acquired a motorcycle.  For those of you unfamiliar with motorcycles, they are manliness given wheels.  To ride a motorcycle is to ride masculinity itself—no homo/a little bit of homo, as the bros say.  And let me be the first to tell you that when you mount masculinity itself, scissoring its thrumming engine between your thighs, it creates, shall we say, tingles and jingles in your downstairs.  The scientific nomenclature for what occurs is called Motorcycle Wood, the cousin of the more familiar and mainstream Morning Wood.  Needless to say, when you finish a ride of masculinity itself you must tarry a bit, twiddling your thumbs, straddling your machine, and waiting until the—ahem—firewood in your pants embers out or, in other words, the Sycamore you’re smuggling is timbered by a lumberjack or, if you’re lucky enough, another jack entirely.  You see what I did there?

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with untimely bulges, let me tell you:  It is the leading cause of Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame syndrome around the world.  If you see a fella hunching his otherwise straight back, giving some sports-related excuse for the bend, know that he has a bulge that is probably largely due to either you or the intense vibrations of city buses.  Consider this my PSA of the week:  Boners happen; don’t make it weird, people.

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Living alone: Where Cats Happen

Pretzel and me.

Living alone means three things: 1.) Eventually a cat will materialize out of thin air 2.) The aforementioned cat will keep to the following arc:  Stranger to pet, pet to friend, friend to lover, and, depending on your commitment, lover to spouse (Note:  Most cat-human relationships are polygamous, involving multiple felines) 3.)  You will intake excess amounts of Netflix and/or Hulu Plus.

I lived alone for half a year before my friend, Pretzel, apparated onto my doorstep.  We’ve lived together for a year now, and I’m beginning to think that I love him.  Sometimes I nuzzle my nose into his jowls and inhale; he smells of dander and ambrosia.  He is my drug and, on account of the catnip I sprinkle on my clothes and in my hair, I am his drug, too.  Yet, while I’m on the verge of loving my cat, something calls out to me:  Reese, you need a real friend.  A people friend.  How did I get to this point?  Allow me to recount:

Our almost-love began as a forbidden affair.  The consequences of our relationship were many.  To say that there were hurdles to overcome would not only be a disservice to the quandary I found myself in, but it would also suggest that I could allay it by leaping over a series of waist-high obstacles; that, sir, is preposterous and would not have helped at all.  Indeed, words and phrases like Not Allowed, Evicted, and I hope he’s potty-trained or you’re f****** were tossed around.  Needless to say, Pretzel and I lived a six-month interpretation of the Phil Collins song, Against All Odds.  During this time, all my people friends graduated and moved away.  I had one more quarter of school left, so I moved to an apartment complex with an attitude more accommodating to Pretzel’s and my situation.

I have been living in this new apartment for half a year now.  I have had a grand total of eight visitors.  If that sounds like a lot, consider that five of them were immediate family members.  Every night, Pretzel and I curl up to watch Bones, Castle, Scrubs, The Walking Dead, Up All Night, or some other TV show that reminds me of the bromance I am missing.  Sometimes I will feed Pretzel chicken out of my hand.  Recently, I’ve begun to try and make him snatch it from between my lips.  His breath is distinctly repugnant, but I’m beginning to like it.  I even tried licking his forehead to see if it would endear him to me; it didn’t, and he ran away.  I’m thinking of trying the same on a human female, but early polls suggest that I can expect a similar result.  Point is, I listened to some Michael Jackson (Man in the Mirror) and have since looked in the mirror.  Despite my initial distraction–compliments of and to my good looks–I began to see that I have slowly, over the past year, transitioned into a crazy, old cat lady.

So that is where I’m at right now.  Living alone and ascribing a more loveable personality to my cat by the day.  Who knows, soon Pretzel might not be enough.  Maybe his long-lost brother, Schnitzel, will magically appear to help unsuccessfully fill the void left by my people friends.  After Schnitzel, maybe Falafel, followed by Juniper, followed by Rufio, followed by *Chicken (you can’t live forever, Tori), followed by **Pookenshtein and ***Nimbus (ditto, Owen and Anna), followed byoh, well, you get the point!  Soon all the cats in the world will be mine.  Rawr.




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A Ramble

Notice the man cleavage. That's how you know you're doing it right.

Full disclosure?  I have hipster tendencies.  But so what if my deep-v facilitates a man nip-slip here and there.  Ladies love a little mammary.  It’s one of the many ways that I let the ladies know what they are working with:  A mammal.  And yes, I frequent Urban Outfitters…that is, I have ever since I realized that Urban Outfitters wasn’t a clothing store catering to, shall we say, inner-city denizens?  (Note: I’m not a racist, you made the leap.  And about that leap:  You ought to be ashamed).  Regardless, or irregardless for those of you who maintain that two wrongs do make a right, I have hipster tendencies, yet I am not a hipster.  Now, before you object on the basis that those who are hipsters intrinsically deny their affiliation with hipsterdom, allow me to clarify:  I do not wear flannels unless I am going  Lumberjacking, to the 90’s, or to the store to pick up a gratuitous amount of Brawny paper towels.  Moreover, I do not have a fixed-gear bike (though I admit, a strong case could be made against my bike, albeit for aesthetic reasons).  I do not have a tattoo, and I do not have a Tattoo.  I do not think bands “sell-out.”  I think bands begin to make money.  Basically, I am a real person in hipster’s clothing.  Why is this important?  It’s not, but I thought you should know.

In other news, I’ve given up on my dream of becoming the leader of a crew.  Instead, I adjust my attention to bromance.  A bromance mandates man-dates, which is always a plus because it allows, nay, necessitates a pun.  Basically, I need a bromance to affirm that I am a desirable man to men.  Sure, women respond to me the way ice responds to fire (they melt, and then things get a little wet, damp, moist, and, given the previous adjectives, surprisingly dirty), but men are mostly immune to my animal magnetism.  They think I’m queer (definition circa 1870)  or queer (definition circa now), neither of which are bad, just lonely.  I want a Downey to my Law, an Affleck to my Damon, a Brock to my Ash, a Bush to my Blair, a Bush to my Jesus, a Lando to my Han, a Chewbacca to my Han.  You get the drift.  If you want to strike up a bromance with me, send me your man data* and maybe we can have a mandated man-date.  Until next time, word to your mother.


*Note: This is NOT code, or innuendo suggesting that you send me pictures of your junk.  If you do, I admit I will look at it.  Then I will laugh.  Then I will post it, thus eliminating your chances at becoming president. 

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A Leader in Search of a Crew: Inquire Within

See above:  There’s a reason my reflection has the pet-name, Perflection.

I have spent the last month half-naked, trolling the halls of my house in search of my kitty, something to nom nom on (Nutella?), or, generally speaking, my life’s purpose.  Sure, it’s invigorating whenever I chance upon a mirror or reflective surface during my haphazard strolls between my computer and my kitchen–yes, I am that good-looking–but most of the time I am depressed.  With the exception of being über-attractive, talented beyond all get-out, and white, I have nothing going for me.  Why is this?  The answer is simple:  I have no crew.

A crew is what you see in sitcoms all the time:  A close-knit group of buddies with a strict pecking-order that starts with the buffoons and flunkies, finds the median at the sidekicks and second-in-commands, and then, of course, ends with the leader.  With the successful execution of this sentence, I will have mined my mind of the mettle required to be such a leader.  Indeed, I have creativity out the wazoo, I ooze charm like pimples ooze puss; now, I just need the rest:  A crew.

The first order of business is to find a second-in-command.  This is the principal obligation because, even if I were to fail in finding the rest, if I find a second-in-command, the worst I could do is a duo.  Honestly, duos aren’t that bad because there is still a stringent hierarchy in duos.  My second-in-command needs to be the Robin to my Batman, the Garfunkel to my Simon, the Trotsky to my Lenin, the Andrew Ridgeley to my George Michael, the Jesus to my Republican Party, the Abu to my Aladdin, the Russian Winter to my Russian War Strategy, the Brick Bazooka to my Chip Hazard, and etcetera.  You get the point.  Anyways, it is imperative that I find someone to stand by my side and embrace the inferiority complex attached thereto.

My old sidekick and me…

Next comes the hooligans:  They are a lovable bunch of stock and static characters, really.  Depth of character is highly discouraged in the rank-and-file of a crew.  A crew, sans the duo at the top, is a horde of sycophants for hire.  The key is to snatch the thoughtless throng before it attaches itself to another viable leader.  Take it from a man actively searching for a crew:  Minions are an elusive bunch.  They offer little, save loyalty, but I need that loyalty in my life.

The next logical question is this:  How does one find a crew?  Unfortunately, I am in the midst of a trial-and-error search for the very answer to that question.  I have neither the sidekick nor the stooges it to takes to make a crew.  I am a lonely leader looking for someone(s) to lead.  If you or someone you know is sidekick material, let me know.  I am fielding applications until further notice.  If you or someone you know struggled with the concepts of this blog, let me know:  You or that someone you know just might have the stuff it takes to be one of my flunkies!


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