In a surge of ultimate socio-patheticness (sic), I decided that I would let go of all my friends in exchange for new friends. Bros, chums, pals, distant buddies, acquaintances, et al. Now, there’s nothing wrong with my current set of friends, but to paraphrase a classic break-up line, “it’s not them, it’s me”. Yes, I have outgrown them with my unique blend of awesomeness and intellect. Actually, to be completely honest, I decided to hold on to the acquaintances for a bit longer, in case any of them could be a channel to some new friends. But, as I realized very soon, I need bros. Every guy does. Just one or two will do, but I need them. And now that I’ve shed off my ex-bros, I am on the look out for new ones. It’s not anywhere near as easy as it sounds when you’re past thirty. Continue reading →

No, the title is not an analogy – this story really is about just that. If you’re a straight guy, and have had (or are in) a relationship that goes beyond the one night stand, chances are your female partner has, or will soon enough, take you for a trip to the lingerie store. Oh, the horror, you think. But hey, be brave, live it out man. Because the woman, let me tell you, does not understand the troubles of taking a guy to the lingerie shop. She really doesn’t. To her, it’s just “my-man-takes-the-trouble-to-help-me-choose-lingerie-because-he’s-supportive”, but really, girl, you’re in a bra shop, how much more “support” do you need.

The trouble is, a lingerie store presents a variety of conflicting situations which, whether true or not, exist inside the guy’s mind. True, you do learn that there’s way more to women’s intimates than just hot bras and panties, but I would really rather learn that through experience – standing in a bra shop is like reading the “Plot” section in a movie’s Wikipedia entry. Oh, and what the fuck is a Camisole? Apparently, it’s a bit like a slip, but not quite. Continue reading →

Our minds are different, for each of us. And that mind is more powerful than us, as human beings. If it decides that, for example, blood is blue, then come what may, blood will be blue. And if it decides that, when projecting the image of our own reflections in the mirror, we are beautiful, then that’s what we are. But, let’s face it, there’s plenty of you out there that are not. And some are even more revolting to look at than others. But even for them, in their own minds, they are beautiful. And this, dear friends (beautiful and ugly ones) is where our story begins.

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Getting hit in the balls – every guy has been through that at least once in their life, if not more. I myself can remember three of mine. And it’s nasty, I tell you; nasty as hell. And that isn’t even the worst bit. What makes the experience all the more unpleasant is your usually loyal friends’ unwillingness to drop everything and come to your aid with, if not an ice pack, then at least a shard of sympathy. But no. The moment that taped-tennis ball (yeah, that’s how we play cricket, us real men) takes an odd bounce off the tarmac and smashes you in the jewels, or you run crotch first into the corner of your work-mate’s desk, or your ex-wife’s bitchier best friend decides to deliver some vigilante justice via her knees, your friends, even the closest ones, break into a fit of laughter. And it’s not just a chuckle or mild giggle followed by them rushing to help you. It’s one of those uncontrollable, keel-over-and-drop-with-legs-spasming laughs which (pain ignored momentarily) make you look back and examine that friendship on a larger scale. It always messed me up. I always wondered what it was that would turn my nearest and dearest almost against me, and send them over to a dark side where my busted nuts were a source of amusement. And then, one day, Monty got it in the sack. And I understood. Continue reading →