A guy thing

November 5, 2007

Unless you have led a monastic existence for the past 10 or 15 years or so, you probably have a computer and at least one email account.

If so, it is a given that you will receive a certain percentage of messages you did not ask for.

Many of those will offer you easy ways to increase the size of certain body parts, even if your own particular genetic coding failed to give you those parts in the first place. Think of it as a kind of back-handed democracy, a utopian realm where everybody, male or female, may be offered the opportunity to possess a penis the size of a Saturn V rocket, or boobs like grain silos.

You will also have received tens of thousands of bad jokes, some of which have been zipping around in cyberspace as long as there has been such a place, sort of like The Flying Dutchman ghost ship, doomed to sail the seas forevermore, for reasons I have forgotten.

Not long ago, I received a packaged of moldy old “It’s a guy thing” jokes. You know what I mean. Jokes about how guys do things that just don’t make sense, not only to women, but to some guys.

I always like to point out that I was raised in The South, where some of us like to suggest that in a lot of cases the last words a man ever utters are prefaced by the phrase “Hold my beer and watch THIS.”

It is mostly blue-collar folks, a group in which I claim proud membership, because life does not seem to have a lot of meaning if you can’t salute it with one’s middle finger from time to time. This is just basic human nature, especially among those who work for a living and who are hanging on by the skin of their teeth to what they’ve built. People who are poorer and live in ghettos and what not don’t need crazy stunts to thumb their noses at the fates. For those folks, just walking down the street is a crap shoot.

And the rich….you’re kidding me, right? To a rich person, living on the edge means sending the children of blue-collar people to fight for oil in far away countries and seeing how far up you can drive the price of crude oil. The excitement never stops.

OK, so I stopped my car to chat with a neighbor earlier today. We commented on how delightful the weather was. It was so nice, he said, that he went out into the woods with some buddies to cut firewood. It was a beautiful day, he said. Yes, but it was a shame to spoil it by having to cut wood, I opined.

No, he said, it was fine. We had beer. And chainsaws. And liquor and a skid loader to move the wood. It was damned near perfect, he said.

So, what was missing?

“Firearms. After awhile, I got to thinking that I wish I’d taken my pistol,” he lamented.

“Two chainsaws, the truck, beer and liquor….hell, I can’t think of EVERYTHING,” he said.

You may read reports that Americans don’t get as much leisure time as their European counterparts.

That might be true. But I’d be willing to wager that they don’t know how to have fun as INTENSELY as we do. No way.

Is this a great country, or what?


© 2007 Marsh Creek Media,

Gettysburg, Pa.

“Burger to Go” is a product of me and my company, Marsh Creek Media and, as such, I am solely responsible for its content.

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