October 23, 2005

You Gotta Be Kidding Me...

Fox News is telling me that there's a new brand of man in town. Now leaving the effete metrosexual in the dust is the hunka-hunka burnin' ubersexual, positioned somewhere on the spectrum between metro-man*^ and caveman. How to spot the ubersexual? A few telling signs: while the metrosexual might highlight his hair, indulge in chemical peels, and vie for mirror-time with his significant other, the ubersexual is, I am told, somewhat closer to the traditional "man's man" than previously labeled varieties. An ubersexual, while careful of his personal grooming, would never go so far as to, say, shave his chest. An ubersexual makes his woman feel protected, feminine. An ubersexual won't bitch about picking up the tab at dinner, or mowing the lawn, or performing any of the other time-honored tasks generally assigned to the male sex role.

In short, an ubersexual seems to be a pretty regular dude.

Men, naturally, are confused by all this. So are wimmin, evidently, since polls indicate that wimmin don't know what the fuck they want. Look, you! If you're a man, and you're looking to media outlets to tell you what wimmin want, there's your first problem. Second, remember that wimmin are, like men, individuals who all desire something different from their prospective mates. Some chicks seek the metrosex. Some dig the caveman. Some want their boys sensitive, new age - and some want their men completely neutered. For further explication of that last category, see my husband's ex-wife.

Men, do not think that I am unsympathetic to your plight in this day and age of constantly shifting expectations. I'm not. My mother calls me regularly, to tell me things like, "flat chests are in this year," and "curly hair is out this season." What the fuck? I'm supposed to rip my tits off because some cunt in a New York design house thinks they're tacky? Supposed to shave my head because some gay fashionista has declaimed my hair outré? My mother, lord help her, lives in a constant state of upset because she listens to all this bullshit, and can never hit the moving goalpost. I learned a long time ago to ignore ninety percent of that "in" and "out" labeling crap, and am a happier woman (wymin? wommin?) for it.

No, boys, I understand all too well. Moreover, I think most wimmen out there do, too. Ignore the magazines, and relax. Be yourselves. Bathe. Go to the dentist from time to time. Work hard. Buy new clothes every few years or so. Treat your dates like you'd want someone dating your mama to treat her...until it's time for the fucking to commence, at which point it's perfectly okay ask her what she wants. If she doesn't know, experiment. If she still ain't happy, fuck it. You've got a bloodless cunt on your hands; my advice is to run...and find you another woman. Wimman. Wommin. Whatever.

Finally, remember this: whether ye be metro, uber, cave, or homo, there's someone out there who'll like you just fine. As for me? I like 'em uber, with latent caveman tendencies and a side of fries.

*Just kidding, Velocipater. You know I think you're a raging hottie and that I'd eat you with a spoon but for the respect I bear your Bride...that, and I know you can take a joke.


^Upon further reflection, and remarks from a commenter, I find it is necessary to state that Velociman is, in fact, the prototype Uber. That is all.