Stew Miller Musings and Rants
I Complain (Oh, and Doodle), You Read and/or Comment, Everyone is Happy… IT’S SO SIMPLE!

MEN. ‘Nuff Said.

Okay, so that’s a smidgen of a misnomer, otherwise I could just stop writing right there and call it a day: Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma’am! But, you know me better than that.

Talking candidly and, even more so, coldly, about men is basically the same idea as launching a preemptive strike on a cask full of cod: you can’t miss regardless of how you shoot. Even so, most literary lashings on men are written by, surprisingly: women. Women, though soft and kind and generally not severely annoying, are not, typically, men. Therefor, one could realistically conclude that women have no clue what’s going on with men aside from the fact that they do, on level ground, own the hell out of them. So, if you really want to know what the deal with guys is, you’ve come to the right place, because, I am proud to announce that I, as I look down just to make absolute sure, am owned by my wife. Oh, and also a man.


Men have big, nasty, furry faces that, if left unchecked for extensive periods of time, need to be weeded and mowed. Seriously, it is incredibly comparable to yard maintenance and equally as tedious. In fact, I just checked my cheeks this very moment as a knee-jerk reaction and I need to shave lest I sand off the faces of those around me with the slightest touch. I will shave later this morning and I will use the bathroom sink. I will also cover the complete outer-sink surroundings with shaving crumbs and bits of sloughed off fur that will look like someone just sheared a yeti. It’s inevitable, it’s pretty nasty, and it happens all of the time because, as a man, I exude follicular facial flotsam and that’s just the way it is. Oh sure, I do my best to clean up the offensive collection, but I can never get it good enough for my wife and I will, without fail, hear all about it. So there you go, mystery solved.


Peter Griffin said it best when he quipped, “There is nothing sexier a woman can do for a man than share his gas.” Well, maybe so, but I know for a fact that my cheek slappers are not for the faint of heart. Generally they are tolerable and only receive the standard “Nice Going” look I get from my wife, or the “Nice Job” laughter I get from my kids (he he). Both are acceptable and illicit fist pumps from me followed there after by even more farts to appease my fans. Sometimes, oh sweet Jesus sometimes, my trouser puffs are downright blinding and nauseating. This is when you women know that your man is deeply, madly, and eternally in love with you; when he can loose a barking spider that smells identical to a rotted fish carcass covered in heat-scorched mayonnaise. If your guy, while the two of you are snugly catching up on Extreme Makeover episodes, feels it’s A-OK to sour the area with a stench so repugnant you’d swear a dog just vomited the cat poop he just ate right under your blanket, he is a keeper. The man, not the dog. So, the lesson here is simple: men fart, some women fart, but the difference is while women excuse themselves slightly embarrassed, men celebrate with high fives and even more gas. It’s okay.


Hey ladies, if your man is a real man, with a real penis, he does not like Chick Flicks but will not hesitate to tell you the opposite just to make you happy. Men like it when women are happy because that means that as men, we, can legally be happy, too. When asked on a Friday night, “Honey, I know you’d rather see Blood Fight XII, would it be okay if you took me to see The Daffodil Blooms Eternal instead?” Oh goodness would we so much rather see a movie featuring a futuristic ninja master transforming robot with sixty chainsaws than a love story oozing more sap than a syrup factory, but we do. We, as men, love our women to the point of accompanying them to ‘THE LOVE STORY OF OUR CENTURY’ so you won’t avoid us like the plague for the next seven days and nights. But trust me, while watching said movie, glazed over like a Krispy Kreme, we are either thinking about the sweet fight scenes and explosions we’re currently missing, or else the mounds of lovin’ we’ve earned. Oh, and we have.


I am a man, as I have stated, and I do know how to perform some pretty useful functions when called upon to do so. In fact I have just recently added several more handy-man skills to my repertoire so I’m pretty set when it comes to most things. Oh, I am also an awesome cook and I can fix the hell out of your computer. I have a lot going for me and, if I were still single, I could puff out my ruby throat sack and snatch a mate super quick. But I am married and I have proven myself time and again already and, hopefully, I will never have to do it again. However, not all men can do even half the stuff that I can. Does this make these men less manly because of it? Your damn right it does, but they are still men, in the descriptive sense of the word, anyway. Conversely, some men can do more than I can like, for instance, bench press a tractor tire and fix an ’82 Buick fuel line with a Bic pen. Does this fact turn me into a meager representation of a guy? No. My article, my rules. Basically what I’m trying to say is, if your man can put up crisply level shelves but can’t change his own oil, start sleeping with your mechanic. No, seriously, he is still your man, deal with it.


All women know, just from observing, that males are much more closely related to wild boars than to actual humans. Also the casual keen eye of the woman can tell them that dudes dig meat. If you haven’t watched your woman’s face and reactions to the way you consume your food, take a second next time you’re using your back molars to gnaw through a three-inch thick hunk of beast. She couldn’t want to be further away from you at that moment than if you were physically engulfed in flames. Oh sure, we all know that forks and knives are not just there for pretty table decoration (spoons, maybe) and we are given napkins to aid us in proper table etiquette, but that doesn’t dissuade us from visibly de-evolving into those guys from the Geico ads. We were the hunter/gatherers of our neanderthal hey-days and we took our jobs seriously by inhaling whole mammoth shanks in one bite. So, ladies, as we gorge on our food and make your stomachs churn at the very sight of it, at least be happy we didn’t eat it bloody raw. Unless it’s tenderloin, then it damn well better be.

That ought to do it for now. There are numerous Man items remaining, but I will leave those for when I’m not thinking about my wife eating steak starkers. I gotta go.



2 Responses to “MEN. ‘Nuff Said.”

  1. So…umm…I take it from the daily blogs and MySpace page that you are currently sans J-O-B? If not, you have one heck of a boss!

  2. This one is BLOGALICIOUS and right on the mark !
    Blog ON, oh wise one…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: