Friday, January 27, 2012


Hi, everyone! Welcome to another edition of Ask-a-Dude!

Remember, you can ask your own questions using the entry form on the right!

Here's today's question:

Q: What's behind most guys' constant need to wrestle with and punch their buddies?

A:  A rich fantasy life.

Finally! A car specifically designed for white people!
When I was in high school I got my driver's license on the eighteenth try (something about my habit of clipping unwary bus patrons). I drove a white Ford Fairmont station wagon my dad stole from a hobo. No he didn't, but it looked and smelled like he did. By God, that was one sweet hooptie! It had four on the dash, dual-clutch sport suspension, freeze-hardened coil-overs and Henderson bust clamps. Yeah, I just made that shit up. Seriously, I know less about cars than I do about dryer lint.

When I drove that car I had three simple rules:

1. Never wear a seat belt
2. Always park with the nose facing out
3. Keep a crowbar within easy reach of the driver

I should NOT have flipped this guy off
Why? Duh. I didn't wear a seatbelt because I wanted to make sure I could escape quickly in the event of a fire. I parked with the nose facing out because I never knew when I'd need to make a fast getaway. And the crowbar was there because, you know, this guy -------->

Where on earth did I get the idea that my short roundtrip to and from my buddy's house for Dungeons & Dragons could be so dangerous?

From the male fantasy continuum. Like every guy who doesn't otherwise have a life, I believe that at any moment I could be recruited by an international spy ring. The fantasy goes like this. I'm standing in line at the grocery store, loading up on Marshmallow Fluff and tequila, when a beautiful woman in a trench coat walks up to me and says in tearful, broken English that the two brutes nearby aren't really interested in the “Five-for-Five” avocado sale. They are, in fact, there to kill her and steal the nuclear codes she came to possess while working at the Slobovian embassy. She pushes the codes into my hand and runs out the door where she dies in a hail of bullets. The two killers now turn their attention to me.

And this is what I've been training for. It is on upon Donkey Kong!

I slide over the hood of my ride, jump into the driver's seat and gun the motor. Because I had the foresight to park facing out, I gain a few precious seconds and escape my pursuers. But I'm no match for their souped up Escalade and they clip my car at the gas tank, causing my wagon to flip over and burst into flames. Thank GOD I'm not wearing my seat belt! I quickly emerge from the car into a hand-to-hand fight with two goons who fall to the business end of my crowbar.

Here's the picture in my mind's eye.

When Road Rage met 'Roid Rage: A Love Story
Nuclear Armageddon averted. You're welcome, world.

Pure fantasy, of course. But one that underpins such manly activities as throat-striking, leg-tripping and head-slapping. In guy-think, when I throw an apple at my bro's nuts, I'm simply preparing him for the James Bond torture scene in Casino Royale. When he turns a fun game of lawn darts into a bloody free-for-all, he's just hardening my psyche for my imminent kidnapping by Billy, the puppet from Saw.

In our fantasies, we are all suave secret agents who can field strip an M-16 while making sweet, sweet love to you. And what could be sexier?

I mean, besides everything?


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