The 5 Worst Things About Being a ManPosted: November 14, 2011
I don’t care how old you are, when you go bald your life is over. You better be Black, because if not then you have to go to the hat section at Target and decide what kind of a douche you want to be. Or you can pretend to be really into sports and go the Baseball cap route, but either way you’re going to have to take off your hat for the national anthem. When you do get ready to drop down at least two pegs on the hot chart, and move from marriage material to godparent material. And don’t even think about hair plugs because you might as well wear a shirt that says “I am a rapist.”
There’s nothing that I find less awkward then whipping out my penis in public and aiming it at piece of porcelain while my piss splashes all over my dress pants with my boss standing next to me. Now let me just turn the other way while I try to convince my penis into going back into my underwear without it dribbling any urine on my shoes. Oh great, now I can feel pee running down my leg.
If you decide to be a man then you better hate bright colors, patterns that don’t involve stripes, accessories, neckline variety, prints, volume, and basically anything else that would make clothes fun or exciting to put on. While stores have gotten better about fit in recent years (I remember the days when Target didn’t carry size small shirts, and it wasn’t until this year that they offered slim fit jeans), the selection is still abysmal. Looking for an orange t-shirt? Good luck with that. What about a printed a-shirt? You better be prepared to fork over $22 at evil conglomerate Urban Outiftters. But you noticed one for $10 in the Target women’s section? Forget what you saw.
I don’t care what girls say, for them looking good is easy. If you’re a woman, all you have to do is eat nothing and go the gym every day to look bored while you run for 4 hours on the treadmill. Guys, on the other hand, have to do at least 30 different exercises per work out, navigate a complex maze of nutrition, and somehow determine how many reps, sets, and days a week that they need to dedicate to working out their brachioradialis muscles. If you do any of these things incorrectly, expect results never and pain immediatley.
Ever have one of those days when your penis randomly engorges with blood just in time for you to stand up and give a presenation on Cameroon in front of the whole French class? You better untuck your shirt and pretend that you suddenly need to locate your keys, because those polyester-wool blend pants from H&M show everything. Not working? Penis painfully caught on something? Just kind of scamper up to the front of the class and hope that your downstairs neighbor settles into a less visible position before your fellow Francophiles think that West Africa turns you on.