The life of a working father is often an exercise in emasculation. It’s hard to feel like a Man when you’re sitting in a cubicle with gray carpeted walls or folding your wife’s fresh-from-the-dryer bras or meticulously wiping the tushie of a three-year-old so she doesn’t leave yet another skid mark in yet another pair of her Care Bear underpants. But in this world of incessant compromise and metaphorical castration at virtually every turn, there is oh-so-fortunately one place where a Man can still find some semblance of sanctuary: the barbecue.

There is something distinctly manly about standing in one’s own backyard, a pair of metal tongs in one hand and a cold beer can in the other, listening to the sizzle of red animal flesh over hot metal and glowing coal. A man looks up from the grill, squints through the smoke, takes a chug of his Schlitz and stands alone as the king of all he surveys (which in my case is a brown lawn peppered with dog shits, some peeling stucco and a boy who trots around the yard hitting the aforementioned dog shits toward his little sister with daddy’s golf clubs). There is something primal about cooking meat on the grill – something that makes me want to let out a grunt, grab my woman by the hair and drag her around the house like the cavemen used to do with their wenches.

(But then you think about it and you resist this urge because the cavemen’s wenches probably didn’t spend three nights a week at the gym, toning and strengthening themselves to the point that, if we’re being completely honest with each other, you’re scared of them.)

(So scared that you don’t push the toned, tough wife on her refusal to allow a TV in the bedroom, even though it’s your basic, God-given, unalienable right to have one and it must be some kind of despicable human rights violation not to be able to watch reruns of Da Ali G Show over your toes at night, but whatever. Fine. We’ll live in squalor. Suit yourself, Scrooge.)

(And by “Scrooge” I naturally mean that I love you and that I’ll be fine with whatever decisions you make. Please don’t hurt me.)

Last month, Hot Wife and I decided it was finally time to euthanize the rusted black barbecue we’d been cooking with since before we were married. The poor old thing was literally falling apart, and its ability to cook food had deteriorated to the point that a simple chicken breast would come off of the grill torched to blackness on one end and still frozen on the other. So we dropped the kids off with my in-laws one day a few weeks ago and went barbecue shopping.

On that fateful day, we purchased the Lamborghini of barbecues. It’s stainless steel and it has five burners to ensure balanced cooking and there’s even a stovetop-like burner on the side… for… cooking… you know… gravy and shit. The store assembled it for us (because I’m not very good with tools) and I brought it home Sunday and I just sat there and stared at it. For like three hours. In my mind, this is what “making it” looks like.

I finally found the motivation to wipe the drool from my lip and fire that sumbitch up – to, as Willy Wonka himself once put it, “really open her up and see what she can do.” I told the kids to stand back, I turned on the propane and I fired-up all five burners at once. And I’m telling you guys, that baby purred like a cheetah. Grrrooowwwwwrrrrrrr!

Then we all just walked away.

About 10 minutes later, I walked out to see if the grill was still on. Um, it was. And not only was it on, but the thermometer on the lid had its needled pegged all the way to the end, past the line that indicated 800 degrees and tickling the edges of total environmental collapse. “My grill!” I shouted to no one, believing perhaps that such extreme heat inside might actually start to melt the steel and destroy my ability to ever again be happy because I’d mishandled and mistreated the one thing that could make me feel like a Man. Also, I could see a hole starting to form in the ozone layer above Evans World Headquarters, and that would just be really bad press.

So I opened the lid.

Bad, bad, bad idea. Bad. Not good. Not good at all.

What I felt was a blast of heat so intense that it melted the skin from my face, set my clothes alight and caused me to involuntarily move my bowels right there on the back patio (which my son saw as an opportunity to take out a six iron and drive my spontaneous dookie into the neighbor’s orange trees). I put my hands to my disintegrating face and began to yelp and howl and make the sound of a gerbil being exposed to a pinpoint nuclear holocaust right on his little rodent ballsack.

I ran into the house. “Honey!?”

“What?” Hot Wife answered from the back of the house, where she was no doubt thinking of other basic staples of humanity from which she could deprive me.

“I just burned my face off on the new barbecue,” I said.

“OK,” she said.

“That’s the best you can do?” I hollered.

“Uh, sorry, honey,” she said condescendingly. “I’m a little distracted right now.”

“By what?”

“I’m looking through the window and trying to figure out what that brown thing is that our son is hitting with your golf club.”

Comments

The first two paragraphs sound just like my husband, although his beer would be one he brewed himself.

The rest is just freaking hilarious. And I loved your spelling of "sumbitch".

You further emasculated yourself by admitting to drinking canned beer. BOTTLES!!!

So when can we all come over for a blogger BBQ? I'll bring the beer... in bottles. I'll even bring you a six of Schlitz if you so desire.

Sorry to hear about you face disintegrating. That is not really a good thing, but once you get the hang of the grill it will be all good.

hope you got portraits for the new book BEFORE your face melted off! too funny...

Yer a funny sumbitch! Congrats on the new flaming death pit. You know, the other day i heard what sounded like all the worlds mammals let out a collective scream...now I know why.

DID NOT!!!!!!!!!!!
Love the use of parentheses. (it works)

I must stop reading you at work. The laughter on this one caused heads to turn. But what else am I going to do in my gray cubicle? Thanks!

How can you tell us about your new baby and not have pictures?

This story is just SAD! What should have been a joyous occasion was squandered due to your ineptitude. Get it together my good man. Grilling should not be mocked and at this point in life your Grill should be working for you not against you. No wonder you are still sitting it that cubicle. You can not even master your Grill.
Shame on You!

Your writing is pure genius.

I read somewhere that a TV in the bedroom reduces sexual relations...so on that note i think hot wife knows best and you should listen to her on this one.

Well, I am glad to hear that your bowels are still moving with ease. I must say, I am sure somewhere in the manual or on the box or some sort of info card that was left with the grill it said "Do not leave unattended". Your a great writer, but reading is an essential part of life too. Always have the meat prepped and ready to go before you light the grill as it reduces the amount of time that you might leave it, especially with kids round. :) (That wasn't a shot at you about your parenting skills either. I am sure your a very good dad.)

Five burners and a stove top on the side? You, my friend, are the proud new owner of a genuine Urban Assault Grill. Minus a pair of eyebrows, you still came out ahead.

Wow, just Wow, you never cease to amaze me with your manliness and whippedness all in one post. Bravo! (By that, I mean I love your blod with all my heart. )

Maybe your eyebrow hair is shorter than your headhair again???

http://static.flickr.com/37/125411754_7836bcf978_m.jpg

P.S. Any armhair left?

That was absolutely hysterical! Did you get to barbecue actual food ...at some point? No? Just flame throwing?

PROPANE?

That's not real grilling! Propane tastes like shit! I have a charcoal smoker that I use for most BBQ, but when I just want a quick burger or something, I have an electric smoker that I use and just toss a couple chips of hickory or mesquite on (maybe some Jack Daniels oak, if I'm in that mood).

Anyway, my fiancee and I took our new yellow lab pup out to the park a week or two ago for some seared flesh, and when I lit the charcoal, I guess I used a little too much lighter fluid on my Kingsford (NEVER MATCHLIGHT!!!) Bam! Up in smoke go my arm hair and my goatee...that sucked.

I knew that with two young'uns, the shit would always be flying around EWH. Just be glad that the Champ didn't knock one stiff right into the fan.

Also, those of us that do say SUMBITCH on a daily basis would never barbeque on anything that does not have a firebox (for wood) on one end and a flue on the other and the whole thing usually can be moved by a truck with a receiver hitch.

I read you at work from a gray cubicle, which is why I can't come daily. I have to limit the number of times I distract my co-workers with my uncontrolled laughter.

You know, I was thinking...

.. Maybe you should market your book as a toilet reader? Your blog entries are perfect for when a guy (or gal?) is sitting on the throne with nothing to do. Glance at the Dad Gone Mad story book, pick a story, and the ensuing laughter will squeeze out the goods in no time.

I can see it now on the book jacket:

"Read one blog entry a day for optimum bowel movement."

Perfect!

You are the only blog my husband will read. He could really relate to this post. Well, except for the dog doo part... You are a hysterically funny guy!

Don't listen to those charcoal purists. They're just jealous because those fancy propane grills are so precise (I have one of my own) you could bake a cake in one.

You know... not that you ever would. And I certainly never have. But, if you wanted to, you could. Totally.

Also, if you got the vinyl cover to go with it, make sure the grill is cool before putting the cover back on. Melted vinyl doesn't go well with stainless.

I bet you could cook an entire cow on that grill. The trick is convincing them to lay down so you can get the lid to close.

Great site! I found you off of Amalah which I adore also! I'll be visiting here daily to check up on things!

Dude, spot on. Again.

You're funny and shit.

Any chance I can borrow your son and your golf clubs? We've got a big dog, you see...