I’d like to start by reminding you that I am a very, very, very important person – so important, in fact, that I have my own agent. Her name is Karen. I’m not altogether certain what an agent actually does, but as near as I can tell, Karen tells me what to write, gets people to publish what she tells me to write, and then tells me not to write about what I’m writing because people might read it and that would be bad. It’s all very confusing to me, but I love Karen because she thinks I can write and she puts up with my interminable need for validation, and also because her husband, Michael, completes me (and I mean that in the most heterosexual, married, show-me-your-boobs way possible).

Anyway…!

Karen happens to know a secret about me – a slight behavioral quirk that most men would be too self-conscious to reveal because people would think they’re weak little pantywaists. But that’s not Karen, my high-powered agent who knows people more important than God and works miracles on the scale of, well, convincing an editor to buy my book. Karen reads the blog and knows there’s pretty much nothing about my life that I won’t reveal because I’m weak and desperate for approval.

So she’s all, “Hey, you know that candy-assed little trait of yours? I think we should pitch a story about it to a national women’s magazine! That way every chick on the planet will know when they pass you on the sidewalk to stop, stare, point and tell her friends, ‘Look! That’s him! That’s the guy who has no testicles!’ Won’t that be so awesome?”

That’s what an agent does. She castrates people.

Again, I’m extraordinarily important. I’ve had a few pieces published in national magazines over the years, but never in a women’s magazine. I suppose that has something to do with the fact that I don’t have a vagina. Neither do I need to know care about how to cover up unsightly skin blemishes with Turtle Wax, how to find the perfect pair of Espadrilles without busting my budget, or how to shape my cuticles with a sea urchin and a ball-peen hammer.

Nevertheless, I want to make Karen happy because I’m afraid she’ll prohibit me from sharing farting-under-the-covers stories with Michael if I fail to comply. That’s why I found myself at the bookstore this afternoon, perusing the shelves of perfume-scented chick mags until I smelled like a shi-tzu fresh from the groomers. What was I looking for? Hard to say. I suppose I was looking for the publication mostly likely to pay a man to literarily reveal to the universe that his crotch is rounded and smooth like a Ken doll.

I decided to buy the current issues of Glamour and Self, and to soften the effeminate blow with the premier issue of Shit Men Do With Grease and the Don’t Buy This Magazine Unless You Pee Standing Up magazine swimsuit issue. I put the dude mags on top and slid the whole stack toward the cashier, Rebecca, who scanned my first two items with nary a twitch of her pierced eyebrow.

When she got to Self – the issue with Liv Tyler on the cover, sitting in front of a pink backdrop and right next to the screaming FLAT ABS IN 5 MINUTES! headline – Rebecca looked at me the way you’d look at someone who invites you to move your hair to the side so he doesn’t disturb it when he chops your fucking head open with an ax.

“For my wife,” I said.

Rebecca scanned it through the bar code thingy, then reached out for the issue of Glamour featuring the absolute stone cold fox Charlize Theron on the cover. Again, she looked at me askance.

“What?” I asked. “A man can’t buy an issue of Glamour without getting the hairy eyeball from some gothed-out philosophy major from the community college?!”

“I didn’t say anything, sir,” Rebecca replied. “Do you have one of our Rewards cards?”

“Oh, and what’s THAT supposed to mean? I’ll have you know that although I’m buying that one for my wife, I’m going to sneak it off of her nightstand after she goes to sleep, take it to my special place and abuse my loins while I fantasize about Charlize in an extraordinarily heterosexual position that I like to call Yodeling at the Kielbasa. That do anything for ya, Rebecca? Huh?”

She didn’t say anything.

“And would you like to know why I’m going to do that? Because I am NOT. GAY. Just because my ultra-high-powered literary representative wants me to pitch a story about how much I love High School Musical...which may or may not be true…and just because I’m doing this to salvage my relationship with a man…a very special man…a man named Michael…does not mean that I have an affinity for the tube steak. OK?! OK, Rebecca?!”

With that, I threw my credit card at Rebecca as though I was dealing her a card across a poker table.

Rebecca grabbed the walkie-talkie from her waistband, pushed the button on the side, and was all, “Security, please come to register three. Security, register three…”

Comments

Just the thought of your testicles in Glamour magazine is enough to make me vomit.

...would be cool though...

Cameron Diaz's latest broken bone pic, your gonad story, Halle Berry's workout regime.

Pure Gold.

Dude.

I think you need to try the de-caf meth latte for a few days.

You seem a little on edge.

Yeah...I have to agree with Badass. You need to lay off the caffeine for at least 4 or 5 days...

Found your blog in a roundabout way about two weeks ago and LOVE IT! Why am I just commenting now, you may ask? Because I had to go back several years and read the archives to make sure you were worthy of my oh-so-discerning readers palette. ;o) I think it safe to say you have acquired a new devoted fan. May I have your autograph? May I stalk your home, search through your trash for insights into your life and follow you around ala the paparazzi?
Anyway... your post today sounds a bit like an overdose on starbucks dude. Put down the skinny latte and step back slowly.
Congratulations on the book deal though... from your writings, I can't wait for it to hit the shelves!

Hmmmmm.....maybe your are too sensitive about Rebecca's reaction, but it was very funny to read! :)

Uh huh, and by using your "(sounds like "Hoarders") Rewards Card," this very MANLY purchase will be emblazoned across your retail records for all eternity.

Start expecting subscription requests to any of the following:

- Mother Magazine
- Submissive Quarterly
- Lady Boy
- Uteri R Us

Oh this is too much FUN!

You're SO going to watch Camp Rock tonight, aren't you?

I certainly hope that you didn't make any gothed-out philosophy majors cry. I mean, that would be truly tragic with her black eye-liner and white pancake makeup running, she would look like some sort of possessed mime.

A much better shopping location would have been the grocery store. You could have thrown down a box of Tampax, a few Slim Jims, a 12-pack, and your magazines. At least you could have faked membership into the "manly-man whose wife sends him on errands" club.

If it's taking you 5 minutes to tone your abs you're wasting 3 minutes. A beer only takes 2 minutes to drink if you are really committed to working out.

Also, I lost my testicles a couple of weeks ago when someone told me I have the perfect voice for writing chick lit. It feels a little breezy down there now, so I'm thinking of getting some of those implants.

I should be taking a shower to take two of my residents to the registry to get their ID's, instead Im sitting here laughing my ass off over the image of a Ken doll.
You are so wrong in all the right places!

Wow, they let you post from the jail?
I guess the "one free call" thing has caught up with the 21st century.

Man, can you ever rock the hyperbole.

Now if you want a woman's magazine that is so made for a man, try Cosmopolitan. It's like literary porn and totally up your alley.

After your last post, I was certain we are meant for each other. Now, I not so sure.

Shut up. You had me at espadrilles.
Oh, and Rebecca called. You left your scrotum at the bookstore next to an issue of Cooking Light.

So, I'm confused. Do you just like High School Musical, or do you really have no testicles? Truly I want to know. In the most I'm-Happily-Married-And-Interested-In -A-Purely-Medical-Oddity-To-Snicker-At kind of way.

I'll be back.

What do you say to the Gothed out clerk when Hot Wife sends you to the store to buy tampons, Fritos and chocolate cake?

My hubby always picks up a lottery ticket and some WD-40, too.

www.swirlgirlspearls.blogspot.com

Gah! Those gothed-out philosophy majors can be SO judgemental....

pffft -- and you won't make a jello flag cake for fun? I don't believe you : )

Oh man...your getting all wigged out about buying womens' magazines? I take it that your wife never sent you out for tampons...

You got off easy with the magazines my man. I send Hotty Hubby to buy tampons and shit like that. See, if you'd been smart you would have thrown in a couple copies of GQ or Maxim or Playboy for good measure.

Did you drive off in a minivan? Because if you are reading Glamour and Self, you gotta look the part...

Yeah, I'm kinda stuck on the testicles thing, too. Do you or don't you have them? And do you ever reply to comments? Hellooooooooooo?

There are worse things than having no balls....like my friend who accidentally bought the Body Glide (for marathon runner's) that heats up. How did she realize that she bought the wrong kind? When her husband, who had been up in the bathroom preparing for said marathon, came skidding down the stairs because his balls were on fire. Yep. Balls on fire much worse than no balls.

"I suppose I was looking for the publication mostly likely to pay a man to literarily reveal to the universe that his crotch is rounded and smooth like a Ken doll."

That's the funniest thing I've read in a long time. Thanks for the laugh!

Omgod...I just peed my pants a little, AND nearly spewed my wine out my nose. And I don't part with my wine easily, I tell you. Can't wait to see the resulting article.

DGM- I never considered that my laughing out loud the way I do reading yor blog that it would be contagious. Contagioous laughter is awesome! That's twice this week sharing with my Mutti...she's loving it!

I am assuming Rebecca has fodder for her blog today...

omg how i love you right now...

So, you're not gay? Hmmm.

OT: Haven't visited in a while. For what it's worth (not much, I know) I like the old design of your page better. This one's too slick. Too web sitey. And your writing has gotten too journalistic; less immediate and raw. That said, still love ya...

yeah, you talking about your rounded out scrotum and jacking off to a magazine, with the f-bomb peppered here and there for good measure isn't raw enough.

I think you're a great writer. A big imagination. I see the humor...really I do. But, in real life, I don't think the clerk would give a fuck...cause not a big deal. The set-up was entertaining though.

Fine fine fine, I'm a man. It's not just this post that convinces me, but others out there in blogland. All of 'em, pointing at my lack of femininity and apparently my hairy chest too.

I don't like Glamour magazine, or Self, or Cosmo. I used to take Good Housekeeping but don't anymore. I couldn't care less about five minute up-dos.

I don't like High School Musical, or Hannah Montana, or Hairspray.

I don't like Grey's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, or Sex in the City. I am not going to watch the Sex in the City movie.

Blah. I'm going to go pick my underwear out of my ass now and belch.

OMG, "Yodeling at the Kielbasa"???

When are you getting your first stand-up show? I mean it.

I never thought of your material as womens' magazine kind of stuff. But, then again...

no way. you don't have the balls to say that!

hahaahaa, get it? you don't have the... oh, never mind

I think we've all met a man or two who completes us, but it doesn't make you gay unless you have sex with him. Or want to. If so, you should tell your wife about it via live blog.

Yep, there are some days I'm glad that I'm a chick. This is one of them!

Wow. I wonder what you thought of Camp Rock... or you may be wearing a Jonas T-shirt right about now.

I guess that means Hot Wife will be Yodeling into the Kielbasa for you now? But where will she rest her chin, sans testes?

--Anissa
www.hope4peyton.org

I'm wondering if you really don't have testicles...I don't mean it to be funny or too nosy, just curious....

Hey Danny - I really need to teach you my "Three F" philosophy. It would totally prevent you from becoming a blubbering Jackass (and I do mean that in the most loving way cuz you're my homey) when you get yourself into uncomfortable situations and your manly-ness is on the line. Anyway, thanks again for the laugh - you never let me down.

So wait, how do I get flat abs in 5 minutes? I mean, I laughed so hard I got that side ache that reminds me I'm out of shape, but my abs are still all squishy.

ball peen hammer? is that really what it's called?!

I have got to get me one of those agent things. My boyfriend has wanted to castrate me for years.

Perfect venue for you: Women's Health has a pitchable section called "Male Brain Explained."