The Mysterious, Deep Guy Effect

I was meandering around the drug store yesterday picking up some of the usual male maintenance essentials when I happened upon the deodorant shelf. Usually I am quick to grab whatever sports gel-stick that appeals to my manly X-treme sports enthusiast machismo (actually I’m just trying to cover up some armpit stench), but today was a new day, a day unlike no other, a day that could very well change my life forever, or at least until payday when I can afford to spend 50 bones on cologne. I see this Axe Body Spray right underneath the Old Spice for Very Old Men (not to offend any Old Spice fans out there but my pop used to get Soap-on-a-Rope for Christmas every year from my aunt who had no idea what on earth else to get him, and I smelled it one time and realized the reason they attached the rope to the soap was so you could hang yourself from your showerhead for being such a loser to actually use it). Anyway back to the Axe, I have actually eye-witnessed men on 30-second TV advertisements being attacked, ravaged even, by hoards of hot busty wanton women in such sex dens as an elevator and a board room, and solely because they sprayed themselves with this remarkable new product. So I think to myself, "Wow, if this guy is having success with the ladies in the elevator at work, imagine what titillating rewards it may reap in a real pick-up joint like a book club." I pick up a can of the Voodoo scent, and read the nutritional information on the back, for I MUST know more...

"An oriental, spicy scent, for the mysterious, deep guy effect. A sure way to put a spell on that sultry, otherworldly vixen."

SOLD AMERICAN!!!!

As I am completing my purchase at the register the cute checkout girl is smiling at me, and not because my fly is down this time, and not because I didn't slick the cowlicks in my eyebrows down this time. No, this time she was obviously put under a spell, lured into uncontrollable giddiness by a mysterious, deep guy (that would be me).

I rush home and proceed to strip down to my skinnies and spray the axe all over, and meticulously following the instructions on the can, I go especially heavy over my "hot spots". I think I may have gotten a little trigger-happy because the room started clouding up, and with my aerosol indulgence I probably put a bigger hole in the ozone layer than a convention of heifers at a Taco Bell buffet. Then again the ozone of the earth is such a small sacrifice compared to my own personal BO.

smell check 1...smell check 1,2...smell check 1,2,3...

Immediately I get a long, dreamy whiff of the spicy, oriental scent...I am taken away to a mysterious ancient land, with funny hats and hard to pronounce vowel sounds...I feel like Genghis Khan...I feel like Marco...Polo...Marco...Polo...I feel like, like, like, like CHUCK NORRIS!

Well, I sure can't wait until the sultry, otherworldly vixens in the office cubes today get a noseful of my Van Dam Nice Smelling Bod...methinks I'll be fighting them off with my company-provided dead-pen collection which I have been saving for just such an appropriate occasion...spray on sex, what more could one ask for???

THE GATOR WHO LOST ITS WAY

I was watching the news the other night and there was a story about a gator who had lost its way. Apparently it had wandered into a residential neighborhood and decided to camp out in the backyard of an unsuspecting elderly couple. When they became privy to the arrival of their uninvited guest, and realized that shouting at it would not scare it away (this does not work for prank callers, why would it work for alligators?) they panicked and went to plan B and immediately called the sheriff's department who panicked and immediately called animal control, who panicked and immediately called in some "Gator Be Gone" large animal removal service. To make a long story not so long, our hero enters, lassos the gator, throws an empty potato sack on its head, and wrestles it to the ground. The gator was eventually taken to a land far far away where meddlesome wild animals can roam free from the engines of semis and the taunts of elderly couples.

What I found most interesting about this story was the eyewitness play-by-play by the old woman afterward. In typical humiliating news interview fashion granny is all decked out in her Victoria's Secret muumuu, hairnet, and fuzzy slippers. She proceeds to retell the story in her own words, and even added some simulated gator noises to enhance the realism. I think my favorite part of the account was when she said, "the man whipped out his thingy and took the gator down". Yes, it was a harrowing tale, but I think it sends the wrong message to the viewer at home. There is an easier way of dealing with this problem.

From my own reptilian massacre expeditions I have learned that you never go into a heated fight with a hungry gator armed solely with a thingy. Trust me, gators don’t respect thingies, it’s a psychological thing. Thingies are things you smack a cat on the nose with when it is turning the arm of your couch into a Don King hairdo. However for fighting large predators with pointy teeth I highly recommend you pack your overnight bag with something a little more substantial. My weapon of choice would be a World War I bazooka, which can be easily purchased at a county gun fair with a tight fake ID. The gator will recognize your big gun as something he/she shouldn’t be messin’ with, even on the most evil of testosterone/estrogen binges. Naturally, upon seeing your massive WMD (and I can say this with great prettysuredness from my vast late-night curator experience watching Animal Planet and Discovery Channel), this primitive animal will run for cover like a man being chased by Liza Manelli. It is at this point where you will flex your great beastmaster muscle by showing no mercy to your overmatched adversary and squeeze that trigger when its scaly back is turned. For mesmerizing cinematic effect, may I suggest you utter the words “See you later alligator”, in your best eastern European accent if possible. And won’t you be the toast of the town when the beast gets lit up like a South Carolina fireworks display and turns into disgusting, yet tasty, gatorfetti. At this point, victorious, you send in the neighbors and news crew with skewers, potatoes, onions, peppers, tomatoes, hmmm and maybe even some avocado, and you all enjoy a well-earned meal, reminiscing fondly about the gator who lost its way.

…and the moral of the story: it takes years of practice and loads of skill to do with a thingy what one can do with a big gun in almost no time at all

YOU AIN'T IN JOISEY ANYMORE

I was on the phone the other day with some relatives from up north and one of them made the poignant observation that I had developed a semi-noticeable twang in my voice. Now I’ve lived down here in North Carolina since I was two, so I really consider myself a southerner of sorts. My family is from New Jersey and since I was a wee lad, I have always been amazed at how it sounds like they are talking through their noses, yet I never see their nostrils move. So either they are pulling off one of the greatest ventriloquist acts of all time, or maybe they are the ones who sound funny. I just recently celebrated my birthday, and it seems to be an unfortunate developing tradition that my relatives sing “happy birthday” into my defenseless answering machine, as I am rarely at home on this monumental day. This year my mum sang with such unbridled talent that the neighborhood dogs broke out in howls. However this was to be outdone by the nasally remix, a duet even, by my grandmum and my auntie that sent my neighbor's cat into a horrifying suicidal plunge of death spirals down the steps of my humble abode...O the power of music!

Anyway I have always considered myself to be the Switzerland of accents, never really leaning one way or the other and just sort of moving through life vocally unnoticeable and noticeably voiceless. As a kid I had the northern accents of my parents and the southern accents of my friends and teachers influencing me, and so they offset, and I never really developed any kind of an accent at all. If there ever were a “Guess Where You’re From” booth at the state fair I would probably win my share of condemned goldfish, Chinese finger traps or other worthless prizes. So it pains me to know that my pacifistic voice box may be taking sides. Nonetheless I am determined to fight that divisive polarity that is tearing this nation apart and to extend olive branch to my Yankee brothers and sisters in hopes that we can one day understand each other again. In exchange for my relearning and incorporating northern terms such as “hiya”, “yeah howaya”, “yuse guys”, and other words one may hear in the Rocky Balboa household, they will attempt to learn the basics of southern chit-chat. Knowing that they face an uphill battle because they have spent their entire existence off some exit of the NJ Turnpike, I have come up with a nifty set of guidelines to assist them in their oral adventure. Please remember this is not intended to be mean or hateful in anyway, but has been carefully constructed as a result of 30 years of real life experience, intense subconscious research, and involuntary assimilation into the southern culture. And so, without further adieu …

The You Ain’t in Joisey Anymore Guide to Southern Communication


1) SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN!!!!!! (I can’t emphasize this enough)
2) Add syllables whenever possible, especially when they are not needed
3) Double negatives are your friend and don’t let nobody tell you no different
4) Terms of affection are shortened…you no longer have a mother, a father, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a brother or sister, son or daughter…from now on you have a ma, a pa, hey you, a bo, and kin (I know this can be confusing but “kin” can be used for your siblings or children, it’s just the way we do things down here…if you really want to talk fancy (see line 8) round yer friends then you can call them “kinfoke”)
5) Anything with more than two legs is a critter or vermin (this includes pandas, giant squids, Omar the Frogboy, Chuck E. Cheese, et al.)
6) If you don’t understand something, laugh
7) Tense is something you are during a NASCAR race when your favorite driver is not in first place, and not a grammatical rule you should adhere to with any semblance of consistency
8) Anything that may seem foreign, odd, or you can’t possibly relate to can be called “fancy”… fancy car, fancy shoes, fancy words, Mister or Miss Fancypants (this is someone with a lot of “fancy” things)