Inexcusable Things I've Done That Have Broken the Rules of Manhood, and my Excuses for Them

by Aaron Abrams

I have a confession to make. Confessionz, actually. Plural.

I've broken some rules. Important rules. Man-rules. Man-portant man-rules. I know that "man-rules" sounds stupid, like something you'd find in an email forwarded to you by your excessivley macho married friend. But stupid, or opposite of stupid, the rules do exist. I would like to issue an apology to both males and females. I'm sorry. But first, allow me to explain.

-Yes, I've cried during a non-sports movie.

"Field of Dreams," "Bang the Drum Slowly," "The Owen Hart A&E Biography," hell, even "Hardball" can water the eyes of any man. There is leeway given on certain other kinds of movies as well; jail movies, war movies (certainly nobody's going to give you a ribbin for getting dusty during Morgan's last monologue in Shawshank) but that Bjork movie... I cried long. And I cried hard. My roommates looked at me like I had shit on my shoes for weeks (I did not have shit on my shoes). And this wasn't a first time for me. "Wrestling Earnest Hemingway." "The Sweet Hereafter." I'm at least a three-time offender. In some states I could be put into man-jail for just seeing these movies. But believe me, your honors, when I say that I'm an innocent man. And I have a good excuse.

My excuse is that I think this rule is over-rated. Ha. What do you think about that? I don't like this rule. A man isn't allowed to cry? Fuck that; fuck you and fuck that. Did you see "The Sweet Hereafter?" It was about a busload of kids crashing into a frozen lake. If you didn't cry at that you're a cruel, cruel warlock.

The first time I cried during a movie was during the movie "Clue," when the black police officer got it with the lead pipe in the study. I thought he was so nice. In my defense, I was a child and my parents were going through a divorce. I have since learned to control myself, but that's not to say it wasn't natural thing to do. When did this all start, this "men aren't allowed to cry" nonsense? What, are you gonna call me a pussy at a funeral? No? How about a funeral for a busload of frozen dead kids? How about that? Hunh? Yeah. That's right.

Not having a heart made of Skoal doesn't make you a wussy (necessarily). As long as you don't go overboard, ie: cry during "Clue" or during a Leo DiCaprio movie or during any musical/song/dance or while looking at any poetry, painting or nature. Basically, as long as you never get to the point where you have to carry tissues on you, or if you ever say the word "tissues," then you can still be a man in my manbooks.

-Yes, I was unable to prevent my friend from wearing a Speedo swimsuit.

I had a co-counselor at camp who wore a Speedo. All the time. No matter what I said or did I couldn't get him to stop wearing that fucking thing. He saw no problem with it and whenever I brought it up he would say he thought he had a good body and wanted to show himself off to the ladies. My only counter-argument would have been that he did not have a good body. But that would have implied that I had noticed his body, which would have man-broken all kinds of other man-rules. So he continued to wear this Speedo. I failed and I'm sorry.

But I did do the next best thing. One night I got him so drunk he began read aloud from fictitious letters to penthouse he'd written about himself and Jamie Kochberg and then pissed in the middle of the cabin while our seven-year-old campers gasped and cried. When questioned by the camp director I told them the whole story and got Speedo fired. I suppose that makes me a rat, but, for the record, dude was a douchebag. Never feel sorry for a man in a Speedo. It's a wasted effort. Everyone was glad to be rid of him and because of that, I didn't have to pay for a single drink the next night out. So it could be said that, in a way, I eliminated a Speedo-wearer and did it in the name of beer. What could be more manly than that?

-Yes, I once started treating my girlfriend like my Mommy.

Seriously. Don't do this. Girlfriends and lovers are just that, don't get all weird and helpless and act like a little boy and make them take care of you. They are not your mothers. Don't do that to them. I think all guys do this once. Don't do it. And women - don't stand for it. In my defense, I didn't know what I was doing and I won't do it again.

-Yes, I don't read Maxim Magazine.

Apparently this is some new fucking rule that I have to have this rag on my coffee table. Let me tell you something: having Maxim lying around is no different than leaving a Hustler on the back of the bowl so guests can peruse while they take a dump. It's porno, okay? I'm not fooled. What, just because Jamie Pressley isn't buck-ass naked and bending over - instead she's wearing gotchies and bending over - it's not meant to make my penis move? Un-hunh. Right. Porn. Now, porno is cool, but know that no good will come from the flaunting of porno. I'm going to assume that if you have Maxim lying around, you are horny and want to get laid. Well, let me ask you - who will get laid the fastest, the man with the Maxim on his coffee table, or the man without? Un-hunh. Yeah. Hide that shit, buddy. And next time some guy mentions Jamie Pressley, say "Who?" And watch him search his man-brain, trying to think of a movie she's been in. Deny you read it, even though you do. Just like me.

-Yes, I said "lover" instead of "person you hump" during this column

I'm sorry if this gave you the creeps. Please do not call into question my abilities to write this column. My use of the word "lover" came not from my lack of maniless but rather my lack of writing skill and small vocabulary. So rest easy. I also used the expression "read aloud" once up there. I'm sorry. Know that I'm dumb. Not a sissy.

-I have, on many occasion, not enjoyed being single.

Oooooh. The cardinal rule. But, before everybody starts in with the judging and the looks, let me say something.

From what I can tell, there are two kinds of single people. Those who will have sex with anyone not disfigured, and those who are proud, have faith in themselves and comb the bars looking to carefully choose that special someone to take home and bang like a million hungry gangbusters. Between those two types lies the majority of people, who go back and forth between the two. I fall into this category, and let me tell you, it's a fairly miserable existence. The momentum of the pendulum propels you a bit overboard on both sides. You'll be extra choosy, picking only those good enough, for too long, then you'll swing dramatically over to the other side and have sex with everyone, including the disfigured, which makes you feel like crap. Nobody likes waking up in the morning to a fat back and a lack of self worth. But we go back and forth and back and forth. This makes decisions on who to go home with and when increasingly difficult, it's tough to keep track of what your mental state is on this particular Saturday night and this causes a severe lack of enjoyment in being single.

So, here's a good rule. A rule that will help add balance and aid in the stressful decision-making process. Pick twelve people. They can be celebrities, people you've met in real life or local people you run into on the street. But no more than twelve. Now, what's special about these twelve is you've hand picked them as THE people who can ruin another person through the act of sexual touching. All you have to do is not get involved with anyone who has been with one of your twelve. Remember cooties? Same principal.

No more and no less then 12. Any less and it's just not enough, any more and you're lying. Pick these 12 carefully. It's a very personal decision. And once you've picked them, you'll stick to it. No matter how drunk you are you won't go home with anyone who's been with one of your 12. Alcohol will have no effect on you. Descions will be automatic; you'll be a ultimo-cyborg of partner selection. And using this rule you'll be in the perfect state of availability and choosiness.

I call it "The Dirty Dozen." Here is my list:

Dennis Rodman
Corey Feldman
The guy who was at my highschool for seven years
Lorne Abrams
The local radio "shock jock"
X-Pac
Hugh Hefner
The Kid in my class who did stand-up comedy at my Junior High assemblies
Butterbean
Ol' Dirty Bastard
Weird Al Yankovich

A list like this, tattooed on the inside of your brain, will make the single life at least a dozen times easier.

-One last rule I've broken: I have this Owen Hart wrestling action figure I got as a semi-gag gift about 7 years ago. When Owen cut his hair on the show, I cut the doll's hair.

-Yes, I cut my dolls hair.

I have no excuse for this. Please. Have mercy on me. Sometimes a man's got to do what a man's got to do. And sometimes a man's got to do what a little girl's got to do.

Besides. It was just a little off the back.