Wimpy Men Love the Maffia

The security swipes in the corporate hive are on the blink today. But I have existed in the maze long enough that the right arm robotically swipes my ID anyway. The sky gods forbade hiking last weekend. Instead they hurled rain and wind to keep me indoors.

I’ve grazed these concrete pastures long enough to know that LA is too cold. February to April is the cocoon season of Los Angeles. The one-bedroom single beaver dams must be built to stave of the icy-toothed winter nights. It’s the silent season. The season no one talks about, the season in the back of the mind, hiding underneath the boxes of “spring break memories.” It’s damn cold and no one talks about it, like a molester uncle in the family. It’s not in any of the brochures about LA. Whenever I complain about how cold it is, there is always some recent transplant form Minnesota that says:

“Cold? You call this cold? This ain’t cold. I come from Minnesota. Now THAT’S cold. This is shorts weather. I’m used to thirty thousand degrees below zero.”

Is that right Zeek? Well, I don’t live in Minnesota for a reason, you bafoondish village idiot. I moved to Los Angeles for the weather and I expect it to never dip below 65 degrees, 70 if there’s a wind. Any opportunity a yokel gets to crow about how tough he is he will. “Cold? This ain’t cold…” “Spicy food? This ain’t spicy, why when I was on a sex-tour in Thailand…” “Hot? This ain’t hot, did I tell you about the time I started a fire in Phoenix…”

You always know a guy’s a real windsack when he’s bragging about surviving weather. It’s not Siberia; it’s the United States. Imagine some creep bleeting on about “really cold” New York weather, when some poor sand dabs in Bali are being swallowed by waves. Dope. Guys pretend to be like that dude from Kung Fu. Like we picked up an Iron Cauldron jammed with hot coals to sear dragon scars into our arms. The truth is that most of us are pussies. If you’re wondering whether or not your man is a pussy, just ask yourself a few questions:

1) Does my man think steaks grow on trees?
2) Does my man think he’s done something manly by taking his car to a Jiffy Lube to have someone else change his oil?
3) Does my man brag about past fights where he “wipes the floor” with a dudes face but he’s conveniently avoided confrontation since you’ve known him?
4) Does eating a lot of food make my man feel tough?
5) Does my man think he’s a bad ass because he beat someone up on a video game?
6) Does my man always talk about how lucky someone was that they didn’t push him over the edge because he was this close to killing them?
7) When my man’s angry does he agro-drive his car fast?
8) Does my man say he’s not afraid to die, even though no one’s asking?
9) Does my man write a blog?

Only a few men ever actually do anything tough like Navy Seals or confronting pissed-off wild life. Most of us are little hermit crabs waving pinchers at the bottom of the ocean, safe from the really big fish.

Another major blowhard pussy maneuver is the guy who pretends to be quasi-inducted in the mafia. Usually they are members by proxy through an abstract relative. Some slob’s always got a relative who’s “connected’ and crap. The lie is so thick that it makes Queen Latifah look like Erika Badu. I know this one cat who told me that he almost killed a guy when he called his “uncle” to have a guy “whacked.” No joke. This dude-ass pumpernickel motherfucker went so far down the bullshit highway as to tell me that after a weekend of thinking about it, he called his uncle to cancel the whacking. The lying scumbag said, “My uncle said, anything for you, you know that, but I’m glad you called it off. This thing, once you get started, forget about, it’s over.” And this guy’s the biggest pussy of them all. He’s one of those guys that you put your hand on his head while he swings at air.

Gangsta Rap gave a lot of pussies a whole brand new pack of lies to distribute. One time my cousin and I were chilling on a balcony In Maui. The balcony was attached to the Condominium my cousin’s grandparent’s owned: one of a set of two condos. We were drinking Carlos Rossi because we were big stupid white bread rich kids who were fans of E 40, a gangster rapper from the bay area which is where we lived. You know you gotta be down with the rapper from your area, even if he SUCKS and you gotta bust his drink of choice even if it SUCKS because you gotta have hometown pride even though your hometown SUCKS. Man is that stupid. It’s like being a member of Al Qaeda and trying to act like a dry-ass dessert is worth dying for.

Anyways, my cousin was trying to convince me that he could kill somebody if he had to. He was looking me in the eye and pointing his fingers and talking about “peeling someone’s cap.” IF HE HAD to. Of Course, we were in Maui, and he lived in a two story house and had an inheritance. His chances of “having to” were slim to none. But at the moment, he was glaring at me. Trying project his deadly sincerity into my skull through the “hardest” stare he could muster. This stare is known as a Mad Dog. I guess because a guy is trying to stare at you like a Mad Dog, or it’s also known as a Mean Mug. I guess ‘cuz a guy is trying to stare at you with a Mean Mug. Both of these terms can also be used as verb as in, “Did you see that? That dude totally Mean Mugged me…”

One of the biggest traits of a pussy is Mean Mugging. Driving a car around and broadcasting really “scary looks” from a moving car to let pedestrians know “not to fuck” with you. Basically it’s trying to assault someone with your face. Guys are stupid.

I don’t spell check.