Fantasy booking Daniel Bryan's road to Wrestlemania

"YES! YES! YES!"

Disclaimer: If you don't like wrestling, there is no reason to read this post.

Like all wrestling fans--or at least those over 13 years old, male, and especially those at the Online Onslaught forums--I'm ecstatic that Daniel Bryan seems to have finally won the admiration of casual fans and cracked the main event.

But of course the dastardly Vince Mcmahon doesn't like him and he needs to go through SuperCena to get the title and the vile Randy Orton is lurking in the wings, ready to cash in his Money In The Bank Contract.

Most people are hoping Bryan beats Cena and gets a lengthy championship reign. Others worry that he will lose or that he will win only to quickly lose to Orton.

I think the second option is most likely and could lead to some awesome stuff down the line. First of all, it would turn Orton heel--meaning, into a bad guy--which is what he does best. Second, it gets Bryan more sympathy and makes his eventual title win even sweeter. Third, it sets up the opportunity for Vince to step in and do everything he can to stop Bryan from winning the championship.

Here's what I'm hoping happens. Bryan wins, then loses to Orton. Then there would most likely be a triple threat match with Orton, Cena, and Bryan at the next PPV and Orton wins, possibly with help from Mcmahon.

Now Mcmahon steps in and starts trying to keep Bryan from getting back into the title picture. Also, Bryan's partner Kane is probably going to join the evil Wyatt Family so that will occupy his time for a while, until we get to the Royal Rumble, a 30-man battle royale where the winner gets a title shot at Wrestlemania.

And here's how the Rumble should go down. Vince will force Bryan to start the Rumble at #1 and then stack the deck against him, making sure that Bryan has to face one monstrous challenge after another.

(For the sake of this fantasy booking, I'm assuming that Del Rio is still World Champion and facing Christian, and Orton is still WWE champion and facing Sheamus)

So we start off with Bryan #1 and his first opponent is the 7 foot tall Great Khali. Bryan eliminates Khali before #3, who is another monster, maybe a newly heel Brodus, comes out and Bryan eliminates him too.  #4 is is one of the big Wyatt's and he gets eliminated. #5 is Big E but he can't eliminate Bryan. Then #6 is Ryback and it's Bryan against 2 monsters, just hanging on until #7. It's Kane! If he's been heel for a while (who knows what happens with him and the Wyatt's), he comes in and looks like he's about to attack Bryan, hut he turns on the other 2. Then once he takes them out, he hugs Bryan and then CHOKESLAM! He picks up Bryan's limp corpse, hugs it, goes to throw him out but Bryan wakes up and eliminates him. Kane freaks out, pulls him out under the rope and chokeslams him through the Spanish announce table. 

#8 is Mark Henry and we've got a 3-way giant showdown (Henry, Big E, Ryback).#9 is the big show...4 monsters in the ring at once.They fight and each gets a chance to powder out and hit a massive power move or 2, and they quickly dismiss the next 2 entrants (say Ryder and Riley). The 3 other guys tag up on Show and are pushing him over the rope, but he's fighting it, until suddenly Bryan grabs his arms from the outside and yanks him over the top. The YES chants are interrupted by a chokeslam through the other announce table. 

#12 is Miz and he puts up a good fight but gets eliminated.#13 is Ziggler and he goes right after Big E.  He eventually gets his ass kicked but survives. While Ziggler is down, Ryback goes for a superplex on Big E, but Henry goes for a superbacksuplex on him. Suddenly, Bryan is back in the ring and powerbombs Henry for the biggest tower of doom spot in history. And just in time because #14 is RVD! Frog splash on Big E, frog splash on Ryback, frog splash on Henry. Ziggler/Bryan pick up the pieces and eliminate Ryback/Big E, but it takes all 3 guys to pick up Henry and he recovers just in time to throw them off.

Henry runs over Bryan, flapjacks Ziggler into space, and hits the Worlds Strongest Slam on RVD. But then #15 is Jericho. He runs out, ducks a clothesline, and hits the Codebreaker. All 4 guys eliminate Henry, and stare at each other, exhausted. We cut to the back and see Vince flipping out in the gorilla position. How is Bryan still standing? He shoves #16 (Justin Gabriel) out of the way and waves for someone to take his place.

Mah Gawd! That's Brock Lesnar's music. All 4 guys freeze as The Beast makes his way to the ring. He destroys them all and eliminates RVD. Bryan is busted open. Gabriel comes in at 17 and gets tossed. Lesnar smiles and picks up Ziggler and Bryan by the hair, ready to toss them both, but #18 is CM Punk and he goes right after Lesnar. All 3 go after Lesnar but he fights them off and takes them down.

#19 is a returning Matt Morgan and he goes toe-to-toe with Brock Lesnar, trying to stare him down. Brock laughs and motions for him to bring it, but suddenly Morgan turns and kicks Bryan in the face with a big boot, then hits the Hellevator. Punk/Ziggler get involved and go at it with Morgan/Brock until #20, Cody Rhodes. He takes on Morgan and Brock by himself.  Disaster kick to Brock, Crossrhodes to Morgan. #21 is Barrett, also face by now, and Barrett eliminates Morgan. All 5 guys team up on Brock and toss him. Brock goes nuts and F5s everyone on his way out. He yanks Bryan out of the ring under the ropes and F5s him onto the barricade.

Then Cesaro and Swagger are the next two entrants and they work together to eliminate Jericho and Barrett. Meanwhile, Bryan has been getting checked out by medical and they want to stretcher him out but he's arguing.#24 is Damien Sandow and he walks up to where Bryan is being checked out and laughs at him. Bryan freaks out and clocks him. Nothing's going on in the ring so the fans can watch as Bryan gets Sandow to tap out to the Yes Lock on the outside.  Medical and referee pull him off and try to get him back on the stretcher but he clocks a couple and fights them off, then grabs a chair. They back off and Bryan rolls into the ring and nails everyone with chairshots. Swagger is eliminated. Bryan rolls out of the ring, rolls Sandow in and tosses him.
  
Cut to Vince in the back and he's going nuts. He throws some staffer out of the gorilla position and waves for the next entrant. It's all 3 members of the Shield. They go right after Bryan but he stays alive. Punk, Ziggler, and Rhodes join the fray but the Shield takes them down too. Triple powerbombs on Rhodes and they're about to eliminate him, but #28 is Gooooooooldust. He saves his brother and takes on the Shield by himself. Then he eats a spear and gets eliminated.Rollins and Ziggler fight on the top rope and eliminate each other in some crazy spot.

#29 is Bray Wyatt and he takes out Cody. Punk/Bryan go back to back and fight off the heels until it's time for #30...John Cena! So our final 6 is Cena/Bryan/Punk/Reigns/Ambrose/Wyatt. Cena eliminates Reigns and goes after Ambrose. Punk/Bryan work together and eliminate Wyatt.

Suddenly Cena sneak up on Bryan and tosses him over the top but Bryan hangs on! Cena tries to eliminate Bryan, but Punk spins him around and kicks him in the face! GTS and Cena staggers over to the ropes where Bryan helps him over the top.

Punk/Bryan are the final 2. They do a staredown, then look at the crowd, then back to each other, then they shake hands, like in their ROH days. They tear the roof off for 5-10 minutes and then after some quadruple reversey awesome, Bryan wins the whole thing.

Show goes off-air with Bryan leading thunderous YES chants and Vince in the back tugging his ear while HHH laughs.

Then Bryan has to defend his shot in a stacked Chamber match against Brock, Ryback, Henry, Cena, and Punk. He wins despite Mcmahon shenanigans and goes on to face Orton at Mania, where he wins. And the crowd goes nuts.

YES! YES! YES!

So, what do you think of my Rumble? I think the general sentiment of Vince stacking the deck and Bryan surviving one monster after another would be awesome. I'd love to see him end the match with the Punk face-off, but it's more likely to come down to him and Cena. Of course, they could do that at the Chamber match too, so maybe the Rumble could end on Punk/Bryan.

Attractive AND fat?

“I don’t want to look like a weirdo. I’ll just go with the muumuu.” –Homer Simpson

I know I’m late to the party on this, but I’m not too worried about it considering the whole “controversy” started when someone dug up quotes older than my nephew.

Do you remember a month ago when some 7-year old comments from Mike Jeffries, the Abercrombie and Fitch CEO, resurfaced?

“Candidly, we go after the cool kids,” he said, “We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.”

THAT MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH! How dare he imply some people are more attractive than others and that it’s better for a brand to be associated with the more attractive people! How cruel! How insane! How honest and completely correct—er, I mean...JERK!

What really set the arms wobbling was the fact that Abercrombie and Fitch doesn’t sell anything above size 10, which means no clothes for fat people, which means he’s saying fat people aren’t attractive. But as we all know, everyone is equally attractive. Abercrombie and Fitch looks just as good on a tight size 2 or 6 bottom as it would stretched across an IMAX-sized ass. Or buried underneath said ass as it sits in a Mcdonald’s booth..

So it was time for another Million Pound March. Which was of course done from behind the safety of keyboards because marching is hard and tiring. Plus, you can eat and type at the same time.

And so we were subjected to the usual nonsense:

“Fat is beautiful!”

“Fat is natural!”

“You’re setting unrealistic body images!”

And then came the cherry on top of the 5,000 calorie sundae. An enormous blogger names Jes Baker somehow squeezed herself into Abercrombie and Fitch clothes, paid an attractive model to be interested in her, and used the Abercrombie and Fitch font to write"Attractive and fat."

Oh snap! No, that wasn’t the sound of her jeans exploding, but the collective response of the internet. This somehow showed those anti-fat assholes. CNN says she “cut Abercrombie and Fitch down to size.”

Yeah, I’m sure this dropped like a bombshell at A&F HQ. In fact, I imagine it went a little something like this:

Johnson: Mr. Jefferies, Mr. Jefferies, horrible news. Some fat chick is taking a stand by wearing our clothes.

Jefferies: So?

Johnson: Well, all the fat people think she’s a hero. And they hate us.

Jefferies: Who gives a shit? We don’t want them buying our clothes anyway.

Johnson: But... look at these pictures.

Jefferies: Ye gads,  they’re disgusting.

Smith: Wait,  it says right here that she’s attractive. And there’s a male model with her. And if a fat person calls herself attractive, then it’s got to be true!

Jefferies: No, she still looks terrible.

Johnson: But the media is saying that she’s really taught us a lesson.

Jefferies: Whatever. As long as no one really thinks are clothes are for people like her, this won’t last any longer than one of her farts. Hey, Smith, what are you doing? Stop masturbating.

Smith: I can’t help it. It says she’s attractive so I have to masturbate. God help me, she’s hideous but I just can’t stop!

And of course it’s already been forgotten (so smooth move by me waiting to post about it). Which is good, because it’s so fucking stupid.

She’s upset that A&F is selling “unrealistic body images,” because they don’t sell clothes above size 10. Size 10! Size 10 is now “unrealistic.” Every young girl is going to develop an eating disorder trying to match those size 10 waifs.

And if she thinks fat is beautiful and attractive, why did she hire a completely shredded male model to pose with her? Why not get a fat guy if fat people are so attractive? Oh right, all this fat talk only affects women. I don’t know if men should be insulted that no one cares about our feelings or flattered that everyone realizes we’re not stupid enough to go into some shame spiral every time we see someone who looks better than us.

Oh wait, she has an excuse for this:

“I just thought we don’t see the juxtaposition of typical and atypical bodies in advertising specifically. Since I am a woman and I am fat and that’s what I have to work with, I wanted to show that contrast by finding a male model.”

See? She had a real artistic reason for doing this. She wanted to send a message to those non-fat cats at A&F. It wasn’t just an excuse to finally get a good-looking guy to take his shirt off and get close to her. And I’m sure he fell in love with her because she’s so attractive. No? Must be because the patriarchy filled his head with lies. Or he’s gay.

Doesn’t matter, because she’s comfortable in her body. She’s had to overcome years of self-loathing—brought upon by men, natch, because women never judge each other—and start living in a body-positive world. And she wants to promote fashion for fat people—fatshion. Because why should fat people be embarrassed to wear spandex pants that squish all their fat together and make their asses look like lava lamps? Why shouldn’t they wear super-short shorts that lets their fat ooze onto the seat next to them? Why shouldn’t they wear bikinis that let us imagine drawing motocross courses over their fat rolls? If we think that it’s disgusting when someone’s gut and lovehandles seem to have melted over their pants, that’s our problem because they are beautiful! We’ve just been brainwashed to think that we’re being subjected to these atrocities, instead of blessed to see such visions of beauty.

Nope. If size 10 has disappeared in the rearview mirror of your motorized scooter, then you’re not beautiful. And a little shame might be good for you, because you need to lose some goddamn weight. Not for the rest of us—although we’d appreciate it—but for yourself. I don’t care if you somehow feel good about  your looks, do you really feel good about breathing heavy after walking for a few blocks, about the pain in your ankles and knees and back, about being unable to sleep on your back because you’ll stop breathing? That’s great that you can look at yourself in the mirror and flaunt your body, but take a look into your future and see if you’ll still be flaunting your diabetes and heart problems.

Speaking from experience, it’s great if you don’t let your looks define you and aren’t depressed and ashamed by your body. But you still shouldn’t be celebrating it. You’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t be happier if you lost weight. There’s a whole world out there that you can’t really experience until you get down to normal size and it’s much better than a few cupcakes. So next time someone shames you by suggesting you shouldn’t be wearing certain clothes, or can’t fit in just one airplane seat, don’t get offended and defensive. Get motivated. Don’t demand bigger clothes—and for the love of God, don’t squeeze yourself into smaller ones—just lose some weight.

And this isn’t just for fat people. We’ve become a nation of whiners and quitters. Oh, not everyone can be good enough to win at sports, so we shouldn’t keep score. Not everyone can climb the rope or run laps so we should stop making them do it. The kids that aren’t on the honor roll are embarrassed so we shouldn’t acknowledge the kids that did well. Forget trying to get people to practice, or try harder, or study more—Participation trophies for everyone  

Everyone’s got to start sucking it up. No, not like Jes Baker at the dinner table. I mean stop getting insulted, stop getting offended, stop making excuses, and try to fix the problem. Exclusion isn’t an insult, it’s a challenge.

It’s not Abercrombie and Fitche’s fault that your fat. If you want to wear their clothes, shut your mouth—figuratively and literally—and make it happen

Daniel Bryan and the Kardashians: Part 2

Constant companion

You've been with me my whole life, through thick and thicker. Whatever's happened, you've been there.

And I hate you for it.

You ruin everything. You slow me down, hold me back, make me look weak and lazy. You've ruined my clothes, kept me from doing what I want, where I want, when I want, with who I want. You make me uncomfortable everywhere I go. You make me hate myself.

I've tried getting rid of you. Tried everything I can think of. But it never works. Sometimes you go away for a while, but I can't forget you. I think about you every day, at every meal, at every activity, until you come back bigger, louder, and more annoying than ever before.

But this time, I'm going to kill you. Not like the other times, where I thought I could do it fast, rip you off like a bandaid. No, this time I'm going to do it slowly, painfully. I'm going to starve you. I'm going to run you into the ground. Oh, you'll fight it, I know you will, try to talk me out of it, beg for mercy and maybe some doughnuts. But I won't give up. You'll get weaker and weaker, you'll start fading away, and then one day, you'll be gone. Finally.

I'll be all alone. Reborn. Ready to start fresh, to build a new life without you.

I'll be skinny. I'll finally have gotten rid of  you, the millstone around my waist. I'll be free. And thin. And happy.

The talk

"If I was a tower of strength, I'd walk away. I'd look in your eyes and here's what I'd say-"  Gene McDaniels

Hold on, I need to say something. I love you,. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But, I also think about divorcing you. A lot. Like all the time. No, stop, let me finish. It's not because I don't love you. I do. I really do. But you make me miserable. Our sex life sucks and I don't know why.

No, don't make me the bad guy. I'm not the bad guy. I just want to have sex. With my wife. And you treat me like shit for it. You act like I'm some kind of asshole for suggesting that we get naked.

Oh come on, stop acting so put upon. I'm the one getting rejected. I'm the one who can't sleep because I'm so frustrated and pissed off. Do you know how it feels to get turned down night after night? Without even knowing why. No, of course not, because I would never do that. Not that you'd ever ask anyway.

Imagine how you'd feel if I kept turning you down. If I acted like I wasn't interested in you. You still complain about feeling fat and disgusting even though I'm trying to get you into bed every night, even though I'm obviously attracted to you. So imagine how I feel when you show no interest. When you make it clear you could go weeks without sex. You make me hate myself and then I hate you for doing it.

I've told you this. I tell you all the time and you don't listen. I tell you and I tell you and I tell you and just ignore me. Nothing changes. It's like you think I'm joking.

I told you just the other night what you were doing. I came right out and said that it makes me miserable when we don't have sex and you ignored me. You were tired. You wanted to watch the Knicks game that we were fucking taping. You basically said " I don't give a shit if you're miserable. Go fuck yourself." And once you passed out, I did.

But I still couldn't sleep. Because I was miserable. And when I did finally sleep, I dreamt of having sex with you. And I was happy. Then I woke up, remembered that you'd fallen asleep on the couch again, that we hadn't had sex. Not last night, not for days, weeks actually. And I was miserable. Again. But it was better than the nights where you actually reject me in my dreams. Sometimes it's so bad that I just dream of masturbating. And of course, even though you said we'd have sex in the morning, you just slept all day. Woke up at noon, ate lunch, and went right back to sleep. Cause you were tired.

No, of course I love you. Stop fucking saying that. You always whine that I don't love you, but I'm the one making all the effort. I'm the one trying to fix this. And you don't help. You must see there's something wrong and you don't make any effort.

I'm the one doing all the work around here, making all the sacrifices, trying to figure out how to make you happy. I try to find stuff to do together, plan for the shows and the games and the massages and the vacations. I do as much as I can so you don't have to. So you can relax. So you can stop worrying. And what do I get? Fucking nothing. You can't be bothered. You can't even sacrifice twenty fucking minutes on the fucking chore of sex.

So I blame myself. I try to get better. I bust my ass trying to lose weight. But you just fucking let yourself go. You eat whatever the fuck you want, you never weigh yourself, you never exercise, and then you whine about being fat. Well, you are fucking fat. But I still want you.

No, I don't hate you. I love you. And I want you. You're fucking fat and I still want you. You reject me every fucking night and I still want you. You keep telling me I hate you, and you keep trying to make me hate you, keep trying to make me miserable and I still love you.

I want to be with you. I want to have kids with you, even though then we probably really will never have sex again.

I want to fix this. But I can't do it alone. Unless I'm the problem. Just tell me if I am. I'll keep trying to get better. Because I love you.

But I wonder if you still love me. You say you do, but you don't show it. Can't you just do it to make me happy? Can't you just spend 20 minutes getting me off so I don't have to be miserable? Or do you just take me for granted? Do you take everything for granted?

Like I'll always be here. Or I'll always be healthy. Or I'll keep turning down the girls at work. What if I'm not? What if I don't? What if they catch me on the wrong day, after I dream of getting rejected again, after I haven't had sex for weeks? What if I'm weak? What will you do then? Will you blame me? Will you hate me? Or will you hate yourself? For wasting all our time together. For taking me for granted. For driving me away. 

I don't know. I don't want to know. I just want you. I want to fix this. So what do we do?

Why Kate, Why?

(Sorry this post is late Loyal Reader. Took a while to get it right sinze it's a touchy subject. Probably still not perfect)

“Maria, my mighty heart is breaking.” –Rainier Wolfcastle

Today is a sad day. Kate Upton, my future trophy wife—and her trophy boobs—have turned on me. There I was, minding my own business and fast forwarding through the ads during Monday Night Raw, when I spotted her in a commercial and threw it in reverse. Because not only can girls with huge tits not lie, like I said before, but every thing they say is super important. And smart.

Of course, this is only true if the boobs are in proportion to the body, so don’t get any ideas about trying to grow your boobs by getting really fat. And remember, there is a limit to how big boobs should be. Once you can squash beer cans with them, they’re not  turn-ons, they’re weapons.

But I digress. What awesome wisdom was about to spill forth from Kate’s heavenly hooters—great band name—and, more importantly, what product did I need to buy to make them happy?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXzdbr7HvAc

Imagine my shock and horror when that suave douche entered the scene and said “Kate doesn’t mind a man with a little hair on his chest,” and then Kate cruelly raised her eyebrow and said “but definitely not on his back,” then made a “Sorry back-haired guys, you won’t be touching these” face.

Talk about a boner killer. It was if the gates to heaven—ie, Kate’s vagina—had slammed shut. Because, of course, I have tons of hair on my back, way more than I have on my chest. Or on my head. I guess I could buy the shaver they were selling, but how am I supposed to shave my back when I can barely even wash it? My back is so broad, I can’t even reach parts of it without a (manly) loofa. And I don’t know what I’d do if someone hadn’t invented backscratchers.

With my dreams crushed, I could barely enjoy watching two oiled-up musclemen grappling in nothing but their manties. Instead, I was transported back in time, back to when Becky was still in law school.

I was visiting for the weekend and we were down in the student lounge to shoot some pool. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a bunch of allegedly intelligent women were watching Sex in the City.

This episode centered around the prudish one. Well, the prudish one compared to the other ones on the show. Why they would choose to make the only young and attractive woman play the prude while the older women were constantly getting naked is beyond me, but that’s just one of the many reasons I didn’t watch this show. The main reason being, of course, Sarah Jessica Parker’s face.

I’ll never understand how Sarah Jessica Parker has a career playing anything besides wicked witches. I’ll also never understand how women can constantly whine about how the media creates impossible standards of beauty and unrelenting pressure to be skinny, yet still love Sarah Jessica Parker. She’s a stick. Actually, she’s like one of those stickhorses kids used to ride. It’s like she knew that if she ever got even slightly chubby she’d be called Sarah Jessica Porker—sister of SpiderHam—and decided to stop eating for the rest of her life. If there’s pressure on women to be ridiculously skinny, it’s coming from Sarah Jessica Parker, not from us guys. Contrary to popular opinion, most of us don’t like super-skinny waifs. I never met a guy who was attracted to Kate Moss in the 90’s and I’ve never met a guy who liked Sarah Jessica Parker ever. But Kate Upton and Scarlett Johanson...yeah we like them. And before you parrot the media’s BS about this being some new thing where “all of a sudden” men are starting to like curvy women again, go back and watch Dusk Til Dawn. Salma Hayek was all curves in that movie and there was no one hotter. Hell, go back and look at Kelly Bundy. Then look at these pictures and see if you’ll ever find a man who thinks they’re attractive.

(And this is after she's been airbrushed to look her veiny, horsey best)

Case in point, when men talk about Modern Family, they talk about Sofia Vergara, not Julie Boney—er, Bowen. Almost all of us prefer Kat Denning to her moppish co-star. We like curves and always have. We like boobs, not bones. We want some flesh, something we can grab onto, not just hang clothes on. Ok, sure, we do love some skinny girls like Megan Fox and Nina Agdal—mmmmm, Nina Agdal—and that’s a pretty high bar, but we’re not the ones who made the unhealthy anorexic the “standard of beauty.” That’s all on the gay fashion designers and Sarah Jessica Parker. And women went along with it. For some reason, women held this bag of bones up as a fashion icon when they should have chased her out of town with pitchforks and torches, and maybe tossed her into the river to see if she can swim. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure she can.

Anyway, this episode of SITC centered around the prude who had just dumped someone or been dumped or some other damn thing that no sensible person would give a shit about, maybe she broke a nail. So she was feeling depressed and unattractive, even though she surrounded herself with three hags, when suddenly she found herself being seduced by a stranger. At first she was disgusted because he was bald (ugh!) and pudgy (gross!) and short (vomit!), but somehow he charmed her back to his apartment.

At this point, I felt like I was watching a horror movie in a Harlem theater. All the girls were shrieking “No girl, don’t go in the house!” “Run Charlotte, run.” “Nooooooo.”

But Charlotte must not have heard them because she still decided to get naked. And that’s when things took a turn for the macabre as Charlotte made a terrifying discovery. Not only was he short and bald and pudgy, but he had...BACK HAIR!!!!! AAAAAAAAARGH!

And now I was intrigued. Could this horribly deformed man overcome his disgusting handicaps, thwart God’s will, and score the only attractive woman on SITC? Yes, somehow Charlotte managed to swallow her revulsion and presumably something else as she soldiered on and fucked him. What a trooper. But as I silently gave a fist pump of solidarity with my blobby, balding, back-haired brother who had beaten all the odds, the girls watching were pressed back in their seats, covering their faces. I can still hear the screams.

“Ew girl, nooooo!”

“Oh, this is sooooo gross!”

“I think I’m going to hurl.”

“Ugh, I can’t watch. Is it over yet?”

And suddenly, I understood why serial killers do what they do.

Flash forward 10 years to when I was watching some quality television—wrestling—and I was once again assaulted by the same vicious hate. Was I seriously expected to be tall, skinny, with hair only on my head and not on my back? How could I possibly meet this impossible standard I ask you, how?

Now if I was a woman and I killed myself in some horrible back-shaving accident, everyone would be furious. The media would never stop blaming itself for daring to tell me that I wasn’t perfect, thus giving me no choice but to take insane risks and torture myself trying to achieve the unachievable. Those monsters!

And yet, no one’s going to complain about this ad, unless there’s a woman somewhere who’s got her panties in a wad because it objectifies women—even though they’re the ones describing how men need to look—not to mention the fact that they mostly remain silent and look pretty while a man does the talking for them.

But imagine what would happen if this commercial was flipped around. Imagine if an ad starred Channing Tatum, Justin Bieber, and Ryan Gosling hanging out in a bar until some good looking woman walked by and said “Sorry ladies, Ryan Gosling doesn’t do fat chicks.” I bet you’re already cowering beneath your bed. A thundering herd would descend on Washington, angrily waggling their fists and crying out for justice. “How dare you suggest men don’t like fat women!” they’d wail, “We’re all equally beautiful, like delicate but enormous snowflakes.”

No, you’re not. Sorry, you’re just not. You’re not Heidi Klum or Padma Lakshmi, just like I’m not Colin Farrell. So what? It doesn’t mean you’re not attractive or beautiful, just not as beautiful as they are. You’ll have to work a little harder to succeed or get out of traffic tickets or find a lover, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. It doesn’t make it impossible. Hell, even Roseanne’s been married 4 times. And she’s rich. So however you look, and however bad you feel about how you look, you can find success and you can find love. And all without lying to yourself or complaining about some impossible standard or pretending that fat is beautiful. That’s not productive and it’s not healthy.

Because we’ve got this other problem; Our kids are giant fat fucks. They all look like Augustus Gloop or Violet Beauregarde after she chews the experimental gum. (Hey, these jokes are current again. Finally, something good about Johnny Depp’s Chocolate Factory remake.) And how are we supposed to do anything about childhood obesity if we’re too busy lying to little girls and telling them that fat is beautiful? Years ago, even before they named Gwyneth Paltrow their “most beautiful person in the world,” People magazine revealed their list was a sham by putting Gabourey Sidibe in it. And everyone was so happy. “Oh, what a victory for fat people, how progressive, what a triumph”. Are you kidding? Gabourey Sidibe looks like a chocolate munchkin. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, she probably just polished off a peanut butter waffle pizza and got that much closer to her destiny of replacing Wilford Brimley in those diabetes ads. That’s who you want to hold up as a role model? Do you really want to point at her and tell your daughters not to worry about their weight because Gabourey is beautiful?

But we still need to do something to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks and starving themselves to live up to “Hollywood’s” impossible standard, right? But even if we changed Hollywood, and made Melissa Mccarthy and Gabourey the lead of every romantic movie, there would still be a problem because good-looking women exist in real life. And men don’t need the media to tell us that we like them better. Maybe we should throw all the good-looking girls out of school and force the boys to only date the homely ones? Anything to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks. Because being beautiful is impossible. Unattainable.

Except it’s not. There’s literally a thousand of those impossibly beautiful women in Hollywood, in the music industry, in professional sports, and in the pages of the Sears underwear catalogue. And for every one of those, there’s another thousand still waitressing or stripping. There were gorgeous girls in my high school and college and now there’s even more at my office and, more importantly, at the gym. At any given moment, you can walk into a spin class or a yoga class at any gym in any major city and see a dozen fantastic looking women. But how? How are they achieving this impossible goal?

Well, for one thing, they all look different. There is no “standard of beauty.” Much as people like to pretend that men and Hollywood just love big-breasted blondes like Pamela Anderson and Kaley Cuoco—Kaley is fucking awesome by the way—there’s still Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell, Halle Berry, Beyonce, Shakira, and that fucking gorgeous Indian girl from college. Some people even think Khloe Kardashian is attractive. All different shapes, sizes, and colors but all equally awesome—except Khloe. And they never decided that they didn’t have a chance of being beautiful because they didn’t look like Barbi. They believed in themselves and they worked hard to be beautiful.

And that’s the other key. Hard. Fucking. Work. Yeah, some women have the genes, but the rest have to work at it. That’s why they’re in those spin and yoga classes. I see these women in the gym, doing work, kicking their own asses, and I want to applaud—which  I never do because complimenting a woman is creepy and should be outlawed—and not just for the skinny ones. They all deserve it, because they’re not quitting. They’re in there every day earning their beauty.

Sure, some of them are just doing it to get a man—or woman—which is apparently a terrible thing to do. But most of them are just doing it for themselves, to feel healthy, to feel the pride of a job well done.  

So maybe the problem isn’t that there’s a high standard, but that we spend so much time telling girls that it’s impossible. You might be saying “Don’t worry about being as skinny as her because it’s impossible,” but they’re hearing that they’ll never be beautiful. So they either quit or they go insane trying to prove you wrong. And the sad part is that it’s totally possible. Yeah, they’ll probably never be as skinny as Mila Kunis or Keira Knightley, but they don’t have to be. They just have to not be as fat as Gabourey—and really getting that big is the thing that should be considered impossible. It just takes some hard work and willpower, and they’ll be able to be a healthy size that they can be proud of. 

I’m not saying it’s easy. I’ve been a fat guy all my life and probably always will be. I’ve been working on it for 20 years—done every diet, every exercise, crossed the world on treadmills and bikes and ellipticals and rowing machines—but I’m still fat. So I know how it feels to try and to fail, to be the one that doesn’t fit in. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t understand. Do you think I enjoyed watching shows that only portrayed fat boys as evil bullies or pathetic jokes? Do you think I enjoyed standing in the corner at every dance, every event, never even kissing a girl until college? Do you think I ever noticed that all the girls who said they just wanted someone funny wound up with someone handsome, that I didn’t know every girl who said she wished she could meet a guy just like me meant a guy like me who also skinny? Do you think I never noticed that I don’t look like anybody on the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues or the underwear ad or pretty much any superhero besides The Blob? If you want to talk impossible physiques, then pick up a comic book. Oh wait, you already have and for some reason only complained about the impossible looks of the women—who, by the way, typically have huge hips.

Why? Because only girls have feelings? Because only women ever think of dying alone? Men think about that stuff too. We just don’t let it control us. Either we get over it or we focus on fixing it instead of whining about it. Do women even realize how weak they make themselves look by always complaining and blaming everyone else for their problems? It’s almost as bad as admitting that you can’t figure out whether the toilet seat is up or down.

So stop worrying about it and stop pointing fingers at everyone. It’s not Kate Upton’s fault she was blessed with tremendous ta-tas, and it’s not the media’s fault that men dream about them. And it doesn’t mean that you need them to be happy. Just deal with it.   

Yeah, it hurt to hear that Kate Upton won’t have sex with me. But I’ll get over it. I won’t cry and chug a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, I won’t decide that I hate myself and never eat again. I won’t start worrying that Becky’s going to leave me for some smooth-backed stud. I’ll just keep working at losing weight and being ok with myself.

Besides, it’s not like I really ever had a chance at sex with Kate Upton. But if I did, you can bet I’d be willing to swim a mile in a lake of Nair for it.

Size does matter

You can tell a lot about someone’s wife by the size of the shower in their house. A regular bathtub shower combo was probably there when they moved in, but still means she might be adventurous. A tiny standup shower means she’s a prude. A spacious shower with a detachable showerhead or, even better, multiple showerheads means she’s a freak.

Because the bigger the shower, the better the possibility—and possibilities—for sex in the shower. There’s room to do it standing, sitting, lying down, bent over. It’s a kama sutra shower. Nothing’s holding you back besides a lack of adhesive ducks.

But tiny showers are worthless. You can’t do anything. Well, one thing, but it’s difficult and uncomfortable. If that shower gets put in, she’s saying the shower is for showering and the only sex is happening in the bedroom.

And you know the tiny shower stall was chosen by the wife because no man would ever choose it. Not that we love shower sex—ok, we totally do—but we want to keep the option open. The more possible places for sex, the better.

It’s the first thing we think of when we look at house or buy furniture. We’re checking out the size of the shower, the height of the kitchen counters and arms of the couch, the slipperiness of the floors, the softness of a carpet, the placement of the heating vents, the sightlines from the windows. We want it to be possible to have sex anywhere, any time, any way. Because then as soon as you even think of sex, we’re ready. We’re not wasting time getting to the bedroom. Too risky. Who knows what might happen on the way there. So we’re ready to do it on the floor, the stairs, the pooltable, the treadmill, against a wall, in a closet. And if we can get you to be adventurous in the house, maybe we can extend it to the outside world. Which is even better, because if we get you horny in a restaurant, we can’t risk losing that on the way home. That’s partly why we don’t like to talk in the car. What if we say something stupid and blow the whole deal?

So we always fight against redesigning. Fancy counters make the kitchen off limits. Hardwood floors are too slippery. And designing a fancy just-for-show living room is like announcing a death in the family. Because if the kids can’t play in there, neither can daddy. Next thing you know, we’re only having sex in the bedroom. And we’re always worried we’re not going to make it there.

So next time your husband is arguing about that new kitchen, don’t be mad. Be happy. Because it means he wants to fuck you. All the time. Anywhere and any way he can. Isn’t that better than granite counters?