Small guys in big trucks or the ever-popular Napoleon complex

Give me a moment to stop laughing at the visual I'm getting right now.  Can someone please explain to me why short men insist on driving gigantic vehicles?  Do they actually believe they look taller? Sorry, my man, but I can see your Napoleonic stature through the window.  The manly feel of being up high and making lots of exhaust noise is likely to be the reason behind the car choice.  I want you to know that when we all see you pretending to be a big boy, we are indeed laughing at you.  Not with you.  There's an instinctual need to impress members of the opposite sex for breeding purposes, I get it.  But, dude, you are a wee man.  Own the shit out of it.

Many of you own it to death. Like the mini-"guidos" who like to work out 8 hours a day in order to look like what can only be described as miniature Schwarzeneggar replicas. What they don't realize, is that the wider they get, the shorter they actually look!  So pump that iron, Sal, you look like a stocky garden gnome now.  What I enjoy about these guys is the more muscular they get, the more bad ass they believe themselves to be. Their speech patterns change and they start to sound like extras from the set of The Sopranos. Here's a little advice, tiny Tom, working out doesn't make you Italian, so try talking like the little WASP-y nerd that you are.  I'll respect you more and you won't look quite so fucking retarded.

And please, tell me why these puny little shits all think they are comedians?  Maybe I don't share their comic genius or maybe, just maybe, they aren't funny at all.  Just loud.  What they lack in size, they make up for in sheer volume.  Jokes that aren't funny don't BECOME funny at increased decibels. Joe Pesci pulls it off quite nicely, he's short and funny.  YOU aren't Joe Pesci.  Don't adopt an accent, don't try to sound tough, and don't...do not try to be funny. You either are or you aren't, no in-between.  Little man, you don't look any bigger by increasing the volume on your bad jokes about women. Generally, that is the topic spewing out of these dwarfy little fuckers' mouths.  

While we coasting along that highway, why do these diminutive macho men all sound like woman-haters?  They criticize and judge each and every woman that passes them on the street.  Because you are such a fucking catch???  Really, my friend, are all the mirrors in your house broken?  We come in all shapes, sizes, and altitudes.  Maybe that frustrates you? Maybe because you know we wouldn't give you a second glance if you weren't screaming out your opinion of our appearance. I really don't give a moose testicle what you think...shut your fucking piehole when I walk by and nobody gets injured. You nudge and comment to your buddies, trying to sound like you are so hot. The fact that I can look directly into your eyes and probably have more muscle tone than you do should scare you, at least a little bit.  Plus, the reality of the matter is, I wouldn't hesitate to junk punch you right in front of your cronies.  Put a little perspective into your life...Queens-style.

How about that same wee-man at the bar?  Talking big, gesturing wildly, getting louder by the minute.  He finally screws up by saying something about someone else's girlfriend and all hell breaks loose.  The boyfriend turns to you and asks if you have a problem. You, in all your pint-sized glory, open your flap to respond and what comes out embarrasses onlookers FOR you.  Threatening to kick the boyfriend's ass was likely to be what you believe to be your finest moment, and what we see as your dumbest. The amount of aggression shown by you, French fry, is disproportionate to your deluded actual ability to carry through your threats. The other guy doesn't really want to beat the living shit out of you...your vertically challenged state makes him look like a bully for even wanting to hit you.  But, you are of age, so you go flying across the bar, sending glass and alcohol sailing everywhere.  He walks away, satisfied that you've learned your lesson...and you are lying on the bar floor screaming for him to come back so you can finish him off. Do you ever shut up?  Nothing phases the blissfully stupid, or the totally deluded assholes like you.
Ladies, unless you are excruciatingly tiny, do not date this guy.  Life is too short to dance with little men.  Life is too short to deal with their overcompensation for not being man-sized. Unless you enjoy being able to throw him over your shoulder and carry him like the petulant child he is, take a pass on this dude.  Would I ever date someone shorter than I am...are you friggin kidding me right now???

Surviving Catholic school in the 70's and 80's

What fond memories flood my head when I think about having attended a Catholic school during the late 70's and early 80's.  The joy of being taught by nuns, women who are angry and sexually deprived, and so are even more angry, and dislike children with a passion.  Ah, what fun.  There's nothing like going to school dressed like everyone else, in ugly maroon and gray plaid with a sexy criss cross tie cutting across that foxy Peter Pan collar, while wearing what can only be described as black orthopedic shoes and knee high socks. If that doesn't scream HAWT, I don't know what does.
Of course, the P.E. uniform rivaled the regular uniform by forcing you to wear those GOD-awful shorts that are, for unknown reasons, back in style.  You know the ones I am talking about...the wedgie-producing running shorts with the piping around the legs and up the sides.  Oh yeah, now you get it.  Couple a pair of those in maroon with gold piping and add a nice manly golden t-shirt to that, and you've got some nice-looking kids playing dodge ball in the gym.
Does anyone else remember wearing the P.E. uniform UNDER your jumper because there were no such things as locker rooms in grammar school?  One week on, one week off of P.E., wearing that uniform under your jumper because you had to change in the classroom with all 29 of your classmates right there with you.  Draping your polyester nightmare over the back of your chair so it would be there waiting for you to come back sweaty and smelly. Then you'd slip that thing on right over your wet, stinking gym clothes and go about the rest of your day, ignoring the mounting stench oozing from your pre-pubescent armpits, trying to look innocent and clueless as to the origin of the odor. Wasn't that FUN?!?!
Let's talk about those jumpers.  What the fuck was the material?  When I first started school, they were made out of cotton and quite soft. Then suddenly, without warning, they began making them out of what can only be described as fireproof nylon.  Itchy as hell and literally almost fireproof.  I can say this because my friends and I tested that theory in high school by trying to light our skirts on fire...and failing miserably.  I guess they were concerned about our safety.  Having them come to mid-knee was probably a safety precaution, too.  Ugly as homemade sin and fire-retardant.  Out-fuckin-standing. The boys were lucky.  Navy pants and a white collared shirt, maroon tie...not very offensive at all and totally unfair!  We could wear polyester maroon pants in the winter if we chose, but rarely did we.  They were disgusting and heinous, making the jumper, and later the skirt and vest seem almost attractive.  Elastic-waisted, form-fitting to the knee, and never the right length so your mom had to hem them causing them to be uneven at best.  I always opted to freeze my legs off, even in the snow. Most of us did. Better to be cold than unattractive, right?
But the best part of going to a Catholic school HAD to be the fact that the nuns were actually allowed to administer corporal punishment.  A term they translated loosely and to suit their particular cruelty preferences. They certainly all had their own brand of mean. Some yelled, some hurled insults in front of the whole class, while others liked to send a nasty note home to mom that had to be signed and returned the next day. The verbal shit was bad enough. Like asking if someone was dropped on their head as a baby because they couldn't answer a question about the reading, or telling a girl she was going to hell for having her skirt too short. As we got older, we developed a thick skin to that kind of bullshit. We had to pay a certain amount of money every time we put our feet up on the crossbar of the desk, or had lip gloss on, or a fancy hair clip, or chewed gum in class. Then we'd donate that money to the missions. Our class had more mission babies than students. Maybe we were bad at following rules, or maybe the nuns needed to focus on our education, not checking to see if our legs were crossed daintily at the ankles with feet tucked under our chairs. Yeah, that was another offense that was assessed a fine.
But as the saying goes, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  Unless you heard the same fucking thing over and over again until you started to believe it. Words paled by comparison to the interesting ways they found to inflict physical punishment on us for basically just being kids. Get a math problem wrong on the blackboard, get smacked across your ass. Get caught talking in class, have a ruler whacked across your knuckles. Shoot spitballs, ok I know, that's bad and should be punished.  But should you get hit in the back of the head by a pissed off nun?  You did. Goofing off and fooling around, if the hitting didn't stop you, one nun in particular would stuff you in a trash can and shove you and the can into the hallway. That same nun would threaten to staple our knee socks to our legs if we didn't pick them up.  Good times, good times.  My favorite teacher of all, was the one who was the most creative when it came to discipline.  If you were talking, passing a note, or basically doing something you were not supposed to, she knew.  She could be in the closet getting out art supplies or at the board with her back to the whole class, writing notes...and goddammit if she didn't know what was happening and WHO was doing it.  Without a word, she would grab one of those dusty ass blackboard erasers, spin around at lightning speed, and launch that thing directly at the offending party, nailing them squarely in the head.  Every fucking time.  I was the lucky recipient once.  I say once because after 8 years in a Catholic school being monitored by these psychotic women, I learned how not to get caught.  Except for that one time.  I don't remember who I was talking to or what it was about, but in retrospect, it had better have been pretty friggin important.  What I do remember was the eraser missile making direct contact with my right temple, scaring the shit out of me, and depositing an ass-load of chalk dust into my hair. Dear Lord, how humiliating!  What did I learn that day?  Not to talk in class?  Oh hell no. I learned that I had better improve my method so I didn't get busted again...that eraser hurt!
We weren't always tortured little souls.  We did learn how to memorize entire chapters worth of material in order to successfully get through recitations without being yelled at or spanked.  We all knew how to set up what would now be called the anally-retentive notebook of someone suffering with OCD.  Was it a positive experience?  Who knows? Does it make for great stories to tell our kids when they complain about school or a particular teacher, fucking A it does!  Would I want to do it all over again? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Mammograms and other objects of female torture

Nothing like a nice mammogram to start the day, right ladies?  You will never hear one of us say that, EVER.  I know they are important, and I know they save lives.  That doesn't mean I have to like them.  Nothing that takes your boob and smashes it into a flesh pancake will ever be something I enjoy.  Some say that it hurts giant gazongas more, some claim it's the teeny ta-tas that feel the pinch.  All I can tell you is, if you have boobs, it's going to KILL.  The end.  Notice that men do not have a comparable medical exam. They never walk into the doctor's office and get told to drop trou because today we are going to put your ballbags into a tortilla press and smash those puppies into a quesadilla. Not that I am aware...not being a man and all.  But trust me, if that were to happen, it would be all over the news.  Men everywhere swearing off modern medicine and hiding out in huts, shaking.
Tampons suck. They are uncomfortable to have jammed up inside you, they are awkward to insert, sometimes they hurt coming out, and if they are even slightly crooked...holy shit, there's no sitting down till you fix it.  Yes, they do come in sizes. But they don't reflect the size of the owner's vag, oh no, they are designed with volume of liquid in mind. So, even if you are virginal in size, and you bleed like a wounded animal, you'll be wearing the ULTRA size. There's lite, regular, super, super plus, and ULTRA.  Lite looks like a little pencil, and is probably the most comfortable to wear...and fuck you bitches who get away with it every month.  Regular is more like a Sharpie and is also quite easy on the vajayjay. Oh, and fuck all of you who get to use those. Super and super plus are almost the same, honestly, and are more like a mid-sized carrot. This is where the discomfort begins.  But then, oh dear Lord, then you have the ULTRA.  This fucker is similar to having a paper towel roll with a rope hanging off the end jammed up in there, where nothing that big and dry should ever go. But those of us lucky enough to have a Dexter kill-room kind of period get to use them. And you wonder WHY we get bitchy?
Who here just loves a trip to the GYN?  Come on, shout it out!  Hmmm, not one hand raised, I see. Men, do you know why that is??? Lying on a table with the hospital gown open to the FRONT, with your feet in stirrups, being asked to scoot down to the edge of the table is only the beginning of the joys you get to experience during this visit.  It's awkward enough having someone stick their finger up there as far as it will go and then pressing down on your lower abdomen, particularly with no kissing involved.  But to have them tell you to let those knees drop and relax as they take the biggest, coldest metal object they can find in the room and stuff it up your hoo ha, takes serious balls.  Relax, my ass. The speculum has to be a medieval torture device and women are fortunate enough to endure its usage yearly. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I haven't even gotten to the good parts yet.  After they unceremoniously slide that wand of hell inside you, they grab another lovely device to swipe some of your cervix off.  Yes, I know, it's called a Pap Smear. Have you seen what they use to collect the specimen?  It ain't a Q-tip...it's more like a very long mascara applicator.  That's right, a mini bottle brush.  Don't anger or distract your doctor now, close your eyes and stay very still. Save the questions and chit chat for something safer, like the breast exam. For those of us over 40, we have the female equivalent of the prostate exam.  Oh you betcha, they jam a finger right up there without so much as asking if you are into back door action. So, men, before you bitch and moan about your prostate exams, give thanks to your higher power that you don't have the accompanying exams that go along with OUR trip to the gynecologist.
I'll wager that not one woman will argue the elation we feel at the end of the day when the bra comes off!  Bras come in all shapes and sizes, just like the load they carry.  Some are more comfortable than others, that I cannot deny.  However, at some point, they all start to feel like a strait jacket for your headlights.  Constrictive and binding, eventually, a bra will start to dig, pinch, or crush your ladies. The creator of the underwire must have been a man because no woman would have chosen to put something metal under her yabbos that has the potential to poke out of its cloth shroud and jam straight into her skin. Nope, I promise you that is not how it went down. Another fine male creation.
Notice, men do not have one thing equivalent to the many forms of torture we must bear as women. You get up, you shit, shower, and shave. You visit the doctor only when you have to, and even then it's a walk in the park compared to our yearly trip. I haven't even touched upon the miracle of childbirth...the miracle that women do it over and over again after the first time! Now that you have some clue, a peek into our hell, try to be more compassionate with your wives or girlfriends. Hand her a tissue if she's crying, listen if she wants to vent, hug her if she seems down, steer clear if she's angry, and for love of God, do not complain about any of these things. You really have no idea, buddy, are you friggin kidding me right now???

Speaking about things you don't know or hey, dude, tell me more about my uterus

There's one in every crowd.  The fountain of knowledge, the expert on all topics, the guy who knows everything.  Definitely a follow-up to my original blog "Your expert opinion or been there done that BEFORE you"... I just feel compelled to continue that thought. I suppose I should say thank you to those who fit the bill.  You do give me hours of entertainment and pages of blog to cover. Possibly the most entertaining part about this dude, is you cannot argue with him. He has research, news articles, TV shows, and just plain genius on his side.  That is exactly what he will tell you.  And you will attempt to counter his every point. I understand the desire to do that. You think it will shut him the fuck up.  Sorry, that's been proven false.  All it will serve to do is keep him going and going, like some kind of psychotic, rambling Energizer bunny on crack. You will develop a raging migraine and he will experience that same satisfaction he always attains when he thinks he's won yet another debate.
Sometimes you just can't argue because it may be a topic you know nothing about. Then, of course, you run the risk of repeating what he's said to someone else.  Usually, that someone else will be the person who not only does know a little something about the topic, but has studied it extensively and likely works in that particular field.  Now you are the asshole, spouting ridiculous bullshit and making a complete and utter fool of yourself. This is why you can never, ever believe Mr. Know-it-all.  Even if it's something as basic as the weather report. Grab your smart phone and double-check his ass before you text your friend about heading to the beach. Looking stupid is not an option...for you.  For him, it's a way of life.
We all enjoy feeling smart. I do. We all like to be right.  I definitely do. He turns it into a goddamn career. You are from NY, he can tell you all about what living there is like.  He's visited once.  He will tell you which neighborhoods are safer, which restaurants are the best, and how to deal with the natives.  But you ARE a native!  Does that matter to him? Hell NO!  He knows more than you.  He watched a news special all about it, and can quote directly from it for you, if you'd like. No matter what you say, regardless of how factual it is because, that's right, you lived there for 25 years, he can refute it.  God bless his small, ineffectual little mind.
Did you go to a Catholic school?  He can tell you all about that experience.  No, he didn't attend one, he graduated from a public school.  That doesn't stop him from expounding on the virtues of being taught by nuns and how lovely that is for a child in their formative years.  REALLY!?!?  Those of us who lived that nightmare can call bullshit on that one...after we open our eyes and stop cringing from the horrific memory burned into our brains of the "lovely" treatment we enjoyed in Catholic school.  He will disagree, stating that these are women of God, and he will in all likelihood be able to rattle off the vows that the novitiates make when becoming a nun. The fact that he knows the word novitiate will throw you for a moment, causing you question if you actually lived that terror-filled scholastic history or if he actually may be telling the truth.  Snap out of it, ass monkey! You attended Catholic schools your whole young, academic career.  You were smacked with a ruler on your ass more times than you care to remember.  You practiced duck and cover on a daily basis to avoid the blackboard eraser missiles launched across the classroom. Yet, he'll still argue his point. And your cranium will throb, yet again.
Let's consider the fact that his wife is female and has given birth at least once. Thus, making him an expert on all things gynecological.  You didn't know that?  Don't worry, he'll tell you all about it. Cramps? He knows exactly how you feel. Just walk it off.  Oh ok, so when I take a pair of BBQ tongs, reach deep into your gut and twist as hard as I can, feel free to walk it off.  Childbirth? Pshhh, he's got that one in the bag.  It's not all that bad, and hell, women have been doing it since the dawn of time, out in the fields...piece of cake. Indeed, it certainly is a piece of cake, my friend.  When you pass a nine pound eggplant out of your ass, we'll compare notes.  And, by the way, why don't I have another?  Hmm, let's see...I'm done?  Oh, but you're so young.  Wrong again, buddy.  See my blog about being your child's grandparent. But wait, you have the research and notes detailing the number of women having children well into their fifties!  Excellent!  I'm all over that like white on rice.  Nothing I want more than to use my old ass eggs to produce a child who won't be able to refer to me as Grandma to their children. I'll pass, but thanks for doing the legwork FOR me.
I could go on and on about this guy...he irritates me on so many levels. I'll just wait for the next time we get to chat, and he is trying to sell me on his expertise on some fucking topic...and attempt to sell he will...and I'm going to be at the end of my rope that day, having dealt with ass clowns, fucktards, and dimwits...and I will have to ask him, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

Your personal grooming habits...keep them personal

We all know at least one person who is guilty of this heinous crime.  The chick on Facebook, Twitter, social media site of choice who insists on regaling us with her every fucking move.  She either believes that we are truly interested or is, perhaps, attempting to make the rest of jealous.  Here it is in a nutshell...I couldn't give a ripe fuck what you do or how often.  I'm thrilled that you choose to tame your eyebrows by having them regularly waxed at the very expensive salon that you credit each and every time you walk through their front door. Nobody likes a hairy chick, and unibrow is so offensive I cannot even look at one without gagging, so thank you.  But seriously, every time a hair is yanked unceremoniously from your Don King-esque brow, I do not need to be made aware.
Is it just the brows? Oh no, it's everything.  Bully for you getting your hair cut and colored every two weeks like clockwork.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  My heart just skips a beat even thinking about it.  Some of us haven't the time, energy, or disposable cash flow to keep up with you.  You know that.  Quite the aware little puppy, aren't you?  That's why you do it. Look at me, my hair is perfection, not a strand out of place, not a root showing or gray hair to be found.  Congratulations on prioritizing your appearance over all else and sending that fabulous message to young girls everywhere.  Because jealousy, competition, and anorexia aren't already problematic enough...thanks for helping us along that path to depression or worse.
Somehow, she actually believes I have a deep-seated need to know each time she has her nails done. The mani/pedi is a wonderful thing and I do partake as often as I can. While she goes every two weeks, and I know this based on her faithful chronicling of each visit, complete with photos, I do not.  I go when I can, and when I can justify the expense. You just never know the exact day nor the color I choose.  Why?  Because I don't think you give a flying fuck.  I'm right.  You don't and I don't.  But that's right, it's not just that she went, it's the fancy overpriced salon where she checked in using Foursquare! When I DO actually get my nails done, I go to the same Vietnamese woman in Pleasant Hill almost every time. Good service doesn't require water with cucumbers floating in it and piped in New Age music.  I don't need a robe to have polish put on my nails.  Lily is nice enough to make egg rolls once in a while and gives a killer hand and leg massage...all in her little hole-in-the-wall joint.
Thank God she's all dressed up again!  My jeans and concert t-shirt were just begging for someone to overshadow them by dressing for the prom at 40 years old...again...for no apparent reason.  Even more fortunate, she's nicely had someone snap a photo to be shared on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and possibly even to be sky-written over my house. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't fully admire her from yet another angle. The bitch may just be THAT considerate.
Holy shit, she just had a drink at yet another snazzy bar!  Lucky me, I know all about it.  I even saw the close up shot of it in case I wanted to drink vicariously THROUGH her. How thoughtful!  Spending money hand over fist can be a barrel of laughs.  But in the current economy, is it wise?  Does she care?  Hell no!  How else can she rub her amazing life in your face and mine?  Going to the clearance rack at Old Navy and nabbing those jeans you've been eyeing for a month at the low, low price of $8.90 isn't her idea of a bang-up time.  It's something I celebrate wholeheartedly...but I'm a cheapo...forgive the digression.
Ladies, don't be that chick.  We are too evolved to truly believe that we are in competition with each other for the attention of cavemen. The world is overpopulated enough, we aren't battling to breed.  Take it down a notch, or two, or five. Nobody wants to know every time you apply lipstick or take a shit.  No, really, I swear we don't.  There's something to be said for an air of mystery once in a while. If we are close friends, I may know this stuff already, so you certainly don't need to broadcast it publicly to everyone else.  You are only asking for it the next time you ask if you should go blonde or redhead, complete with accompanying photos...asking for me to shout, type, and possibly rent a billboard begging to know, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

Breastfeeding after a bike ride...have you heard of a juice box?

Before you jump ugly with me and attack my stance against breastfeeding, understand that I don't care. My opinion is the one that matters right now, and if you want to expound the joys and benefits of having a child dangling from your tits all day long, there are sites geared toward your little obsession.  I'm sure you can tell me all about how your way of feeding your child is better than mine.  The joys of breastfeeding, the lasting benefits, the development of immunities, the crucial moment of bonding, the IQ enhancements.  Yeah, all a fat load of bullshit. No really, it's bullshit, plain and simple.  Whip out those studies, pamphlets from La Leche, the advice given to you from your doula or midwife, the books, the videos...and then stuff them up your ever-expanding ass.
Oh, I can hear the thunderous sound of women everywhere, racing to their little child-rearing libraries to prove me wrong.  Is it really about the baby, or is it about the promise of losing the baby weight more rapidly than those of us who chose the bottle option? What guided your decision to feed your child using a bodily fluid?  That IS what breast milk is...a bodily fluid, like snot and spit.  The last time I checked, I found out that I am, indeed, not an animal living in the wild and do have access to supermarkets.  Information that assisted me in my decision-making process. We do live in the United States, right? This hasn't been deemed a Third World country, has it?  We do have modern technology, running water, and flush toilets, right?
Holy crap, I can feel your righteous indignation through the laptop screen.  Let me help you out...your kids haven't been sick, haven't cried when you've left them, and are two points short of genius on the IQ scale, thanks to your decision to feed them through your nipples.  Am I close?  Or is that the perception you were fed, you swallowed it hook, line, and sinker...and now can't get the little leeches off your fun bags? I'd like to say that I'm sorry for your misguided screw up and wish I could help you.  But, personally, I think it's more fun to laugh at you and your dumb ass choices.  I've seen breast-fed children who are roly poly little munchkins with asthma and a host of other afflictions.  Care to explain?
Neither I nor my child were breast-fed.  We are both only children who are neither overweight, nor afflicted with strange immune deficiencies.  Oh, did I mention we were both straight A students all through grammar school, and I all the way through high school?  Hmmm, blows your theory completely out of the water doesn't it?  Should I mention that my IQ was tested as a child, and would likely make you cry out in a jealous rage, perhaps wanting to shank your doula for ever feeding you that pack of lies?
Watching women with infants in their arms, covered by a little blanket while breast-feeding is not offensive to my sensibilities. What is offensive is those same women, four years later, whipping out a sweater puppy to nurse, and I use that term so disgustedly, a preschooler.  If the child can ride their bike up to you at the park after playing tag with his friends, and ask you for a drink of your ta-ta fountain, it may be time to pull the plug on that form of hydration.  Who benefits from this practice?  Have you heard of MILK?!?!  They sell it in all sizes, flavors, fat contents...and it tastes sooooo good when it's frosty cold right out of the fridge.  MMMM, I can just imagine a cold glass now.  Why the hell would you subject your kid to drinking your broccoli-flavored, warm tit waste when he could be enjoying a nice glass of chocolate milk with his friends?
Boobs are decorative.  Boobs fill out t-shirts.  Boobs are fun to play with, so I've heard. They are not drinking fountains.  We don't live in grass huts scattered throughout a jungle with no access to shopping.  Let's get into the current century, let's exercise some common sense. Let's question the advice we are given when it sounds so wrong.  I have, and I will again the next time I see a woman feeding her intelligently-speaking toddler from her chi-chis, exclaim loudly for all to hear, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

The attention-whore's little brother, the perpetual frat boy

Bet you didn't know she had a sibling.  Oh but she does, and we tend to suffer him gladly because he's so damned funny.  We all know at least one, and if we are lucky, several. You know him, he's the guy at the party with the 25 year old concert tee, battered jeans, and flip flops.  The party where the rest of us are dressed in business casual.  Yet, nobody bats an eye.  Why?  Because he came in singing at the top of his lungs and invited us all to join in.  Yes, "Margaritaville" is catchy and we all know the lyrics, so why not?  Maybe because it's someone's 85th birthday party and we are at a fancy restaurant???  Ah, that's ok, someone will inevitably say, while some of the older folks are fidgeting and scanning the room for the level of responses to Mr. Delta Gamma Phi.
He's great to have around at the ballpark, cheering louder than anyone around you, rousing the crowd in support of the home team.  Shouting loudly and sometimes incoherently because he's already had a six pack on the way there.  But, bless his heart, he's the first to make a beer run for the whole row. Gotta love that! So what if he sloshes some on you as he climbs over your chair?  He happily pays for the round, how can you complain? And you don't. You grab that beer, toast to him and the whole stadium, and chug it down.
His drunken antics are the life of every baseball game, BBQ, birthday party, and holiday soiree.  Everyone knows him by name, even those who've never met him before.  He dances with all the women and enters into a bromance with all the men.  By the end of the night, you've become friends for life.  How the hell does he do this?  He's never grown up.  Peter Pan has nothing on this guy. Sure, he has a steady job, probably a wife and a couple of kids.  All the prerequisites for acceptance into "real" adulthood.  Yet, he is the first one at the party and the last to leave.  He drinks even the proclaimed wooden legs right under the table and keeps on dancing. Dancing and dancing, stealing smooches from each person he passes...smooth devil.
Do we all quietly worry about him?  Of course we do.  Have we all driven him home on several occasions because his B.A.C. was through the roof?  You know you have, and you'd do it again for this lovable dumbass.  Everyone agrees that an intervention is necessary, but nobody steps up to the plate. Why, you ask?  Well, duh, who wants to be a buzzkill?
Taking him down off the throne would throw a serious wrench into everyone's fun, and you know it would.  Who else could get an entire section of a baseball stadium to join him in a sing-along?  Who else would start a conga line leaving a church?  Who could get the priest to join in that conga line???  He gets the wallflowers to dance and the quiet ones laughing.  He tells your grandma dirty jokes, and she LIKES it!  I, for one, am not gonna ruin the fun.  Nope, I'll just keep watering down his drinks at the end of the night and driving his pickled ass home.  His antics are the stuff the YouTube was created for and what makes him the life of every occasion.
Will I throw a shot back with this dude?  Uh yeah, are you friggin kidding me right now???