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grooming

Hair Like Peter Brady’s

I was deep in thought under a maple tree the other day, pondering existentialism, when I began reflecting on my hair and how I should totally use one of those programs where you upload a photo of yourself, then add different hairstyles to see how awesome/hideous you look. I’m thinking fro. Oh wait, I DO have a fro pic! A few weeks ago at work when Darrin saw me and said, “Hey, Peter Brady!” I knew that a) he was having a very Jan Brady day, and b) he was also harassing me for me vague resemblance to Peter Brady (of The Brady Bunch) by way of longish hair. I hadn’t had a haircut in 6 months. Read the rest of this entry »

Bachelor Pads Have 15 Times More Germs!!!

bachelorpadpizza

This is not my beautiful house.

by Jonathan Bacteria Perry

Okay, dudes.  We need to talk.  It seems we have a problem, a perception problem that’s going to take a lot of Lysol & Clorox to wipe clean.  Apparently our bachelor pads have gotten pretty funky.  I know that’s not terribly surprising, but now there’s this so-called ‘official’ research from the University of Arizona showing how truly foul things are.  According to these tests, bachelor pads contain 15 times the amount of bacteria than is in the homes of bachelorettes.  15 TIMES!  That’s insane.  I didn’t figure the number would be that high.  Maybe 3 or 4 times more germs, but not 15.  Of course, the study found that bachelorette homes were even cleaner than the average home with 2 or more people, so apparently bachelorettes are freaks, like museum curators or something, whereas bachelor pads were like monkey cages (which would make bachelors the monkeys throwing poop, not the zoo keepers).

Oh, the grossest thing the study found about bachelor pads is that 70% of coffee tables harbored coliform, a type of bacteria common in feces.  Feces!  You’ve got crap on your coffee table!  Apparently shoes pick up feces after a while, so if you put your feet up on the coffee table, there’s a good chance you’re transferring poop.  Exciting, huh?  These coliforms and other fun microbes, including cold and flu carriers,  were also abundant on TV remotes, door knobs, and the bedside stand.  It’s true, bachelorette homes weren’t immune to these bugs, but they weren’t nearly as disgustingly infested.

Now guys, you can take some solace in knowing you aren’t spreading the Legionnaires Disease that recently made almost 200 visitors to the Playboy Mansion ill.  We all knew there’d be some scary stuff coming from there, but not on that big of a scale.  I’m sure you might be interested in seeing some sort of trade off, like the flu for a scantily clad woman or hives for a dominatrix, but things don’t exactly work like that (though bringing a stripper home might provide bonus bacteria).  It’s probably more important at this point to take a Sunday afternoon and wipe up your filth, you pig.

And if she ever asks whether you want to go back to her place or to your place, you know, to make jam, definitely go to her place.  And remember to take off your shoes.

The secret word is nasty.

Bachelor Pad Links

How NOT to Decorate a Bachelor Pad

17 Types of Bachelor Pads

Domesticated Bachelor Step #1: The Bachelor Pad!

DB Step #10:  Collect the Right Toys

My Bachelor Pad
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THE GREAT MUSTACHE EXPERIMENT

by Jonathan Baldspot Perry

tomselleck magnumpi mustache

Tom Selleck Rocks the Magnum P.I. mustache

I just ended the 2011 Great Mustache Experiment after only 6 days. It was a hideous failure.  There’s this one stubborn spot that won’t grow any hair. It’s where my Hitler mustache would be, but instead of the lip of the Fuhrer (surrounded by my normal hair, of course), there’s a huge vacant ugly gap. It seems all the men in my family have similar mustache issues (and we should start our society, the Brotherhood of Bald Spots.  There would be secret handshakes and meetings in a treehouse where we’d have our manly tea parties and bemoan our inability to grow certain facial hair.  Ah, bonding.).

I could grow out a Fu Manchu, if I was really desperate and into Karate, but it’s still the same thing.  Ugly on me.  And I’m sorry, there are no photos of my ‘stache attempt.  I want to be free of any visual records.  Imagine a 14 year-old boy, just past puberty and trying really hard to grow a mustache, but it just looks like ugly dirt.  That’s how mine looked.  Like that and someone’s hormonally abused grandmother.

No, to grow out a proper mustache I’d have to find a Ted Kaczynski cabin somewhere in the backwoods so I could grow it all out in solitude for months.  I might even get some writing done.  Since months in a cabin would be difficult to maneuver at this point, I’d have to try something else.  A beard-growing mask, for instance.  Maybe brown marker.  Instead of these, though, it might be best to wear a falsy Hitler mustache just to fill out the blank spot until I can do the necessary comb-over.  Apparently my dad does the mustache comb-over, so it’s a thing.

I mentioned my mustache growth attempt to a female coworker after the fact who admitted she hadn’t noticed anything strange growing over my lip.  She also cited something about my baby face (which further cemented her place as one of my favorite coworkers).  I guess it did just look a little like dirt from the wrong angle.  My testosterone must be channeled to more important things.

It would seem some people just aren’t suited for mustaches.  It’s a little disappointing to think you might never be able to grow a good Magnum P.I. mustache.  No Burt Reynolds or Alex Trebek facial hair.  No Snidely Whiplash.  My mustache envy will have to relax.  For now, I’ll have to settle for the 5 o’clock shadow meets Amish man scruff.  That’ll have to do.  At least until I can book my Kaczynski cabin.

(I totally didn’t say anything about mustache rides.)

The secret word is combover

Must Read Links

Children, Braid Your Nosehairs

Domesticated Bachelor Step # 3:  Shape Up, Fatty

The Great Massage Adventure

No Mom, I’m NOT Gay

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The Great Massage Adventure

by Jonathan Barndoor Perry

the masseuse and the massageYou hear great things about massages.  Then you hear the other stuff, which you assume is largely isolated and somewhat fictional.  I least I used to.  Last fall I flew to California to see my mom and took a short sidetrip to see my friend Cami who lives in the Bay Area.  Our visit together was brief, but we packed in a lot during that time.  We ate dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, had a meal of Cameroonian food the next day at an outdoor market, caught a Regina Spektor concert, and even got massages.  I’d never had a proper massage before, so I was really looking forward to it.  Cami’s kind of an old hat at massages and had found a favorite place.

The massage was fantastic!  It was quite relaxing and thorough, but, um, a bit more thorough than I was expecting.  I was surprised when the masseuse climbed onto my back and used her knees and feet to loosen my knotted muscles.  I was also surprised when she massaged me like only that special someone might with near pinpoint encroachment of the nethers.  Actually, Cami had joked before we went in about the ‘happy ending‘ business and we had a good chuckle knowing we were seeing professionals, but wouldn’t that be funny?  Well, it happened.

At some point near the end of my session, the masseuse said something softly I couldn’t quite understand.  I had her repeat it and she whispered in my ear & pointed there (an area loosely covered by a towel), asking me if I wanted her to ‘do that’.  I nonchalantly said ‘no, thank you’ in a very polite way, as if one was casually turning down a great dessert at a fine restaurant because there are too many calories, though one has truly been craving the molten lava chocolate cake for months.  I’m a little repressed.

We left the massage parlor in a normal manner (I accidentally under-tipped) and as we reached the car I told Cami the previous hour’s highlights.  She was shocked!  Appalled.  She wasn’t sure she wanted to go back there again and I don’t believe she has since.  Gradually her shock turned to amusement.  Weird naked time became a recurring laugh.  Cami said her ex hadn’t been offered ‘that’ before (maybe he didn’t fess up), which made me feel just a bit special, though really, I already felt pretty special.

Anyway, the next time you’re in the Bay Area… db

 

The secret phrase is magic fingers.

Go San Francisco Giants!!

Similar Simian Reads:

No Mom, I’m Not Gay

The Great Suburban Mushroom Hunt

Google-Stalking the Ex

Dating Advice From the Family

Sound Of Music Death Match!!! Liesl v Maria

Bachelors In History

Esperanto Rhymes with Tonto

The Prophecy of the Tornado and the Trailer

Logan’s Run and Population Control

Kitten of Evil

Will Your Siblings Use Up the Good Names?

Which is Your Type? A Pseudo-Cosmo Quiz

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Visually-Oriented Women??

slob1Visually-oriented women?  What’s up with that?  Apparently it’s true.  My friend PM Chin says it is and she’s a girl (woman.  sorry.).

“Here’s the difference in how we approach and value attractiveness: men look at women as if we are already furnished, designer decorated houses, but women look at men more like fixer-upper homes, the kind that need a lot of work.”

After a few delightfully scathing admonishments, Chin has some useful advice for the guys.  Really a funny piece.  Read the full article here:  Turnabout Is Fair Play

There should be a new article about relationships forthcoming (maybe Sunday).  I’m working on a few posts at the moment, but the pigs need more lipstick first.

Related Reading:

Other Posts By PM Chin

Children, Braid Your Nosehairs

11 Steps To Becoming A Domesticated Bachelor:  #3. Shape Up, Fatty

11 Steps To Becoming A Domesticated Bachelor: #2. The Right Wardrobe

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Children, Braid Your Nosehairs

nosehair-trimmerby Jonathan B. Perry

A while back I was having a fascinating online conversation with my college friend Roland, who was teaching his fourth or fifth year of English in Taiwan as an excuse to avoid using his French Education degree or perhaps to avoid his family and friends in the states. He said he was thinking about coming back to the US, but didn’t know what he would do for work. I suggested he teach French to panhandlers and take a percentage of their tax-free panhandling (and perhaps inform them of the many great unemployment benefits that await them in France). It didn’t sway him. Then, out of the blue, Roland asked me if I trim my nose hairs. This was an abnormal question, although he is of French heritage. Anyway, it was a timely question since I had actually just started trimming my nose hairs in the last year or so.

I think nasal hair awareness month came shortly after my 30th birthday, when, in a fit of winter breathing, icicles attached to my snout like dangly Christmas ornaments. It seems odd that I’ve had to cut the hair on the top of my head for the last couple of decades, but only just now have the option to braid and/or color my nostril hair. I’m thinking I won’t color it green. Or red. That’s just me, though. Do whatever works for you.

Fortunately, Roland had the same affliction and we now have a special bond.  (Just to be confusing, Roland is back in the states and no longer teaches French and English to the unsuspecting children of Taipei. Now he’ll never get the chance to sneak in an instructional course in nostril hair braiding. In French.)

Oh, were you looking for bachelor relevance? Let’s say aging and grooming. Yeah, I’ll tag those.

Related Reads

The Great Mustache Experiment

The Great Massage Adventure

No Mom, I’m NOT Gay
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