On Addictions...
Can you deal with a bit of honesty on a Thursday afternoon? If you are like me, I usually reserve this portion of my week for out and out lies, but I’m willing to make a sacrifice for this post if you are. I warn you though, this particular bit of honesty may make you uncomfortable. It deals with a bad habit I’ve recently acquired, and I’m not sure if you have the maturity level to handle what I’m about to tell you. I don’t want you to giggle uncontrollably like you did during sex education class in the 6th grade. I’m exposing myself here, and I’d appreciate some adult behavior. So here goes nothing…
I’m addicted to Dancing With the Stars…and I’m not sorry.
I know exactly when it happened too. I experimented at a vulnerable time in my life, leaving myself with little defense. To make matters worse, the person who introduced me to this vice was my own mother. We had invited her to stay with us for a week to help out with a newly born K-Mad (I’ve changed her name once again). I meant to speak to her about her TV habits and to not bring those with her, especially the addiction to poor reality shows. But I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time, and in the door she came. Sure, she was supposedly excited to see K-Mad, but I know her plans were far more sinister than that…
And then Thursday came. She worked on my wife first by emphasizing the dancing angle. We’ve been through this I believe. You are aware of my wife’s affection for that dark art. Once the term “ballroom” was used, well, my wife was turned with nary a struggle. I don’t know what it is with women, but ballrooms must take them back to their girlhood dreams of princes, puffy dresses and debutante balls. It must have something to do with Cinderella…that hussy.
I was being a nice guy that night too. I relinquished the TV controller so that they could watch what they wanted. It was only fair since the two of them had been fighting the good fight with K-Mad the whole day. You know how tough it was back in the days that K-Mad basically slept the entire time. Thank goodness we had two of them…
…I’m getting snarky. Sorry, but I’m a little stressed out since I’m revealing this to you. My man card is in serious duress. I mean, even though I was basically set up by the two most important women in my life (those hussies!), it’s really my own fault. I was hooked from the first twirl…hey, at least I’m still manly enough to no know what those “twirls” are technically called. Okay, okay, they’re called botafogos…happy? This is so embarrassing. Originally it was like watching a car wreck, I just couldn’t pull my eyes away. I can’t help it, I like car wrecks…. (Oh stop judging, you know it’s the only reason people watch NASCAR as well as I do).
And then I saw him. Jerry Rice. Jerry Friggin’ Rice. He, like, catches footballs and stuff…lots of footballs. And he’s out there doing some foxtrot…thing. So I kept watching. It was mesmerizing. Those movements. People don’t do that kind of moving. I didn’t know humans were even capable of that kind of body movement. Seriously, a few weeks later, after my addiction had…seeped in…I got up and did a spontaneous imitation of the Samba…and I pulled something (*pssst* something=groin). My wife was very impressed. I decided to go walk the dog at that moment…
Oh come on. Go ahead and sit there in smug satisfaction. Every guy has his weakness. It’s not exactly like watching those female dancers…and those outfits…is an affront to my masculinity. Seriously, just because I don’t like to personally dance, doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s pretty amazing what these folks are doing out there. It's art afterall. Perhaps I'm just more well adjusted than you...pigs.
…and it’s not like I’m watching another season of Survivor. I mean, seriously. Hello, standards...
I’m addicted to Dancing With the Stars…and I’m not sorry.
I know exactly when it happened too. I experimented at a vulnerable time in my life, leaving myself with little defense. To make matters worse, the person who introduced me to this vice was my own mother. We had invited her to stay with us for a week to help out with a newly born K-Mad (I’ve changed her name once again). I meant to speak to her about her TV habits and to not bring those with her, especially the addiction to poor reality shows. But I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time, and in the door she came. Sure, she was supposedly excited to see K-Mad, but I know her plans were far more sinister than that…
And then Thursday came. She worked on my wife first by emphasizing the dancing angle. We’ve been through this I believe. You are aware of my wife’s affection for that dark art. Once the term “ballroom” was used, well, my wife was turned with nary a struggle. I don’t know what it is with women, but ballrooms must take them back to their girlhood dreams of princes, puffy dresses and debutante balls. It must have something to do with Cinderella…that hussy.
I was being a nice guy that night too. I relinquished the TV controller so that they could watch what they wanted. It was only fair since the two of them had been fighting the good fight with K-Mad the whole day. You know how tough it was back in the days that K-Mad basically slept the entire time. Thank goodness we had two of them…
…I’m getting snarky. Sorry, but I’m a little stressed out since I’m revealing this to you. My man card is in serious duress. I mean, even though I was basically set up by the two most important women in my life (those hussies!), it’s really my own fault. I was hooked from the first twirl…hey, at least I’m still manly enough to no know what those “twirls” are technically called. Okay, okay, they’re called botafogos…happy? This is so embarrassing. Originally it was like watching a car wreck, I just couldn’t pull my eyes away. I can’t help it, I like car wrecks…. (Oh stop judging, you know it’s the only reason people watch NASCAR as well as I do).
And then I saw him. Jerry Rice. Jerry Friggin’ Rice. He, like, catches footballs and stuff…lots of footballs. And he’s out there doing some foxtrot…thing. So I kept watching. It was mesmerizing. Those movements. People don’t do that kind of moving. I didn’t know humans were even capable of that kind of body movement. Seriously, a few weeks later, after my addiction had…seeped in…I got up and did a spontaneous imitation of the Samba…and I pulled something (*pssst* something=groin). My wife was very impressed. I decided to go walk the dog at that moment…
Oh come on. Go ahead and sit there in smug satisfaction. Every guy has his weakness. It’s not exactly like watching those female dancers…and those outfits…is an affront to my masculinity. Seriously, just because I don’t like to personally dance, doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s pretty amazing what these folks are doing out there. It's art afterall. Perhaps I'm just more well adjusted than you...pigs.
…and it’s not like I’m watching another season of Survivor. I mean, seriously. Hello, standards...
posted by Beeley at 1:36 PM
4 Comments:
Dancing with the Stars?!!!
Oh, Beeley, we hardly knew ye.
You used to be such a good guy. In fact, I remember the good ol' days where you'd come in and interrupt my nap just to watch hockey. It sounds to me that you've forgotten those times, so I'll remind you...Hockey is that game where men put knives on their feet and chase around a little black projectile, all while beating each other up in accordance with the rules of the sport. It's a thing of beauty, really. Oh, and if hockey wasn't on, you'd put the Matrix (the first one) on at full blast just so we could *feel* the recoil of each character's automatic weapon of choice. Again, big time score of manpoints.
But look what you have become. Beeley Ballerina.
I bet you even think "it's okay, I'm man enough to get in touch with my feminine side". Uh-huh.
That comment is only okay when it involves committing to something you really find personally repulsive, like going to dog shows where it's acceptable and cute to put little designer sweaters on poodles, yet beneficial to your marriage if your wife *really, really, really* wants you to go, and you've just spent the last 3 weeks on a surfing trip in Central America without her...or the baby...who she is looking after...by herself.
Let me help you help yourself.
Go to the video store...or Netflix...right now and download something like Rambo, Platoon, Predator (first one), or any other movie where an M-60 is a crucial, indespensible part of the movie. You can even do a full double screeing of The Matrix, with the volume up to 10...but not the Matrix 2 or 3...or ANY of the ultra-lame new Star Wars movies, or you'll have to repeat this whole process.
Please watch the selected movie(s) at least once, or until a time when you feel your testosterone levels are AT LEAST equal to your estrogen levels.
Then, take yourself outside and beat yourself up. Twice. If fact, take your lunch money from yourself.
Then....write this part down so you don't forget...put yourself on restriction from PrimeTime TV.
Do it for the children.
We are fighting a losing battle young padawan. We are both outnumbered in our own households by the estrogen-laden. Come Scotty, you must embrace your inner ballroom dancer. You must join us on the Rumba-side.
[Work with me here, I'm hanging off the stairwell, 3 feet off the ground with the wind blowing in my sweaty hair, with big pit stains, and one armed wrapped around part of the banister, but I still have both hands firmly joined to their respective wrists...it's all very dramatic...m'kay, here I go...]
Luke Scottywalker: Noooooooooooooooo!! That's not true!! That's impossible!!!
Darth Beeley: Don't make me manicure you like I did Bailey-One.
Dude...if you were a Roman God, you'd be Wussiess, Roman God of Leotards. You, hang your head in shame.
Mrs. Plowden Knows, make me a turkey pot pie, woman!!
Um, if that's okay with you and you don't mind, or how about I just make you one while I cook mine, unless you want lobster and I'll go get that and some ice cream or something nice that you like, you know, if you want me to. M'kay. I'll just go cower over here. Thanks.
[whimper]
As Johanna says: "Daddy is the King, Mommom is the Queen, Johanna is the Princess, and Spy is the Joker."
Smart girl. Tall, too.
Mrs. Plowden Knows
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