Now that we’ve helped identify, treat and cure all of your psychoses, I thought, while that sort of stuff is still fresh in your memories, that I must point out a far more insidious condition.
I wish that it were not pervasive here, but it is. I wish that it were latent, but it is not. I have tried to ignore it, I cannot.
I clearly see, having monitored this almost for over 18 months, that it has become epidemic. Those of you over 45 don’t concern me as much. You’ve made your hideous choice and it does not seem that those of you afflicted care to do even recognize it, let alone, modify the behavior. My greater fear, however, is that you are having an influence on the younger people who frequent this site and it’s not a positive influence. David, Ben, Shawn and others came here with an innocence that I have witnessed diminish to the point that they are now as completely confused as those of you to whom I am referring.
Still, it goes unchecked. The 800 lb gorilla seems here to stay, sadly. I can only bring him to your collective attention, as I am powerless to affect change. For some of you, I fear that it is far too late. You have neither the will power, nor enough years remaining to fix yourselves and get help.
I feel most sorry for your wives and children. I can take an educated guess to presume that many of your non-virtual friends suffer the same disorder, so it’s a collective of blissful ignorance and avoidance.
I’ve been trying to side-step the actual term, as it sounds so hopeless and irreversible. Maybe it is. You’ll have to ask Michelle Bachman’s husband if there is anything than can be done to even begin to help you out of your identity crises.
It’s an ugly word, for sure, but this malady needs to be named and acknowledged. In my wildest nightmares, I never imagined forcing myself to say it, but I have to: Metrosexuality.
I’m quite sure this festering psychosis began innocently enough; some snack ideas for football night with the guys, a beer conversation devolving into a check list of everyone’s favorite sauterns and apperatifs.
Obviously, none of you was aware of the slippery slope onto which you tethered your toboggans. I wish I could make the time and do the thread research to demonstrate how much worse the problem has become in this last year alone.
We have seen threads for fashion accessories, like $450 booties, that garnered way too big an audience to sweep it under the rug. There are vacuum cleaner threads, personal grooming threads; the list goes on and on. I tried to pretend it wasn’t really happening. I even talked to friends about it to be sure I wasn’t projecting. And I asked people of all seven sexual persuasions to weigh in, so don’t go right back into denial thinking it wasn’t a fair straw vote.
They all asked pointed questions. I answered as honestly as I could, though the questions alone were enough for me to start to sweat. I really like you guys and I didn’t, I just didn’t want to lift back the veil and see things for what they really were.
They asked about a couple of my new kitchen knives. I told then I got the advice from you guys. Stifled laughter. “What about that new mandoline?” “Same thing,” I told them. “How many different responses did you get your your slice and dice query?” “Nine.” Snickers. “Have there been recipes exchanged?” “Often.” Hysterical laughter containment breached. Choking and stomach holding ensue.
In your defense(s), I mentioned that I bought my chain saw from advice here, and I made reference to all the car, truck, beer alcoholism, sports stuff, motorcycles and other “manly” topics often discussed. They weren’t buying it. “For f’sake, Bob, if any should recognize compensatory behaviors, it’s you!” I thought, “OMG! Screw the MDD, ‘cause that’s sure as hell denial.” I had no valid avenue of argument left to pursue. I so wanted to save you from all of this, but they had me up against the wall.
One last desperate try. “But tons of them are really competent DIY guys, at lots of different things!”
The reply, “Yeah, so are lesbians!” Endgame!
Because you’re all so important to me, I gave it my best shot to defend your heterosexuality from all fronts. But hey, I’m not my brother’s keeper, nor my man-sisters’ keepers either.
You have brought this all on yourselves. I will try to keep from telling them of your exciting new finds of an electric cherry pitter, your garnishing cutlery and your insistence on maintaining large collections of
music that requires hormone replacement therapy to stave off telltale signs of metropause, but, honestly, I’m tired now and I’ve done all I can think of to help you.
Your true gender self-identities, muddled though they may be, are all yours now. I will still do what I can for you, but it would be easier to find a suit for Ron Paul that doesn’t look like it was made in 1983 in the USSR.
