I have a buddy (whose anonymity I'll maintain by calling him Mr. X, because he's in the real world with a real job) who is a man's man, a guy who says what's on his mind and thinks "screw the consequences."
Some of his closest friends and I wager that he'll die at the age of 90 from a heart attack brought on by years of expensive cigars, expensive whiskey and cheap blondes with single-digit I.Q.s. and bad breast implants.
When he's in Houston, we get together (in true macho idiot tradition) for a beer, or for several beers that seem to bleed into one really big one.
Anyway, he and I went to one of the many city "establishments" to watch the glorious spectacle of football. We parked ourselves in front of a big-screen TV and found ourselves watching women's golf.
"Hey, aren't the Cowboys playing today?" Mr. X asked.
"Football!" said the Marcy Darcy wannabe behind the bar. "That outlet of male aggression is no longer welcome here!"
"Isn't this a sports bar?" I asked.
"Golf is a sport."
"So is football!" we said in near unison.
"Violent sports like football are no longer politically correct."
We left. My friend was a bit stressed and lit a stogie. Immediately, a cop showed up.
"You want to put that out, sir?" The officer asked from behind mirrored shades. "This is a no-smoking neighborhood. You'll have to put that out."
We left, confused and harried, and rushed to a "gentlemen's club" down the block. We guzzled beer and watched football the way God intended, oblivious to the opposite sex (just like Dad used to do it) until halftime, when my friend gave a silicone-enhanced woman $20 to dance suggestively for him. She removed her top and a smile crossed his face. All of a sudden ... SLAP!
"What the hell was that for?" Mr. X asked, holding his cheek.
"Stop gawking at my breasts, you pervert! I'm not a piece of meat!"
I had to interject. "Lady, isn't being looked at your job?"
"What century are you two from?" she asked.
"Let me see if I got this right," said Mr. X. "You're an exotic dancer with abnormally huge breast implants, and you don't like men looking at you?"
"I got them for me, not for some sexist male ideal of what I should look like, you pigs!"
"We're not pigs!" I said, as we stood up to leave. Mr. X got to his feet and joined me in saying, "We're Porcine-Americans, damn it!"
We finally stormed Blockbuster video and watched a bunch of Sam Peckinpaw Movies while screaming the lyrics of Dennis Leary's "Asshole Song." I'm as liberal as the next guy, but all this "politically correct" crap is ridiculous. We shouldn't take insensitivity to new levels, but while sensitivity is fine, hypersensitivity is like giving a man with severe hemorrhoids a big pine cone. It's only going to make things worse.
Handy is a senior RTV major and a Dredlocked-American.