Not actually sexy, but very funny if you get the joke. From the Gawker slushpile.

Not actually sexy, but very funny if you get the joke. From the Gawker slushpile.

For some reason, many men seem to feel that what women really want in a man is want is a yes man, ie someone who, no matter how outrageous her suggestion, always nods and says, “oh that sounds good.” I don’t know if these guys have watched too many episodes of SATC, or if they’re just cribbing off some lame Dave Barry short that he phoned in one day on deadline, but it is not actually true.
Women of a certain, not-too-distant-from-myself type, may want to do things their way, but they would prefer that all involved understand that this is because their suggestion is the best, not because their fellow is a doormat.
Note that although said fellow may, in fact, actually BE a doormat, it’s probably best for him not to give this impression. Given their druthers, women tend to gravitate towards opinionated animals as pets, not the hokey-dokey labrador type. This is telling, fellas. When the leadership finds out, they’ll put a hit out on my ovaries just for telling you this stuff.
Anyway…
So, given that asking and doing exactly what she tells him is, as we’ve agreed, out, what should the ideal boyfriend do for his ladyfriend on the big V-Day?
Exactly what Chuck Norris tells him to.
I know most men just want to spend Valentine’s Day like any other day – eating Doritos and engaging in a little heavy petting with their girlfriends. V-Day “shebangs” are taxing: they require time, planning and extremely large biceps.
However, after extensive research, I’ve devised a simple strategy: just call Chuck Norris.
To explain, since I’ve been at the University, and am thus more acquainted with what I like to call those “hipster, indie types,” I’ve been privy to a lot of interesting conversations. Most of them concern imaginary battles between trendy “It” fantasy genres: Pirate vs. Ninja! Robot vs. Lumberjack! Space Warriors vs. Chuck Norris! OMG, who will win?!? The answer is simple: Chuck Norris ALWAYS wins….
If, like me, you grew up babysat not by living, breathing human beings but rather by the marvelously crude animated friends on the incredible flickering electric rectangle, you’ll love this.
We lost The Osmonds. We lost The Jackson Five. We lost The Partridge Family 2200AD . We lost Scooby Doo. We lost Josie and the Pussycats. We lost Kimba the White Lion and Speed Racer and G-Force and He-Man and the Masters of the Universe.
But now Metro passes along this gem for our animation-starved generation. Now we’ve got something to fill the hole in our aching souls: We have The Jealous Astronaut!
What better muse for a post-millennial Valentine’s than an aging, obssessive, hygiene-impaired, would-be-adulterous rocket scientist? I sense another Douglas Coupland book coming on…
YouTube is over the jump if you don’t want to wait for that Flash to load up.
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Fail.
Me.
From the brilliantly twisted mind and elegantly restrained pen of that Bob Newhart of British politics, Jon Henley in The Guardian:
In possibly life-changing Valentine’s Day news, we are pleased to report that the many and varied attractions of Birmingham have just been enhanced by the addition of all-male belly-dancing classes. According to the Birmingham Mail, belly-dancing for blokes helps “trim porky stomachs, achieve ramrod straight backs and turn themselves into sex gods”, and while there are drawbacks – you have to wear a “tight top” so the teacher “can see your belly rolls” – we can, at this late juncture, think of few better ways to show her you really love her.
Here is my all-time favorite mass transit story, and it’s even true!
My English professor rode the bus every day. He rode the bus in from White Rock. It took long hours.
Sorry, channelling Hemingway; it’s the English major in me.
Anyway, on the bus, he met many an interesting character, as one does. He met so many, in fact, that he eventually decided to stop meeting anyone at all, and began reading on the bus.
This was not a successful solution, for lo the world is never short of those with an opinion or two to spare on the subject of a total stranger’s taste in books (to the point where I used to use a book cover that said “I want YOU…to leave me alone”).
One day, he was reading a book, as I think I have explained was his wont, which I suppose means what he wonted to do, and the book just happened to be the Iliad (in translation; he was no showoff). Well, onto the bus lumbers and BAM! down into the seat next to him sits a huge, hulking biker of much black leather, clanking chains, and many a fierce and prison-made tattoo.
Great, thinks the mild-mannered and moderate-bodied English professor. Try to be invisible, he thinks.
He fails.
POKE goes the biker’s finger into the book.
Da Iliad! he shouts. I love dat book! Rumble in Troy, eh! Ah, it’s all women, man. All da trouble in da world: It’s always all about da fuckin’ women.
Which Greek Warrior From The Iliad Are You?

Agamemnon: You are the king of Mycenae…and assholery. I’m telling you, sacrificing your daughter to fuel your ambitions doesn’t win you too many friends.
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