Thursday, September 8, 2011

Pretty Boy

Shelly's off earning her keep, so here's a little DWD instead.

Recently, and on a multiple occasions, I've been informed I'm a pretty boy (yeah, one occasion was Shelly). I spent some time contemplating the definition, comparing my behaviors and attributes to the designation.
Here's how I earned the moniker in my rural county of residence.

As a pretty boy, I use my razor daily unless my wife is away. What's more, I use it on my entire face, no sparing of chin or upper lip. Or both at the same time.

 First of all, I have a walk-in closet. I can almost open a drawer and a cupboard door simultaneously without jabbing myself in the thigh or taking a door corner in my pretty boy eye.

 The other qualifier is closet content. Everything in there was obtained from clearance sales at Target and Old Navy and Ross. What's more, not one article of attire is from Mossy Oak® or RealTree®.

I have never been a logger. Pretty boys only fell dead trees and cut them up and load a truck and split them by hand for firewood. A hobby. Not only is logging a job and a career, it's a status symbol.

I also suspect it's a mechanism of sexual selection in certain populations of Homo sapiens. Good thing I'm already married.

I'm only missing one tooth. A wisdom tooth. And it's the only one this pretty boy grew. And it was removed with the use of anesthesia.

Pretty boys like me gravitate to these events as we have too much time and energy, have obsessive compulsions about cardiac and non-type two diabetic status.

We spend money on childish bicycles instead of manly four-wheelers.

Bucking hay and moving irrigation pipe and vaccinating and trimming hooves. On a cattle ranch? Tough guy. On a sheep ranch? Pretty boy.

So what's next for pretty boy? Maybe buying a car less than ten years old. But only if I want to maintain my image. Otherwise, I'll get a truck with big enough tires to show off my silver silhouetted naked chick mudflaps.

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