Guys Fix Things

I’ll give you fair warning, today I decided to write about the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard Bill say. Considering that almost everything that comes out of Bill’s mouth is offensive, you might not want to read this one.


Guys fix things, that’s what we do. We constantly seek ways of fixing that which is broken. While this idiosyncrasy is helpful when it comes to broken chairs and cars, there’s a downside in the fact that in a guy’s mind what also classifies under the “needs to be fixed” category is pretty much anything they don’t understand.

The closest male in my family is my brother who is nearly a decade older than me. My brother was a bit of a jock, so he tended to see the world from the football field where he spent most of his teen years. He moved out as soon as he was old enough and we didn’t see each other for a few years. When he returned he was a bit confused and upset that his little brother had not exactly following in his footsteps. My brother was an athlete and liked to do whatever the hell it is that jocks do. Johnny on the other hand was more of the drunken hoodlum type and the closest I ever got to athletics was starting a fire in the middle of the football field one night while drunk. I had long hair, earrings well before they were vogue, and listened to music. Behavior that was unknown to my brother and therefore strange and in need of being “fixed.” A project he started within a few minutes of seeing me for the first time since I’d hit my teens.

Brother – surveys my room, Led Zeppelin posters, cassette tapes, empty bottles of booze. “Where are your playboys?”
Johnny – “I don’t have any.”
Brother – “You don’t have any playboys? Why not?”
Johnny – “I’ve got a girlfriend. Why look at pictures of food when you’re already eating?”

I was later told by our mother that my brother was worried that I was gay. I liked all the things that guys are supposed to, but not in the way that he was familiar with, so the logical conclusion was, I might be a homosexual. Like that was going to happen. It’s not like anything even resembling homosexual leanings weren’t scared out of me nearly ten years before when, at the age of eight, I walked into my brother’s room and found him masturbating into a gym sock. I stood in shock, trying to figure out why he was naked and strangling his sock while he screamed at me hysterically to shut the door, thus long since having “cured” me of any “gayness.” Not only did he assure I wasn’t going to be gay, but he also created an irrational fear of sock monkeys I have to this day.

But back to my teens. After my mom mentioned my brother’s concerns, he later stopped by and, with an awkward “here,” handed over a grocery bag full of playboys. All kidding aside, it was almost a sweet gesture in its own offensive way. In his mind he gave me his playboys so his little brother “wouldn’t be gay anymore.” It’s touching and a shame that Norman Rockwell never did a painting of it.

I have no doubt that, years later, when I moved in with a tall blonde model that my brother felt responsible. “He’d be sucking dick now if I hadn’t given him my girly magazines.” The pride most likely dissipated a bit when she kept cheating on me, but that’s a different story.

So guys try to fix or find solutions for things that confuse them. Which brings us to Bill. Years ago I was listening to Bill gripe about his girlfriend at the time and her taste in music. Specifically female artist that wanted to sing about something more than dressing up pretty to make their man happy, then make him dinner. I think the artist he was irritated with at the time was Fiona Apple.

Bill – “…so damned uppity! You know what she needs? She needs more cock, that’s what she needs. I’d like to cornhole her, seriously. Just ram her up the ass for hours, beating her head against the headboard of the bed. I bet if I could do that, I could fuck the feminist right out of her.”
Johnny – “That’s…that’s an interesting hypothesis. You should see if you can get a government grant to fund your research.”