Guys, welcome to the new school

Since men first came together to (no doubt drunkenly) decide, Yeah, we can totally take that furry, angry, snake-nosed creature that's three times larger than all of us combined, with sticks, they have shared a common bond, an unspoken camaraderie replete with custom and convention, passed on from one generation to the next.  With time, it has only strengthened, yielding a gender-wide fraternity that realizes it's us, a solid team of testosterone, against them, the million one-woman teams that are mostly pitted against each other anyhow.  No wonder we won the sex wars for roughly the first six millennia of human history.

Well, times have changed, and we are long overdue to adapt.  Our system is going the way of whale-bone corsets and buggy whips.  We need to establish a new set of ground-rules for ourselves if we want to survive in this brave new world where women occasionally buy their own alcoholic beverages at public houses.  Change or die, as our man Darwin said.  And I am just the man to spearhead the movement.  Throughout, you will notice a certain old-fashioned chivalrous attitude pervades my thinking on the topic.  If that bothers you, I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself.

"Man Laws" was coined by Miller Lite, probably one of the only intentionally funny campaigns the corporation has launched in the past decade, as opposed to the ADHD-inspired, new-concept-a-month approach they presently take, each based on the ironically ridiculous premise that their beer is the more flavorful, heartier brew preferred by "real men."  So I won't use it.

Damn thing must be broken.

The term "Bro Code" has been bandied about in the modern parlance, but that is rapidly starting to have a distinctly . . . douchey connotation, which will become unavoidable in the very near future.  Jersey Shore and its pestilential, fist-pumping ilk are to blame, I'm sure, so I will be avoiding that phrase as well, needless to say (if you don't recognize a linked Word of the Day by now, forget about it).

Instead, I'll use the more palatable term "Gentlemen's Agreements" to encompass the unwritten (at least until I write them) rules governing the male comportment and behavior in relation to each other, the fairer sex, and society in general.  This will be, rather than a standalone article, an ongoing series of addenda, reflecting the continuous flux of social trends, dynamic nature of gender relations, and whatever the hell I find irritating and/or amusing at the moment.  My additions to the Gentlemen's Agreements will henceforth be signaled by this classy-as-balls icon:

In doing this, I hope to distance my proposed creed from the moronically macho, chauvinistic, oversexed, ignorant, and stereotyped bullshit most people associate with our gender.  It's a tall order, I am aware, especially for so short a man.  Let's see how I do.

"You can be my wingman anytime."

I am legally obliged to include this reference.  (If you don't get it, damn, I am old.)

God, the lexicon of terms associated with the whole "wingman" concept is mind-numbing, referred to somehow in roughly 10,871 club-related songs of the past year and probably the subject of several graduate theses by now.  From "grenades" to "cock-blocking," the sheer volume of nonsense guys spew in relation to going out looking for women and how they will help/hinder each other in said quest makes Freud's analysis of sexual repression and confusion seem understated and hopelessly naive.  As full-grown adult men, can't we just agree that, as a rule, we are there to support one another, and leave it at that?  There is elegance in simplicity.  Elaborate systems of checks and balances, various defcon scenario contingencies, and intricate strategies that make the Joker, Dr. No, and Lord Voldemort seem simple-minded should be the subject of humor and scorn, not serious contemplation.  If your "game" is so weak that it requires the coordination of a Mission: Impossible task-force, you have no business playing the field.

Ha, that's two Tom Cruise movie name-drops in one subheading!   Got you, fuckers.

All I'm saying is steer clear of prickish behavior, and you'll probably do all right.  And always remember that teeth-gratingly stupid, yet time-tested, irrevocable rule of yesteryear: bros before 'hos.  Your tail-chasing should never jeopardize your friendships, plain and simple.

Grow Up

While men's general lack of maturity is an issue that requires addressing, I am here referring specifically to the male tendency to act like pubescent kids with their first porn magazine when they see an attractive female.  You have seen such a specimen before, haven't you?  It's one thing to discreetly say to a buddy, "Hey, check that one out!"  Crude, yes, but inevitable as the next season of America Idol.  But if said girl is so undeniably hot, why do I need you to point her out to me?  If you assume I have approximately the same standards of feminine beauty as you, then presumably I was able to pick out the flawless face, bounteous cleavage, and glorious posterior without your assistance.  What more is there to talk about?

"Say, Jim, I have a healthy sexual interest in that young lady over there!"
"You don't say, Phil!  I was thinking much the same thing!"
"Cheers, old boy!"
*awkward pause*
"I'm saying I would put my penis in her vagina."
"Yes, I understand, that's what I meant, too."
"Right.  Just clarifying."
*awkward silence"
"I am really, very straight."

On some level, I recognize this is just masculine nature, but, really, what century are we living in?  Overtly-sexualized talk of this sort with your peers is roughly on par with being a construction worker who whistles and catcalls a passing female.  What exactly is the point?  I know it may be hard (yes, pun intended), but try to keep it to a minimum.

Man Up

This is an old-school one that it seems should go without saying.  I don't know whether to blame the residual influence of the hippie-dippy 60s with their stress on liberated sensitivity, or the more-recent trend of emo-ness as validated by pop psychobabble and a crybaby society, but either way I am fed up with it.  We are men, damn it, and we should not be sharing our feelings left and right.

Please deposit your emotions here. 

All right, let me elucidate: we can share our feelings, but know when enough is enough.  You only get a certain number of drunken catharses about any one subject.  And we all know what that subject is most probably going to be - women.  Whether it's the unattainable one you admire from afar, or the proverbial "one who got away," or the age-old "backstabbing slut who fucked you over at the Halloween party because she thought you wouldn't recognize her dressed as Ferris Bueller dry-humping that anonymous asshole in the corner."  Like the shameful back section of the video store where porn in shelved, we've all been there.  Does it suck?  Yes.  Do you need to vent about it?  For the sake of your mental health, very likely.  All of us understand that.  Do you need to dwell on the girl in question, mope, whine, and pine over her every time you're out with the boys for a few drinks?  The Gentlemen's Agreement is "not if you want anyone to drink with."

Notice how none of the people in this image resemble you?

I can make this pronouncement because I have been That Guy too many times; I speak from experience.  And even if it's not your love life (or lack thereof), the same rule applies when tearfully bemoaning your career, living situation, terminal illness, etc.  If you are continually overcome by an urge to open up to someone, go talk to your female friends, they eat that shit up.  (Though, be warned, your chances of getting laid by them drops to approximately negative nil.)

That's all for now, but rest assured I will post new guidelines as they occur to me.  I owe it to mankind, after all.

KP, out.