"Dinosaurs eat Man, Woman inherits the earth."

Cue the string section, pour a Scotch, and hold on to your testicles, it's time for another edition of the code we live by, the Gentlemen's Agreements.

Save your money

Testosterone is a cruel master, I know.  It is the dick-shaped cross we males bear.  But try not to let this chemical imbalance cloud your brain, at least when it comes to your finances.  If not for your own dignity and that of our gender, then to stick it to the women who exploit this weakness, knock it off.  Unless a woman is a confirmed penny-pony, stop paying for her beauty and feminine wiles.  Avoid businesses like Jude's Barbershop, Hooters, and basically any place you are paying extra explicitly to be surrounded by hot women whose job has absolutely nothing to do with hotness.  This goes double for any guy who tips the waitress excessively for leaning over the table.  If you are going to pay for sex appeal, just go ahead and pay for the sex as well.  Get yourself a hole for hire.  Then you don't have to go through the creeping stage where you act like a horny 20-year-old who has no clue how little chance he has with his intended victim.  And the venue being a bar does precisely jack-shit to change your odds, unless she is the one drinking, as opposed to you.  Even then, don't bet on it, Cialis Man.  I am talking about yet another manifestation of the many-headed beast that is That Guy.

I spy with my little eye something rapey.

If you don't make a conscious effort to curb this instinct early on, it will only become harder (no, not that - it gets softer) as you advance in years.  It never ceases to amaze me how many dirty old men seem to be under the laughable impression that, because they are mildly intoxicated, the women around them, all of them, are much more likely to overlook receding hairlines, outdated facial hair, and beer-guts (to say nothing of wedding bands) and just go for it with Mr. Touch of Gray.  Especially when the female in question is the server or bartender.  Yes, being a tease is often an implied, if not acknowledged, part of their job, but it is precisely that: a cock-tease.  A false promise with no reward except sexual frustration.  Why bother?  Are you that desperate for hollow attention from anything with a uterus?  That's worse than throwing money at a stripper to keep her pretending she's into you.

Yeah, dawg, I'm sure she likes you for reals.

Truly, there are few spectacles as pathetic and disgusting as fortysomething men at a commercial sports bar none-too-subtly coming on to the bartender who is just out of braces and saving up for her first year of college.  Just because she's not jail-bait doesn't mean she is on the menu.  And if you "know that" and are just partaking in sexual harassment "for fun" . . . why?  I don't shamble around shady neighborhoods in urine-soaked rags pretending to be another one of society's dregs for private amusement, so why would you?  Perhaps because you are a scumbag.

She was five when you punched your V-card.

Her coy replies and half-smiles are not flirting, they are her way of tactfully telling you to fuck off back to your 10-year plan and loveless marriage, you pervy sad-sack, because she is already banging her coworker of consenting age in the cooler every night.  Trust me.

Bro-toos

This is going to be a touchy subject for a lot of you, my brothers-in-ink.  The tattoo is a risky thing, and I am not talking about hepatitis or rare forms of heavy-metal poisoning.  Those just make tattoos more badass.  A tattoo, at least if you are a man, is supposed to say something about you - don't let that something be I am a chotch who all should revile.  Chinese lettering, generic tribal patterns, and barbed wire are now the brands of douchebaggery.  It's like a lilac polo with a popped collar you can never take off without a laser skin-peel.

If you see nothing wrong with this pic, just skip this entire subsection.

I would think the interwebs have sufficiently spread this Gospel to the point everyone knows it and all reputable tattoo parlors should by now refuse to produce such work, but freshly-minted douche-nozzles sporting bloody kanji keep proving me wronger than hentai (NWSF, tee-hee!).  It doesn't make you tough, interesting, or multicultural, it makes you a tattool, if you will.

To a lesser extent, the placement of your tat should also be taken into account.  If you already have ink in half a dozen places on your body, don't sweat it when you get your next one, so long as you avoid the stereotypically-feminine regions (feet, lower back, crotch . . . God, women are masochists).  But if, like me, you are particular about how many tattoos you are going to get, consider carefully where you place that Tasmanian Devil.  Longtime comedian, anger-management failee, and social commentator Denis Leary has homed in on the calf as the location most likely to indicate a strong potential for toolage, which he describes in his Denis Leary & Friends pretty accurately.

"You got a tattoo, a Chinese symbol on your calf, which you think means 'infinity,'
but actually in Chinese means 'kill me first when you invade America.'"

Not that everything Leary says should be immediately enshrined in the Constitution, but he makes a fair point.  Having the calf tat doesn't actually make you a loser of Pauly D proportions, but odds are strangers may make that assumption by association.  Why chance it?

Cool it, turbo

Nothing screams "I am sexually insecure about something!" like revving your engine for attention.  No, it doesn't matter how sweet your ride is, though, at that point, it's probably already pretty obvious you suffer from compensatory syndrome.  The fact that the motor inside the vehicle you are operating can make loud, obnoxious sounds in no way reflects positively on you, even less so when said transport is a tricked-out 1997 Pontiac Sunfire.  Same goes for peeling out of the 7-11 parking lot.

"Whoa, did you see that?  His dick must be enormous, rivaled only by his monstrous libido!"

It's called a burnout for a reason.  You are impressing no one, save perhaps your fellow asphalt monkeys.  The only legitimate reason to rev your engine when not performing maintenance is to challenge another macho motorist to a pointless, ego-fueled, criminal, dangerous road race between traffic signals, and only then if it is a reasonable matchup where the outcome is debatable and acceptance of the gauntlet likely.

"Hey, Old Man River, you want to race?!?  Huh?  What?  Yeah, that's what I
thought, fag!  Score one awesome point for me!  I am fucking sweet!"

Nothing seems to bring out this behavior like the midnight premiere of a Transformers or Fa5t as Fuck movie, which is why the police generally camp just outside the theater lot on those nights.  Believe me, risking a reckless driving or speeding ticket does little to boost your rebel credentials.  Try trolling dark alleys for random muggers, Billy Badass.

That is all for now, gents.  KP, out.