tagHumor & SatireI Love How My Man Looks

I Love How My Man Looks


I love how my man looks, kind of, not really, well...not at all.

A woman compares her man to hot celebrities.

My man compared to other men is no 10. Maybe, on a good day and in low lighting, when he shaves, showers, and dresses in something other than a tee shirt and sweat pants, he is a 3 or a 4, and from a distance...of about ¼ mile, he is a 5 but he is an 11 to me.

Pardon me for a moment.

"Honey, please stop farting like that, you are going to burn another hole in those pants. And please stop the burping; too, you are scaring the dog, again. That last burp set off your car alarm. Okay, Buster, it's okay, it's only Bob. C'mon, Buster, get out from under the bed and I'll give you a cookie."

My man is no manly man, macho man, man's man, boy toy, hunk, stud, hottie, model, dream man, romantic vision, one-in-a-million or one-of-a-kind but, to me, he is someone special. And after a day of binge drinking, smoking weed, popping a Valium, and doubling up on my anti-depressant drugs, when I close my eyes, rub them, open them just a crack while continually blinking, and view him through blood shot, blurred vision, he is a handsome man, almost, kind of, not really, well, not at all, but I love him, kind of, a little bit. Fuck, we have three kids together and he has a good job. I'm stuck with him.

My man does not have shiny, straight, black hair like Elvis, thick, lush hair like Colin Farrell, or long blonde hair like Brad Pitt. Yet, to me, his mousey brown, dirty, straggling, thinning hair and receding hairline makes him stunningly gorgeous in an alien, Star Trekkie sort of way.

Sorry, excuse me for a second.

"Honey, what happened to your hair? Are you having a bad hair day? Did you sleep on it? Your hair looks like a comb-over that does not want to be combed over and is rebelling. You should try brushing it because the other side is sticking to your head as if there is maple syrup in it. Here's some money. Make an appointment at the hair stylist. Oh, you just came from Butch the Barber and Taxidermist. No, uhm, it looks good, if you like the owl with one wing extended look. Maybe, you should wear your baseball cap, today. Yeah, the one that makes you look like Joe ice-cold, er I mean Joe cool."

Note to self, go down to Butch's barbershop tomorrow, demand a refund, and have him show me his license to cut hair.

After that accident with the BB gun, my man does not have big, brown bedroom eyes like George Clooney or Mel Gibson, but with his one beady little eye and coke bottle monocle, he is still my one-eyed and glass-eyed man.

"Sweetie, instead of wearing that outdated monocle, maybe you should wear a contact lens. I know; you cannot touch your one eye. Okay, never mind."

Note to self, get information on laser eye vision surgery. It will be only half the price to do the one eye. Where was I? Oh, yeah...

My man has a perfectly respectable penis the size of a typical Asian penis; only he is Caucasian and not Asian. Unfortunately, he is not hung like Troy Aikman, the retired quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys or Jim Thome of the Chicago White Sox or John Rocker of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. So, what if he does not have a big cock? It is the quality of the sexual encounter and not the size of the sex organ that matters. Right? Isn't it? Please, tell me that it is. Besides, I have a huge, black dildo that I use to satisfy myself, once he rolls off of me and falls asleep. Sure, he could never pose for Playgirl but that is okay with me. I do not want women ogling my man's small penis. It would be embarrassing to receive comments from viewers, "Where's the beef?"

Sorry, again.

"Hey, Baby, maybe you should slip a pair of tube socks down the front of your pants or wear a jockstrap under your jeans to give you more of a manly form. Having a bulge in front, other than your mountain of a stomach, is not a bad thing, you know. Oh, you already have your wallet, car keys, and cell phone squashed down the front of your underwear? Yeah, I see it now. It looks, uhm, good in a lumpy, tumor sort of way, especially with the car key sticking straight out like that. It makes your cock look huge, really, in a pointy, thin, spiny sort of way."

Not to self, fuck the seriously bad side effects, order penis enhancement pills on the Internet from Dr. Woo in China.

My man has a flat ass but I love grabbing his ass, that is, once I find it. He does not have a proud, round, firm ass like Lance Armstrong, the six time winner of the Tour de France or an outrageously great ass like Tiki Barber of the New York Giants. Still, to me, asses are asses, everyone has one or is one, and I love his ass just the same.

I'll be right back.

"Sweetie, instead of wearing those overalls, you should buy a pair of Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren jeans. I am sure that they make them in a size 50 waist. Those farmer clothes make your ass look; well...do you remember what all the deflated balloons looked like at your 40th birthday party? Yeah, like that."

Note to self, contact a plastic surgeon and price ass implants.

My man has a big, round beer belly. He does not have a well defined six pack. Actually, with all the beer that he consumes, he should have a permanent 24 pack. Instead, he has a double keg of a stomach. To reach his lips to kiss him, I have to stand on my tippy-toes on a stepstool so that I can lean forward past his big, fat stomach bracing myself with my hands on his huge man boobs and with him holding me so that I do not fall. Unfortunately, because his penis is, well, petite, and because his stomach is, well, super-sized, we have a difficult time having sex.

Sorry, yet, again.

"Honey, spread your legs as far as you can and put one leg over my shoulder, wait, you're hurting me. Geez, how much does one of your legs weigh?"

My man is not a movie star, singer, dancer, or television personality, he is a blue-collar worker, but I am as proud of him if he was a celebrity, one who is in the limelight walking down the red carpet with cameras flashing and people cheering. Yeah, I would take my dull, blue-collar worker husband over that kind of hypnotically gorgeous hunk of a man and fast and exciting lifestyle any day...I think. Okay, probably not, but I have to live in my world and this and he is all that I have, right now.

"Honey? Is my nose getting longer? Why do I suddenly feel like Pinocchio?"

My man is not rich. He does not have money to burn like Donald Trump or Bill Gates, nor does he have an inheritance like Prince Harry or a trust fund like Little Lord Faunteroy. He is middle class working poor like me and money is not important to us.

"Sweetie, Home Depot is having a big sale and afterwards we can stop at Mickey D's for burgers and fries. No, Hon, Mickey D's doesn't sell beer."

My man is not talented, a brain, a genius, a protégé or wicked smart, but he is as smart as he needs be to make me happy.

"What's that, Hon? No, Texas is not a country. It is a state. And George Bush is not a stand up comedian, he really is the President."

My man is no handyman like Bob Villa or Tool Time Tim Taylor's partner, Al Borland of Binford Tools, but he has a complete tool chest of tools that any handyman would envy.

"Sweetie, you hold the hammer by the other end. What's that, Hon? No, the screw is not broken. You just need a Phillips head to remove it."

My man is no Doctor Phil or Phil Donohue, but I can go to him with any problem and get straight from the heart, good, sound advice.

"So, tell me again why you think I should trade my Mini Cooper S for a Ford F150 pickup truck?"

My man is no Doctor Kildare or Doctor House, but he takes good care of me when I am sick.

"My Love, Iodine is poisonous. You are not supposed to swallow it to heal your cut. It is only for topical use."

My man is not a stand up comic like President Bush, Jerry Seinfeld, Jay Leno or David Letterman but to me, he is hilarious.

"Pudding Pie, Girl Scout cookies are not tax deductible. Now, what are we going to do with 12 cases of chocolate chip cookies? Eat them? Yeah, that's great."

My man is not Mr. Brady of the Brady Bunch, Mr. Cleaver of Leave It To Beaver, Robert Young of Father Knows Best, Danny Thomas on Make Room for Daddy or Ozzie Nelson of Ozzie and Harriet, but he is a good father to our children.

"Sweetie, you left the kids alone in the mall to run across the street to buy beer? Are you crazy? They are only 3, 5, and 7-years old."

My man is not someone the entire country looks to for answers like Ex-Presidents Bill Clinton and George Bush, Sr. or Barack Obama, but he is someone who I look to for answers when I have questions.

"So, tell me again why you think I should trade my Mini Cooper S for a Ford F150 pickup truck?"

My man cannot mesmerize an audience like Tom Jones, Michael Jackson or Tim McGraw, but he mesmerizes me.

"Sweetie, you're flat ass is blocking the television, again; I can't see the commercials. Can you move over just a wee bit?"

My man is not fickle like Larry King, Hugh Heffner or Donald Trump, but he is faithful in our marriage and loyal to me.

"So, where were you last night? Ski lessons? At night? But it's July."

My man is not fancy like Julio Englais, Usher or Michael Jordan, but he is fancy to me.

"I'm sorry Sweetie but you look like a Ring Ding in that silver studded motorcycle jacket. Besides, you don't even have a hog. You are the hog."

Yes, I am very much in love with my new husband now that I am remarried to Biff, my muscular, beefcake, man-candy with his 21" biceps, 52" chest, 34" waist, wavy blonde hair, big blue eyes (two of them), and who just graduated Magna-Cum-Laude, earning his doctorate in Earth Science and is a celebrity of sorts after publishing his new book, Earth Day is Every Day, and with the movie coming out next month...life is good.

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