CROWDS... (OR: THE VERY BASE OF A SUCCESSFUL BROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP)
Dear so-and-so,
Let’s put this in front of everything here: I don’t like crowds.
With that being said, I feel a sudden urge to elaborate on that. Because once upon a time, I truly loved crowds. The more the merrier. I loved having people around me. If I hadn’t at least forty thousand people at my feet, I felt unloved. However, I want you to know about what changed my feelings about large groups of people. Perhaps it’s also an age thing. Or perhaps it’s society, which dictates to have a lot of people around you, all the time.
Nowadays, when I for instance step onto a stage and watch those staring faces, my soul shrinks.
But, obviously, that’s just me.
The other day I read an article in Jezebel—some online magazine—written by Madeleine Davies, about “Brosectomy Parties”. It’s everything you ever imagined. It’s men, getting vasectomies… With their Bros.
I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I could have come up with something that extremely ridiculous.
I mean, let’s be honest here, doesn’t this go one tiny-step-for-mankind too far?
According to the article—and I quote directly here—"a cushy setting of couches, snacks, big-screen TV, and in some clinics, top-shelf liquor,” is the new black in anything bromantic on the planet. It doesn’t seem to matter one of them—or several, I don’t know how far the bonding material is supposed to go here—is having his ducts snipped. And to top it all, the Jezebel article is inspired by some Wall Street Journal article. Render me extremely obsolete here.
“We thought it was going to be painful,” one patient said of his ultimately not-so-traumatic vasectomy. “After that, we were just laughing, I guess it’s from the alcohol, but we had such a great time.”
Repeat that, slowly… “We had such a great time.”
Great time, as in “we visited the U2 concert last week, and it was fucking great!”
It is a bit like a stag party, I guess. We all go to this club, we hang out, drink one bloody whiskey too many and suddenly, we strip the bachelor—in this example, obviously—bare, strap him to the table, drink even more whiskey, and instead of a willing stripper, we hire a doctor to perform a vasectomy.
Some men faint when they witness their kids being born. What the fuck do you think happens, when the good doctor forcibly pushes a scalpel into another man’s sac. You don’t have to be there to feel what he’s feeling. It’s the pinnacle of substitute pain, the very base of any successful bromance.
And what about the ad interim shame?
Anyway, I visited a party a couple of years ago. And I dared to hit the dance floor. After my friend J. warned people about my extreme dance moves—"I’m telling you, he uses every inch of the dance floor. Now is a good time to fetch some drinks from the bar”—and ability to ignore the rest of the world. However, she missed one small group of men, who seemed to be dancing in a circle—like men tend to do.
So I swirl around the dance floor, dry humping that one stool I came across with while at it, and one swirl too large—I should have worn a T with the caption “Oscillates Wildly,” which only makes sense to The Smiths lovers among you—I ended up in the middle of that circle of men.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I like to look into other people’s eyes. So, I did. However, the looks in their eyes made me watch a little lower.
Turned out I catapulted myself right in the middle of a circle jerk. Different strokes, I guess. However, even though I did love, love, love groups and group activities back then, I did feel an urge to leave that little circle. You know how Monica Lewinsky had a hard time to get Bill Clinton’s semen removed from her little black dress? Well, that was the semen of one man. A great, powerful, wonderful man. But I don’t think those qualities actually translated into his semen.
Well, I stood there in the midst of at least ten volcanoes, ready to erupt. Imagine what that amount of semen would have done to my wardrobe.
I guess that one experience kind of made me dislike large groups of people. Gatherings, if you will.
So, the vasectomy party you—and you know who you are—invited me for, might just be the hippest thing to do with friends on the next Saturday night, I hereby decline the invitation.
Sorry.
Let’s put this in front of everything here: I don’t like crowds.
With that being said, I feel a sudden urge to elaborate on that. Because once upon a time, I truly loved crowds. The more the merrier. I loved having people around me. If I hadn’t at least forty thousand people at my feet, I felt unloved. However, I want you to know about what changed my feelings about large groups of people. Perhaps it’s also an age thing. Or perhaps it’s society, which dictates to have a lot of people around you, all the time.
Nowadays, when I for instance step onto a stage and watch those staring faces, my soul shrinks.
But, obviously, that’s just me.
The other day I read an article in Jezebel—some online magazine—written by Madeleine Davies, about “Brosectomy Parties”. It’s everything you ever imagined. It’s men, getting vasectomies… With their Bros.
I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I could have come up with something that extremely ridiculous.
I mean, let’s be honest here, doesn’t this go one tiny-step-for-mankind too far?
According to the article—and I quote directly here—"a cushy setting of couches, snacks, big-screen TV, and in some clinics, top-shelf liquor,” is the new black in anything bromantic on the planet. It doesn’t seem to matter one of them—or several, I don’t know how far the bonding material is supposed to go here—is having his ducts snipped. And to top it all, the Jezebel article is inspired by some Wall Street Journal article. Render me extremely obsolete here.
“We thought it was going to be painful,” one patient said of his ultimately not-so-traumatic vasectomy. “After that, we were just laughing, I guess it’s from the alcohol, but we had such a great time.”
Repeat that, slowly… “We had such a great time.”
Great time, as in “we visited the U2 concert last week, and it was fucking great!”
It is a bit like a stag party, I guess. We all go to this club, we hang out, drink one bloody whiskey too many and suddenly, we strip the bachelor—in this example, obviously—bare, strap him to the table, drink even more whiskey, and instead of a willing stripper, we hire a doctor to perform a vasectomy.
Some men faint when they witness their kids being born. What the fuck do you think happens, when the good doctor forcibly pushes a scalpel into another man’s sac. You don’t have to be there to feel what he’s feeling. It’s the pinnacle of substitute pain, the very base of any successful bromance.
And what about the ad interim shame?
Anyway, I visited a party a couple of years ago. And I dared to hit the dance floor. After my friend J. warned people about my extreme dance moves—"I’m telling you, he uses every inch of the dance floor. Now is a good time to fetch some drinks from the bar”—and ability to ignore the rest of the world. However, she missed one small group of men, who seemed to be dancing in a circle—like men tend to do.
So I swirl around the dance floor, dry humping that one stool I came across with while at it, and one swirl too large—I should have worn a T with the caption “Oscillates Wildly,” which only makes sense to The Smiths lovers among you—I ended up in the middle of that circle of men.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I like to look into other people’s eyes. So, I did. However, the looks in their eyes made me watch a little lower.
Turned out I catapulted myself right in the middle of a circle jerk. Different strokes, I guess. However, even though I did love, love, love groups and group activities back then, I did feel an urge to leave that little circle. You know how Monica Lewinsky had a hard time to get Bill Clinton’s semen removed from her little black dress? Well, that was the semen of one man. A great, powerful, wonderful man. But I don’t think those qualities actually translated into his semen.
Well, I stood there in the midst of at least ten volcanoes, ready to erupt. Imagine what that amount of semen would have done to my wardrobe.
I guess that one experience kind of made me dislike large groups of people. Gatherings, if you will.
So, the vasectomy party you—and you know who you are—invited me for, might just be the hippest thing to do with friends on the next Saturday night, I hereby decline the invitation.
Sorry.
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