100 Reasons It’s Great To Be A Guy (Part 1)

     For centuries, the idiots of the world have pondered the best things about being a guy.  Is it the ample selection of jock itch sprays?  Is it the way we look terrible in button down shirts?  Is it the fact that when women want to take down an evil organization they’re Erin Brockovich, and when men do it they dip their hands in broken glass and kick Asian men to death?


Warning:  if you’re a woman looking at this picture, you’re now pregnant.

     Luckily, some mouth breathing fucktard on the internet decided to answer that question for us, and he did a shockingly piss poor job.  I present to you this list titled ‘100 Reasons It’s Great To Be A Guy‘.  Since it’s the dumbest string of words put together since Ayn Rand decided to take a shit on her typewriter and call it Atlas Shrugged, I’d like to analyze it in detail.  Unfortunately it’s kind of long, so I’ll be looking at the first 50 entries today, and the following 50 entries next week as a sequel.  Let’s dive right in, shall we?


     I feel like this would be more accurate if it said ‘phone conversations don’t exist’.  Think about it, if you’re a guy, when’s the last time you called another guy on the phone that wasn’t related to you?  I’m pretty sure the last time it happened for me I used smoke signals.  That said, this isn’t a ‘reason it’s great to be a guy’, since most of your phone conversations are probably with family, which means that this idea is laughably incorrect.  The only reason a guy would ever have a 30 second conversation with their mom is if she was being held hostage somewhere and her kidnappers put her on the phone to prove she’s alive.  Right off the bat, I call bullshit on this list.


      Hasn’t there been two or three ‘Magic Mike’ movies, where the entire premise is that a talking set of abdominal muscles befriends a bookish girl and teaches her that the music was in her all along?  Sure, movie nudity is generally female, but calculators don’t have numbers big enough to count all the six packs I’ve seen on the silver screen.


     Was this written by a 9 year old?  I don’t think watching G.I. Joe as a kid qualifies as ‘knowing about tanks’.  I don’t know shit about tanks, which is especially weird because I know all things about every conceivable topic.  But seriously, who gives a fuck about tanks?  None of us will ever drive one, and the only thing they’re good for is bankrupting America.


Get a job.


     Football sucks ten different kinds of unwashed dick.  A love of football is how a personality crawls under the porch to die.


     You can’t be serious.  You’ve either got no male friends or you’re a virgin, because everyone knows that your guy friends are going to want every sticky, smelly detail after you hook up with a girl.  It’s not at all about demeaning the woman either, it’s just that men love sex, and the next best thing to having it yourself is to hear your friend tell a tale about a woman who tied him up and beat the shit out of him with a spatula while smearing worcestershire sauce all over her face.


Pictured: the official lubricant of England.


     Just remember to wrap up your wrists.  You wouldn’t want to get carpal tunnel from all the jar opening and jerking off you’re doing.  That’s not even a joke, that’s a straight up Man Fact.


Pictured:  an Olympic masturbator, poised to take home the gold and make America proud.


     I feel like the dude who wrote this learned most of what he knows about women from Cathy comics and Spanish telenovelas.  In his world, if you’re a dude wearing an eye-patch who’s conveniently named ‘Patch’ you’re drowning in pussy 24 hours a day.  Chances are if your friends are brutally mocking you for gaining a few pounds, you’ve confused stupid tabloid headlines at the grocery store checkout for actual human friendship.


“I don’t care how many babies she had Us Weekly, that’s no excuse for forgetting my birthday.”


     What man goes to a fucking dry cleaner?  Unless you’re an 80’s pimp who needs to get the bitch stank off of his mink coat, you’ve got no business ever going to a dry cleaner.  As far as ‘haircutters’ are concerned, yeah, guys definitely pay way less for that shit.  To be fair though, I’m assuming the liability insurance they have to pay in case some woman goes berserk because they fucked up her hair is what drives up prices.


When she got home her boyfriend broke every mirror in the house before she could get to his gun safe.


     If your girlfriend does this you should probably double check to make sure you’re not inadvertently dating a sitcom character.  Besides, if you’re this dumb you probably stop every time you see an explosion or a car chase.  Not that those things aren’t objectively cooler than some idiot crying, but you’re not really in a place to cast stones, dipshit.


     Maybe your ass isn’t.  I’ve gotten every job I’ve ever had off the strength of my beautiful man buns, including this one.  I’ve got a team of six supermodels working around the clock polishing it.  It’s truly incredible.


Pictured:  what I normally wear to job interviews.


     Of course they’re real.  Guys can’t really fake orgasms like women can.  Unless you’ve got a Ziploc bag filled with yogurt hidden underneath your pillow to throw all over her back I get the feeling she’ll see through your scheme pretty quickly.  That said, if she’s faking her orgasms then you’re probably bad enough at sex that she wouldn’t mind if you faked yours before you even came to bed so she can get some sleep for a change.



Either you’re wrong or that’s an extremely unattractive mustachioed woman.


     When Jesus or Optimus Prime or whoever finally invents time travel you’re going to have a lot of bad 80’s stand up comedians pissed at you for stealing all their material.  Get it, you guys?  Ha ha, women be like this, and men be like this!  


“Say gals, it’s been a long day of shopping.  How about we unwind with a little bit of shopping?”


     I refuse to believe there exists a subset of non-hypothetical human beings that actually makes the bed when they stay at a hotel.  You can’t make up an imaginary group of people and then act like a winner when you masterfully make fun of them.  It would be like if I made fun of a black hockey player with wooden peglegs by saying he spends his whole salary on Thompson’s water seal.  The person I’m talking about is so many layers of nonexistent that you’d be legally obligated to punch me in the dick.


Pictured:  the leading business expense of all black hockey players with wooden legs.



Far be it from me to start throwing around accusations, but it’s almost as though the author didn’t do any research before farting on his computer until this list popped out.


     Wow, a damp shithole that smells like motor oil and black mold.  Thanks, but I’ll pass.  If you’re so emotionally broken that staking a claim on the garage is what makes you happy then it’s only a matter of time before you spend a few hours running your car engine in there with the doors shut.


     I guess if you’re straight, sure.  Also, for the record for any women out there reading this, most guys don’t give a shit one way or the other.  Once it’s left my body I don’t really care where it goes, so long as you’re not spitting it into my drink or my grandma’s urn.  Actually, it’s probably good for flowers, so why not run it into the backyard and be a team player?


The dude who lives in this house gets a medically unsafe amount of blowjobs.


     Wow, dude.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  I know idiots think it’s cute to joke around about how messy guys are, but this is more of a side effect of severe self-loathing than a quirky personality flaw.  Why bother showering or cleaning your apartment at all if that’s your attitude?  Just spend your days paddling a kayak across the trash and errant turds sprinkled over your apartment like grave dirt.  You live in the garbage until you become the garbage.  Sorry dude, it’s too late to turn back now.  This is Garbage World and you’re His Royal Highness the Shitking.


     I’ve got 10 bucks that says this dude’s wife spends most nights six martinis deep, standing over him with a kitchen knife while he sleeps and wondering how fast she could drive to Mexico.  Wedding plans don’t ‘take care of themselves’, someone else takes care of them for you.  Most likely your drunken and justifiably murderous wife.  That’s like saying taking out the garbage ‘takes care of itself’ when the city condemns your building after it’s been taken over by a complex hierarchy of giant rats.  The problems you’re creating are way bigger than the ones you’re solving.


     I wasn’t aware that anyone watched this garbage.  Also, you’re aware porn exists, right?  Watching a cheerleading competition to jerk off is barely a step above the bra section in a Sears catalog.  It’s time to enter to modern age, confused time traveler.  I was curious, so I had to Google it, and I came across this video of the University of Alabama’s winning cheerleading routine.  Not only are they dressed more conservatively than 80% of women in clubs, but it’s blurry footage from like 30 feet away.  Wow dude, what a great reason to be a guy.


I guess that depends on whether or not your girlfriend is Italian.


     Of course nobody notices you.  You’re sitting alone letting your empty TV dinner tray overflow with your tears.  The last time you left the house an angry mob made you wear a pig mask and spray painted ‘unlovable’ across your chest.  In your case, it’s better that they don’t notice.  Bad things happen when the others see you, especially once night falls.  For our humble author, nights are the worst times, and dusk is quickly approaching.


“The threat of nightfall envelops me like a shroud of dread.  In the distance, I can hear their chants.  Unlovable!  Unlovable!  Unlovable!”


     Who gives a shit?  Wow, pissing in the snow, what a fun hobby to have.  Also, you realize that even if the women you’re dating have flippers instead of hands, they can probably use them to write their name in the snow should they want to, right?  Besides, the last time I pissed in the snow I ended up having a snowman give me his number.  What am I, a gay eskimo?  You should’ve seen the looks on the faces of the kids who made him though.  Priceless.


This snowman, like all snowmen, dreams of unspeakable acts of sexual depravity.  You cannot prove me wrong.


     At this point in the list, I think our author might be suffering from some kind of head injury.  Chocolate isn’t an essential food group for anyone that doesn’t need to grease up doorways to fit through them.  I know it must be interesting to live in a world where your entire knowledge of women comes from browsing back issues of Cosmo at the dentist’s office, but god damn dude.  This guy gets his mail forwarded to the bottom of the learning curve.  Although I guess I can’t fault someone for not knowing much about women when he couldn’t identify basic shapes until his third wife made him some flash cards.


     This seems like kind of a needless low blow.  Clearly you’re not aware that Joy Waymire is going to be our next President.


     If Archie Bunker somehow got a beer commercial pregnant, that baby would grow up to write this dumbshit list.


     Spoken like a true sociopath.  I suppose it’s true that you don’t have to consider the feelings of others when all your friends are a figment of your imagination in the first place, but those of us with actual human relationships don’t really relate.


     You don’t get to, you have to.  That’s a very important distinction.  Just once I’d love to be able to walk down the street without wondering what it would feel like to stick my dick in every roughly hole-like thing I see.  If you’ve ever felt the cold, unforgiving caress of a chain link fence on your genitals on a brisk autumn morning, then you can surely relate to the struggle.


Just because you theoretically can do something, doesn’t mean you should.


Pictured:  proof.


     Now we’ve reached a tipping point where our author has started stringing together random unrelated words.  I can’t decide if this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever read or if it’s the world’s greatest riddle.  In any case, I’m pretty sure the author of this dumb shit is being held captive somewhere and is sending us clues in code.  If you’re a cop reading this, you should probably head down to the local farmer’s market with a hammer and start busting heads until someone fesses up.


     That’s what’s great about being a giant dickhead, not necessarily about being a guy.  I will say I’m glad that his feelings apparently won’t get hurt when I tell him that after reading this shit I think he’s dumber than a Scientologist wearing velcro shoes.

     Join me next week as I give you part two of the 100 stupidest reasons why being a man is great.  It’s going to be an incredible trainwreck.

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