Tag Archives: macho

Bloke

Bloke: (n) a man; a fellow.

Dictionary B

There is an unwritten rule of writing. (That sounds like an oxymoron.)

What I’m saying is that normally in the process of writing five hundred words, you try not to repeat any word more than once (which I just did).

So if for some reason, your story is talking about a fellow, or some guy, and you decide not to give this gentleman a name, then you are forced to come up with a series of words which represent a male.

It’s what I call “Roget Writing”–when you look up different ideas for the same thing in the thesaurus, in order to appear clever.

It is not only difficult and clumsy, but can become quite comical–because after you’ve used, “man, guy, fellow, chap, and dude,” you start considering inserting the word “bloke.”

Even though the person is not from “Down Under,” you take the risk anyway.

It’s one of those things that makes you look like an amateur, when the better solution is to give your character a name so you don’t have to keep describing him using as many macho representations as available.

 

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Bimbo

Bimbo:(n) an attractive but empty-headed young woman, especially one perceived as a willing sex object

Dictionary B

The vernacular of vitriol.

Yes–I’m talking about those words and phrases which are tossed off to quickly communicate our disdain, dislike or disapproval of some group of people.

It does not take long to get the pulse of the heartbeat of prejudice.

For instance, when it comes to referring to fat people, we have:

  • Fatso
  • Fat butt
  • Fat ass
  • Fat head

Now, consider the vernacular of vitriol when it comes to skinny. Not as many choices, huh?

So you see, society has decided who should be targeted and how they should be attacked. Never is this any more evident than in a discussion about the genders.

Insults given to men often are received as compliments:

  • Macho
  • Big thug
  • Lunk
  • Muscle-brain

As you can see, each one might be considered a negative–except in the ears of he who actually possesses the attributes.

But when it comes to women, it’s much more pointed:

  • Nag
  • Bitch
  • Air-head
  • And of course, bimbo

So we take a human soul who may be a bit more innocent, less traveled or even purposefully refusing to be jaded, and we target her as good for nothing but sexual pleasure.

It is a dangerous practice which is pursued daily in our country with discrimination and bigotry.

After all, no one ever refers to a white bastard. We prefer black bastard.

We will never uproot prejudice in our country until we gently and intelligently take a microscope to the twisted language of meanness.

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Beam

Beam: (n) a ray or shaft of light.Dictionary B

I don’t like to break down in my car. It is especially annoying in the middle of the night along the side of the road.

Unfortunately, I did it quite a bit in my younger years since I made crappy money and could only afford crappy vehicles.

I have a distinct memory of traveling one night with another friend to a concert–he in his car and I in mine.

Suddenly my engine decided to…well, do something other than “engine me along.”

I pulled over, fairly relaxed because I knew my friend was behind me and thought that together we would be able to solve the problem. I did not have a flashlight, so I asked my buddy to turn his car around and shine his headlights on the engine area of my car, so I could see if there was something obvious I could correct (or at least stand around in a macho profile in front of the grill of the car, pretending I was contemplating how to fix it.)

He agreed.

Here was the problem: about the time I started to figure out what the various shapes were in my engine chamber based upon the beams of light from his car, he turned them off.

I asked him why, and he explained, “I don’t want to run down my battery.”

I was very perturbed.

So I asked him to turn them on again, and to please leave them on. This time he left them on a little bit longer, and I was just about to mess around with my carburetor when suddenly they went off again. When I confronted him, he said, “I don’t care what you say–I don’t want to run down my battery.”

Somehow or another, through the intermittent use of his headlights, we were able night to get my car started.

Would it have been faster if he had kept the beam on?

I contend yes.

He insisted he was being prudent.

He felt self-righteous because everything worked out well.

But that incident does make me stop and think about the value of light in our world.

Sometimes we turn it on. Sometimes we turn it off, trying to save it for ourselves.

But here’s the situation:

You don’t ever know when the light will be needed … to help get things started.

 

 

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Antacid

dictionary with letter A

Antacid: (n.) a preventative to correct acidity, usually in the stomach.

All of us human mortals suffer from some form of “wimp factor.”

It’s not easy to admit, especially if you’re preoccupied with the notion of appearing macho or self-reliant.

But honestly, one of the more endearing factors about being a part of this race is that when we get candid with one another about our foolishness and silliness, we can really be quite charming.

I think the first time I was consciously aware of having a bad case of indigestion was in my early twenties. I had never even considered antacid or assistance of any sort for my digestive tract.

Being a silly goose, I assumed that the rumblings in my chest were the onset of a heart attack. Even though it would be unusual for anyone of my age to be plagued by such a tragedy, I convinced myself that I was the exception to the rule, and rather than having ingested a very greasy piece of smoked sausage, I had clogged up an artery which was trying to keep me from breathing.

So every time I felt the little twinge of pain, I frantically took deep breaths to make sure I would maintain consciousness, and in doing so hyperventilated, only increasing my worry, which led to having an anxiety attack–which, by the way, feels similar to the heart variety.

It was so silly–especially when I found myself in an emergency room and they poured out some white liquid in a small cup, and I asked them if it was for my heart. The nurse calmly replied, “No. It’s Di-gel. For your belly ache.”

I only spent half an hour there, and received some giggles from the attending physician, who told me that if I didn’t lose weight, I probably would be in there with a heart attack in thirty years or so, but I was safe for the time being.

I know there are people who have to use antacids all the time, but basically, if you don’t eat too much fatty food while also consuming large amounts of fluid, you can usually avoid gastric distress.

And if you do happen to have a twinge in your belly that radiates up into your chest, don’t immediately assume that you’re dying.

You are one belch away from salvation.

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Androgynous

dictionary with letter A

Androgynous: (adj) Partly male and partly female in appearance; of indeterminate sex.

It’s just one of those issues.

Yes–a contentious idea that causes the liberals and conservatives to hide in the weeds, giggling, waiting to see what stance you might take, so they can proclaim you either friend or enemy.

Such is the term androgynous.

Will I appease the conservatives by acting like I have a semi-sympathetic heart about those who “choose” to have such an appearance, while secretly I’m laughing at them with my friends behind their backs?

Or will I make the liberals rejoice by making a blanket statement of acceptance, while going off with friends and desperately trying not to bring it up again for fear of being judgmental?

Sometimes I grow weary of the battle between clown philosophies–“clown” in the sense that you feel the need to don a costume and exaggerate your features so as to prove your allegiance to the cause.

Concerning this word, I need look no further than myself:

I am a fat, white man of German descent. For some inexplicable reason, I have no hair on my legs or chest. Being overweight, I have pectorals that occasionally could pass for girly, sixteen-year-old breasts. My skin is not rough and I’m not a tumbling sort. Yet I fathered five children and still prefer women instead of men.

If I were walking around a locker room with a bunch of macho individuals, I might appear, in some ways, to be a bit more “ladylike” than they are. Yet some of them would be more comfortable, welcome and visually acceptable in a gorilla cage.

What does it all mean? I don’t know.

But I am certain of one immutable fact: the more we try to identify each other visually, by outward appearance, the less we have the eyesight of God.

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Amazon

dictionary with letter A

Amazon: (n) a river in South America that flows more than 4,150 miles through Peru, Colombia and Brazil into the Atlantic Ocean. In terms of water flow, it is the largest river in the world.

Yeah, okay.

The Amazon’s a river. Gotcha.

But when I hear the word “Amazon,” I think about that tribe of women running around dominating their atmosphere and surroundings–extra tall, extra beautiful, mythical in nature and the dream of every red-blooded man because they will not be encompassed.

Why a dream? Because deep within the male of our species is the notion that he, individually–and he alone–holds the secret key to every woman’s pleasure.

The times I have seen TV shows or movies portraying these women, unlike my male counterparts, I am completely terrified and would like to run into a corner and suck my thumb.

They are gorgeous, powerful and willing to do anything necessary to keep their autonomy from being subjugated by hairier Homo Sapiens.

So even though I know the Amazon is a river in South America, the image of these domineering, dominating ladies has overtaken my mind and turned the word into a combination of a cartoon and a frightening nightmare.

What would I do if I met an Amazon woman? How would I handle myself in that situation? How would I establish my macho presence?

I would pee my pants … and then surrender.

 

Abloom

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abloom: adj. covered in flowers.

I like flowers.

What I don’t like is pretending that I’m uninterested in flowers because if I stated in public that I was, I might be perceived as gay.

With all the necessary and valuable discussion going on about human relationships and civil rights–including equality for the gay community–it has heightened people’s defensive nature concerning what is gay and what is not.

So if you’re a guy, you can be nervous about going to a movie with another guy, feeling the need to worry about whether the appearance of two dudes together sends the signal that you’re sharing more than a bucket of popcorn. If you happen to be the kind of person who just enjoys good movies and doesn’t believe there’s any such thing as a “chick flick” or “macho films,” you can be seen as a borderline case–ready to jump into the rainbow coalition.

If you know your way around a kitchen and like to cook, you have to make sure that you have a beard, spiked hair and talk gruffly about things like motorcycles and football–or people might wonder if your delicacy is Twinkies.

It’s horrible.

I would love to walk outside and see a field abloom and be able to discuss the colorations and sheer utter magnitude of the vision without wondering if people thought I also had a poster of Judy Garland hanging in my boudoir. Is it going to be possible to actually become more open-minded, when we attribute certain levels of appreciation to a sexual preference instead of just plain human enjoyment?

  • Do I like Broadway musicals? Some of them.
  • Do I know how to decorate a room? Yes–even though I welcome other people’s opinions.
  • Can I say that the “fields are abloom” without people thinking that I am queenly? I fear not.

I will know we have grown as human beings when we talk more about human beings than we do about men, women, gay and straight. To me the whole thing is similar to our fourth grade obsession with cooties. Guys really liked girls but weren’t sure whether we were supposed to or not–and because of the eyeballing of our friends, we pretended that touching one of these females would cause multi-legged insects to infest our bodies. Let me be the first to say it: cuties don’t give you cooties.

And reporting that a field is abloom does not make you Anderson Cooper.