Every day I drill deep into the world-wide web dot (www.) trying to fathom man’s aversion to sucking it up without whining whenever he stubs his sore toe or his sorrier life. Too often I find evidence of men not only whining but sucking up without any hint of an it.

Given my extensive research and colorful anecdotes about ingrown toenails, I am able to wildly – although not recklessly – generalize that, since the dawn of time, man’s failures to stand up to the various its of life, sans-a-whine, explains all of the world’s wars, the famines, the black deaths, the blue screens of death, and yes, the streaming of ukulele lessons.

The solution, menlys, is to change your lives and quit your whining right now. Admittedly, though, changing ingrained character traits of cowardly whining to substantive, heroic bombast is very hard. Put another way, hard very is bombast heroic, substantive to whining cowardly of traits character ingrained changing.

That’s because the inherent requirements of change, (i.e, to change) almost always require doing something. Take, for instance, changing your clothes. It’s one thing to say I think I’ll change my clothes this month. Until a voice says ‘Dude, you look fine. You smell okay. Who cares what people think of the way you look or smell?’

I mean, true dat, although sometimes the health department can cause trouble. Which then begs the double-barreled question — Why won’t you change your clothes? What is wrong with you?

But no matter how much they beg, those questions miss the point. And what is the point? Many have asked that question and heard nothing but the toilet running in the upstairs bathroom. (Before indoor plumbing, it was the sound of a hair dryer.)

Therefore, manlyonians, if you find change difficult, please read the following and ask yourself “Is this me?” (Meaning you and not me, which is why you shouldn’t ask the possibly confusing “Is this you?” Which could mean me and not you.) (Or maybe not.)

You have a flat tire. It has never been flat before, but now it needs changing. You get down on hands and knees on the side of the road in your cargo shorts with traffic whooshing by in a snowstorm. You pop the hubcap and you find that the lug nuts keeping the tire on the axle thingie are rusted-on. You start weeping-sobbing-moaning-screaming-kicking-railing against God-the-father, or God-your-father or the stupid cow on the other side of the cow pasture fence. His “Moooooo” sounds a lot like “Loooooser.” You start laughing hysterically, swearing you’ll teach that cow a lesson. You climb over the fence and fall face-first into cow flop. The cow comes over and sits on you until stuff comes out your nose. You are not seen again until spring when your body is caught up in the tines of a manure spreader.*

It doesn’t have to end that way. In the above example, for example, one small change could have saved you from the flop. To be sure, it’s a difficult change, some would say impossible — though others might say “How ‘bout them Cowboys.” Can anyone guess what change I’m talking about?

(Long pause). (Silence). (Multiple sounds of accusatory sniffing.)

Okay, dudes, as with most difficult man issues, this is all about your nuts. Not talking about your relatives, nor your (ahem) beer nuts. I’m talking of course about the nuts on top of your shoulders.

I’ve said it before, boys, and I’ll say it again: when the old lug nut gets rusty from non-use, then it may be time to call in a nutcracker. I would add ‘Think about it,’ but that would be irony, which is the mother of all rust.

*Adapted from Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of tines, it was the worst of tines.” Thanks, Chuck.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.