In an office of the U.S. Postal Service this morning, a morning show deejay played clips from last night’s Leno and … I forget now, but prolly was a guy after Leno, on the same network.
Come to think it, maybe they own the station, and the whole shtick — supposedly hey you might have missed this because it’s on late at night — was just another advert for itself.
And it’d be tragic if we missed even a minute of TV’s bubble gum flavored Quaaludes.
The bits were about St. Valentine’s Day, which is today, and which at airtime was about to start or had just done so. So there was the Hey it’s ! where you fill in the blank, with the joke coming next. In this case, the joke was on the holiday, except insofar as the joke is on us.
The crowd cheered and the jokes were clichéd (one “Notre Dame guy” and one “don’t forget”) and then I was called to do my bidness with USPS. You wouldn’t think getting my chance at the window was a mercy, but compared to what was on the radio, I was dancing to that counter.
It’s for women.
I get it. That’s the deal. Flowers, candy, dinner out — not stuff men gen’raly even genially look for. Sure, I like a flower now and again, but no candy. And Michele’s an awesome cook.
Hey, no problem.
But, what of men?
What do we want?
We want to serve.
All right, I grant you: good men want to serve.
Some chronologically adult genetically male individuals want to play Xbox.
But good men, being what men are supposed to be — men who are men — want to serve.
Sometimes husbands and wives end up watching separate televisions. They pass each other in the halls because they still work together and show up for each others’ birthday cakes, but they never socialize outside of business hours.
Thousand reasons for it, 90 percent of ‘em shit, and they boil down to one. Different post.
Suffice to say …
Shouldn’t be this way.
Men … we do want to serve.
Seen it so in myself, if too rarely.
Picture this: wife comes home — from work, girl’s night out, shopping for school stuff, whatever — takes off her shoes, rubs her feet.
[Rubs her feet, gentlemen!]
She says something ‘bout that they ache.
If the man’s on: I mean if he’s on, if all cylinders are firin’, if he’s jammin’, if he’s got it down …
His first thought is, “Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”
His middle thought is, “Puttin’ in a softer floor this weekend, by God.”
And His last thought is, “I’ma kill the mofo who made my girl those cruel shoes.”
Maybe she just wants a poor baby.
Maybe she thinks all this is overkill.
[Or maybe she wants a foot rub, gentlemen. Duh.]
Alls I’m sayin’ is, we want to serve.