Crying: A Cultural Study on the History of Men and Tears

Over the course of the last twenty-one centuries – and probably earlier but that’s as far back as any research goes – a common belief has surfaced that men cannot, and do not, cry. Though there is some merit to this theory, it has yet to be verified as either true or false. So, in an effort to determine its plausibility, I have set out to conduct the definitive study on the subject.

Of the 100 men I approached to participate in my study, 101 declined to take part. As such, I was forced to gather my data the old-fashioned way: by observing my subjects in their natural surroundings without their prior consent. Though it proved to be rather time consuming (and resulted in a few restraining orders) my findings, I believe, will help us better understand crying and its relationship to the true manliness of men.

What follows is a small sample of the research I conducted.

Song names rejected by Coldplay before they finally decided on “Yellow”

Golden Poppy
If You Don’t Reciprocate My Love, I’ll Bleed Myself Dry
All The Things You Do That Make Me Wonder Why I Love You
Amber
Shinny Things That Make Me Think Of You
This Is The Song I Wrote For You
It’s What’s Under Your Skin & Bones That Really Matters
Maize
I’m Drawing A Line In The Sand And If You Cross It It Means You Really Do Love Me (Please Cross It, Please)
I Don’t Know If You Know This, But I’m Kind Of In Love With You
Lemon

I am now accepting applications for the seat in my sidecar

Do you enjoy watching the sites whiz by at 100 mph? Do you love the sensation of the wind whipping through your mustache? Do you appreciate the nutritional value that comes with swallowing a bug? If any of these queries even remotely tickles your fancy then have I got some exciting news for you: The seat in my sidecar is now up for grabs.

As you rush off to update your resume, let me tell you a bit about myself, my bike Esmeralda, and lay down a few ground rules.

As the sole owner and operator, I am the one and only pilot – which is also one of the names that I ask for you to refer to me by. I’m also cool with: El Roaderino, Colonel Asphalt, or Bossanova (Boss for short).

Don’t worry, when in the mini-saddle you’ll have a road-worthy moniker too. Something like Side Pilot, or, depending on the journey, Little Leroy, #2, Starboard Admiral or Trooper.

As the Pilot, I will be responsible for choosing each destination, planning the route, selecting the playlist and scheduling pit stops. Now if you’re wondering: “What am I gonna do?” Let me tell you that, as the Side Pilot, first, you’ll have a number of responsibilities and second, you better check that attitude at the garage door.

Answers you should avoid when filling out your adoption papers

Everyone else is doing it
I don’t do men
Women are icky
Finding a child on the black market is more difficult than I expected
I’m stuck in a rut
Babies are so in right now
I haven’t had a drink in 2 hours
Octomom wouldn’t sell me one of hers

Guidelines, and other observations, you’ll find helpful when the time comes to compose your next “It’s not me, it’s you” mixtape.

In theory, making a mixtape requires nothing more than the motor skills necessary to press the play and record buttons simultaneously. In actuality, it is an art form. One that requires devilishly handsome good looks, a willingness to break someone’s heart without looking them in the eye, and the motor skills necessary to press the play and record buttons simultaneously. (Or, thanks in large part to today’s advanced technology, nothing more than the ability to drag and drop songs into a playlist then burn a CD.) On top of these attributes, there are also a number of intangible elements to consider when the time comes to compose a truly timeless mixtape.

The results of a private investigator’s search for an answer to the question posed by the old lady in the Wendy’s commercial, “Where’s the beef?”

Sold by the vial at my local gym
In Selma Hayek’s bra
In the top drawer of my ex-girlfriend’s bedside table
On every page of the annual fireman’s calendar
About an hour outside Vegas at the Cottontail Ranch
In the Witness Protection Program
On a farm in Cochrane, Alberta, Canada

A transcript of my interview with the editor of the local paper for the position of obituary writer

EDITOR: So, why obits?
ME: Dead people can’t exactly complain about your work, because, you know…
EDITOR: Huh, I never thought of it like that before.
ME: And, it seems pretty easy.
EDITOR: How… what makes you say that?
ME: You make dead people seem like they had an interesting life.
EDITOR: We don’t make them seem interesting. We remember their lives.
ME: But what if they were really boring?
EDITOR: We’re not here to judge. Our job is to respectfully tell their story, no matter what that entails.
ME: I’m not judging. I’m just saying, what if they were losers. You know, didn’t have a lot of friends, didn’t party much. Just hung out, watched fake judges yell at people on TV and played crosswords. Stuff like that.
EDITOR: We generally focus on career and family.
ME: Oh, that makes sense I guess.
EDITOR: Good–
ME: Still, you embellish a little, right?
EDITOR: We don’t usually, no.
ME: Just hear me out.
EDITOR: Fine.

What I imagined life would have been like growing up with Bob Cole, Hockey Night in Canada’s play-by-play announcer.

Age 9 – Family Trip

And NOW lets take a look at the STARTING LINEUP for today’s drive to the COLE FAMILY REUNION.

Behind the wheel, and still smelling like the scotch he drank last night, he’s prematurely balding, somewhat of a pushover and not much of a role model, BOB COLE SENIOR.

Joining him up front is the captain, coach, general manager, and all-around family dictator, WENDY COLE. She leads the family in punishment handed out and has an uncanny ability to smell bullshit, especially when related to doing your homework and chores.

In the backseat on my right wing is the resident family jackass, DEREK COLE. He claims to be the leading scorer, but we all know it’s a HUGE LIE, mainly due to the fact that, at the age of 14, he still wets the bed.

And finally, on my left wing, the league’s BIGGEST BITCH, who, I’m pretty sure doesn’t know my name – despite being 7 years my senior – SALLY COLE. According to her journal, she’s becoming more of a woman everyday and is TOTALLY IN LOVE with Marcus Hoffsteader, who she thinks is going to be the one – whatever that means.

Ladies and gentlemen, do not turn the dial; this is going to be one heck of a ride.

Mantras used by Donald Trump to help him get through the day

“You’re still a millionaire on paper.”
“Even though people hate you, they respect you to your face.”
“You are a magnificent son of a bitch.”
“Your hair is marvelous.”
“When the bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth, you want to be at the plate.”
“You are an international brand powerhouse.”
“Your wife loves you for more than your money and power.”
“You will fire someone today.”
“There are more people in the world who are poorer than you than there are richer than you.”
“You are so money and everyone knows it.”
“You’re #15 on the Forbes list but #1 in their hearts.”
“You will financially ruin someone today.”
“If there were a hall of fame for rich business men, you’d be in it.”
“You will not file for bankruptcy again.”

Other things to do with your hands when you throw them in the air besides waving them like you just don’t care

High-five
Raise the roof
Flip the bird
Fix your hair
Spark your lighter
Hold a runner at third base
Flash the peace sign
Praise the Lord, Hallelujah
Pump your fist
Applaud
Shine a flashlight in someone’s eyes
Thumbs up
Dramatically unsheathe a sword
Pour one out for your homies who can’t be here
Slap a really tall person in the face