Several months ago, I wrote this really fantastic post for Gucci Mama. I’m now choosing to post it on my blog because at the moment it feels as though I have a giant Cinnabon stuck between my brain and the back of my left eyeball. Needless to say I don’t feel like thinking very hard lest I put too much pressure on the Cinnabon causing it to spread potentially fatal doses of cinnamon and sugar coursing throughout the circuitry of brain. I hope Gucci Mama doesn’t mind me stealing my post back and posting it here… she is such a dear for letting me post on her blog.
I am a Neanderthal man. I communicate with my wife through a series of grunts, hand motions and one or two-word sentences that only she can understand. I mostly dress in tattered clothes I stole from other Neanderthal men after I’d collapsed their skulls under the enormous force of my caveman club. When I’m ready to make babies I give her a look under my protruding, furrowed brow and unkempt eyebrows that says, “You! Me! Make Baby! Now!”
Papa K’s true Neanderthal identity
But there is one skill I possess that other men do not that has proved to be beneficial to me on more than one occasion: I’m really good at picking out heels for my wife!
Perhaps I’m evolving at a faster rate than most Neanderthals like me. At certain times during the year when gift giving is at hand and I’m galumphing through the shoe department, I look up and see other of my male counterparts scratching their butts, digging for nose food or staring into a vast expanse of nothingness.
While I am able to complete the task of visualizing what my wife would look like in heels (naked), my male counterparts seem to revert to the evolutionary stage that preceded them rather than making the leap forward. Strange… yet slightly empowering I must say!
Does this alarm you?
It obviously alarms the entire department as I meander up to the cash register, shoe box in hand, because all male and female eyes are on me. When I slap down my payment consisting of wild boar teeth and raccoon skin the lady behind the register becomes awash with what appears to be complete and total despair.
“I wish my husband picked out shoes for me!” she says.
“ME PAY! NOW GIVE TO ME!” I will usually scream at her while simultaneously snatching the box of shoes away from her and entangling my arms around them in a vice-like bear hug. A few of the other Neanderthals start to holler and bang their open hands at my expense on the glass display tables adorned with Jessica Simpsons new 3-inch heels. I have evolved beyond that point. All I want to do is run away and show what I’ve captured to my beloved who might show me her boobs as a reward for capturing something so rare and beautiful.
A funny thing happens upon my presentation.
Incredibly, when presenting my newly acquired prize to my beloved, she doesn’t see my hunched shoulders, hairy back and lower jaw protruding well beyond my upper lip. She sees beyond that simply because I tried. I tried far beyond what most Neanderthals would do… and that’s simply making an effort.
Me Grog. Me pick out shoe. Polka dots pretty!
Not to sound like I’m dogging my own species too much… but isn’t that the least that Neanderthals should do? Just making an effort is all it takes to turn yourself from a slobbering, hairy, animal-pelt-wearing, club-carrying caveman into a debonair, suave, black-suit-and-tie-wearing Romeo capable of doing just about anything once the woman in your life is happy.
I’m no relationship therapist… but I’m just sayin’…