Before this upcoming biblical proportion storm arrives and kills us all, I just want to tell you that I loved you and it was fun and I don’t regret anything. Except for that pink rabbit-themed hot tub party in Brother Dinklemeyer’s gazebo where we all got naked, went crazy with Instagram and lost our jobs. I regret that. I’m so embarrassed about the whole thing, bringing a fuschia rabbit. I mean really, who does that?
But that’s not why I brought you here today. Today I want to talk about real men.
Real men make things. They make things. With their hands.
“Make” is a wonderful and creative word. It applies to artists and craftsmen and TV shows. Some TV shows value making things so much, they put it in their name: How It’s Made, to name one.
How It’s Made reveals how all kinds of things are built, manufactured etc. Everything from pencils to super cars.
I don’t watch it but I can’t help catch parts of it now and again because my husband likes to stare at it for hours and hours. And whatever channel it’s on (Discovery? Science? The Dirty Hands channel?), holds marathons of the show. All. The. Time.
The men (and women) in this show are actual people doing their job. They are not pretty or skinny like Hollywood. And they have real work hands with greasy fingers and scuffed nails.
Oh, there it is. Right there on the screen. The Science Channel. Duh.
Meanwhile, the show is sponsored by such products as Sears Craftman tools where not-real men tell you how awesome these tools are. Tools that go around corners and shoot laser beams and make coffee.
And the guy in the commercial who is “allegedly” using these Sears Craftsman tools? Not an ounce of pudge or speck of dirt anywhere to be found.
This guy wouldn’t know a hammer if it hit him.
Commercials are supposed to relate to their audience, so I figure the advertising wizards assume that a good portion of their target market consists of yuppie weekend warriors, he-man wannabees with the meticulous fingernails of CEOs and the hair of underwear models.
It’s like these commercials are the romance novels of bathroom breaks.
Or something like that.
