This week, Dixon takes on the case of the man whose girlfriend seems like a bitch. Leave your questions for the fearless detective on the Dixon Coltrane Facebook page
As any polyorchid will know, the Six Nations is upon us. This is a time when every man feels wholly insignificant as his girlfriend sits on the couch next to him, cooing at every other man in tight shorts displaying their brawn and skill. It is an annual trough in my self-esteem.
I usually deal with it by hating on young men outside the chipper, or bathing in Old Spice and then wanking into a sock. But this year, I want to turn over a new leaf.
So how do I either; a) NOT watch the rugby while retaining the respect of my pack of manly wolves, or b) lock ma’ bitch in a box and not lose my liberty? Or have you other suggestions…?
Listen here “Bruiser”,
After a certain point, I just get tired. Not sleepy tired, as any man who uses the word ‘sleepy’ as an adjective needs a good old-fashioned symbolic repossession of his genitals. And I don’t believe in symbolism, Bruiser, so I’m talking about a full blown ding dong detachment, a chip off the ol’ dale, if you will.
I get tired of men all drooling over some disapproving dame, or getting in a funk about the size of their junk, or junk funk, as I call it. Most of all, I am tired of some piece of ankle playing the Kansas City Shuffle with my boys’ self-esteem, and then watching them get depressed about it. Look at me, using words like ‘depression’. Apparently I’m not the only one who can make up nonsense words.
These are your options as you see it; not watch sports, so as to procure the blind admiration of the woman at the top of your woman’s legs, or lock her in a box so she can’t enjoy her serving of covetous man-cake. Naturally, you like sports because of the penis that is attached to you – don’t argue with science – so logically, you would assume I would suggest that your lady friend bring snacks, because she’s got a first class ticket to the cardboard express.
You would think that, but for an incredibly one-joke detective character like myself, I’m more suprising than a surprise birthday, held three months before your birthday, in Pearl Harbour.
If your long-legged lady and her long lady legs are making you feel inferior to men with bigger arms than you, you could go to the gym, and get your hands on some iron and pump like a deviant Frenchman – but that is hard work, and work is for horses and communists. No, my advice Bruiser; make like a tree, and tell her to get out of your house.
Your partner should make you feel good about yourself, make you feel like you’re wearing a crisp, pressed suit, even on the days when she forgot to press your suit. If your partner isn’t giving you the goods, respect-wise (and this goes for dames and their fellas too, although don’t say I told you), you should drop ’em like they are significantly above room tempature. Drop ’em like a fingered fifty in a foiled flambago. Drop ’em like the shopping of a man who is lugging home his shopping, but also doesn’t have any arms. In short, leave her. Let her look at other men’s legs in her own time – this is your time to look at men’s legs, and damned if you’ll be shamed out of your man-leg staring time.
And finally, I’d thank you not to call me polyorchid. I don’t take kindly to men commenting on the quantity of my under-carriage ballast bags, but suffice to say, any less than the four and you’re just not trying hard enough.
That’s the rub,