You can vacuum all you want, we're not turning off the third round of the Buick Open.
We don't really get Valentine's Day. Flowers? Candy? Why is it a one-way street? Why can't it be the day when you give us a new sleeve of Titleists?
Really, honestly, no joke: We don't give a deceased rodent about which curtains to pick. All we want is one room where we can sit in the Chicago Bears helmet-chair you hate and put up our chin strap collection.
And when we get home from playing golf, there's no point asking, "So how did Leonard's transplant go?" We have no idea. When we're on the course, we're either talking about the last shot, the next shot or sex. It ain't Dr. Phil.
Here's what we don't get about you: 1) Your friends don't have nicknames; 2) You never spit; 3) You never want any fries—except ours.
We know some of us go too far. Our guys in sports jerseys are like your women in tube tops.
Why do you say, "If your team frustrates you so much, why do you still watch them?" That would be like us asking you, "If your kids frustrate you so much, why don't you sell them?" They're our teams, forever.
We know we've got zero shot with the swimsuit models. But do we spoil it for you with George Clooney?
We never stop competing. Ever. Whether it's not letting that Porsche behind us pass, or tossing crumpled paper into the trash can, or getting the promotion—we're trying to beat the other guy. So if we lose at H-O-R-S-E and don't speak till Tuesday, now you know why.
Just to be clear, the following are never to be brought up in front of the guys: the Lakers pajamas, the jarts incident and the time we got pinned by Dick Button. Ever. Otherwise, we're going to your book club and we're spilling about the Botox.