Your solipsistic thought for the day: What’s In Your Sack?
I always keep floss and a tube of minty paste in my back pack to brush away the wool sweaters that cake my teeth, especially after sugary dietary choices. I know, I should just buy gum but I prefer thoroughly fresh breath at a moment’s notice. Last night, while driving, I opted for oral hygiene on the go. Reaching into the top pouch of my pack, I pulled out the little travel tube, squirted a glob on my toothbrush and proceeded to coat my teeth with anti-fungal cream.
Oh, and just to clarify, I only needed that goop for a couple applications during last summer’s heat wave! I should have removed that tube months ago. Normally you’d have to apply a search warrant or serious muscle before any guy would admit to owning this product.
I hauled ass to a nearby restroom and realized this was only the second time I’ve ever gargled with liquid soap. The first time involved a mother’s creativity and her anger with my use of The F-Word. In any case I pondered how I could have made such a blunder. Curious to a fault, I began to consider the kinds of personal effects men consider important enough to truck around with them.
Vocabulary plays a weighty role in our discussion of the Urban Dude and the manner in which he gathers objects unto himself, so we’d better clarify a few terms. First of all, the container in which men carry important stuff can never, ever be labeled in a way that might question the owner’s gender role identity. Bears and Breeders alike accept this mandate of masculine mystique without question. They’d rather endure trial by combat over the humiliation of having a satchel ridiculed as handbag or purse.
Even as a verb, purse broadcasts a distinctly feminine connotation. Dictionary.com defines purse as “…to contract (the mouth, lips, etc.) into a small rounded shape.” And that, my peeps, is a very yonic reference. Ask a guy, “How’s your penis?” and you’ll likely get a chuckle. Ask the same guy, “What’s inside your purse?” and you may just as well have asked him to describe the contents of his vagina. An appropriate response to this threat often manifests itself non-verbally in the form of a meaty fist.
Back packs climb mountains, travel Europe, hike through beautiful scenery, and go on adventures. Fanny packs arrive at your favorite bistro with an insidious agenda. They attach themselves to the bloated bellies of emasculated middle age men, forcing victims to paw forever through a marsupial pouch while you stand in line, praying for that moment when you can finally order one, single, sodding cup of coffee.
In the UK, “fanny” refers directly to the reproductive apparatus of female anatomy. Small wonder fanny packs latch on to neutered adult males as acceptable hosts. I suspect that F.P.’s select organisms for low testosterone production, exploiting passive victims who lack the aggressive immunity to resist parasitic growth. These hosts invariably possess markers that communicate the absence of male potency. Identifying characteristics include shoulder length hair topped by an imported wool cap to hide male pattern baldness. Frequently these creatures present the thorax insulated by a Beefy-T, adorned with pithy, esoteric statements such as “Schrödinger’s Cat is Dead / Schrödinger’s Cat is not Dead.” While such patterns attract exchanges with nerds and theoretical biologists, they serve as Kryptonite to hot-babe intellectuals.
Next, shorts with an elastic waist band cover chunky rumps while exposing legs reminiscent of hairy powdered donuts. Finally, we complete this display behavior with a set of black rayon socks and Birkenstocks. Bear in mind that fanny packs have no power to mutate man flesh into a Pillsbury Doughboy. However, they function conspicuously as biological ornamentation whose dimorphic purpose remains to identify male host organisms as incapable of genetic competition. Fortunately fanny packs generally do not exhibit until after a man’s second divorce or first Harry Potter movie marathon. Stay strong, my brothers.
The back pack, bag o’ carrying, or man sack riding the back of the typical Urban Dude, contains no frivolous item to enhance physical allure or anticipate the casual needs of others. A man’s holdall harbors no skin care products, coupons, fuzzy Life Savers, vitamins, or a small mirror, let alone make up. I dare you to ask some poor slob to reach within the sordid depths of his duffel for a clean tissue. No sir, it ain’t gonna happen. That rucksack contains only essential tools vital to his successful interaction with fast-paced modern society.
For example, my pack contains a phone charger, lithium-ion batteries, a surge protector, notebook power adapters for home and vehicle, Cat 5 cables, and a massive external hard drive whose memory banks come packed to the gills with Word documents, digital photography, Photoshop projects, applications, movies, and possibly other forms of visual media which propriety forbids me to describe. Suffice to say that my boundless curiosity on the odd occasion extends to human anthropology with respect to heteronormative courtship rituals. On the other hand, two chicks at the same time are pretty hot too. But I digress. My scientific interests do not advance our premise.
The Urban Dude’s bundle may also contain textbooks, gym clothes, stinky socks, or even controlled substances. Sure, this list of practical items seems mostly harmless on casual glance, but one must never peer inside a man’s knapsack without his express permission. Women at least understand that, unguarded, their purse may be subject to violation by a child testing boundaries, partners borrowing cash, or by a sister performing an emergency tamponectomy. Men learn no such preconditioning, and when confronting their own gender, will strike back with more than a tongue-lashing when it comes to protecting contents and secrets. And while guys generally make little effort to show regard for another man, they know better than to break The Code regarding his personal stuff. Frankly, it’s none of your damn business what a man packs in his sack. Root inside at your own risk but get ready to duck, especially if you’re fool enough to excavate a mysterious plastic tube and subject it to close scrutiny.