By The Menzoid
The Menzoid was walking about his neighbourhood in Rich Man’s Hill last week, not minding his own business, when he happened upon a fortysomething man straddling his bicycle and picking up his snail-mail at the Canada Post community mailbox. In truth, there was nothing extraordinary about this particular sight, except for one tiny detail: the bicycle had a wicker basket affixed to the handlebars.
You heard that right, folks: the bike was being piloted by a mature male. And this bike had a wicker basket affixed to the handlebars, presumably so that the man could transport his 10 ounces of mail back home without having to impede his hands.
So shaken by the sight, The Menzoid audibly gasped…
One needn’t be a cycling enthusiast to realize that when it comes to handlebar baskets, the only acceptable pilot for such a conveyance is a pre-pubescent girl. For a grown male to have a basket affixed to his bike’s handlebars … well, that’s just not right when it comes to the manliness department.
The Menzoid walked past the man with a whiplash sneer on his face to convey disgust and sympathy.
Indeed, if The Menzoid was going to say anything, it would’ve been the following: “Buddy, please turn in your Man Card.”
Yes, a bike basket is functional. But that’s not the point. Because this is a piece of equipment that shouldn’t be affixed to any guy’s ride beyond Grade 2.
Indeed, Bike Basket Buddy was wantonly violating the Guy Code by embracing such a cycling option. He should’ve been inherently aware that such a transgression meant he was veering dangerously into effeminate territory; inexplicably, he was oblivious to the obvious.
Thus, wicker bike baskets aside, allow The Menzoid to provide a rundown of further violations against the Man Code he has spotted in the last 12 months. Listen up, guys – if you are guilty of any of the following, it may be the reason you haven’t had a date recently:
Let’s be clear: The Menzoid is not 100 percent against the concept of a man bag. With all the electronic gadgetry we are expected to tote about these days, pant pockets just aren’t big enough. So, let’s establish the ground rules, shall we? First, the man bag has to look like something Indiana Jones would tote about. That is to say, no vibrant colours or flowery patterns and it should not look like a handbag. It should be leather (or look like leather) and if it displays a logo, it must be something masculine like the brand name of an engine oil or a lacrosse team. Otherwise, it’s not a man bag – it’s a “murse.”
Newsflash: The eighties are over. And Steven Seagal is a has-been/never-was. Thus, in 2012, it’s NOT cool for any man to have his hair clasped back in a ponytail. Actually, it never was cool to begin with. EVER. Guys, the ponytail is a women-only hairstyle. Put another way, you wouldn’t wear your hair in pigtails would you?
Wearing a full apron while cooking is just really unnerving, guys. Extra demerit points if the cooking apron has some stupid slogan embroidered into the fabric to add manufactured humour to the spectacle, such as, “If you don’t like my cooking lower your standards” or “Who farted?”
Unless you’re deliberately trying to impersonate a transgender version of Doris Day, capri pants make for a First Degree Fashion Crime. Simply put, you must either wear full-length slacks or proper shorts – although NOT shorts made out of denim.
Brightly-coloured plastic sunglasses with an oversized manufacturer’s logo embedded into the frame such as Chanel or D&G is out of bounds when such glasses are on a guy’s face. Stick to a pair of classic Ray-Bans or aviator sunglasses.
A “Carry-Dog” that’s No Larger than a Rodent
Man’s best friend MUST be bigger than a breadbasket… and it must walk on its own four legs at all times. Otherwise, the varmint is nothing more than a purse accessory for a Paris Hilton wannabe.
Volkswagen New Beetle Convertible
VW dealerships should be prohibited by law from selling this car to any person with a Y-chromosome. From those uber-curvy fenders to the dashboard slot designed to hold a daffodil, any dude behind the wheel of a New Beetle ragtop is basically screaming out to his fellow motorists that he’s pining for gender-reassignment surgery.