If all the blondes we’ve blonded with showed up at the Office of Indelicacy Complaints, the time when, old-school style, I forgot she doesn’t walk street-side on the sidewalk because as a dude I’m supposed to shield her with my body, like that beach time, lying next to her, jaw nearly dislodged when a way hotter one strolled by, like the time I forgot she hates grey pepper on omelettes, or that time my first tripped over one of my undies left by the bathroom throne, like the time I kissed my mom in front of her, forgetting to warn her that this crazy young-looking lady is actually my mom. Ah, the bitter reign of having blonded so carelessly with my blondes! Like that fishing time I laughed when she snagged my brother-in-law’s shirt with her hook, like the time I sprayed her deodorant after the shower without asking, having left mine at the pad, like the time I misspelled her name, swapping an “i” for a “y” on her birthday card, like the time we watched hockey on TV instead of a rom-com because I didn’t insist on resisting her offer to watch my fave sport. Oh, how I could have blonded better in my life, and how blondifying can be tough for a dude not too slick! My saga often made the rounds in the gossip loops of their girl squads during those little tiff occasions. Know this, mates in the Masculinity Club: you gotta learn to blondify before you even try to blonder, and I’m not even talking about romance or bedroom antics. Oh fertile blondes of subtlety, oh you blondes kneaded with lace and scented with the finesse of your femininity! A blondifier, short on subtlety, shouldn’t even get a blondifying license. He should wear a forehead badge, clear for all humanity, so that, banished from diners and boudoirs, from the barracks of the wide human sea, I might forever pay for my dyslexic blondificacity. Oh blondes, blondifying-blond-ifying wonders, cast on us a bouncy, pity-full, human-kindness glance for this poor generation of clumsy dudes who deserve only to be swallowed at the beach by giant sharks of manners-missing, so that, in the belly of the big fishes of reciprocity and masculinity, we may marinate long enough to learn to blondify with grace and efficiency.
