I went to Home Depot this morning and felt an instant sense of accomplishment upon entering the store. That’s right, upon entering the store. I don’t have to buy anything or even stroll down the aisles to feel like I’ve really done something special when I enter the Home Depot. I just have to get up the gumption to pass through those big sliding doors and enter into the land of ceiling fans, weed killers and a whole lotta shit that I have no clue about.

I had to go because the toilet flushy thing on my commode went out last night. Went out? It’s not electrical, so it didn’t really go out. It broke, okay? My toilet flushy thing broke and I had to replace it. If you want a more proper term for the toilet flushy thing, you are talking to the wrong guy. You push down on it and the toilet flushes. Last night, I pushed down and the toilet did not flush. As a result, I knew that my toilet flushy thing was broken and I had to cross into the manliest of stores and act like I knew exactly what I was looking for.

Three people asked me this morning if they could help me find what I was looking for. Of course you can help me, I thought. But I’m a guy living in the manliest city in the United States! I’m not going to reveal my mangina by saying to you, “My toilet flushy thing went out last night. Can you help me, please, Ms. Lady. And could you help me find my testicles while you’re at it?” Instead, I am going to traverse down one aisle after another until I find what I am looking for. Even if it takes half of my Sunday morning, I would never admit to not knowing exactly what I am looking for. I’m a man, dammit!

Truth be told, though, I should probably be excommunicated from this town because of my lack of manliness. It’s not that I don’t consider myself a man. I do. I’m all man, baby *wink*. But when it comes to Nashville, just having testicles and peeing standing up doesn’t cut it. We are the manliest city for a reason. Men here love their beer and their big trucks and their Nascar and their camouflage and their sports bars and pissing without washing their hands (cause that’s what real men do, right?) And their assault rifles. Let’s not forget those. We’re real men, so we need real guns. Screw a handgun. I need something powerful enough to mow down a rain forest. Forget Dirty Harry. I want that gun Jesse Ventura had in Predator. Now, THAT’S a real gun. And that’s why we voted for McCain down here. Obama wants to take our guns away! He wants to piss on our Constitution — and probably wash his hands afterward, that sissy boy! Here in Nashville, we want to be able to carry our guns into restaurants, cause manly men like to feel cold steel pressed against their meaty flesh as they tear into a butt steak and talk with their mouths full.

I am slightly jealous, though. A lot of men here in Nashville are like modern-day MacGyvers. Give them an Allen wrench and two twisty ties, come back in an hour and you have a completely remodeled bathroom. And cars — they love their cars down here, men and women. That is where I feel completely inferior. You get a bunch of men in a huddle, talking about cars then glance over at me. I’m the guy sipping a Capri Sun, looking totally baffled. Conversations between me and real men over cars generally go like this:

“What kind of engine you got in her?”
“Umm, the kind that goes Vrrooommm when I turn the key.”
“What about horsepower?”
“Horse, uhh…wait. I thought we were talking about cars. When did horses enter into the mix? You can’t go switching subjects all quick like that on me, Buford.”

These same guys walk into the Home Depot and when asked what they are looking for, they say something like, “I need a two by four quarter inch phalanges with a miter saw attachment and a combustible diesel backup to ratchet my wife’s petunias.” And you expect me to say, “I need a new toilet flushy thingy?” Not on your life.

I’m not really sure where I was going with this whole blog entry. Guess I just wanted to vent a little on my inferiority complex and how much of a burden it is to live in the most testosterone saturated city in America. Of course, there are drawbacks ladies, when it comes to dating or marrying a manly man. Sure, they can fix your Chevy or build you a brand new deck out of toothpicks and Elmer’s glue. But when it comes to the artsy fartsy things (their term, not mine), most of ‘em will leave you wanting more.
“Honey, Pagliacci is going to be at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center next weekend. Can we go?”
“Pagliacci? What the hell is that?”
“An opera.”
“An opera? You want me to go to an opera?”
“Yeah, it will be fun. We’ll get dressed up and have a nice dinner and see the show.”
“Uh huh. Right. Yeah, why not?”
“Really??”
“Sure. Then we can get our nails done and talk about our menstrual cycles while we do each other’s hair. I ain’t going to no opera. I’m a man, dammit!”

So, ladies, if you want a nice night on the town or breakfast in bed or an afternoon at a museum followed by a tasty brunch at a local bistro, give me call. If you want to live in a home where the toilet flushy thing works, doors open and close properly and your car actually starts in the morning, call Cletus.

No wonder my phone never rings.