Call of Duty

      There are duties that come with the penis. I accept my calling. Independent women will insist they don’t need men to provide certain services. Fine. But, it’s still appreciated, right? Leave the heavy lifting to us. It makes us feel useful. You don’t need a decorative couch pillow that burps, farts, and does laps around the channel listing. Keep your men busy.

      Today’s duties include driving my neighbor to her car and waiting for AAA to show up with a diagnosis. She’s confident that without my presence, the lug nut driving the tow truck will tell her she needs a new engine instead of a jump. She is unaware that I know even less about cars than I do about needlepoint. Eh, whatever makes her feel safe.

      My next stop will be at the office of another female friend who has a flat tire. Can I change a flat tire? Probably. Am I confident that she has an inflated spare and proper jack? Nope. Still, she doesn’t need to know that. I come armed with the ultimate dude tool: an electric inflation pump. (I’m so giddy about it, I could pee.) You should see me comb the garage for things to blow up. I inflated a basketball that hasn’t bounced since Milli Vanilli. It probably won’t bounce again until Bieber is a grandparent.

      So, my strategy is to inflate her leaky tire and sprint over to a tire shop where my fellow penis-wielding servants will earn me some lovin’. I don’t mind leaning on the pros. My pride is restrained. Once I return the damsel’s chariot in working condition, I’ll receive numerous accolades—a parade, perhaps. It’s good to be useful.

      Although I’m suspicious that women often fake incompetence, there are other chores men remain best suited for:

·         Coiling the garden hose.

·         Climbing a ladder.

·         Unclogging a toilet.

·         Replacing batteries.

·         Landscaping.

·         Making fast food runs.

      Sometimes I wish I had a man around to offload some of the undesirable necessities. Oddly, I find doing laundry, ironing, and cooking to be therapeutic. This does not imply I’m skilled at such. (I haven’t quite mastered ironing sleeves yet. Each attempt leaves the opposite side wrinkled.) Oh, how I wish I had a Jewish attorney on retainer to handle the hiring of repairmen. Every time something breaks in my house, I get a deep, dry fucking sans kissing. But, hey, it comes with a ninety-day warranty.

      So, off I go today, making myself useful. It’s nice to be needed. Other women notice my service and consider that I may be of more use than “someone to make me laugh.” My street cred is rising with every tire I inflate, every shrubbery I plant, and every heavy item I load into a woman’s car (especially ones that don’t fit). My sexual skills are mere nice-to-haves. What’s important is my availability and willingness to alleviate my lady’s stress by donning a tool belt. A happy woman is well worth the investment of my time, a bit of back pain, and an occasional splinter.