1. Our eyes wander. Permanently.

It doesn’t matter if we are 30, or 60. We look. We stare. We undress them with our eyes. Let’s face it, a man who tells you he’s not staring at the slutty girl in the back of the room is lying. You see Grandpa Joe’s shifty eyes? Yeah, that’s not his glaucoma. He’s actually looking at your friend’s boobs.

2. You say: “A slept with B and now C is mad with A cause C loves A”; We hear: “…..”

Those love hexagons you seem to relish knowing about? A who loves M who is best friends with D who went out with K who’s cousin is B who slept with A and E although being married to F? Our man brains can’t cope with all that information. We may nod, say “Oh really?” “That’s terrible” “Uh-huh” and pretend to know what you’re on about… the reality is we hear static. Good uncomplicated straight forward static.

3. You must smell nice. Everywhere.

Womanly scent. You need one. If you’re not lucky enough to be born with a natural pheromone laden scent that smells of spring time flower, fake it. We like a girl to smell nice. That’s why we go out with you and not Jim the mechanic. That’s why scientists invented perfume. That’s why there’s special neutral pH for sensitive skin soap to wash your hoo-haa. The last thing we want is to undress you and smell all sorts of funk from the 1900s. Or worse, blue cheese. P.S – Shaving/waxing would be good too. If we want to floss our teeth, we’ll just stick to dental floss, thank you.

4. We have impossibly fragile egos.

Underneath our alpha male demeanor, behind those pecs, lies a boy wanting to wear Daddy’s pants. Say the wrong thing and our ego cocoon shatters. We begin to doubt ourselves. We begin to lose confidence. We turn to alcohol. We end up drinking three too many bottles of malt whiskey. We drive the car. We crash into a ravine. We die. See how it all ends if we don’t get our daily boost of ego massage? Let us take the lead. If we’re bad in bed, tell us we’re good in bed. A little white lie goes a long way.

5. We are vacant up there.

Despite the degrees and PhDs and the seemingly witty banter that seems to flow out of the best of us, we are essentially men. And we have man brains with a 50% allocated space to think about nothing-ness. Give us a chair, a window and we can entertain ourselves. We’ll probably sit down, stare outside and space out. So women, don’t expect too much. If you want witty witty witty banter and wisecracks all the time 24/7, get a mirror and a voice modulator and play pretend.

6. We really don’t care about your weight issues.

You ask us if you look fat today. You tell us you’ve put on 5 pounds. Your jeans feel tighter. Look, we really don’t care. If we did care, we would notice it and tell you that you’ve put on 5 pounds. So don’t get all insecure, we still love you to still be with you. Even though you look like a whale now.

7. We don’t bitch. We say things like they are.

Look let’s get one thing straight. Women bitch, not men. Bitching consists of cattiness. E.g. Sandra walks in the room with an unflattering dress. Women, “Look at Sandra. What is she wearing? Is it that dress from Topshop? Well it looks like she was dressed by her blind aunt. That cut does nothing for her figure. Or maybe it’s all that cookie she’s been binge eating on. Has she got a problem in her life that needs addressing? Maybe her husband’s cheating. That’s why she’s resorted to eating to fill the void in her heart…. etc”. Men, “Wow, Sandra’s ugly as fuck today”.

8. Take care of us. Like our mothers did.

Inside everyman is still that little boy who needs to be taken care of. That’s why some of us enjoy going back home to see our mothers so much because they cook the food we like, do the washing, and when we’re sick they take care of our boo-boos. Take heed, women. We like nothing more to come home from work to a house smelling like our favourite dish, eat and have you wash our dishes and serve us our beverage of choice while we sit and read the papers. The good old traditional ways of the 1920s. Do you see why there are less divorces then there are now? Or maybe we should just marry our maids. Just a thought.

Yes. Good ole Photoshop.

It’s one of my all time favourite image manipulation software where bloggers may photoshop away the following imperfections before pictures are posted online.

  1. Warts
  2. Double chin
  3. Jaundice
  4. A cup breasts
  5. Gap tooth
  6. Cold sores
  7. Amnesia
  8. Sore throat
  9. Swine flu

Not many people know Photoshop is fast approaching it’s 25th anniversary. Originally started in the basement of a greasy haired geek called Thomas Knoll with his brother, John Knoll, it has now become a multi-trillion dollar business. I honestly think that all the magazines in the world will cease publications if Photoshop wasn’t available. Who will be there to doctor all the model’s skin to make it look all dewy and shiny? Who will digitally shave of 100 pounds off an elephantine woman? Microsoft’s Paint? HAH!

If Leonardo had Photoshop who knows what he would have done to the Mona Lisa? (source)

So in light of this, i told myself to use Photoshop and perform the same miracle with my amateur skills. My challenge was to create a campaign ad worthy of a fashion giant from pictures of old people.

I present to you the latest in eye-wear standards to give you that distinguished I’ve-made-it-in-life look…

D&G Heritage collection (arriving in Summer ’10)

I  think it’s ingenious considering i started off with this:

Images sourced from (1, 2, 3)

As a side-by-side comparison:

Once again, i would like to proclaim my undying love for Photoshop. Thank you Jesus.


Season 1, Episode 1 – Pilot

I met up with a clairvoyant over the weekend. That’s just as embarrassing as meeting up with a shrink. But in any case, she told me to close my eyes and to just relax.

The thing with fortune tellers and these new age people isn’t the general statements they always say that make that makes my 5 year old cousin seem like Einstein, but rather the subtle, little details of you that they somehow guessed got right.

I mean the person only met you for like less than 3 minutes and all the sudden the person knows about your personality, minus the deep dark secrets that you hold safe from the depths of your soul (thank God for that). Invasion of privacy that may be but it must be scary to live that way, knowing people without even meeting the person.

There was this thing that she told me that somehow rang very true to me and even got me thinking about the life I was leading as a corporate slave by day. She mentioned that I was empty in terms of relationships with others and for my reason of existing. The very questions that I struggle about each day is knowing why bother existing when everything else works perfectly well without you.

The world is already plagued with hunger, the economic divide and overpopulation.

Isn’t that already too many problems. An addition of another entity does not justify my existence.

Fortune tellers have a strange way of telling you that things are OK and that as long as you resolve to do some things in a different way, life is going to be OK. I really wonder if there is going to be a happy ending and silver lining to this.

The whole episode didn’t end in futility, she told me to stay on to what I have as I need it at the moment and to find out what I really want to do. Meanwhile I should start expressing myself more doing what I like to do as a side. Thus why I started writing here. Hopefully the exploits of an urban city dweller looking a life in a paradoxical, somewhat satirical and hopefully inspiring way will finally bring me to the path of discovering myself (oh, haven’t we all heard this one already) and to entertain and make readers just stop at life, think and smell the roses.

Then again, perhaps a trip to the shrink would do me much better.

The Urban Caveman (th uh ur-buh n kāv’mān’) is 5 ft 6”, typical male who came from the depths of the jungle before pursuing a career in the big bad city as a typical salaryman / corporate slave by day and avid dreamer by night. His interests include the guilty pleasures of staying home, indulging in differential experiences, and other hedonistic pursuits.

Bizarrely, he doesn’t mind being alone for long periods of time doing nothing.

Pic Credit: http://sxc.hu/

While i was waiting on a friend for lunch, i was sat outside Starbucks on a park bench. I was in my own world with my iPod plugged in and staring at the ground.

And I made a couple of important observations.

1. Shoes tell alot about you

Well, i stared at the ground because i felt fat and ugly and my self-esteem was non-existant. .. Anyway.. i watched many feet shuffle by and God the variation! There were hobos with their dug-out-of-the dumpster shoe tied together with string; the obviously tranny-woman with size 11 heels, and the obligatory cool do-it-all Japanese shoes with GPRS, 3G, USB, SMS, MMS, WAP, RFID, MP3 technology. Are you more of a Hotomi-san or a homo-san?

2. There are a lot of pigeons.

Yes. Billions.

I saw one pigeon flying towards a spot on the ground. Next thing you know a fucking million of them come flying out from the gutter and descend upon that one spot. I sat there confused thinking it was a solar eclipse all the while shielding myself from being shat on by the pigeons. How do they communicate? How does that one pigeon command the rest of them? Maybe he is… The One.

3. Clouds are rude.

I looked up at the sky and saw a nipple. I turned to my right and i saw a saggy tit. I was offended.

Just look at the menacing picture of the cloud! What do you see? I see a limp dick, a saggy nipple, a clitoris, and a tongue. The next time you go out with your child, shield their eyes from the sky. It’s plain old rude. I’ll have a word with Jesus the next time i see him.

Well first off let me clarify that this post is the author’s own experience. (Which happened four friggin times while i was zipping down the A1 and through the countryside). And well, the four times that it happened, the drivers were all women. Oestrogen filled things, uterus and all.

So this is what happened.

It’s a 70 mp/h zone. Like the whole bloody highway is. And this is the debauchery took place:

It was a small one car lane which went on for 50 billion miles or so it seemed. There was a woman driver in front. It’s a 70mp/h road, i’m going at 69 and here you are waltzing and twirling along at 30 in your pink tutus. God only knows what she was doing. I mean just what the hell. What the friggin hell. If you went at 60 that would still have been great. But 30?? My grandma can polish off a kettle of tea, play bingo and recite the Old Testament backwards before you’ve even reached your destination.

Yeah. Frustration is probably an understatement. Try fucked off, annoyed, blue-balled etc etc. Even honks didn’t do the job. She stared up and looked at me and continued at 30 mp/h. What the f.

Finally after what seemed like eternity, Jesus of Nazareth finally parted the road and gave me a leeway so that i may escape that bitch and her clutches of hell. Amen.

I mean, what the feck are you doing in the car while driving, woman?!

Getting a pedicure & talking to your gurlfriends about your last date Steve who never called back, all while driving?!

Breastfeeding little Timmy while driving?!

Trying to cook stir-fried bak choi with scallops that you learnt from Delia Smith while driving?!

Doing Hatha Yoga while driving?!

I honestly have no idea. The highways of the A1 be damned.

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