Yes, I know my zipper is showing, thank you very much.

Summer's not here yet, but I was in a good mood this morning, so I decided to throw on a pair of shorts. They're plaid shorts, actually, which I'm not a big fan of anymore now that everyone and their mum is wearing them. 

But it's not the plaid shorts fad that I'm stressed out about. It's the zipper on the shorts that gives me so many sleepless nights.

The zipper, fly... whatever you want to call it, is an issue of security for most men. It safeguards our bodies from extreme embarrassment, and we are constantly checking it to make sure that we didn't absent-mindedly forget to zip it up after we've taken care of our business.

But I've recently noticed a trend in both pants and shorts that I find kind of disheartening. It seems that the Malaysian woman who works so tirelessly on running the machine that makes my clothing thinks it's funny to sew the flap of fabric that hides my zipper in the incorrect place, making my zipper always noticeable. 

Work with me here. On pants, you know how there's a piece of fabric that conceals the zipper, but that you can easily move out of the way when it's time to do your dirty work? Well, my flap is sewn in such a way that it doesn't cover anything up at all. It's just kind of there, out of the way, serving no purpose at all.

And I've only noticed this problem with the pants and shorts that I've purchased at the Gap. So shame on you, Gap. And shame on you, Malaysian citizens, for tolerating such indecency.

So if you perchance see a man on the street with his fly seemingly open and an embarrassed look on his face, 1) That's me, and 2) My fly isn't really open (make sure you tell that to all of your friends who start making fun of me).

Let's get something straight.

Good news. I'm going to be an uncle. Yay me. And it's going to be a girl, which is nice I guess, if children are your sort of thing.

Which got me thinking. When my sister told me that she was going to have a baby, she said something to the effect of, "Hey bro, guess what? I'm pregnant!" And then we gushed to each other for the next ten minutes about baby names, gaining weight, odd cravings, and the such like.

But I forgot to tell my sister (her name is Megan) how proud I was that she hadn't committed the egregious sin that so many couples do when they find out that they're going to have a new member added to their family.

I cannot begin to tell you the number of times I have heard men--grown, mature, even muscular men--say something like, "Guess what? We're pregnant!" And then I gush to them about how retarded they just made themselves look by saying something so utterly ridiculous. 

Let's dissect this commonly misused phrase so we can all understand why it is so wrong to use.

 

We:  plural pronoun that refers to more than one person

So by using this term, the man (or sometimes woman) is saying that they are both carrying the fetus in their shared uterus...or something close to that effect. That is an impossible feat, agreed?

are: verb...actually, a linking verb for those grammar junkies out there like me

Really adds no significance to the phrase. Poor verbs...they're so neglected!

pregnant:  an adjective that relates to someone who is with child (usually a woman) 

Females are the only people who can have babies, correct? Men are not females, therefore they cannot become pregnant, no matter how hard they may try.

So now that we're all on the same page, let's review.

Females and males make babies. Females get pregnant. Females carry the babies and get fat by doing so. Men sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. And men are not able to get pregnant, so therefore the phrase, "We're pregnant!" is both physically and emotionally perplexing and should never be used in the company of other humans with ears.

And by the way, am I the only one who thinks that pregnancy pictures are totally gross and unnecessary? Come on lady--I know there's a baby in there somewhere, and I don't need to see your naked belly in order to be convinced. I care about seeing the child after he or she is born, OK?

You know the end is near when . . .

. . . the new season of "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" smashed cable records when it premiered on Monday night. 

I'm feeling a bit nauseous. 

TLC got their highest ratings ever when the train wreck hit airways on Memorial Day. 

I cannot stand the show. I hate it. I loathe it. I hate the very idea that someone would even like it. Why is our country so infatuated with drama? Really, the only reason that it did so well was because everyone was waiting to see if there would be a tearful confession from Jon about whether or not he cheated on Kate, or if the kids would cry anymore than usual, or if Kate would yell any less than usual, etc.

TLC literally makes me want to shoot my television in the face. Given that I'm a guy, yes, but I just don't get the appeal of watching these shows where "real life families" (try to explain that one) live out the bane of their existence in front of our eyes. All of TLC's shows are so overdone and cutesy that the material is, frankly, better suited for Noggin or Cartoon Network. 

I try to look at such shows as educational programming; they (Jon and Kate, 18 Kids and Counting, and the one with the short kids) provide perfect examples on how NOT to live one's life. 

And one more thing. I am sincerely hoping that Jon and Kate have another kid just so the title won't rhyme. Now how cool would that be?

Buy, Strip, Listen.

I'm an old-fashioned guy. I don't have a cell phone (gasp!), nor do I have any need/desire to get one. I read the newspaper most every day (remember what those are? Or were?). And I still pine for the days when the world was a polite and beautiful place to live in, free from electronic clutter and the rudeness that ensues therein.

But perhaps my greatest post-modern downfall comes from my desire to keep the Compact Disc alive and going strong. Call me crazy, but I love going to Barnes & Noble and buying a CD or two, taking them home, inserting them into my CD player (it's a Bose, don't worry), and listening for hours on end.

I've never been able to get into the whole 'online music' ordeal. Like they say, seeing is believing. And I must have a hard copy of that disc in my hand in order to listen contentedly. This sounds quite OCD, I know. And I think it is. 

But a few experiences that I've had recently may force me to give up all faith in CDs. You know where I'm going with this: It's all about that stupid packaging. 

Why, oh why, must they take my Sinatra anthology and give it to some evil machine that takes my CD into its monstrous folds and wraps it up strategically to make sure that no one will be able to open it without first contemplating taking their own life?

   

I guess the evil machine's argument would be that he prevents theft, right? I mean, you wrap that CD up in such an impossible way that no one will be even tempted to steal it. But who are they kidding? People steal CDs because they love music and because they can't afford it. A piece of plastic wrapping is not going to stop anyone from getting their dose of Lady GaGa.

But that wrapping protects the CD, right? Yeah right. It's like .0000043 millimeters thick, and it's clear, and I'm pretty sure that when you drop a CD case on the floor, it will break regardless of its protective surroundings.

I have probably wasted a third of my young life biting, scratching, and gnawing off those wrappings. And then when I finally do get it off, I'm not even halfway there to getting my CD out: The case is taped together.

Again, I just don't get it. One thief-resistant method is not good enough, so we need two? The tape always says something like "Pull Here." Pull what? The tape is so strongly fastened to the CD case that you need the jaws of life to get it off.

So what should we do about this problem?

Solution #1: You can buy one of those cheap $0.99 shenanigans that are supposed to help you get the wrapping off, but will most assuredly break before you even buy the CD of your choice.

Solution #2: Our friend from the wonder that is YouTube teaches us all how to save our lives by . . . what exactly is it that he is doing to that CD case? It's like he's molesting it. And I do not want my CDs to be molested. But I do like his enthusiasm. I haven't yet tried his method, but if he's doing it on YouTube, you can count on it working every single time . . .

Solution #3: Boycott CDs. But please, I beg you, don't. They need us!

Solution #4: Use the jaws of life, and then post a video of yourself on YouTube, instructing us all how to do it. You will be my hero.

Solution #5: Steal CDs. This will get our message of intolerance across to all of those who think that protective wrappings are the key to decreasing the crime rate.

Solution #6: Contemplate taking your own life. Then do it. (But please only use this as a last resort, if at all possible.)

Do you honestly expect me to believe that?

I try to be helpful. I really do. When I see someone who looks kind of forlorn or maybe a bit bedraggled, I offer my help. Maybe I shouldn't be prying into their personal life. But I have good intentions, believe me. That's why I will usually ask someone, "What's the matter?" if they look like they need a bit of encouragement. 

But then I get the usual answer. In fact, I get this answer so often that I'm not even sure why I ask people anymore. "Oh . . . nothing," they nonchalantly (and dejectedly) reply. 

Liars. I hate liars. Obviously, if they're crying and they're sitting by themselves and they look like they just got hit by a taxi, something is wrong. So don't you dare tell me that you're perfectly fine.

I mean, really all I'm asking is for you to say one of two things: 1) "I'd rather not talk about it, Jordan, but thanks for asking." or 2) "You want the truth? Then it's the truth you'll get: I hate my life, all of my friends are like Paris Hiltons at best, and I'm ugly. And I'm chubby as well." 

Oh, for the moment that one person would look me in the face and say those words! But I'm not that lucky of a guy. Most of the people I know hide their problems from me. And I'm completely OK with that. Privacy is a beautiful thing.

But why must you degrade my intelligence by giving me "the look" (you know what I'm talking about) and saying that you're fine? 

Really, I think it comes down to this: People are selfish, and they want you to feel even more sympathy for them than you would normally have for a raped dog. So they drag the suspense out as long as they can. Aren't I clever? they think to themselves as they prolong their misery just to get me feeling sorry for them.

So I'm just not going to take it anymore. And you shouldn't either. I am determined from now on to call down anyone who tries to pull this evil trick on me. And it will be great, because I know they won't be expecting it. Hopefully that glorious moment will play out something like this:

Me: Hey Selfish. What's the matter?

Said Selfish Being: Oh . . . (looks at me with those puppy dog eyes, then turns away and looks to the left) nothing.

Me: Oh please. Just get over yourself. I can't believe you would be so ridiculously stupid as to actually think that I--for one second--might believe that you are perfectly fine. Wait . . . you know, I don't have time for people like you. Just please, start being honest with yourself. And me as well, OK? And then I'll be your friend again once you get your heart right. Bye.

Oh, how I would love to put Said Selfish Being in his or her place! Yes, it would make me look cruel and unusual. Yes, bystanders would immediately start to whisper that the only reason I called Said Selfish Being out was to make myself look better. (You know, something like, He's one of those 'holier than thou' people, and they would all step back in disgust.) And yes, I might even feel horrible for six minutes. But Selfish? He or she would get the message . . . at least I hope so. And maybe--just maybe--he or she would change for the better.

But I doubt it.

You know the end is near when . . .

. . . the sequel to the stage musical phenomenon The Phantom of the Opera is in production. I can't think of too many things that hurt my ears more than listening to anything written by Andrew Lloyd Webber, particularly Phantom. And a sequel? Didn't the phantom die in the first one? Or did I miss some deep, complex twist at the end that still leaves hope for his resurrection? Regardless, I think I'll call upon the master Stephen Sondheim to send Mr. Webber to get a shave from that nice man named Sweeney Todd and rid us all of his overcomplicated music.

Actually, come to think of it, there is maybe one--no wait--two songs of his that I can somewhat handle. There's a nice song from Sunset Boulevard (how dare he even try to duplicate the film) that is bearable, but only because Glenn Close sings it.

And as I scroll through my iPod, I see that Patti LuPone's version of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" is on my Top Rated playlist. That's kind of embarrassing, now that I think about it. 

But really now, let's be frank. Does the man have talent? Of course. Good for him for being able to scrawl down a few notes here and there. But that doesn't make him particularly good at what he does. 

I think I'll stick to Sondheim for my musical fix.

Turn on your freaking blinker!

I admit it. When it comes to driving, I tend to be a little frenetic, especially when I'm by myself. I try to calm down when I'm escorting a passenger or two whose lives are depending on my steering capabilities; but most of the time, you will find me with my windows rolled down, music blaring (iPod hookups for cars are a beautiful thing, true?), and normally in a rush to get to wherever it is that I need to be.

But regardless of my shortcomings in the driving department, there is one thing that I, without fail, will do every time while driving--turn on my blinker/turn signal. It really wouldn't matter if I were on the brink of death or had to pee ever so badly: I would still find the time and/or way to turn on that darn blinker.

Why is this so important to me? First off, I'm about the most self-conscious person ever. And I mean ever. I care so much about what others think about me (driving inabilities aside) that I will do anything to get approval from others. And I mean anything. Too many times I have cringed while sitting in the passenger seat as one of my parents abuses his or her privilege of using the blessing that is the turn signal. Oh my . . . what those people in that car behind us must be thinking of us right now! 

But it's not just that. I also wonder how many people die each year because some idiot (sorry Mom and Dad) refuses to exert .0084 joules of energy by lifting his or her hand 4 inches off the steering wheel to hit a plastic stick that produces a noise and a light just so the person in the automobile behind them doesn't meet his horrible demise. Sigh . . . selfishness really is a terrible thing, is it not?

Another car meets its Maker after falling prey to turn signal misuse

So please--I implore you--do the right thing. Yes, that *clucking* noise is a nuisance. Yes, I'm sure you are wasting gas by turning it on. But the man who invented the turn signal needs you (Oscar J. Simler, bless you!). The person in the coolish jalopy behind you needs you. I need you.

Save a life.

Let's Talk.

I know what everyone says. They say that people who complain are annoying. But doesn't that seem a bit oxymoronic to you? People who say such things obviously do not understand how healthy venting (I don't like to use the word 'complain') can be. Maybe it's those little habits that people have that drive you nuts (nervous laughter, anyone?). Or it could be that you are just sick and tired of the way our society is meeting its apocalypse. Don't worry: You're among friends. 

Each day I'll be giving you your daily ration of things that tick me off, and please feel free to suggest anything that pushes your button by either emailing me or posting a comment. 

So let's get started. Speak your peace.