by CLINT YOUNTS
Guys, if you happen to read this paper before your wife gets ahold of it, you may want to cut this column out and hide it from her. If she asks what happened to page 3, just say there was a coupon for an oil change or butt salve. What I’m fixin’ to write about might just get all our wives madder than a hornet in a spider web, but as a vigilant sentinel of sensibility, I felt it was my civic duty to warn fellow American men of a scourge that has invaded our country.
I have yet to identify the origin of this new epidemic that has spread through our nation like an oil stain beneath an ’88 Buick, but I suspect Oprah had something to do with it. Not since Typhoid Mary have we had such a plague invading our homeland, infecting women and girls and an occasional castrated male, creating mayhem and outright insanity in our households. I’m not talking about some nasty virus or creepy fungus. I’m warning you men about something that is so frightening that I am scared for my life. Out there, lurking in the worldwide web is something that causes once-sane womenfolk to turn into crazed, mouse-clicking maniacs. This unleashed evil, spawned by the Sisters of Satan, is called Pinterest.
Some of you innocent, newly incarcerated husbands may not be savvy to this Pinterest website. Let me tell you how something that at first appears so harmless can turn your house and stomach upside-down. The site has billions of postings from wicked women across the world. These creative ladies of leisure post pictures of all sorts of arts and craps, hoping other women will use their ideas to redecorate their living rooms and boudoirs. Oh, some of you naïve lads out there might say you see nothing wrong with this concept of women sharing artsy-fartsy designs among their Pinterest pals, but let me warn you. Your castle is under siege, and your man cave is slowly evolving into Barbie’s Dream House.
I was slow to detect the change in my home. I can detect a missing staple from my barbed wire fence at 100 paces, but once I enter my house, I develop tunnel vision. I can clearly see every square inch of my HD television, and I can easily spot a solitary beer in a fridge crammed with Tupperware and diet sodas, but subtle changes to the bookshelf or chest of drawers escape my scrutiny. Maw knows this, and I suspect other wives are also aware of this male trait. If not, some Mata Hari will post her discovery on Pinterest and soon, every wife in America will know.
How does a man know if his wife is inflicted with the Pinterest Plague? Well, grab a beer and I’ll tell ya! The first sign of this malady is finding your loving wife at the computer at all hours of the day and night, staring at tiny photos of another woman’s crafty creations. Like men in front of a TV during a Longhorns game, your wife won’t acknowledge your voice or grumbling stomach. She is mesmerized by pictures of room decorations and alien food preparations. I often have to toss cold water on Maw and pull her away from the computer with a block and tackle just to get five minutes of Yahoo News.
Then one day, your wife will say, “I think I’ll paint this room”, and you, like most husbands, will reply, “Go ahead, but don’t drip on my Magnavox.” You may not even notice a color change in the walls the next day, but every living creature with a uterus will go gaga after seeing the paint job. “Ooh, I simply adore this color!” Dang it, woman, it’s called “brown,” and move! You’re blocking the TV.
Soon you will notice stuff has mysteriously appeared where some of your things used to be. Once during an injury timeout, I discovered that my stuffed armadillo on the mantle had been replaced by a glass bowl of old croquet balls. What the heck? And the classic Renoir painting of Dogs Playing Poker is no longer hanging askew over the TV. Now there are shelves with weird stuff and pictures of people I don’t even know. Maw calls these items bric-a-brac and tchotchkes. I call them crapola.
Now who out there has never dreamed of turning your kid’s room into your man cave once she moves out? Well, thanks to Pinterest, you can grab that dream, crumple it up and bury it next to your dream car that was crushed when you climbed behind the wheel of your first minivan. Instead of a couple of leather recliners, a mini-fridge and a 50” TV sitting on AstroTurf carpet, you have furniture from Ikea, a bed with dozens of throw pillows and more shelves with trinkets and knickknacks. I call them crapola. My man cave is currently sharing a roof with a Ford tractor and broken lawnmower.
Are you scared yet? Just wait. It gets worse! Not only do these web-witches post pictures of stuff they created with Elmer’s glue and trash from the dumpster outside a Goodwill store, but they also will post recipes and photos of cookery and delicious dishes. This could’ve been a positive thing if done right, like providing women with new ways to chicken-fry meat or how to make tastier gravy for their lumpy mashed potatoes, but no! These Pinterest pals are sharing recipes that include protein sources from outside the animal kingdom. The culinary delights are prepared with foodstuff like tofu, quinoa and couscous. I don’t know what couscous is, but I suspects it looks and tastes like something a Japanese dairyman steps in out by the barn.
I just visited Pinterest and did a search for some good vittles. There was not a single recipe that included possum or squirrel. All I saw were pictures of a gastronomic gag-fest. Most of the dishes I saw weren’t fit to feed to rabid dogs. The womenfolk might consider these dishes as exquisite cuisine. I call them crapola.
Ok, guys, you have been warned. For some of you, I’m afraid my advisory arrived too late. You too are sitting in a recently remodeled room with walls painted some color you’ll never find in a big Crayola box, sitting on some paisley armchair. You scan the room, seeing ugly paintings framed with wood from some old pallet. You stare at a glass bowl with croquet balls and wonder where yours are. You dream of climbing in a Corvette and driving to Montana, where you heard there’s a group of escaped husbands living in a log cabin, watching football and washing down barbecued ribs with a cold beer. Then, all of a sudden, like a balloon that floated into a prickly pear patch, your dream ends at the sound of your wife saying, “If we had a smaller TV, I could put an extra shelf on that wall.” I wonder if some Mayan had a premonition about Pinterest?
