Daniel Boone

Dr. Mann on big butts
By Dr. Mann

Q: I know guys don’t have much fashion sense, but why can’t my man answer a simple question like “How does my butt look in these jeans?”

Booty in Bamboo

Dr. Mann: Rest assured your man has plenty of opinions about how your derriere looks, many of them not suitable for this fine family publication.

However, Dr. Mann also knows there are only two questions that send a chill deep into the soul of any man. This is one. The other is “Can we talk?”

However, “Can we talk?” can be answered with a simple yes or no, or more often by the “Sure, but it will have to be later, because your mother is coming for dinner next week and I told the boss I’d have this report done by Thursday and I’m thinking of enlisting in the Peace Corps. Get back with me in three years.”

Answering the question about the state of the honey buns is a sticky situation that requires even more creativity. If the relationship is measured in years instead of hours, then he has probably seen a younger, firmer, more freshly baked version of the delicacy in question. He can’t admit that it was ever less than delightful, and that it grows more yum with each extra ounce.

So he will inevitably go for a bait-and-switch technique, hoping to avoid the issue. “I am interested in Plato’s theory that Atlantis was the seat of all human intelligence as delivered upon our ancestors by alien visitors,” he will say.
To which, of course, you will respond, “Sure, but does this mean you think my buttocks are like two Volkswagen Beetles trying to pass on a one-lane road?”

The wise man will insist that size doesn’t matter, just as women have been conditioning themselves to believe that same lie for hundreds of years, or at least since the advent of easily available video evidence sold in adult bookstores. “All that matters to me is the size of your heart,” he will say.

“This means you think my butt looks like a dozen rats fighting in a wet paper sack,” you will moan in dismay.

Equally dismayed, he tilts the conversation to a different part of the sentence. “Where did you buy those jeans, anyway? Were they on sale?” Such a lame and desperate attempt to argue over money will be so transparent that even an angry woman will be able to see through it.

“I’m a hideous cow,” you will say, probably on the verge of tears. “It’s all your fault for selling my Bowflex at that yard sale.”

The man recalls that the Bowflex sat in the basement for three years gathering dust, and he also suddenly and conveniently remembers you sold his collection of limited-edition Slim Whitman records for a buck. He tries to turn this issue into an argument, again seeking to shift attention from fleshly matters to the material world.

“Slim,” you will wail. “That should have been a clue. You’ll never love me for what I am.”

Without doubt, at this moment he will have no idea what you are. He is tempted to storm from the room in a gloomy huff, but you block the doorway with your new pair of jeans.

“So you think my butt is two gallons of potato soup in a party balloon,” you say.
All avenues exhausted, your man will try for obvious flattery, because naturally you would settle for nothing less in a relationship than a true gentleman, and the only difference between gentlemen and jerks is in their ability to lie. “Better by the second,” he will say.

He means it. You don’t believe him, but you are a lady, and ladies respond, “That’s sweet, honey.”

Your gentleman should then reach out to make sure the dough is warm and rising. If he doesn’t, you have Dr. Mann’s permission to sit on him.

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