Tim Allen - Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

Women take forever in the bathroom, but they're putting on their makeup. Men can spend all day in the bathroom reading a gun magazine. I read feminist authors, just in case you wondered.

The prison bathroom was pretty damn nice. And convenient. The toilet was right next to the bed. A little stainless‑steel affair, but powerful. There was none of this "God, I hope that thing disappears." It would suck a blanket down. If you weren't careful, it would suck the air out of the room. We used to start small fires nearby and see if we could put them out just by flushing.

The perfect men's bathroom would be all white tile and the smell of Pine‑Sol. There'd be a magazine rack, a window, a stereo system, color TV, and a refrigerator-all of which you could reach without standing up.

And a floor drain.

- -

Women may have green thumbs, but men have traditionally taken care of large plots of land. We had to till the soil and make it do something. Women did the cooking, but men had to feed the family. We evolved from hunters and killers to managing the land. And there's still a little farmer left in every man.

These days we just have to keep the grass short. A real man doesn't hire a gardener, he cuts his own. This takes us to another men's zone: the garden‑supply store. That's where you can purchase a tractor mower so big you have to get it smog‑tested every two years. That's where you learn to pronounce Briggs & Stratton, mulching blades, vermiculite, John Deere.

All my life I'd dreamed of a John Deere tractor, so I bought a big sucker. They accessorize nicely, too. A $94 option was headlights. Had to have them in case I wanted to mow at night. Hubcaps cost $230. I didn't even have to think about it. I didn't think my wife would think about it either.

I was wrong. Women always notice the accessories.

"You put hubcaps on the tractor!"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know, aerodynamics or something."

The truth is that men have few ways to accessorize their lives. We accessorize steering wheels and seat covers in our cars, but that's about it. Women have department stores full of accessories to wander through like Moses in the desert. The volume of accessories available to women is measured in cubic light years. And yet, all a woman needs is new earrings for a whole new look. Same fat head. Same mole on her cheek. But suddenly it's a new look. Men are happy with a new mud guard for the lawn tractor.

The problem is that I don't get to use my tractor too much. Back East people have lawns. At my West Coast house, I don't have a lawn. It's more like a salad. I had a salad once at the Palm Restaurant. I think it cost $400. It looked like my lawn clippings: dandelions, flowers, and grubs.

Back East-where the tractor is-I've got an acre and a half. I grow corn out of my backroom. But I'm not there much. So my stepfather, a retired guy, takes care of my lawn when I'm not around. One day I caught him putting up little statues on the lawn and mumbling under his breath. Turns out he was saying crabgrass prayers. Sexually transmitted diseases are easier to deal with than a crabgrass problem.

The only solution to this socially embarrassing situation was to take care of it right, and right away. I hired a lawn service. A big truck pulled up the next day and started spraying stuff on my grass: Chem Grow or Chem Kill, maybe. It could have been iced tea for all I knew. They assured me it was environmentally sound. That's why I didn't understand how come every time I looked out the window there was a different guy spraying it? And why was he wearing the full radioactive suit with the little visor?

"What happened to the last guy?"

"Died. But don't worry. This stuff is safe!"

"Is that why my dog's new puppies all have twelve legs?"

"Have you checked the water softener?"

But I didn't care. At least the grass grew. It grew so fast it blew the motor out of my John Deere. Suddenly, I had a John Deere lawn chair.

- -

Downstairs at Sears is a man's home. Craftsman tools are to a man what fine jewelry is to a woman. When I reach the bottom of the escalator and gaze out on those acres of implements, my nipples get rock hard. It's so bright and shiny I have to wear sunglasses in the basement.

Men don't need a reason to buy tools. As long as there's an empty spot on the pegboard, we just have to have them.

There are tools in the Sears basement I've never heard of. What, for instance, is a conduit bender? Oddly enough, it bends conduits.

"No, I don't need a dictionary, I'll just take it."

My Mom said the only reason men are alive is to go to a hardware store or a Sears. I love Sears. I grew up near a Sears. There's a Sears in every town. However, avoid the upstairs at Sears. That's where they have Sears fashion-clearly an oxymoron. Whoever makes their tools evidently also makes their clothes. I make sure my wife buys her fashions at K‑Mart.

When I was a kid my mom would punish us by making us go to Sears for dress slacks.

"You've lit your sister on fire for the last time."

"Noooo! I'd rather flatten my balls with a ball peen hammer!"

I never wanted those tough‑skin, ugly, double‑kneed pants. You could drag behind a bulldozer for six miles on a gravel road on your knees, and it would feel as cool and refreshing as water‑skiing. I think they should make postal employees wear Sears fashion as their uniforms.

It could stop bullets, no problem.

- -

Bob Vila once came to my house in Michigan, half crocked out of his mind just kidding, Bob. We did a project together for his show. I was building a new garage and a family room. His crew wanted to do a run‑through, but Bob knew me well enough and said, "Nah." Then we just walked around the project, and he asked, "What are you doing here and here?" I instinctively faked it. That is, I did it just the way he would.

"Well, Bob, what we've done here is we've poured our foundation."

He kept trying to throw me off with these big words. "You're using double‑ought blah‑blah‑blah."

I said, "No, we're not. We're using triple." Everything he said I upped it. "How are you heating the place?"

"We're using a coat of low‑level uranium six inches underneath the floor. The natural breakdown of reactive materials causes heat."

"Is that a danger to your family?" he asked, with a straight face.

I said, "It's an unseen danger. You don't see it, therefore it doesn't exist. Maybe generations from now we'll look like frogs, but now we heat our house for almost five thousand years penny‑free."

Then he said, "Wait. There's no basement here."

"You noticed. Actually we built the basement off site," I explained. "We will finish the basement, then lift the entire house and set the basement underneath. I find that cheaper."

This went on for about an hour. As we were talking, my crew finished doing the floor, and then, on nobody's cue, Bob walked right through the wet concrete.

Never trust a TV professional.

- -

Sports are considered by many to be a men's zone. Okay. Fine. But I can't talk about them here. Men and sports are so big it would take seventeen volumes. Also, many guys are so into sports they know statistics about statistics. The only thing I can quote chapter and verse is the Mustang repair manual. I don't even know enough about sports to try and bullshit you.

The only thing I wonder about is the women in the men's locker room thing. What's that all about? Ever see men clamoring to get in the women's locker room? They respect women's privacy in the locker room, unlike some women color commentators who made it a point to go into the men's locker room. Men just wouldn't do that. I just don't think male sportscasters really want to get into the women's locker room to interview naked six‑foot‑five female basketball players.