Welcome to Basic Training.

As much as I enjoy getting hate mail and death threats—I'm currently keeping a canister of Planters on my body at all times for protection—I didn’t get a ton of pleasure from reading countless stories of horrific Emergency Room visits from parents who read my latest incoherent diatribe, "Your Peanut-Allergic Kid is a Little Goddamn Sissy (By a Manly Man Allergic to Pollen and Cats)."

Some of those visits proved fatal. Have you ever compounded the grief of someone whose toddler died from anaphylactic shock? It doesn’t feel particularly awesome!

Also a shock: my tear ducts are capable of producing liquid.

I've searched the grimy labyrinth of my soul—who knew I had one?—and decided to restore my karma, so I don't wind up like the last guy who mocked peanut allergies and then had a peanut-allergic baby. How am I going to do this?

Easy: by teaching these kids how to deal with insensitive pricks like me.

1. Become a Smartass

There are two types of bullying: physical violence (we'll get to that in a minute) and verbal teasing, which a quarter of peanut-allergic kids receive. Bullies aren't the most clever wordsmiths—usually their vocabulary is limited to "retard" and various homophobic slurs—but they're mindlessly persistent. For example:

Bully: "Hey, shithead. Why do you smell like shit, shithead?"

You: "Please don't call me shithead."

Bully: "Whatever you say, shithead."

This is a losing strategy. You can't ask for mercy; bullies don't understand the concept. And I know from experience: back in elementary school, the bigger kids called me "Marty Farty" every day. (Also, since Back to the Future reigned supreme at the box office in the '80s, I was asked "you chicken, McFly?" ad nauseam.)

Last Halloween, owning my childhood trauma.
(I am also farting.)

Instead of accepting the bullies' sadistic taunts, I learned that wisecracks were the best defense mechanism. You have to fight fire with fire; it's psych 101 that bullies tease others because they feel insecure themselves (*cough*). And luckily they have an Achilles' heel: traveling in packs.

Like wolves, only more bloodthirsty.

You see, bullies prefer to stick together, because making fun of someone is boring unless other people laugh. But if you can make the Beta Bullies laugh at the Alpha Bully with a better insult than he can muster, you win.

Alpha Bully: "Hey, shithead. Why do you smell like shit, shithead?"

You: "Because your mom forgot to clean her ass today."

Beta Bullies: "Ha! Ha! You suck at bullying, Alpha Bully."

Alpha Bully: [spontaneously combusts]

2. Learn Karate (Or Better Yet, Ninjutsu)

It's so adorable when you rip a bully's pancreas out.

You've delivered your wisecrack zinger. One of two things will now happen: the Alpha Bully (who didn't really combust) will either leave the scene with his tail behind his legs, humiliated in front of the Beta Bullies, or—desperate to regain dominance—will assault you. The choice: fight or flee?

Here's the thing: if you flee, you'll just have to flee another day, and another, and another.

"The line must be drawn here! This far, no further!"

The problem with today's parents is they believe self-defense is always wrong, because hitting is hitting is hitting. This is complete bullshit. An unprovoked attack is always wrong—for example, the Iraq war—but the world is a dangerous place and you have to make a stand when threatened, preferably with a roundhouse kick to the spleen.

One of the most glorious moments of my childhood came when a bully took a swing at me on the playground. Thanks to years of karate lessons (fun factoid: I made purple belt, but wasn't promoted to brown because I was too violent), I instinctively grabbed his arm, placed my leg in front of his, and—even though I was a runt—used his own momentum to fling him over my shoulder. He crashed to the gravel, utterly defeated, and the other kids cheered for my act of bravery.

My bully never messed with me again, and—if you use your martial arts skills as a last resort—neither will yours.

3. Don't Let Them Get Under Your Skin

This is difficult to do when a bully is wagging peanut butter in your face, which happens to a third of peanut-allergic kids, and is why they should learn karate/ninjutsu (see above). But ultimately the only power that bullies have is the power you give them.

Bullies are like electronic devices.

Schools can and should educate children about peanut allergies if a classmate is affected, because society has a duty to protect its most vulnerable members. Unfortunately, kids have always been cruel little monsters to one another. Some of them pick on their peers for any perceived weakness—whether it's health-related, height-related, weight-related, or for no reason at all—and at some point you just have to ignore them.

The first parent who contacted me after publication of my article had a strange request: he wanted me to explain to his peanut-allergic son over the phone why I wrote it, because "I refuse to shelter him from the world, both the ugly and the beautiful."

I declined the invitation—a bunch of adults didn't understand that it was dark comedy, so how would a nine-year-old?—because I assumed it would ruin the kid's self-esteem forever. (Just like how many of the outraged parents assumed that my sarcastic ramblings would endanger their children.) And believe it or not, I want to make people laugh, not cry.

This is the email I received back:

"Thanks for the reply Marty, and understand the pass. As for my son, he has read it — and simply replied 'what a dick.' But again I know he will always run in to these types of things and he sure as hell better learn to brush the dust off his shoulders."

That kid isn't a little goddamn sissy. That kid is my goddamn hero.

I ate a lot of lunches when I was a child. Most of them looked like this, and were incredible:

Not Goober. Never Goober.

My mother packed each lunch in a brown paper bag, along with apple slices and a Kudos bar—Snickers-flavored, the best Kudos—because she loved me. And because I deserved a chocolaty, peanut-y dessert at noon.

But today's mothers can't feed PB&J sandwiches to their kids, because the schools want to make cafeterias an even shittier place to eat. Why would administrators deprive children of such happy memories? Why would society allow its youth to suffer through a joyless, PB&J-less existence?

Because your peanut-allergic kid is a little goddamn sissy, that's why. (My allergies to pollen and cats are completely different. No man wants a flower or a kitten, but every man wants a peanut.)

In the 1990s, only 0.4% of children had reactions to peanuts, except for the reaction "mmmmmmmmm, peanuts, I LOVE THEM." Now it's 1.5%, an enormous increase. By the time you finish reading this sentence, it'll probably be half. And by the time you finish this sentence, peanuts will be criminalized in all fifty states.

Welcome to your peanut-free dystopian future, Amerikkkkkkkka.
(We should criminalize flowers and kittens instead.)

Doctors blame overuse of antibiotics for the allergy spike, but I blame technology. (And not just genetically modified crops.) Kids today spend all their time playing video games, watching TV, text messaging, surfing the web, and murdering their parents in Satanic rituals instead of going outside to dig peanuts out of the ground and eat them.

(Eat the peanuts, I mean, not the parents during those Satanic rituals.)

America was once a nation of proud farmers and burly outdoorsmen. Three of our presidents grew and cultivated peanuts: Thomas Jefferson, Jimmy Carter, and even our first commander-in-chief, George Washington Carver.

The Father of Our Country.
Can we ever forgive him for owning slaves?

Now we're a nation of oversensitive babies who can't eat legumes without our esophaguses closing. (Completely different from the time I couldn't breathe due to pollen, which was super manly, until a peanut-allergic family member gave me a fistful of antihistamines that he always carries.)

Instead of the pursuit of happiness, we have a surplus of sensitivity. Look, I'm not defending the bullies who torment your son on the playground. But you're teaching him to hide from his problems instead of confront them, just like you won't teach him to punch those bullies directly in the trachea.

As a matter of fact, scientists believe that micro-doses of peanuts are the cure for peanut allergies (note to idiots: don't try administering this to anyone yourself, unless you want to go to jail for manslaughter), because—like with chicken pox or chugging antifreeze—exposure leads to immunity. After years of treatment, allergic children might tolerate a dozen peanuts. Which is still less than ideal, granted, but they have to start somewhere.

Charles M. Schulz, creator of Charlie Brown, titled his comic Peanuts, not Almonds or Cashews or Macadamias, for a reason. Because peanuts are fantastic whether you're a youngster at the circus or an adult at the bar. They're fantastic whether you prefer Skippy or Jif or Peter Pan or (if you're a hippy who buys anything loaded with Omega-3s) Smart Balance. They're fantastic whether in cookies or cereals, Butterfingers or brittle.

So what if the scent of peanut M&Ms can kill? You're lucky to have smelled peanut M&Ms before you die; I can't imagine a more calming aroma. (The plain ones have no crunch unless you refrigerate them, and then they melt in your hand instead of your face. Yeah, yeah, the pretzel ones are crunchy and delicious, but do you honestly believe those limited edition treats will stick around forever? If so, you are a bigger fool than I thought.) Who wants to live without peanut M&Ms anyway?

Dear God: please don't punish me for this absurd rant by making my future kids allergic to peanuts.
More importantly, please don't make them redheads.
(And can you smite all the kittens?)

Before sending hate mail, read the follow-up: "How to Defeat Your Bully: The Art of War for Peanut-Allergic Kids"

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“This photographer has zero talent,” I told my fiancée as we examined the sample wedding album. “I could take better photos with an iPhone jammed up my rectum.”

OK, I’ll admit it: I have become a groomzilla, the increasingly common (and dreaded) masculine version of a micromanaging bride. Oh, I don’t care about the flowers and table linens; I have no requirements of the cake beyond chocolate of some kind. But I’m an equal partner in our wedding day, much like 80 percent of other modern grooms, if Bridal Guide magazine is to be believed. And as the date swiftly approaches, I’m starting to melt down.

“What do you want for dinner tonight, honey?” my fiancée asked earlier today.

“DINNER?” I howled through my teeth-bleaching Crest Whitestrips. “Protein powder, just like we had for breakfast.”

Hey, I just want to look good on the most photographed day of my life. I’m in the best physical health since college — thanks to daily cardio/resistance/starvation — and the worst mental health.

Read the full article at Salon.com

"Wow, I can't believe it's been 10 years since Dick Cheney orchestrated 9/11! Where does time go?" —conspiracy theorists

Last night I walked the streets of Manhattan, ruminating over this godforsaken bloody decade. (Felt kinda out of place with all the drunken horny people stumbling out of various clubs, but who can blame them?)

I was in D.C. for September 11th, the poisoned letters, the beltway sniper, and a bomb threat against my college dormitory. The threat was called in right after 9/11. We had to evacuate campus for half a day, when campus had just felt like our oasis of safety in a capital under attack. I don't know whether the person was ever caught, whether he was a nutcase or an idiot frat boy, but it became clear: freshman year would not be carefree. Dread was the new normal. We had been robbed of our youth. Not many deep sleepers at American University that night. Some of them would later contract anthrax symptoms from handling USPS mail.

A classmate had one parent who worked at the WTC and another at the Pentagon.

During the sniper attack spree a white van, which police thought the killer drove at the time, followed me for five quiet suburban blocks. My pace grew brisker and brisker as I zigged and zagged; I assumed I was in the cross-hairs, assumed I had seconds to live, assumed I wouldn't get to see graduation. And then it drove away. I had been afraid over nothing. Panic and paranoia. And yet it felt so real, that death was stalking me, that death was stalking us all. At random.

Columbine had been the worst thing imaginable to us. Now Columbine was everywhere.

Panic and paranoia became the national conversation, became the foreign policy, became the consensus reality. It wasn't long before the calls for revenge started. Against who? Nobody knew. But we wanted it, and the politicians took infinite advantage. A decade later you want to remember the tragedy of the day outside the context of what came later: the Iraq disaster, the torture, the witch hunts, the propaganda network, the religious fervor. You want to but you can't.

(We've already had nine anniversaries; ten is just a number to which we ascribe meaning. Why are multiples of five extra somber?)

I can almost remember how scared I was, as an 18-year-old kid, but I can't let myself remember my fear 100% because then I'd remember how easily it turned to blind fury, how easily it was exploited for power and profit. It's easier to joke about those years now—the earnest siege mentality, the WMD-preventing duct tape on windows in perfectly safe rural towns—than revisit the genuine emotions, because you learn to either laugh darkly or shit yourself. And who wants to wear adult diapers forever?

Nevertheless I'll try to think about the day itself, before we absorbed the shock, before it was politicized, before it was made a rhetorical cudgel, before it tore us apart, before America stopped being America. Before we said "9/11." Before we knew the meaning of it.

Facebook is great for reconnecting with people from your past, and shuddering at how fat they’ve become. (Until you remember how fat you’ve become.) But here’s the irony: you’re so in touch with everyone that you’re in touch with no one.

With all those mundane updates from your friends—their shopping purchases, restaurant check-ins, Netflix reviews, relationship statuses, and awful political rants—why bother interacting with them? What is there to talk about, except what they’ve already posted on Facebook?

Look, we’re the final generation that will remember the world before the Internet eliminated the concept of distance. Your buddies and family members are available 24/7 on Skype and Gchat, right there on your screen, never out of digital reach. When you’re at work, you’re comforted by their simultaneous procrastination; when you have insomnia at some godforsaken hour, you’re comforted by their mutual lack of sleep, assuming they haven’t gone idle. Even if you don’t ping them for a quick convo, you could, and that’s what matters. So you feel connected, tethered. Their avatars are reassuring 48×48-pixel beacons of comfort as you stare into the unfathomable abyss of your disembodied electronic existence.

But do you actually know these people anymore? When is the last time you talked with them? Really talked? About life, the universe, and everything? Not just via instant messages and 140-character @replies and depraved sexting?

Even though we know every detail of our friends’ lives now, thanks to the “like” button and Foursquare, we know less about them. We have smartphones, but not smart phone conversations. It’s downright offensive to call people, because you’re wasting precious time they could use to play on the Internet. So here’s a much-needed primer for how to talk with the ones closest to you:

1. Dial Their Number

Actually, just click on their name, because the only phone numbers you remember anymore are your parents’ and 911, neither of which you should call unless there is an emergency.

2. Say “Hello”

They will probably ask why you are calling, because it is such an uncommon gesture, typically reserved for when you’ve been arrested or someone has died. (Tumblr is more appropriate for death notices anyway.) Assure them everything is fine; you’d just like to “catch up,” which is something that people used to do, much like treating disease with leeches and sacrificing children to pagan deities.

3. Ask About Their Lives

This part of the conversation will be tricky. You already know what they had for breakfast that morning, and they know you know what they had for breakfast that morning. (Don’t play coy, or you’ll insult your friend by appearing to not read his or her vital updates about breakfast.) Expect to hear “So, uh, what’s up with you?” countless times during the next few awkward minutes, and then: “Oh yeah, I guess I already asked that.”

4. Tell Them About Your Life

But omit the depressing part about how you feel alienated from everyone you’ve ever cared about; it’s just going to creep them out further.

5. Recognize When the Conversation Is Winding Down

You don’t want to extend a call beyond its natural endpoint, or else your bored/irritated friend will never answer the phone again. (And you might actually be in jail then.) The laughs will begin to get smaller, the gossip will begin to get less salacious and damning. Find a graceful exit—you have to meet someone for dinner, or your battery is low, or your bladder is about to rupture—and then say, “It’s been great chatting, talk soon!”

Except you won’t.

This is Charlie Sheen’s world. We’re just living in it.

Go check your Facebook or Twitter feed. Everyone is linking to stories about him, quoting his diatribes, and either celebrating or condemning him. It’s most likely split by gender: ladies deriding Sheen as a “pig” and “asshole,” guys praising him (correctly) as the most hilarious person on earth. He’s instantly become a hero to millions of educated, courteous young males who would never emulate his antics — nor watch Two and a Half Men, for that matter — yet admire him with irony and sincerity.

Sheen’s appeal isn’t exclusively the wild hedonism; no one particularly envies the barhopping mental invalids of Jersey Shore. Nor is it the crazy hyperbolic quotes; Charles Manson had plenty of those, and only sociopaths want to live vicariously through him. (To be fair, both Charlies express identical mannerisms during TV interviews.)

His appeal is that, while most guys — especially post-college — must reign in their ids and demure to society’s expectations to advance rung by rung up the soul-crushing ladder of corporate mediocrity, Sheen has reached the ultimate apex of manhood eternal: doing whatever he wants and speaking the complete truth, consequences be damned. (Even if the complete truth, as he perceives it, is “I got tiger blood,” “I have a 10,000-year-old brain,” and “I’m an F-18, bro.”)

Yes, he’s a self-styled decadent rock star on par with Keith Richards, and it’s always fun to giggle at an addict. But something deeper is going on; he’s clearly an intelligent man with vivid self-awareness and greater discipline than most of us can muster. Sheen isn’t cool because he did a bunch of drugs over twenty years; he’s cool because he did a bunch of drugs over twenty years, stopped cold turkey to make money — to prove a point — and then refused to apologize, to define himself as a slave, to honor the typical recovery narrative. He blasted Alcoholics Anonymous as a “cult” for convincing its adherents of their own powerlessness; he proclaimed that his decades-long bender was “radical” and “magic.” In a world that wants men to apologize for simply existing, Charlie Sheen is a man with zero regrets.

Is it unfair that Sheen is perceived as a badass (kind of) role model — a Henry Miller, a Charles Bukowski — while Lindsay Lohan, like Courtney Love and Zelda Fitzgerald before her, is perceived as a pathetic, mentally ill train wreck? Is this a sexist double standard? Perhaps, but Sheen controls his appetites, not the other way around. He shows up to work, despite insulting his boss as a “contaminated little maggot” and demanding a fifty-percent raise to his ludicrously exorbitant salary. He is master of his domain, indulging in anarchic chaos yet exercising Olympian self-control if he so desires. He doesn’t take shit from anyone and laughs his way to the bank. This is why we love him the way we love famous outlaws from Billy the Kid to the Catch Me if You Can impostor. Neither of whom got away with it, actually, but still.

Whereas Robert Downey. Jr. resuscitated and redefined his career by cleaning up to portray Iron Man, Charlie Sheen became the real-life Tony Stark. Whereas Johnny Depp depicted Jack Sparrow for the Walt Disney Company, Charlie Sheen is a real-life swashbuckler for the hell of it. Like Downey and Depp, Sheen is a great actor, or at least used to be; Wall Street and Platoon were great films, and perhaps he would’ve earned an Academy Award if he had played by the rules, had honed his craft to perfection instead of living his life to extremes. Now his talent is squandered on a middle-of-the-road sitcom for middle America. And yet, he has become something greater than a potential Oscar winner, something greater than a lucrative sitcom star, something greater than himself.

Charlie Sheen is no longer a mere thespian, nor a mere playboy; he has become a modern icon of unfiltered, untrammeled masculinity, an embodiment of Nietzsche’s Übermensch who no longer needs the Hollywood hype machine; he has achieved orbit. His publicist refuses to work with him anymore, yet Sheen is booked on every major media outlet in the country. He is the prime topic of American conversation, not for his crimes, not for his work, but simply for being Charlie Sheen. Not like the fame matters to him beyond the godlike amusement of generating spectacle, because he is the essential self-contained man.

He no longer needs the Hollywood hype machine; he’s taking his message, whatever it is, directly to the people. Within a couple hours of joining Twitter on Tuesday, Sheen had over 200,000 followers eagerly awaiting his first tweet with baited breath. It was the online controversy of the day. (All that anticipation and speculation for… for… a photo of him with chocolate milk?!) Call him a maniac, call him a mess, but also call him a consummate showman. You couldn’t pay for entertainment this good, because we’re part of the act. Charlie Sheen wouldn’t be “winning” without us watching.

This doesn’t make Charlie Sheen a good person in the Christian sense — he’s obviously a deranged, self-destructive narcissist — but Christ, he makes deranged narcissistic self-destruction look fun. Yes, yes, he needs major psychological help and is probably going to kill himself sooner rather than later. And his alleged violent streak toward women is genuinely troubling, not admirable whatsoever. But every honest man on earth would nevertheless trade places with him in a (chemically accelerated) heartbeat. And he knows it. “Sure, I did a lot of things in excess,” Sheen told Playboy in 2001. “But … who the f*ck wouldn’t? What red-blooded young American male in my position wouldn’t?”

This is not because we all want to overdose on narcotics, terrorize hookers in an obliterated hotel room, and sleep with ten women per night. (Okay, we all want that last one.) It’s because we want to bend reality to any form we desire, like Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great or Thomas Jefferson, which Charlie Sheen has manged to do through sheer nihilism. “I was still, in my mind, above the law, a functional, socially acceptable maniac,” Sheen said a decade ago. “F*ck you and your AA. Give me some Valium.”

In our daily lives, we feel incredible pressure to deny our selfish drives, to moderate our controversial opinions, and to base our choices upon the feelings and reactions of others. These good manners allow society to persist, allow us to coexist with one another, yet force individuals to disappear within themselves, to disappear within each other, to be forgotten by the Sands of Time. The man who can discard these civilized hindrances, however, and unleash his pure id — despite the risks to life, limb, and dignity — becomes a legend. And that’s how you conquer death, which is the manliest accomplishment of all.

Take it from Charlie Sheen: “Dying is for fools. Dying is for amateurs.”

I've spent evenings with male strippers and female hookers for the sake of journalism, but these platonic misadventures were lackluster compared to the day I spent on an L.A. porno set, observing the workplace's daily grind.

I was too cheap to rent a car, so a friend courteously drove me to the unmarked warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. (He's gay, and thus wouldn't normally care about watching hetero porn, but luckily he'll try anything once.)

The producers, whom I promised anonymity, requested that I deliver a Summer's Eve Douche box to the starlet of today's cinematic endeavor. "She already took the enema," explained one of the pornographers helpfully.

They gave me a tour of the massive studio, which housed numerous sets: a bedroom, a bathroom, a dorm room, an executive office, etc. An enormous naked dude strode across one of the sets, getting himself ready for action. Apparently even fluffer jobs have taken a hit in these tough economic times.

While every red-blooded American man would leap at the opportunity to work in porn, the vast majority of us are unqualified. "You have to be able to get hard on cue," said one of the producers. "You have to be able to fuck for hours." Most first-timers, full of macho arrogance, are embarrassed to realize they can't perform in the presence of onlookers, or can't last two minutes with a woman attractive enough for the industry.

Soon a naked actress sashayed over to meet the masturbating actor. They quickly introduced themselves to each other, and seconds later commenced copulation. Witnessing the scene unfold is a vastly different experience than watching the final product on a screen; it's mesmerizing instead of arousing, surreal instead of sensual, jaw-dropping instead of pants-dropping. You're unable to believe what's transpiring a meter in front of your eyes -- I should've worn a poncho like the audience members at a Gallagher concert -- but you're also unable to avert your eyes.

"Beautiful, just beautiful penetration," the director said, impulsively choreographing the positions: "mish" for missionary, "cow" for cowgirl, and "scissors" for... uh... scissors. The actress wailed and moaned with seeming pleasure while on camera, yet between shots -- with the dude still inside her -- maintained a neutral, businesslike expression. A true thespian.

After thirty enthralling minutes, which became 45 and then 60 (considerably less enthralling) minutes, I had an unlikely epiphany. "I never expected to say this," I told my friend as the actress gurgled on the actor's manhood, freshly withdrawn from her rectum, "but this is boring."

"You feel that way too?" My friend laughed. "I thought it was just because I'm gay!"

You can only watch two people get it on for so long before it grows tedious. And unsavory. For example, the producers shared that menstruation is no excuse for skipping work; actresses insert a makeup sponge to hide the blood. (Good luck masturbating ever again!) In slightly less disgusting news, the talent will "cancel the shoot over a yeast infection."

"I hate Vanilla Coke," the actress suddenly shrieked, throwing a plastic soda bottle across the room. And then belching, which was not particularly sexy. "Is there any normal Coke here?"

She also said degrading things about herself ("I'm such a worthless piece of shit whore," "I'm a dumb bitch who deserves this") even between scenes, which is plain sad. Just as the carbonated beverage was too vanilla for her, I was too vanilla for this situation.

Consenting adults should be able to film whatever they want, and other adults should be able to view the result. You wouldn't eat sausage, however (no pun intended) if you saw the manufacturing process. The depersonalized fantasies that comprise your spank bank should remain exactly that, because the reality? Is sorta gross.

But it's never too late to submit a job application. If you have a couple minutes.

Conan O'Brien in acid-wash jeggings was a disturbing sight, but not as disturbing as Tim Gunn's proclamation that such ultra-snug denim is "not just [for] ladies." Fashion-forward men from the catwalks of Milan to the boutiques of SoHo have embraced these body-hugging abominations.

CoCo's gender-bending experiment, however ludicrous and satirical, will only spread the unholy gospel. Long-limbed Conan did it as a joke, but my editor wanted to see if a normal guy could actually pull it off. (As if a "normal guy" would ever don jeggings in the first place.)

Anticipating the day when every red-blooded American male has a walk-in closet overflowing with jeggings, I decided to sample these uncannily form-fitting bottoms, which I never could've foreseen as a teenager in the 1990s when my generation's "sagging" horrified old people for some reason. And let me tell you from experience: our wide-legged '90s past is way less horrifying than our inevitable Lycra® future.

Jeggin' Selectin'

The first challenge was to actually find a pair. I assumed that decadent Italian brands such as Prada and Versace were guaranteed purveyors, but Prada's spokeswoman informed me that "Prada does not produce or carry male jeggings," and Versace's refused to dignify my call with an answer. So I visited the (relatively) downmarket store Forever 21 instead, and asked the clerk where specifically I could find jeggings.

"For women or, uh, men?" she asked. "Because we don't have men's jeggings."

Fair enough. I would have to cross a sacred barrier.

"Women's," I said. "I'll try the women's jeggings."

"You're the first man to ask about them..." She looked at me as if I were some kind of demented freak, which is pretty understandable, I guess. "Actually we're out of stock. They're so popular, it's crazy... popular with women, I mean."

I began to wonder if I'd ever find jeggings. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be; perhaps I wasn't supposed to wear tights. (Deuteronomy 22:5: "[N]either shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.")

Luckily I went to American Eagle instead of heeding the Bible. The friendly staff led me to their veritable mountain of in-stock jeggings, and approved of my quest. "All the guys here wear jeggings," chirped a helpful American Eagle saleslady. "My gay friends wear them with their Uggs. You look like a Size Six. Want to try some on?"

"Absolutely," I said. "Should I use the men's fitting rooms or the women's?" (I honestly wasn't sure.)

Preparing to Launch

Before I entered the fitting room, the saleslady warned me: rocking this look requires extreme comfort and confidence with one's body. It was possible I'd learn some things about myself that I'd never be able to unlearn. This sounded as daunting as a NASA rocket launch, except that astronauts don't have to withstand as many Gs of pressure.

Alone with my shame inside the dressing room, I removed my ho-hum, loose-fitting jeans and (quite literally) forced myself into a pair of $49.50 jeggings. I had to yank the cuffs down to my ankles and yank the waistband up to my pelvis, which caused plenty of awkward stumbling and hobbling around the confined space.

Once the pants were in place, however, the material conformed to my body like a technological wonder substance from an advanced civilization. I hate to admit it, but they were kinda comfy.

Of course, I was concerned about the Bulge. If you search the Net for "meggings," pretty much every result discusses the Bulge. If you wear these things in public, you might want a lawyer to explain the local indecent exposure laws.

But I followed HowCast's advice for men's jeggings aficionados: "Wear boxer briefs to contain your bulge... If necessary, use double-sided tape to hold your package in place." (Or a stapler. Ha! Ha!) Subsequently it wasn't grotesquely prominent, which is perhaps a sad admission.

Far more exposed than my family jewels: the high-definition curvatures of my thighs and backside. As Tim Gunn himself said on Conan, "You know whether a guy's leg is more like a chicken leg or a ham hock by virtue of that leotard..." There's no hiding a single particle of cellulite. (Good thing I'd exercised obsessively in the week prior. And by "obsessively," I mean "twice.")

"They look great," the saleslady said when I exited the fitting room. "It really works on you!"

A male colleague of hers concurred that jeggings are ideal for the modern man. "I love wearing them around the house," he said. "They do wonders for the tush."

Strutting Around Town

Satisfied by their flattery, I paid for the merchandise and took my wondrous tush outside. The first thing I noticed: jeggings provide no insulation. The freezing temperature and ferocious wind pierced the paper-thin fabric, whereas my traditional jeans always keep me warm. I felt as if I were naked in a meat freezer, except without any delicious meat.

Despite the frigid onslaught, I summoned the fortitude to interview complete strangers about my anatomy.

"What do you think?" I asked two college-aged women on the street. "Is this an attractive look for a guy?"

"No way," said one of them as I spun in a sexy circle. "It's just showing too much."

Her friend agreed: "Way too much."

It's possible they were lesbians. But most of the bystanders had a different reaction: ambivalence. They gave me a half-dozen jaded variations of "how are these different than skinny jeans?" Whereas I expected to shock people with my new androgynous wardrobe, I merely looked like a random twenty-something New York City hipster.

If I wanted a focus group of real Americans -- the kind possibly shocked by pants without pleats -- I'd have to journey into the dark heart of Times Square. Upon arrival I asked a middle-aged woman from Pennsylvania for her salt-of-the-earth opinion.

"No, no, no, no," she said. "Why would you wear something like that?"

Another female tourist was equally critical: "I don't think so ... I'm not a fan."

But her husband, a spectacularly rotund gentleman, examined my jeggings-defined physique and offered this delightful verdict: "If I were skinny, I'd wear those too!"

How to Decide If You Should Wear Men's Jeggings

Are you in peak condition? Take a good, hard look in the mirror. If you've packed on the holiday pounds -- nothing washes down pumpkin pie quite like a glass of egg nog, right? -- wait until you've fulfilled your hit-the-gym New Year's resolution. Or else you'll make an ass out of yourself in more ways than one.

Can you part with your phone? Jegging pockets are too shallow for a mobile device. And a thief could easily grab your wallet. So you'll need to... uh... accessorize. As reporter Joshua David Stein explains, "The perfect accompaniment and necessary corollary to the majegging is the murse." (If you felt bizarre purchasing women's pants, just wait until you purchase a handbag.)

Exhibitionist or introvert? You won't get many gawks and stares in an eccentric fashion capital like New York, but elsewhere you'll make a big statement. The mesmerized reactions could lead to major discomfort, if you care what others think.

Check the forecast? As mentioned earlier, jeggings won't shield you from the brutal cold. Beauty is painful, of course, but -- under the circumstances -- shrinkage is even worse.

Every man has skeletons in his closet. And for half a decade, I've had crotchless boxers in mine.

In 2005, the German company sacfree® (lower-case "s" for some reason) sent me a trial pair of its innovative undergarment, which covers your banana while exposing your kiwis. A hilariously mistranslated press release accompanied the, uh, package:

"The world-wide first testicle-free men's underwear -- a fantastic, comfortable, free feeling and a new sexy look. ... And so it works: sacfree® protects and supports the penis in a bag-like pouch. Till here sacfree® feels like a classic slip. For the testicle sacfree® offers pure space. Through an opening the sac can hangs out completely free. ... With its open kind sacfree® makes for a fresh breeze. A comfortable and manly healthy characteristic... [A]bove all, people who works vocationally much in sitting will appreciate the new sacfree® freedom."

I'm a writer, so I certainly works vocationally much in sitting. But I never got around to sampling this fashion wonder, despite my curiosity. I suppose my testicles preferred the warmth of security to the cold unpredictability of freedom.

But as Ben Franklin often said during the George W. Bush years, "They who would give up an essential liberty for temporary security deserve neither liberty nor security." So I finally manned up, dropped trou, and gave sacfree® a test drive for 24 hours, doing whatever I normally would, except with super dangling balls.

Getting Dressed... Kinda
The first thing you'll notice when you don sacfree®is that your sack is free. That's the whole point, obviously, but it's weird. Your manhood is tucked away, but your boys drop through a hole at the bottom and just... like... flop around. You're simultaneously naked and clad. (If you walked around town in these, would it qualify as indecent exposure? A question for Socrates, or the nearest law enforcement officer.)

After I stared in the mirror for a minute or two, utterly transfixed, I slipped on a pair of pants. With a button fly, not a zipper fly, for reasons that don't need explanation. And it certainly is different: the friction between your balls and inseam is noticeable to the point of distraction. I wouldn't say it's erotic, but it's difficult to concentrate on anything else.

OK, OK, it's kind of erotic.

Walking Around
So you take a stroll around the neighborhood, harboring your pervy little secret. When strangers pass on the street, you feel like a creep. (Especially if you "accidentally" bump into them. Ha! Ha!) Unfortunately my sacfree® pair was a bit tight and began to chafe after 30 minutes, so they're seemingly better for sedentary purposes.

Moderate Exercise
Undaunted by the irritation, however, I spent another 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, wearing only my sacfree®. (This was in my apartment, not the gym, by the way. Although the bros in the gym would likely approve.) I expected the bouncing up and down to feel terrible -- as if gravity would slam my sperm factory like I slam Tecate after a cheap tequila shot -- but much to my surprise I hardly noticed. It didn't improve my cardio routine, but it didn't hurt either.

Another surprise: my balls were completely sweat-free afterward. My brine-like groin juice isn't particularly malodorous (think "daffodils"), but sacfree® could be a lifesaver for guys who suffer from chronic ball overheating.

Dinner at Fancy Restaurant
My fiancée and I planned a date at an upscale Italian eatery, so I showed up wearing sacfree® under my slacks, unbeknownst to her. (In retrospect, I should've proposed to her in sacfree®.) The clash between my ostensible sophistication and private depravity was somewhat hilarious -- I felt like a gentleman and a lecher, which is true -- but it's unsatisfying to keep a joke to oneself.

Attempting to Seduce My Fiancée
The sacfree® press release promised: "With sacfree® there is something more to see for her ... A new attraction for touching." So back in our bedroom after dinner, I removed my shirt. Oooooooh, she cooed. I unfastened my belt. Mmmmmmm, she purred. I dropped my drawers.

"Your... your balls...?" She gawked at my crotchless boxers with a combination of bafflement and horror.

"Yes," I nodded confidently. "My balls."

She reached for the TV remote instead of my (semi-concealed, semi-showcased) male anatomy. "Put your pants back on," she instructed. "Those look ridiculous."

"You don't have a new attraction for touching?" I asked, heartbroken.

Hitting the... uh... Sack
With my (blue) balls hanging through my useless German underwear, exhausted from a long day of journalistic experimentation, I lay in bed -- rejected and dejected -- and finally discovered a purpose for these peculiar undies. Your little guy enjoys the comforting snugness of typical sleepwear, but your boys lightly brush against the sheets. The sensation is delightful and idyllic. If nothing else, sacfree® makes for heavenly pajamas.

Tragically, it seems that sacfree® is no longer for sale. At some point between 2005 and 2010, its website was reduced to a logo and nothing else, and company representatives did not respond to an email about its continued existence. Only 500 pairs of sacfree® were initially produced, and it doesn't appear that more are in the pipeline. You can't even find the goddamn things on eBay... not like you'd want them used anyway.

This is yet another reminder -- like forgetting to watch FlashForward or waiting to send Leslie Nielsen fan mail -- of why we must never put off until tomorrow that which we can accomplish today. If I had written this sacfree® review five years ago, perhaps it would've inspired a generation of men to let it all hang out. Now, however, the possibility of such a worldwide testicular revolution is left blowing in the wind.

Oh well. At least it's not too late to order the Ball Bra from Croatia: "futuristic and very high tech underwear that can be worn by a man while making love or to intensify masturbation ... which will produce explosive orgasms."

Jesus Christ, Europeans are strange.