It’s not easy being a male blogger. Women get to write about the cute things their kids do and how annoying their husbands are. And it works. We laugh and we cry and we recognize their plight.

It’s a lot harder to feel sorry for a man. We are generally idiots and people don’t tend to sympathize for a man forced to put down the toilet seat. It’s not as easy to feel the pain of a man who gets the kids fired up before bed and then leaves them to his wife to deal with.

So as a male blogger, I have a few choices. I can be crude and funny or I can be political.

I like to be crude and funny and I think I’m pretty good at it. The problem is that my mom checks this site from time to time, and while I’ll never censor my ideas and stances on life and politics for her, I try to keep it higher brow than your standard frat house. I’m always ready to talk politics, but I fear my political opinions get boring and grate on people’s nerves.

So where does that leave a male blogger? We are circus performers, walking a fine line between boobs and boredom. We are forced to balance between farts and freedoms. We juggle fire and knives and anvils. And at the end of the day, we are the circus freaks who want to be part of the paying crowd.

Because who is going to believe that my life is really a whirlwind of working and laundry and children? You don’t want to read that. Instead, I play the tortured artist, so sensitive to the pain in the world, and at the same time… did you hear the one about the dog, the cat, and the penis who were sitting around a camp fire one night?

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