Saturday, September 29, 2007


If you can stomach walking around dressed like someone’s dad, pretending to be a tourist in your own hometown is a great way to score chicks. All you need is a map, a fanny pack, and a brand new identity. I can’t help with the first two, but I can certainly help you create a believable back-story that promises to turn your waning local love life into a fiery, no-strings attached romp. Sorry! No time to stick around - you’ve got a flight to catch.

Hi, I’m (real first name) __________ (bird of prey) ___________. I’m from (compass direction) _________ (biblical locale) ___________, (Midwestern or rectangular state) ___________. Go fightin’ (woodland creatures) ____________! Yep, it’s a great place to grow up. Walking down Main Street at (time of day) _________, and dropping in at (3-letter male name) _____________’s for some homemade (diabetic dessert) __________, well it makes my eyes water and my tummy grumble just thinking about it, yes siree. From time to time I like to check in on ol’ Mrs. (tree species) _________, bless her heart, and her prize winning (color) __________ (vegetable) __________s. My high school sweetheart (flower type) ____________ and I used to neck up on (dangerous animal) _____________ (body of water) _________ Point. Thought we’d get married but the good Lord had other plans for her in the form of a (American sedan) __________ losing control ‘round (American president) ________’s Curve. After she passed, I took up (piece of furniture) ____________ whittling to ease the pain, but golly, I sure don’t meet many ladies in that line of work, 'specially not ones as pretty as you. Gosh, you’re prettier than a (barnyard animal) ___________ on a (season) _________ day glistening in the (celestial body) __________ shine.

Monday, September 24, 2007


Recently, my best friend Ted violated the “parachute clause” of the Wingman Code.* Normally, an infraction of this magnitude results in one or more of the accepted punishments:


* Installments of the “Wingman Code - Stinson Edition” to be furnished later

Instead, Fortuna levied her own, decidedly more permanent penalty:

Ted’s Tattoo, courtesy of karma

As a man who fuels his lamp of learning with the oils of others’ misfortune, let me expound the following maxim: DUDES SHOULDN’T GET TATTOOS.

But Barney, what about the millions of biker guys way bigger [waist-up] than you?

Good question, fictional reader. I’m not doubting the superhuman ability required to endure the physical pain, tawdry artwork, and accessorizing nightmares that dude tattoos require. I’m simply wondering if guys understand what their tattoos REALLY mean.

Therefore, I’m including a selection from my forthcoming coffee table book, Barney Stinson’s Field Guide to Tattoos. My noble hope with this volume is to show today’s gentlemen that there are safer, smarter and sexier ways to exfoliate.


“Hey, everybody, look at me! Not only have I made the foolish mistake of choosing a lifetime of monogamy, I have also permanently branded myself as off-limits.” Bravo.

“Hey, everybody, look at me! This band looks like a scar of manhood that I earned when my village banished me to the hinterlands for seven days with no food or water, like in that Kevin Bacon basketball movie.” Nice try. That’s a bracelet.

“Hey, everybody, look at me! I have a fearful dragon on my arm! Are you scared? Good, because this baby’s supposed to ward off intruders from my mom’s basement.”

“Hey, everybody, look at me! I’m governed by an Eastern philosophy as these significant Cantonese and/or Mandarin characters chiseled into my flesh hopefully indicate. If I spoke or read this particular language, perhaps I could explain my perspective more clearly, but I guess you’ll just have to take the scary-looking tattoo artist’s word for it. I sure did.”

“Hey, everybody, look at me! There’s an important message on my fingers. Of course, it has to be ten letters or less and you can only read it when I’m waterskiing or getting arrested, but still, it’s an important message.”