All my life, I’ve been saddled with this nice guy vibe. Go check at my web site picture. Look at me. I’m going for that “he might be dangerous”, “vaguely angry Negro” look. Apparently though, there’s something about my eyes that says, “nah, just kidding.” I can’t escape it. Total strangers, whether at conventions, informal gatherings, whatever, have been known to curl up with me or start opening up and confessing the most personal things. I guess I have one of those faces (if you haven’t read Gary Braunbeck’s “Rami Temporalis”, find it and read it).

Of course it hampered my dating life. Women want to date the dangerous guys. Nice guys are who they settle down and marry. I always wanted to be dangerous. At least for a solid month or so.

It was put most bluntly too me when I was hanging out with my singles group, specifically, at a table full of women (clue one, women feel comfortable enough to flock around me). One of them pointed out that they loved hanging out with me because not only was it great to have a guy friend, but I was as harmless as a big brother. Harmless. Yes, that completed my eunuchization. Please place my testicles in a jar and put them u p on a shelf because I won’t be needing them anymore.

Sure, I’ve been a LaMaz coach for friends of mine (a practice my wife said is done now that we’re married). I’ve been their matron of honor (the official title, by the way, is “honor attendant”). Sure, on occasion I’ve been known to organize mommy play dates because I get bored during the day and can’t find it in me to watch anymore Jerry Springer. These shouldn’t mar my resume of possible dangerousness.

I can be dangerous. I’m in my basement laboratory now, working on my new, more dangerous persona now. I may be unveiling this soon. Watch out, I’m gonna be edgy.

Dang it, (hmm, clue two, he says things like “dang it”), like my mom* used to say, “if you have to say that you’re something, you probably aren’t.” I’m so screwed. Destined to forever be … nice.

*Okay, my mom didn’t say it. I say it, usually to wanna-be Goths who think that they’re soooo dark and evil. My mom’s Jamaican. All her sayings involve fruit, talking animals, and words not in any dictionary I own.

Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) or just do so at my message board.