Ryan Seacrest and Oprah Winfrey have secretly joined together in an unholy alliance to slowly take over all of television. I have no concrete proof to validate my claim. But, it will be only a matter of days until TMZ confirms my suspicion by showing the dynamic duo having lunch together at the Ivy. Oprah has succeeded in her mission of mesmerizing all of womanhood. Now it is Ryan’s turn to capture all of the Momma’s Boys in the world. Ryan, I beg of you to just stick to the metrosexuals and leave the rest of us alone.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that on Tuesday, December 16th NBC will roll out “Momma’s Boys” which the Frosted Tipped One is executive producer. The basic premise of the show centers on a group of mothers who must help choose the perfect woman for their complacent sons. The question the series tries to answer is: Who is really the most important woman in every man’s life?
Now, I could go on a rant about how this crappy reality television show is another sign pointing us one step closer to the apocalypse, but being an avid “Big Brother” fan I’d be a bit of a hypocrite. So, let’s leave that debate for another day and time. Instead, I want to bring to your attention a growing disease that is quickly becoming an epidemic in our culture called “mommie-wipe-my-pattotie-itis.”
Males can contract this horrible disease if the doctor fails to cut the umbilical cord at birth. Leaving the cord uncut prevents growth in males and causes them to be dependent on their mother. Other symptoms include the inability to handle pressure, make decisions or deal with their insecurities. The disease attacks the emotional development by fostering dependence on the mother. It has also been known to affect vision, as males will see every woman through their mother’s eyes.
For 30 years I have been living with “mommie-wipe-my-pattotie-itis.” I attempted to ignore the symptoms throughout my adolescence even though I saw the signs early on: mom dressing me up in turtleneck sweaters in 6th grade, having her cut up my steak, fold my laundry, make my bed and my tendency to pout when I didn’t get my way. Looking back at it, I never found it odd that the first time I learned how to use a washer and dryer was the day my parents dropped me off at college freshmen year. This disease is tricky because there are attractive symptoms like the constant coddling and meeting of your every need.
Learning how to manage the disease after meeting Jenn proved tricky. The indicators of “mommie-wipe-my-pattotie-it is” kept going off like a store’s security sensor when Wynona Ryder is shopping. The only way I knew how to live life was for a woman to make decisions and determine its’ direction. It should come as no surprise that this caused a decent amount of friction when Jenn and I began dating and eventually in our marriage. Jenn was looking for me to be her knight in shinning armor only to find a stable boy terrified of getting on the horse. She needed a leader and often what she got was an indecisive follower. Over time, I’ve begun to deal with my disease. But, the doctors say the only cure is a painful procedure that involves cutting the cord. The month of December is when I go under the knife. Ripa out!