The Guy's Guide to Four Battles Every Young Man Must Face: a manual to overcoming life's common distractions

difference!

A NOTE TO THE GUY READING THIS BOOK:

That Guy

Have you ever watched a movie that was obviously made for guys?

You know the kind: mind-blowing car chases, gorgeous girls, and guns spraying bullets like Febreze … probably titled something like Faster and Furiouser 16.

We don’t see a lot of guys watching movies titled Patient and Self-Controlled.

Maybe because most of us want to be that guy—the muscle-bound guy driving twice the speed limit with a half-dressed girl in the front seat and a propensity for solving conflict with a gun or his fists.

When the battle is finished, that guy fills his glass with tequila, clothes come off, and the credits roll. At least until Faster and Even Furiouser comes out, where the hero’s abs are more chiseled, he’s driving a better car with a different girl, shooting new bad guys, and drinking a different brand of tequila!

This is what guys do, right?

Is this really what a real man looks like?

Or is there perhaps more to being a guy?

GEARING UP

CHAPTER 1

Tray of Fat

My dog Lionel is hilarious—assuming hilarious is code for prone to trouble.

Lionel is mostly Labrador but has just enough Jack Russell terrier to keep us all on our toes (I frequently post pics and videos of him on Instagram). Jack Russell means all energy all the time. We always have to be on our A game because Lionel is like a toddler who will dart out into the road to chase a shiny green ball, without regard for the four-thousand-pound Chevy truck approaching at 50 miles per hour.

Last summer Lionel discovered something delicious—the drip tray underneath our outdoor propane grill. Whenever we grill burgers, steak, chicken, brontosaurus, anything, the fat drips off the meat down through an opening in the bottom of the grill, oozing into a disposable tray that is several inches deep. This tray isn’t small by any means. It can hold almost a half gallon of drippings, and by drippings I mean fat!

One night I grilled some delicious ribs. Everyone loved them. I even gave one to Lionel. The next morning Lionel walked by the tray and caught a whiff of the previous night’s drippings … along with about three months’ worth of coagulated drippings. Basically a huge tray of fat!

Lionel wandered over to investigate, sniffing the edge of the tray. I kindly told him, No, you don’t want that.

But Lionel looked at me like, Uh, I assure you, I definitely want that.

I shooed him away, but over the next few days I caught him loitering by the grill a dozen times, attempting to poke his snout into the tray of fat.

Every time I stopped him and warned him, assuming he understood every word.

Lionel! No!

Yuck!

Stay away!

But each time he looked at me confused. His little canine mind was convinced that this aluminum tray of goodness would bring him unending joy. So I decided to reason with him. I sat him down and said, Lionel Richie—I always use his full name when he’s in trouble—you need to trust me on this one. If you eat that vat of drippings, it’s going to rock your world, and I don’t mean in a good way. Your forty-seven-pound body just isn’t ready for this concentrated dose of congealed fat. Lionel, my friend, it will wreck you! Beware!

Lionel just peered up at me like, Can I go eat the fat now?

The next day I was digging post holes for a fence I was building and turned to look for Lionel. The sly little rapscallion wasn’t lying by the shed chewing a deer bone anymore. He had crept away quietly.

I walked my property (I live in the country) searching for him and calling his name.

Nothing.

Then I remembered.

The tray of fat!

I walked to the back of the house over by my grill. Sure enough, there he was, muzzle deep in fat, indulging and ignoring my calls.

I called his name one last time. He looked up at me with his glistening muzzle, paused, and literally doggy-burped.

I said, Oh, if you only knew what else is coming.

He had eaten every last glob.

I warned the family. Lionel just ate three months’ worth of grill drippings.

How much? my daughter asked, laughing hysterically.

Oh, almost half a gallon of gelatinous fat.

And then it happened. It wasn’t instantaneous. It took about an hour. But then it started coming up.

First it came out the front end. I’ve never seen so much doggy puke. Then he ran to the door. We let him out, and I won’t describe what came out of his backside. Poor Lionel was as sick as a … well … as a dog (so that’s where that phrase comes from).

He was sick for probably thirty-six hours, lying on his side, looking up at me like, Kill me!

This pup who normally was nonstop energy bouncing off the walls didn’t want to run, walk, play … anything. He wouldn’t chase his favorite green ball, and he didn’t even look at his food. He just kept lying there gazing at me lethargically like, Why?

And I would simply reply, I know, right? You should have just stuck with the ribs.

Three days later he was back to normal.

The following day I grilled some burgers, and guess who was trying to shove his muzzle in the tray of fat?

It’s like he didn’t remember the source of his misery.

The takeaway is pretty clear. Dogs don’t have the ability to reason. Dogs can’t look ahead and determine, This won’t be worth it.

But humans can. Can’t they?

Think about that for a minute. If humans can reason, then why do so many of us make foolish choices, despite the obvious lurking consequences?

We laugh at Lionel and think, Stupid dog, didn’t you learn? You’re going to get deathly sick and wish you had never done that!

Is there a reason we can’t take our own advice?

Is there a chance we sometimes choose immediate pleasure over truth?

Let me say it another way: do we sometimes choose the quick and temporary thrill over what we know is best for us in the long