The Baby Post

When last we spoke, I was awaiting the birth of my first kid.

Well, that happened.

My beautiful daughter was born in September and I couldn’t be happier. Or at least, I assume that’s what I would feel if I weren’t too sleep deprived to feel emotion. I thought I felt the warmth of happiness the other day – but then realized it was just a wet fart.

It seems a bit irresponsible of me to have not posted since her birth. I’ve been writing this blog for 5 (!!!) years now. Many of you have been reading for years and have always been supportive and excited at my various life changes – buying a house, getting married, that time I threw my back out while dancing at a bar downtown. You guys care – and I appreciate that.

 But damn if it ain’t hard to live up to ‘The Baby Post’. Someday, my daughter is going to find this blog and want to see what I said after her birth. Unfortunately, the second paragraph already says ‘fart’. Sorry, kid.

That’s life. Sometimes you surprise yourself and create something incredible. Other times you have to force pen to paper no matter how long you draw blanks.

This blog post falls under the latter, but that little bundle of joy is definitely the former.

Terminal

I hate going to the doctor.

Mainly because they don't realize that I'm dying all the time.  

Most doctors are too jaded to get excited about anything that is wrong with me.  I'm freaking the fuck out, the least they could do is look up from their chart.

That's why I think I need my own personal doctor.  A doctor that has only ever had one patient: me.  That way, when I go to the doctor, they're just as freaked out as I am.

"Hey, Doc, I've got this mole thing going on over here."

"HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT???  GROSS!!!  EW! EW! EW!"

With today's doctors, where's the empathy?  Where's the urgency?  WebMD told me this toothache meant my brain tumor was having a heart attack - why won't my doctor realize this?

Plus, if I had my own personal doctor, they would know more about me.  They would know what solutions made sense and which conditions were more important to cure.  I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and told them whenever I drink a glass of wine or a few beers I wake up with a terrible migraine that lasts the entire day.  Obviously this is quite possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

Her response?  'Don't drink beer or wine.'

Christ, doctor.  Are you sure I don't have cancer or something less serious?

Like A Horse and Carriage

Marriage sucks*.

Seriously.  It's the worst.

Imagine all of your annoying social obligations - now double them.  Take all of your favorite TV shows and your hobbies and cut them in half.

Want to go out to eat?  Divide the number of restaurants you like in half and the multiply the amount of time it takes to pick one by five.  Somehow girls can hang out for a few months and sync their periods, but a couple can be married for 20 years and their taste buds can't match up on Mexican or Chinese food.

Which is why I get so confused when I hear about single people that are just 'dying to get married.'  No, you want to be in love - and if it makes sense to file a joint tax return, maybe you should get married after that. 

Marriage should be a by-product of being in love.  Wanting to be married is like wanting to wipe your ass with $20 bills.  I don't WANT to wipe my ass with $20's, I want to be rich enough that I can. 

And if that's not possible, I just want some damn Chinese food tonight.

* Not MY marriage. Just the idea of marriage in general. 

Baby Steps

We had our first baby shower last week.

People kept asking if we were 'ready' for the big life change.

For the most part, I think we are.

My wife opened one gift, a small pad that you place on a baby's back that vibrates them to soothe their crying.

'Oh! A baby vibrator!' she exclaimed to the room, receiving a chorus of laughter in response.

Yeah, we're ready for our baby - but is the world for us to reproduce?

Facebook's Status

I think it is time that my generation accepts what Facebook has become.

It is no longer a vehicle for guys to check out girls in their slutty Halloween costumes and for girls to troll their ex-boyfriends and make snide remarks about their new girlfriend.  Even if she is fat.

My generation grew up with Facebook in its infant stages - when a .edu email address was required to sign up and the main function was finding that hot girl that sat in front of me in my economics class.

The problem is that generation kinda sucks now.  We're older.  We don't go out as much.  We're married.  Our Halloween costumes are disappointingly unslutty.

Even those that are still cool, who still lead exciting lives, are broadcasting this to an audience that hopes it can stay up late enough to watch the end of American Idol.  

When my friends discuss my impending parenthood, they say nearly the same thing, 'You aren't going to be one of those annoying parents that always posts pictures of their baby, are you?'

I used to say no.  At least, not unless the baby was in a slutty costume.  But I've reconsidered.

If not to post pictures of what is happening in my life, what is the point of Facebook?  Are married couples asked not to post pictures of their spouse?  Would Facebook exist if single girls were told they couldn't post pictures of their friends at the bar?

Our lives are all boring.  Or at least, boring to those people who aren't living them.  My kid is no more annoying than a picture of the dessert you're eating.  Is the point of Facebook to update your friends on your life, or to entertain them?  Because if it is the latter, we need to talk about your checking into gas stations.

Besides, we all grew up using Facebook as a way to hook up, seems a bit hypocritical to ban posting pictures of the results. 

Excessive

I suck at math.

And I don't just mean my brain.  My entire body sucks at math.

For instance - humans are supposed to sleep eight hours a night.  That leaves 16 hours of being awake - so one hour of sleep generates two hours of being awake.  Correct?

But last night, I took a 45 minute nap, and then laid awake in bed for three hours later that night.  How does that makes sense?  I signed up for one and a half hours of awakedness, body - this is simple multiplication.

The night before?  I drank two beers and got a hangover.  TWO BEERS.  But on the Friday night before that?  Eight beers and had zero hangovers.

What gives, body?  What kind of crazy math are you using?  I'm the only person with an abacus as an internal organ. 

It also appears that my body is punishing me for any sort of moderation. 

45 minute nap?  Fuck you - I nap for four hours or I don't nap at all.  Two beers?  It takes me two beers to brush my teeth - you drink a case or you stay at home, Nancy Boy.

It's like my body wants me to just drink a bunch of beer and stay out late every night.

Wait, what was I complaining about, again?

Ill Logical

Guys and Gals, I'm worried.

I'm obsessed with logic.  I can't stand doing something in a way that doesn't make the most sense.

Don't believe me?  When I run errands I think through the entire trip.  Lowe's is first because it is on the right-hand side of the road, therefor I won't have to cross traffic to pull in.  The pet store is next because it is on the left-hand side of the road, so when I pull out, I can turn right and be heading back home.  The grocery is last because I have to plan the trip in the backwards order of how I want to unload the car - and the grocery items will be the first that need to be put away.

THESE THINGS HAPPEN IN MY HEAD.

Same goes for the office.  I specifically print out all documents at the exact time I finish my cup of coffee so that I can pee, pick up the papers and get a refill at the exact same time.

It isn't just in how I act, but the things I enjoy.  Zombie movies are great because the main characters are just people that found themselves in the middle of a really bad flu season.  I can relate to that.  I can't relate to action movies where a guy goes an entire two hours without dropping his cell phone or misspelling the word 'restaurant'.

But now?  Now I'm going to have a kid making a lot of my important decisions.

Have you met kids?  They hate logic.  They're like, "DAD I WANT MASHED POTATOES WITH MY GRAPES BECAUSE THAT'S HOW UNICORNS EAT IT!"

How the hell am I going to cope with that.  "Oh, you want to wear your frog boots to bed because you might have a dream about sea turtles?  That makes sense.  You do that while Daddy runs this knife over his wrist really slowly."

My kid is going to end up having adult conversations by the time he is 4.  I'll tell him about potty training and he'll be like, 'WHAT THE HELL, DAD?  I'VE BEEN WALKING AROUND IN MY OWN CRAP AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN TELL ME THERE WAS ANOTHER OPTION?  HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO CRAP WHILE STANDING UP?  IT IS TERRIBLE.  I COULD'VE JUST BEEN SITTING ON THE TOILET THE ENTIRE TIME?  WHAT AN ASSHOLE!"

But I still bet he wears his frog boots on the potty.

Sex?

As mentioned previously, someone got me wet and I've started sprouting off little miniature gremlin Narms.  Which is a funny way to say that my wife is pregnant.

Well, funny to me.  She doesn't see the humor in it.  I told her it could be worse, she could have to lay a giant egg and then sit on it for nine months.  She didn't see the humor in that either.  Something tells me I'm doing this wrong.

In an effort to make up for these horrible jokes, I have granted my wife her wish and we will not be finding out the sex of Baby Narm.

Which begs the question - which do I want - a boy or a girl?

With a boy, he would be into super heroes and sports and we could grow beards together.

But it would be hard watching a jubilant, happy young boy slowly realize he is going to grow up to be a nonathletic, balding short guy with no real discernible skills outside of fart jokes.  

If we have a girl, she would be cute and spoiled and finally give my wife someone to shop with so I don't have to sleep on the benches outside of Macy's.

But she would also do that annoying thing girls do where they make-up dance moves to songs by taking every lyric literally.  Plus, I have a huge nose resting below a unibrow - and I don't think that is a good look for a teenage girl tying to fit in with the cool kids.

So, in the end, I don't really care - boy or girl, blue or pink - I'll love that kid the same either way.

I just hope for one thing...

...it has its mother's genes.  

Going Bananas

I've learned a ton about fruits and vegetables lately.

First - apple seeds.

Then, peas.

After that, I was reading about blueberries.  

I became more engrossed - prunes, limes, peaches, oranges, onions, mangoes.  My browser history read like a really boring advertisement for Fruit of the Loom.

Each week became more interesting - reading about how they grew, how they developed, the specific ways they survived and matured.

Now I've learned that this is the week my little pomegranate grows eye lashes and can sense light.

Babies.  If you didn't get it.  I'm talking about babies.  Specifically my baby.

Well, not MY baby.  I don't own it.  It is the baby in which I created.  Laaaaaaadies.

And it has been damn exciting watching it grow from a pea to an apple to a pomegranate.

Although there is a tinge of fear in my wife's eyes as she reads the weekly updates.

She's afraid of the week we learn about watermelons.  

I'm Feline Tired

* This is an actual photo of my cat, Baffi, taken at 5am this morning.  Blogging will resume when he has allowed me to sleep more than 3 consecutive hours.  Sub-question - how long do cats normally live?


Help. 

War On Stupid Cliches

Don't be an idiot.

What President Obama said is not a 'war on religion'.  For this to be a 'war on religion' he would be asking for the Church to recognize gay marriage as a sacrament.

Nope.  He just wants them to be able to file a joint tax return.

If people can't tell the difference between a legal marriage and the sacrament of marriage, maybe that speaks of their own religious understanding more than that of the President.  I'm married - and the religious definition means I'm finally allowed to have sex, the legal means she gets half if we get divorced.  So let's not pretend our friends in the gay and lesbian community are getting the better half of this deal.

And if this is about the 'sanctity of marriage' then outlaw divorce.  The only authority straight people have in discussing the 'sanctity of marriage' in the first place is because they are so fucking good at divorce.  Trusting straight people on how to fix marriage is like hiring a bomb squad as your contractor.

If there is a segment people of people out there that think preventing gay marriage is going to stop all the gay sex, I'd like to invite them to every. single. college campus to show them how outlawing drugs has prevented a bunch of annoying hippies from smoking pot and listening to the Dave Matthew's Band all day.  And I think we can agree Dave Matthews is a much bigger threat to society.

What President Obama said shouldn't even be news.  He thinks people in a homosexual relationship should be able to receive the legal benefits of marriage - which is more or less some boring shit about taxes and insurance and medical privileges.  There is no mention of the sacrament.  There is no 13-minute version of Ave Maria.  People aren't going to sit, then stand, then kneel, then stand, then kneel, then sit, then stand, then kneel, then do a tri-pod like a normal mass.  It is just for the legal benefits and recognition.

Maybe instead of just having the separation of Church and State, it is time for them to get a divorce. 

Freaks and Geeks

I feel bad for people with super weird sexual fetishes.



Because we all have our own tastes and preferences.


I'm really into brussell sprouts. Love those damn things. They're like the chicken nuggets of the vegetable world. A lot of people don't like them - but I'm not relegated to the dark corners of the internet because I fry those little bastards up once a week.


Same goes with a lot of things - modern art, foot rubs, roller coasters. We don't really control whether or not we like these things, and for the most part, we don't get called perverts for preferring to wear earth tones over jewel tones.


So why doesn’t this extend into the bedroom? Why are furbies weird, but marathon runners are normal. One gets turned on by the Easter Bunny, the other enjoys the physical hell and bloody nipples that only 26 miles of voluntary running can provide.


Hell - some peoples' weird tastes actually make them COOLER. No one has ever come home from a first date and been like, "Um, yeah...things were going really well until we went back to his place and he tried to get me to listen to Dinosaur Jr. It was disgusting. I didn't even know people DID that."


Imagine being some guy that likes to wear women's underwear listening to someone who likes anchovies complain about how weird their tastes are. “Oh man - I'd hate to be you ordering a pizza - luckily for me I just enjoy the way a frilly pink thong makes me feel like a man. In comparison, I guess the crushing loneliness I feel from living without the intimate touch of another human isn’t so bad.”


Why do we have to hate on that? As long as no one is getting hurt, I can't blame someone for something they can't control.


Besides, it's not like he's into Nickelback, or something.


That would be disgusting.

Can't Beat It

My wife and I are currently filming 'The Sixth Sense 2' in my household.  And, like most sequels, ours includes lots of guys getting hit in the crotch.

And by 'guys', I mean 'me'.

My wife doesn't have that 'sixth sense' that lets you know when someone is near you.  That or she just flails her limbs more than the average person.

So I am in constant danger of a knee to the crotch or an elbow to the face.  She headbutts me on a weekly basis.  HEADBUTTS!  Our household is like a looped episode of America's Funniest Home Videos

She tried to convince me that it is my fault for having a giant nose.  Her explanation was that my giant shnoz occupies such a large percentage of the available real estate in any given room, it is somewhat remarkable she is able to avoid punching me directly in the face as often as she does. 

But I don't appreciate her attempts at sarcasm.

Because domestic abuse is not a joking matter.

Unless it is guys getting hit in the crotch.

That's always funny.

Block'N'Roll

So...hey.

I...I meant to call.  Or text.  Or write.

God, how I meant to write.

Unfortunately, I got a case of Jenny from the Writer's Block and it's crushing the organ that makes my imagination work.  If it makes you feel any better, instead of blogging, I've been staring at this little flashing cursor waiting for my fingers to make some magic.  But, nothing.  I've been unable to finger my blog.

Writer's block is a funny thing.  I've had plenty of ideas for posts - but then nothing happens.  It's like coming up with the first half of a really great analogy, but then...stuff?


What have all of you been doing to fill the void left in your lives as The 'Neck has been on hiatus?  Did you drink too much whiskey and get teary-eyed watching Friday Night Lights?  No.  Er.  Me either, then.

No, I've more or less been doing what I always do - balancing a steady diet of devastating good looks and rock-solid punctuality.

Maybe that is my problem.  Maybe my punctuality has been holding me back.  They say good things come to those that wait.  Maybe I need to just make people wait on me for once - then something good will happen.

Then again, I made you wait four weeks for this blog post.

And this is all you have to show for it.

So maybe I'll go back to being on time - instead of wasting yours.

The 'Neck is back.  And ready to be Read.

Almost Famous

So last week I mentioned I was part of Cleveland Magazine's Blogger Bracket and asked all of you, dear Readers, to vote for me.

Well I lost.

And I can't help but think this has to be hard on you.

You see, I'm awesome.  That is pretty well established.  My feats of awesometude are well documented, my reputation for cool set in stone.

I've got nothing to worry about.

But you, dear Reader, you have failed on the largest of stages.

I'm not mad.  I want you to know that.

I'm just disappointed.

But I also understand this is harder on you than it is for me.  It isn't easy to put SO MUCH hope and dreams behind one thing and then have it yanked out from under you like so many amateur magicians' tablecloths.

Yes, you must be taking this pretty hard.  And let me tell you something - Big Narm is here to be your shoulder to cry on.  I understand what you're going through.  How it feels.  Let's talk it out.

From one loser to another.  

No Shame in Fame

This is a White Collar Redneck exclusive:

Celebrities poop.

It's true.

They stub their toes.

They get deodorant on their shirt.

You know when you pass someone in the hall and they say, "Hey, what's up?" and you accidentally answer, "Good, how are you?"  Celebrities do that, too.

Because they're human.  And they're idiots, just like the rest of us.

Remember when Jenny McCarthy was on Singled Out, wearing low-cut shirts and picking her nose?  That was, in fact, not medical school.  She is not qualified to tell you if you should give your kid a vaccine.

Kim Kardashian is literally only famous for making a sex tape.  Now she endorses products.  People think to themselves, "I wish I could be just like her!" As if she has reached some level that is above that of someone with an iPhone and a Youtube account.  She had the exact same path to success as Keyboard Cat.

Why does this bother me so much?

BECAUSE I WANT IN!  Hook a brother up - I've been cranking out fart jokes for over four years yet Kate Gosselin gets to be famous.  

So here is my shameless plug - please take a moment to go here and vote for White Collar Redneck in Cleveland Magazine's Blogger Bracket.  The bracket continues every Monday so if you could throw a vote out for myself and my good friends over at the Cleveland Movie Blog, I'll throw in another fart joke at no cost.

Also, I've been cheating on you with some sweet NBA ass over at I GO HARD NOW.  Click here to check us out and here specifically for my NBA themed fart jokes..

Taylor Swift Kick In The Ass

Flattered

Know what I don't get enough of?

Flattery.

Think about it - how often do men get compliments?  Do you know how good of a hair day I have to have to receive a compliment on it?  I don't even HAVE enough hair on my head to have a good hair day.  A good hair day for me is a day in which I still have any hair.

And go ahead and ask when the last time someone told me I looked really great in this top.  It is slimming and hits me in the right spots and sometimes a man just needs to hear he's pretty.

Don't get me wrong - I'm comfortable in my awesometude - but that doesn't mean I don't like to hear about it now and again.

But this is bigger than me.  This is about more than just one man and his almost puzzlingly well-groomed beard.

No, this is about all men.

I ask you, women of the world, to pay a man a compliment today.

You are the attractive species.  You got the good looks and the soft features.  You've got the curves.

We've got body hair and pot bellies.

So make a man's day.  Pay him a compliment. 

Because in a few days, he might not be having such a nice hair day.

Trivial

I've realized what's missing in my life...

...other than an ever-increasing amount of hair on the front of my head.

A rival.

How am I supposed to succeed without an evil counterpart working against me?

What is my motivation?

If I want to become the star quarterback, where is the cocky kid with more talent that makes me become the better man?

When I'm down on my luck and fighting to win the heart of a woman, where is the rich, charming guy with an accent that forces me to prove I could love her more than he ever would?

Or what if I'm stranded on an island overrun by mutant dinosaurs and trying to save my children, who is the mole sent by a rival corporation trying to steal dinosaur embryos?

It's bullshit!

It is a minor miracle I've made it this far in life.  What am I competing against?  Where is my antagonist?

Because right now my biggest threat is male-pattern baldness.

And I'm losing that battle.

Flushing Money Away

You are looking at by far the most luxurious item in my house.

Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of nice things, but nothing compares to that.

That, dear Readers, is a $120 toilet flusher thing. 

But I didn't pay $120.  Because that would be crazy.

No, I found it on the clearance rack at Home Depot.

I looked at the guy stocking it and said, "Wait, that ONE toilet-flusher thing is $120?"

To which he responded, "Yeah, but it's on clearance so it is only $60."

Oh, well that makes sense - because $60 for a $5 toilet flusher thing is a STEAL. 

"So why is it on clearance?" I asked.

"Oh, it was part of a set that was sold."

Part of a set?  A set of what?  The toilet has one button - and this is it. Did it come with curtains?  Is there a reverse button?  What the hell was so special about this toilet flusher thing?

I had to own it.

"I'm not paying $60 to flush my toilet.  You'd be an idiot to spend more than $5 on this."

"Alright, I'll do half of that - $30 and it's yours."

What we have now, my friends, is a negotiation.

For $30 I could go buy six toilet flusher thingies and have a party.  They could be like a stocking stuffer.  I could give one to my friends and we could form a secret society of toilet flushers.  Like blood-brothers, but grosser.

"$30 is $25 more than any rational person would pay for a toilet flusher thing."

"Ok, fine - $20."

"$20?  How the hell do you plan on selling this thing?  It was part of a set!"

"Just give me $10 and get that thing out of here, I'm never going to sell it anyways."

And that's how I got a $120 toilet flusher thing.

Now if I could only find the matching set. 

If You're Happy And You Know It

Goddamnit, Internet, shut up.

Quit whining about everything.

Hating shit on the internet is like some new trendy drug.  Read the blogs, check the Twitters - for god's sake check the Facebook page of a middle-aged Mom and you'd think you'd stumbled into the book of Job.

The internet is amazing - it gives you pictures of in-bread cats, and Hipster Ariel, and PORN!

You know when you are getting your haircut and the girl leans way over your chair and her boobs are about one inch from your face?  That's what the internet is like all the time - boobs are just one inch away from your face.

So cheer up.  Enjoy life.  Quit looking for the next great thing to complain about and be happy for 10 minutes. 

Because life kicks ass.  Most people eat a decent meal, see a friend, drink a beer - do SOMETHING good everyday.

And you know what - if you can't find something that makes you happy once a day, it isn't the internet's fault.  The internet has boobs, and you are all 'FML have to do laundry...AGAIN'

Get over it.  Cheer up.  You're annoying everyone.

Including me.

And then I have to complain about it on the internet.

One For The Road

We are a bunch of whiny assholes.

The only thing people like to do more than nothing is complain about the nothing they are doing.

Living in Cleveland, I hear it all the time; "Cleveland sucks, there is nothing to do!"

Really?  Because I went to college in Toledo, so I know a thing or two about nothing doing.

And if that isn't good enough?  I was raised in Delphos, Ohio - a town of 6,000 people that is 45 miles from the nearest free-standing Starbucks.

Think about that for a minute.  There are places where the nearest Starbucks is literally across the street from a different Starbucks.  And my hometown doesn't have one within 45 miles.  If you were divide the amount of miles the Proclaimers were willing to walk just to fall down at your door by 20, it would be roughly the same amount of walking it would take to get a tall, non-fat latte.

So I get it - we're all bored and there is nothing to do.

My question is - how much more crap do you need?

Think about your social schedule and how often you REALLY go somewhere new and different.  I'm not saying your life is an episode of Cheers - but I'm willing to guess you stick to the same five places with a new place sprinkled in once a month.

If people were really so desperate for something new to do, Applebees' parking lot wouldn't be full on a Friday night while I am the only table at that delicious burger place at the end of my street. 

Anyone in a major U.S. city should have no trouble finding something to do.  And, if they do - I invite them to come back to Delphos with me so I can show them how to entertain themselves.

A new Starbucks just opened up - and if we hurry, we can be there in an hour!

Pretty Woman

Men are ugly.

Let's just get that out there.

The best looking man in the world is still uglier than an average looking female.  We're hairy and awkward and compared to women - we don't really take care of ourselves all that well.  Hell, my cat plays in his own litterbox but still gives himself a lick-down everyday.  I went 3 straight days without a shower this weekend.

For those reasons, I struggle to see how anyone could be physically attracted to a man.  Yet, most women and some men are into that - and that's cool.

Because we can't really control what makes our loins become our Loins. 

Women complain about men being shallow because they are turned on by a large chest or long legs - but is that really our fault?  I can't control what makes physically attracted to someone, right?  It is a physical reaction - like being mad at someone for having a peanut allergy. 

But what if you COULD control what you found attractive?  There is no question I would make myself be attracted to ugly people. 

Think about it - the entire world is fighting over tight bodies and pretty faces - there would be NO competition for the uggos out there.  While everyone is drooling over Marissa Miller you could slide up to Rosie O'Donnell like, 'How you, girl?'

And get turned down.

Because even Rosie O'Donnell doesn't think guys are attractive. 

Wolverine Sucks

Ok - that title is a bit of baiting wrapped in a chewy layer of hyperbole and nougat.

Wolverine doesn't suck - he has adamantium claws and the ability to heal himself. If it weren't for that haircut, he'd be nearing Tom Hanks levels of cool.

But I think we've all taken the Wolverine love a bit too far.

In a world where mutants can control thoughts, move objects with their minds, fly, shoot lasers - and a bevy of other tricks - some claws and rapid-healing aren't that spectacular.  In fact, they're barely impressive. I barely ever catch a cold - is that a super power?  And are claws really that large an upgrade over just holding a damn knife?

Know what I can't do?  Shoot lasers out of my eyes. That's what.

I know, I know, Cyclops sucks. In fact, you could argue that Cyclops' only real role in the X-Men is to act as the antagonist to Wolverine. He is the pretty-boy, do-good, entitled jerk that makes us all swoon at Wolverine's leather jackets and motorcycle.

But, in a fight against mutants?  I want the guy with laser beam eyeballs instead of the guy with long fingernails. Wolverine could be captured and contained fairly easily. Cyclops winks and all that's left are some smoldering tree limbs.

Let's put it this way, if Cyclops had Wolverine's personality, we'd all be talking about how great those sunglasses look and how Wolverine's haircut is stupid.

And how neither of them is as cool as Tom Hanks.