What do you do on a rainy day?

You ride your bike inside.

ALL DAY LONG.

Over and over and over again.

Sometimes you might get bored of the monotonous route so you turn your handlebars around and ride with them backwards. You know. Just to mix it up.

Mom the Magnificent

Every night before Max goes to sleep we both climb into his bed and read a book together. One of those books happens to be one of my favorite books to read when I was a boy:

Now I'm not talking about a copy of the one I used to read. I'm specifically talking about the exact same book. -In fact, if you flip open the cover, you'll see my name and phone number permanent markered in my Kindergarten attempt at cursive letters.

See, my mum was cool enough to save boxes upon boxes of my childhood toys and books and secretly stashed them in the attic after I grew tired of them - or maybe just left them laying around too many times. Whichever it was, millenia later, after having grown up, married, purchased a home and with kids of my own, my mum dug up those hidden boxes of pure nostalgia and gave them to me. I've since unpacked them like a giddy little school boy on Christmas morning.

Most of the toys have been re-stashed on the top shelf in Max's closet until he's a bit older and promises not to eat any pieces of my Micro Machine Super City Playset.

The books, on the other hand are seeing some action already. And this brings us back to the featured story: Max recently pointed out that grandpa and Marc the Magnificent know each other. Every time he sees this picture he points to I think you can figure out who, and yells, "GRANDPA!".

The downside to the story is that I think grandpa's going to have some explaining to do because Max keeps seeing him with this hot blond and has started asking where grandma is.

"You gotta ouchie dad?"

After riding Bobsled on my Epic, I've decided it's kinda like getting into a knife fight... only instead of bringing a Samurai Sword I took a spork.

On the bright side, I'll be picking this scab off my arm in about a week, packaging it as Beef Jerky and selling it on the side of the road. That guy on the side of Highway 6 that you pass on your way to Moab needs some competition.

Libbie Vogelsberg

Sunday, May 17th, 2009 at 8:41 AM

6 lbs, 15 ounces - 19 1/2 inches

A proud dad:

A wonderful mother:

And an excited big brother:

>

"When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

It's time to break the silence. I realize I'm probably going to get into some trouble for this one but truthfully, I'm going to be completely unapologetic about not wanting to look at your dog's junk. I think that statement would be obvious, yet people actually buy dogs that are genetically predisposed to mooning the world. See:

(I've censured the following image for the sake of the children)

Look, I'm a dog guy. I always have been. The fact that I no longer have a dog of my own only means that my disdain for picking up poo exceeded the joys I received from having a mutt of my own. If you're a dog lover and you actually own a dog, good for you. It seems you might just love your dog as much as I love my kid because for no one else am I willing to handle feces. Not even my wife. Let me break it down for you;

If you're a cat lover, I have nothing to say to you. But I do have have plenty to type... For example: There are many clear advantages of owning a dog over a cat. Happy tail wagging beats creepy purring any day of the week. And I'll take an affectionate dog kiss (slobbery as it may be) over a scratchy cat tongue or that annoying rub against my shins. Not to mention the fact that dogs actually like people. Cats just stare at you in silent judgment. I have enough feelings of inferiority as it is and I don't need some snooty cat strutting around my house thinking it's better than me.

Despite that, the number one advantage dogs have over cats is the canine propensity toward modesty. Most dogs have a tasteful tail that considerately drapes over their exit ramp. However, no such characteristic exists for cats. This means every time a cat walks away from you, you end up catching a glimpse of the One Eyed Jack. You try not to look. Honestly, it's the last thing on earth you want to see, but it's like a strobe light. You've got to intentionally close your eyes to avoid it. And this is exactly what makes the curly tailed dog so irritating. It negates one of the primary desirable characteristics of their species. And this of course brings us back to the topic at hand.

I now direct my efforts to the owners of Pugs, Chows, Shar Peis and other dogs with tails that curl upward. Allow me to respectfully explain it to you; no one wants to see your dog's rectum. No one. Ever. And because you're the one who brought that unholy abomination into my life, I think it's up to you to do something about it.

Look, a dog's tail is the way it is. But for some reason you felt compelled to buy one with no regard for moral decency. Why you would choose to own a Pug instead of a Beagle, or a German Shepherd, or a goldfish is beyond me. I guess some people prefer their dogs to have bulging eyeballs and the inability to breath clearly from their noise.

Its clear that the dog isn't gonna do anything about their Red Eye to the Sky so as I stated earlier, this places the burden of hiding that dreaded wrinkled star from the involuntary glance of the reluctant public squarely on your shoulders. But friend, I would rather light a candle than curse your darkness. And that's why I've created this:

I'm currently developing a tasteful and modest "Dog Bumhole Cover Upper Because I'm Sick Of Looking At That Thing And Clearly You, The Owner Are Not Going To Do Anything About It So I've Taken Matters Into My Own Hands".

Because it's such a long name, I've decided to abbreviate it. I'm calling it the "DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH" for short and you can find them at DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH.com.

My prototype consists of an eye patch from my Halloween pirate costume that is connected to the dog's collar. This way when your bug eyed, snorting Pug walks away, you get a glimpse of a cool skull and cross bones instead of the winking eye of death.

As technologically advanced as it is, I'm going to write off all the capital I've invested in research and development and I'm practically giving away the DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH because it's for a good cause. Act now and for only four payments of $19.99 you can experience the preferred alternative of ridding your friends lives of your dog's shameless exhibitionism.

La-ia Vogelsberg

We're down to the wire here people. Babygirl Vogelsberg will be joining us soon but we still don't have a name. Ashlee and I continue negotiations but to no avail. We decided to bring Max in as a mediator but he likes names like, Yogurt, Motorcycle and Shoot Hoops!, which I'm not entirely apposed to considering the freak-nasty granola names Ashlee keeps putting on the list. Needless to say, we need a name and that reminds me of a good story:

One of the labors I enjoyed most while letting my dad pay my way through college was substitute teaching at a middle school in Rose Park. And for those of you who have never ventured to the West siiieeeeed, don't be fooled by the common nomenclature that because it's a "park", its a pleasant little ditty in the middle of a city. (don't even act like that that wasn't a sweet little rhyme with a catchy little rhythm)

Now, I can understand why the local government would try to hide the fact that Rose Park is anything BUT rosey or parkish, but I also think there should be a bit more honesty in a name. That said, I think it should be called Rose Thorn or maybe Gang-banger Park. It's the same reason I think my parents should have named me Thecoolestdangkidontheplanetandwithfreakinggoodlookstoboot Alan Vogelsberg. I guess they figured I'd have a hard time spelling that so they settled on David Alan Vogelsberg instead. Whadaya do?

Truth be known, Rose Park isn't near the scariest or most dangerous place I've been. Nor is it the Compton that Utahan's claim it to be. Nevertheless, it is more than just a golf course away from a country club. I mean how many times have you seen guys waving guns around on your way to work?

Specifically, North West Middle School is an ESL (English as a Secondary Language) school with the majority of enrollees being Hispanic and African immigrants. That's not to say I didn't have other demographics like Germans, Russians and other foreign nationals in my classroom (most of which spoke no English), but its true, the majority were from Mehhicco so mostly we habla'd Espanol.

I taught 7th and 8th graders who, for the most part were accustomed to the ways of the psuedo-gangsta because of the environment in which they lived. Regretfully most had at least known someone, or even had a family member, who was either incarcerated or shot at. Despite the affiliation, these kids were harmless. Too small to hurt you and too young to punk you. They just needed some influence from someone other than eminem (sorry Marshal, I meant eminem) or Tupac.

Now I'm not saying I was the influence they needed or even the one who could help these kids choose a better path. Quite frankly, I recognized early on that they looked at me like I was some nerdy Peabody trying with all his might to be cool. They called me Mr. Dave and asked, "Why you always wear North Face man? You don't got no Dickies". I knew I was finally accepted when they started calling me "Foo", as in "What up fool?".

One of my preferred memories at Northwest Middle School involved choosing a new mascot: The city decided Northwest Middle School was a scab on the map and as a consequence planned to demolish the building and relocate to a newer, nicer facility (read; further West and farther away from the Gateway Shopping Center). Someone suggested it was time for a new mascot too... something like, The Jets for example, being that the new school would be close to the airport. As faculty and staff we decided to survey the student body and let them vote for their new mascot. Little did we suspect eighty two percent of the student body - THAT'S 82 PERCENT ! - penciled in 50 Cent as the leading candidate. Let me clarify: they weren't suggesting two quarters, five dimes, ten nickles or fifty pennies. They were suggesting 50 Cent the gangsta YO! How telling is that?

Anyway. That's not what we were talking about. We were talking about names.

One day, we're working on registration for the next semester. A couple, parents of one of the students, reaches the front of the line and hands the girl next to me an application with the name "La-ia" on it. We look at the name, look at each other, scratch our heads, and the girl next to me apologetically mumbles something that sounded like "Luh-eeeuh?". The mother flashes a big forgiving smile, leans over to put her hand on the girl's shoulder and says, "Oh no honey, that dash ain't silent. It's Ladasha".

Now THAT is awesome. So awesome, I'm pulling out my trump card on this one. We're going with La-ia Vogelsberg. Well, on second thought, I'll meet Ashlee and Max half way... La-ia Yogurt Vogelsberg.

Bea Arthur, Be Naked

I saw a bumper sticker once that said that and I thought it was funny. Funny in that "make me throw up in the back of my mouth" kind of way. But that's a mean thing to say about a classy woman who just passed away.

Bea Arthur, better know as Dorothy Zbornak, died and it's a shame. That's now two of the four Golden Girls that have passed away in the last little while. I considered doing some long winded send off memorial tribute to the baritone beauty but it would have been a rehash of my Sofia tribute. So instead, I thought I would treat us all to the single greatest moment in the history of the Star Wars franchise. But wait. What does Bea Arthur have to do with Star Wars?, you ask. Let me tell you, thereby proving you a source of endless joy.

In 1978, in an attempt to capitalize on the success of the first Star Wars movie, some TV producer somewhere greenlit the unholy abomination known as the Star Wars Christmas Special. The story goes that Han Solo needs to get Chewie back to his home planet of Kashyyk in time for Life Day. Apparently they didn't have Christmas a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I guess it was just too far for Santa's reigndeer (no offense Rudolf). If, on the other hand, Santa had a Millenium Falcon, things would have been different because "It's the ship that made the Kessel in twelve parsecs". Dude. That's fast. Buuuuut, we all know how Han was about lending out his Millenium Falcon. Even to Santa Clause. So they bagged Christmas and had Life Day instead.

Anyway, one of the scenes from that awful Christmas Special involves a musical number preformed by our beloved Bea. Cast as a bartender named Ackmena, she's working in the Mos Eisley Cantina. The Empire enforces a curfew putting her out of business. Her response? A deep voiced jazzy, New Orleans style, musical number. Take that, you dirty, evil Empire!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzXKySxPFCI&feature=player_embedded

No, this is not Spaceballs or Hardware Wars. In fact, it's no spoof at all. It's episode 4.5, starring Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill and the rest the original cast. If you doubt my word, check out the following musical number by a coked out of her mind Carrie Fisher in which she sings a crappy Life Day song to the tune of the Star Wars theme. My favorite part is the look on Harrison Ford's face (at 3:15) that seems to say, "What am I doing to my career?".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLfjqzLsPgw&feature=player_embedded

Holy Wookie! Check out the slow dissolves between the main characters as Leia sings, the clips from the movie seamlessly interwoven with the new footage, the crowd of fully robed Wookiees walking creepily through space, and the fact that Carrie Fisher is singing in a completely different tune than the music accompanying her. And yet as laughably awful as it all is, it is still more tolerable than Hayden Christensen's acting.

But back to my original point. Bea Arthur, classy broad. You'll be missed. Actually, I haven't seen anything you've done since the Golden Girls, except for that one Malcom In the Middle episode where you babysat Dewey (and then died...). So I guess nothing's really going to change. But Bea, you'll always have a warm place in my heart.

Creamed Corn it is...

So I don't necessarily have a rant about creamed corn other than it could only have come from the dirty dirty South. But I do have a rant about Pork n Beans which will suffice.

What's the deal with the blob of white fatty tissue that pops up half way through your bowl of pork n beans? You know what I'm talking about. It's that danged gelatinous mass of brain tumor that for some reason Heinz decides to leave in the can! And why is it that pork n beans can only be served on plates made of Styrofoam or paper? Neither lend to a suitable situation. It either keeps soaking through your paper plates until you've got 14 of them piled up to stop the bleeding or you were lucky enough to get a Styrofoam one but you screwed it all up because you poked your flipping fork right through it and now your balancing your plate so the juice doesn't drip through the hole onto your pants.

Despite the hassle I used to love Pork and Beans when I was a kid. And I mean LOVE pork and beans. Mostly we just ate them on camping trips because that was the way we rolled. Pimpin' the '64 DrummerBoy pop-tent trailer (my dad still protests, "It was Salmon, NOT pink!") was like a pork n bean pantry on wheels. We'd pull into the campground, pop that trailer and eat pork n beans by the fire all night. Sometimes mum would make it extra delightful and throw in a cut up hot dog. YATZEE!

Anyway. I loved me some of them pork and beans. And I loved em good. Until, that is, I spooned up the biggest chunk of white pork n bean fat that humanity has ever documented and I asked my brother what it was. He said it was the "mother bean" and that I should eat it because they were delish! He furthered the deceit by asking if he could have it. (BTW, this is the same big brother that had me convinced the daylight moon was the Deathstar and that Vader was watching me at all times and in all places). Upon his advice (alright, it was probably more his wanting it that urged me to eat it myself) I slurped it in my mouth, tried to chew a bite, smooooshed it with my tongue and then gagged a puke. Alas, I have never bean able to eat Pork and Beans since.

The "Mother Bean"...freak. I shall ne'er be the same.

someone give me a topic please so I can go on ranting.

Alright Gatorade, I'm putting my foot down on this one.

Am I alone in being confused by this ad? Not only is one of these things not like the others, but it seems Gatorade is actually trying to pitch a bunch of mimes as the new cool thing. C'mon. Seriously? Friggin MIMES!?

It feels weird to have to tell the trend setting authorities of consumer America (Nike, Sprite, McDonald's, Gatorade and the likes) that you shouldn't be sponsoring mimes. Even if a bunch of them group together and call themselves the Jabbawockeez... I think my spell check just exploded.

What? You don't think they're mimes? Umm, are their faces white? Do they wear white gloves? Do they go through motions pretending to use objects that aren't really there? Check. Check. And check. Told you they were mimes.

Look. A mime is a mime. No matter how you dress it up with watered down street cred and Kangol hats, it's still a mime! And we all know that mimes are the lowest form of entertainment ever introduced. That's right. The lowest. Even lower than Nickelback.

The fact that they danced with Fatty McGoo at the NA All Star Game does not make them cool either. There's plenty of evidence to go around which demonstrates Shaq does not have the power to make lame things cool.

A million dollar idea that I am giving away for free:

You know how in every bag of potato chips there is one chip that is extra toasty? It's darker than the rest of the chips and completely delicious? Not the rotten one that is kind of green. The one that is perfectly toasted to a crispy brown.

Why is there only one of them per bag? Frito needs to come out with a bag of these. Just the extra toasted chips. It's a simple thing to do.

Fellas... and hairy lipped women,

Am I the only one who gets the tissue-residue mustache after blowing my nose? Granted, it only happens after I've neglected to shave for a day or two. But regardless, my wife giggles like a little school girl every time I blow my nose and walk away with bits of shredded Kleenex clinging to the stubble.

Typically I don't notice and she thinks that its pretty funny. I have no idea how many times I've walked around the office with a little white Charlie Chaplin mustache after blowing my nose...

Ugh. Soccer.

I noticed a new billboard for Real Salt Lake prodding me to buy season soccer tickets. And here's my list of reasons why I am not never, ever, fa-eva eva buying season soccer tickets:

1) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (just kidding mum).

2) Soccer is the only sport where people cheer what could have potentially happened. In no other sport will a player who messes up a chance to score be getting a standing ovation. In a soccer game it's usually the only chance you get to cheer because NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.

3) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (still just joshin' mum).

4) Soccer is so boring fans actually make up and sing entire 9 verse songs to occupy their minds - while the game is going on!

5) Too much writhing in pain and crying like fairies when it's obvious they were never touched. The last game I went to some dude sitting behind me tried to explain that this was all strategy. It's an awesome strategy if you're looking to pick up a date in a gay bar.

6) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (hi ho mum).

7) We only go with the Hubrichs because Hans is the coolest and Cami's got it going on too. If they're ain't no Hubrichs, they're ain't no tickets.

8) Smoke bombs and rolls of toilet paper are only thrown on the field during the playoffs. If someone would guarantee that smoke bombs and rolls of toilet paper were thrown on the field every game... and the Hubrichs were there... no-one sissies it up faking injury... oh and someone actually made a goal... well then, season tickets I guess.

As some of you know, HBO will soon be airing a new episode of the television series, “Big Love”. Said episode is reported to include a scene depicting a religious ceremony performed in a temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The details of which, to publicize and make available for entertainment purposes, not only shocks me but also offends as I consider like ceremonies and places to be both private and sacred. In response, I have written a letter to HBO and urge you to voice your opinion as well. But please do so with sensitivity, courtesy and respect. For I imagine that is what you’d like in return.

The following link has been provided by HBO in order to field opinions and feedback regarding their network and broadcasts.

http://www.hbo.com/apps/submitinfo/contactus/submit.do

This is the letter I sent:

To Whom it May Concern, I am not a subscriber to HBO, nor would I consider myself as belonging to your target audience. I don’t pretend to think my voice would have any sway on the decisions of a large entertainment entity such as HBO. Despite that, I wish to express my thoughts regarding the purported forthcoming depiction of an LDS Temple Ceremony on the show “Big Love”.

I am LDS, and like most members of my faith, consider the temple to be a holy place. I believe that in temples I can draw closer to my Creator than anywhere else on Earth. Think about that for a moment.

You may not have the same beliefs as I do, but if you consider what such a place would mean, you will quickly see why we hold temples to be so holy. That being the case, I cannot consider the depiction of the ceremonies performed inside the temple for entertainment purposes as anything but mere mockery and disrespect for my beliefs. That is not to say that I will be devastated, that I cannot handle your television show being in existence, or that my beliefs will be crushed by a little opposition. I will, of course, go on in my belief in God and the teachings of Jesus Christ as I ever have. After all, this won’t be the first time that someone has been insensitive to my faith.

However, before running the forthcoming episode, please consider those things that you hold most dear in your life – those things that mean more to you than you can convey in words. If you do not have such things in your life, I am sorry. If you do, but you are willing to have them paraded around for the sake of entertainment – and that is your undeniable right – again, I feel sorry for you. On the other hand, if there are things in your life that you do consider holy or sacred, things that you do hold dear to you heart and you would not want those things mocked and trampled on, please recognize that by airing the aforementioned episode you are about to do that to someone else.

Thank you.

I Love To See The Temple

I love to see the temple.
I'm going there someday
To feel the Holy Spirit,
To listen and to pray.

For the temple is a house of God,
A place of love and beauty.
I'll prepare myself while I am young;
This is my sacred duty.

I love to see the temple.
I'll go inside someday.
I'll cov'nant with my Father;
I'll promise to obey.

For the temple is a holy place
Where we are sealed together.
As a child of God, I've learned this truth;
A fam'ly is forever.

I went skiing backcountry last night

and saw footprints of a deer that pondered, then followed...

30 years ago...

I had plenty of time to ride my bike.

World Peace is worth a thousand bucks.

I finished dry-walling the basement last night and today I called Mr. Bowles ("That's Bowles as in more than one bowl, not more than one bowel" ...oops. My mistake Mr. one organ past the intestines). He came over to give me a bid on finishing the mud, tape and texture (aka hiding all of my handy work) and it's more than I wanted to pay but I gave him the go ahead anyway after a quick analysis of the situation;

Yah I could finish the basement. I can mud. I can tape. I can probably even figure out how to texture. But it will take me forever and I will do an imperfect job that I'll regret so long as we own this house. I'll point out all of the imperfections to everyone who comes over and lies to my face telling me, "It looks great Dave". I'll bemoan the whole deal and curse myself into a rotten mood and I'll take it out on my wife. She'd kick me out. I'd have to live in our pop-tent trailer somewhere in Oklahoma. Max and Whatever-we're-going-to-call-her would grow up without a dad. They'd do drugs. Max wouldn't go on a mission and Whatever-we're-going-to-call-her would be pregnant before she graduates high school. And for what? A thousand bucks?! FORGET IT! We're hiring this out because the inverse is so sweet;

See, I won't have to do it. It will look good. Professional even. I'll kick back on the couch and catch a game. I'll go skiing. Ride my bike. I'll wake up with a smile on my face. My wife will adore my cheerful demeanor and my warm embrace. She won't be able to keep her hands off me. Our children will idolize me, mimic my every move. They will become successful in the home and successful in the workplace. They'll open orphanages. Bring world peace. The world will be a better place for everyone.

Now THAT is worth a thousand bucks.

This explains it Ash... it's against my religion.

My mom only loves me for my blog...

I got an email from my mom today. And this is all it said,

"Dave, it’s time for a new blog…..love mom."

On the brighter side, my mom and dad are flying in for some skiing. Well, my dad will be skiing. My mum will be going to the British Shop with Ashlee spending gads of money on sub-par black licorice and nasty "Digestive Biscuits". Seriously? "Digestive Biscuits"? You couldn't come up with a better name for a chocolate covered graham cracker? Howabout "chocolate covered graham cracker"? That's far more likely to entice me than "Digestive Biscuit".

Hypothetical conversation:

"I say, would you happen to have any Digestive Biscuits?"

"Sorry lad. We're flush out, howabout you try some Fleet."

Anyway, what was I saying? Right; my folks are flying in for the annual Vogelsberg ski week. And that always reminds me of the day my mom wanted to divorce my dad. In fact, I think if there had been a judge and a pen on sight that day, it would have been over. Thank goodness there wasn't, because my mum would have dragged us kids back to the land of Eng and I would have had the most British-proper, gobbley-gook accent ever. No offense mum.

Back to the story. In 1982 my dad took the family to Alta (I think he wants his ashes sprinkled over Sugarloaf). And being the learn-from-your-own-experiences/make-your-own-decisions kind of guy that he is, he figured we'd be fine skiing the Sunnyside lift... without any practice. Oh wait, there were the few runs we managed by the rope-tow. But after three rides of hanging on for dear life, tripping all over our skis and poles and tearing our gloves to pieces, we were upgraded to the chairlift: ready to risk life and limb to save our gloves. Never-the-less, most of the family did fine. We skied with smiles and sweet outfits...

(btw, I make no apologies for my attire. My parents dressed me as embarrassingly as possible to keep the ladies away. Women were chasing me in harems even then)

...well, most of us skied with smiles. My mom was petrified. She took one look at the sloping mountain lying in wait and she lost it. Threw a fit. Cursed my dad. And then just cried. She proceeded to take off her skis and carried them down the mountain, leaving a trail of boot holes all along the way as she trudged back to the lodge.

I don't think she talked to my dad for the rest of the year.

Rest assured though, they stuck it out and my dad managed to make amends. In fact, from that year to current date, he still romantically picks up the last flowers available -usually a week old and dying- from whatever gas station he can find that is still open at 11:59 PM on Valentines Day. He's kind of made a tradition of it.

On an even brighter side: here's a sweet picture of my brother. I might mention here that though I undoubtedly warranted his abuse, he has never beat me up. Never even hit me (there was, however, the time I think he would have put me in a wheel-chair had I not outrun him after I hosed him down with the sprinkler in the back yard). He's really a pacifist. This might change that. Cheers bro!

I almost forgot! Dad, don't forget to bring the Juicy Fruit! Skiing is way more fun with Juicy Fruit.

Do we really need 20/20's help to figure this one out?

Dear World,

Look, since I know I am the source of unquestioned, non-biased, and strictly factual information for almost ones of people, I feel a need to clarify this super complex question for you. THIS IS NOT A MAN!!!

The following should help clear things up. It's an excerpt from my "Dave's Guide To Distinguishing A Man From A Pseudo-man Who Is Really Only A Shameless Fame-Chasing Bearded Woman":

Chapter 1

"THIS ISN'T A MAN!!! No it's not! Want to know how I know that? Because men can't have babies! Never, ever under any circumstances can a man have a baby. Arnold Schawrzenegger doesn't count because he isn't a man. He's a horned Barbarian. Nor does a seahorse count because a seahorse isn't a man either."

I hope this helps.