TSR, or Testosterone Stupid Rage is
an affliction where the testosterone in a male floods his brain, and is often
brought on by his own stupidity or negligence.
This flood of hormones results in the male flying into a fit, acting
irrationally and erratically, and usually results in harm to himself and often
inanimate objects.
Am I man bashing? No, most definitely not. But why can’t we label the male cycle the way
that the female cycle has been labeled for decades? How often do you hear someone refer to a
female as PMS’ing when she flies off in a fit or becomes a raving lunatic for
no other apparent reason? Why then can
we not say the same about the males of our species?
Still unclear about what TSR
is? Let me give you real world example
of TSR to help make it abundantly clear.
I was married to a man years ago who restored beautiful vintage
motorcycles as a hobby. Our home had a
separate garage for this hobby, with four big roll up garage doors and a shop
area at the end. One particular day
had been a rather difficult day for him, and to say he was in a bad mood would
be rather obvious. He decided to go
putter in his garage for a while, which men often do when they need to think or
ponder, and I gave him time to putz around some before wandering down there to
hang out with him to see if he wanted to talk.
When I arrived, he was looking at the fender to a motorcycle, and did
not do much more than acknowledge my presence.
I decided to hang out and give him some time to open up, so I parked my
rear on one those stools with wheels on the bottom which was in the middle of
the garage right next to a work bench full of tools and parts.
Earlier, he had pulled my Lincoln
into the far garage door to replace a light bulb and it sat there proudly, just
past his prize Indian motorcycle, a matching pair of BMW cruisers he had
restored for us, and about 10 other motorcycles. To complete the lay of the land, the back
wall of the garage was floor to ceiling parts, pieces, saddlebags, fairings,
tools, and anything else you can imagine, all stored neatly on shelves or
pegboard racks.
I began to fiddle with a switch that
was lying on the workbench, and he shot me an occasional glance and at one
point informed me it was an ignition switch for a “blah blah blah blah”
motorcycle. No, I did not bother to
catalog those details, yet another difference between men and women, because to
this day I am certain he could tell you the make, year and model of the
motorcycle that switch went to. I
responded with a somewhat interested “Oh, OK”, and laid it back on the
workbench, and he turned his attention back to the fender. Apparently, he had decided he needed to cut a
short length of board to brace the fender as he pounded on it to wield it back
to it’s original shape. He had the
board, and the saw at hand, so he picked up the circular saw, and being a
contractor by trade, he of course had the saw’s guard lever taped back out of
the way so that it operated without the need for the safety device to be
engaged each time. For those of you who
are not intimately versed in small tools, a circular saw holds a 6 to 10 inch
round blade with teeth all the way around the circle, and this blade spins at a
high velocity in order to cut through items.
The safety guard is designed to keep the saw from running if not
engaged, therefore if dropped or picked up by someone who should not be
operating it, the saw will shut off if the guard is not engaged. HOWEVER, most contractors find the guard
annoying, since they know full well how to operate the device, and therefore
they affix it permanently into the engaged position with Duck tape or a welder
or whatever means they have, allowing for the saw to run freely without this
safety feature.
Now, being in a rather hasty mood,
he picked up the length of wood, and rather than taking the time to clamp it
down to a solid surface to hold it safely while he cut the piece that he
needed, he decided he could hold the board against his leg with one hand, and
operate the saw with the other hand in order to expedite the process.
Here comes the punch line….. He almost had the board cut, and he went to
pull the saw upward away from the board, but the saw blade kicked against the
wood, causing the wood to jump and causing him to nick his leg with the
spinning saw blade. There were technically
two wounds, the first being a slight nick to his leg. Now I describe the wound as a nick, and it
did rip his pants, and it did indeed draw blood, but there was no need for more
than Bactine and a Band-aid to treat it.
The bigger injury however, was definitely to his ego.
In a split second of the saw making
contact with his leg, he threw the wood to the floor and flung the still
spinning circular saw across the garage in a classic TSR fit brought on by the
flood of testosterone to his brain from said blow to his ego. The look on his face was that of a mad man,
but it was short lived, for not a half second after the saw left his grip did
he realize the impending results of his actions and a new look of fear and
panic set in. Fear you say? Yes, fear. For the still spinning saw
was sailing across the garage headed in the direction of my Lincoln and the
collection of his beloved motorcycles.
With lightning quick speed, he grabbed for the electrical cord to the
apparatus in an attempt to pull it back. His first attempt was not
a complete success, but he did manage to bring the destructive device down to
the concrete floor where it began skittering across the cold concrete toward
his beloved Indian motorcycle, sparks flying, clattering at what seemed to be
100 decibels as the cold steel blade dug into the concrete floor.
Why was the saw not shutting off
since he no longer had his finger on the trigger that engages the power? Well another modification contractors make is
to shave down the interior of the switch so that it engages easily, and since
he had slung it through the air, the force apparently was enough to keep the
switch fully engaged. Brilliant
right?
So now you might be asking yourself,
“Where were you during this entire ruckus?” I
had relocated my stool by pushing myself back up against the bench behind me
and ducking up under the top, almost crawling into the shelf hopeful that the sturdy
structure could offer me some protection should the terroristic spinning
monster head my way. This, as fate would
have it, is exactly what it did once he grabbed the cord again and gave it a
slingshot maneuver in the opposite direction of his beloved Indian
motorcycle. So here comes the still
spinning saw, headed right for me, whining through the air as the blade spun at
its maximum attainable revolutions per minute.
He lurched for the cord a third time, made contact and brought the
devil’s tool to the ground once again sending it clattering across the floor,
sparks flying only to come to rest against the tire of a Triumph motorcycle
which it ate into briefly before finally dying.
Silence ensued and the sparks burned out, a drastic
difference from the flying embers and cacophony of clattering that had just
ensued. After several moments, my husband let out a big rush of air from his
lungs. Not a sigh, but more like a
release of air from where you have been breathing heavily and holding your
breath simultaneously. He stood there
for another few moments, looked down at his leg and inspected the trickle of
blood, let out another big release of air and then turned to look at me, panting, his chest heaving and his
face bright red from his anger. I am not
sure however what he was more angry about, the incident itself, or the fact
that I had witnessed it. I raised my
head up a bit over the shelf to look at him, arching my eyebrows in an
expression of "Is it over?" He
mumbled, "Are you alright?" and I responded "Yes, I am
fine."
Now how else would you explain this calamity
if it were not for Testosterone Stupid Rage?
What else would posses a man to throw a running circular saw at some of
his most prized possessions?
Well when you can explain that one,
perhaps you can explain why his wife could not keep her big mouth shut. For I, of course, being a woman with a
smart aleck attitude and a quick wit, could not stop myself and looked up at
him from my hiding spot under the work bench, still half perched on my stool and
said, “How did that work out for you?” This brought on TSR tantrum number two.
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