The Chief

Chief Shit Talker. Keeper of the Throne. Loser of Every Argument.

They call me The Chief. Nobody voted. I just showed up one day with a can of gold spray paint, a toilet, and a vision, and nobody had the energy to stop me. I’ve been running this outfit ever since, from the only room in the house with a lock on the door.

The aviators stay on indoors. People ask why. The answer is that the glare off my own brilliance is a real occupational hazard, and also I lost my regular glasses. They’re on my head. They’re always on my head.

The facts, such as they are

• Home base: Ohio. A garage with a fridge that clunks, a grill that nobody else touches and a basement throne painted a color my wife calls “a cry for help.”
• Facial hair: Salt-and-pepper goatee. The salt arrived the day my first kid learned the word “why.”
• Uniform: Black tee. Mirrored aviators. A hat I wear to the hardware store because a man represents his household in public.
• Tape measures owned: Four. Located: zero.
• Thermostat setting: 68. It’s always 68. It’ll be 68 at my funeral.
• Arguments won against my wife: Still counting. Still at zero.

Why Shit 4 Men exists

Because everything for guys got soft. Every product comes in “charcoal” and smells like a mountain nobody’s ever climbed. Every joke comes with a disclaimer. Meanwhile, the real conversations still happen where they always have: at the grill, in the garage, in the truck on the way to the dump, and on the can.

So I built a place for that guy. The guy who laughs at the wrong time. The guy who borrows your ladder and brings it back cleaner. The guy who tells the same dad joke 400 times because it gets funnier for him. If that’s you, welcome home. Grab a beer from the garage fridge. Not the last one. Never the last one.

What I’m not

I’m not a doctor, a lawyer, a marriage counselor or a financial advisor. I’m a guy on a golden toilet with a keyboard. If you take life advice from me, that’s on you, and frankly, it says a lot about the advice you’ve been getting.

I’m also not mean for the sake of mean. Crude? Absolutely. Foul? Every chance I get. But we don’t punch down here. We punch sideways, like brothers at Thanksgiving. Anybody who shows up looking for hate is in the wrong bathroom.

Talk to me

Got a complaint? Drop it in the Bitch Box. Got a story? Leave it in the comments on any post. Want to look like you belong here? The Shop is open, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, including when I’m on the throne, which is most of the time.

Long live the throne.
— The Chief