See new products such as the Vietham cap, golf-shirt, and more.

But Pax Thien is merely a Vietnamese boy, what does this have to do with Vietnamese men? In a mere decade, Pax will already be in the pubescent bloom that produces some of the signature Viet male physical traits: dark, languishing eyes, tempestuously flaring nostrils, and regal cheekbones.

“Viet Ham appreciates Miss Jolie’s long-term valuation of Vietnamese men–no doubt she is prescient in her confidence that little Pax will eventually outrival her own “hotness” and in turn generate a lot of interest in Vietnamese men down the road,” said Malaise, founder of VietHam.com.

About VietHam.com
VietHam.com, first established as a personal blog on Blogspot (later acquisition by Google), is a US-based cultural thinktank focused on improving the traditional and changing image of the Vietnamese man, and believes that there isn’t enough publicity or awareness about Vietnamese men in US popular culture, politics, and business. VietHam.com revolutionizes the stereotypical Vietnamese male cultural presence by aggregating stories (’evidential ham’), both literal and figurative, that showcase Vietnamese men in all their beauty, eloquence, and understated finery.

VietHam.com is headquartered out of Woodinville, Washington. For more information, visit: http://www.vietham.com.

He perfectly captures the Orlando Bloom highschool senior photo pose. This delicate Vietnamese beauty should be put to a Shakespearean sonnet…hmm…let me see, how about sonnet 36:

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which, though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

And that’s the secret. Once men realize the intensity and breadth of the relationship between horse and woman, they can better plan for life with a permanent third wheel. Why fight something that won’t go away, right? Instead, men should view this as an opportunity to:

a) Close the deal if she’s trying to figure out your ECI (Equine Compassion Index) score before giving you final approval

b) Learn the lingo, understand the valuation of things in the horse industry, and mitigate the cost of having horses (when was the last time you told a mechanic to “just fix whatever was wrong”?)

c) Comprehend the feminine-equine mind and appreciate its beautiful paradoxes with respect to money, philosophy, and personal hygiene

Horses fill a unique place in a woman’s heart. They straddle the boundaries of best friend, lover, child, and alter ego. Have you ever noticed the sunshine cheer and coquettish delight in a woman’s voice when she speaks to her horse? Go to any horse barn and listen as she lustily calls out:

“Mommy’s here!”
“You’re such a good boy!”
“Who’s been waiting for me all day?”
“Honey, you’re in quite the needy mood today!”
“Does someone need attention?”
“Guess what I’ve got for you…”

How less deadening daily life would be if only men were greeted that way after a day at work? But men can learn to do what horses do effortlessly: help her to associate you with an escapist, therapeutic nirvana, free of complicated people emotions and demands. How to do this? Think of all the things you muse about regarding others and stop those thoughts. While you won’t be able to realistically lower the volume of your human and male needs long term, she’ll appreciate these brief lapses of your male programming. I’m not promising triumphant trumpets the next time you see her, but a little goes a long way in this area.

Of course there’s more to horse appeal than the rejuvenating experience of animal comunication and empathy. There’s the accessories! Horse women love to accessorize their fine steeds. Herein lies the appeal: picture a man completely dependent on a woman for what he wears and have the only sign of his fashion feedback be soft wet kisses. Yes, you’ve just described her ultimate dress up fantasy, and it doesn’t even involve a fashionable gay man.

Did you know there are hundreds of types of bits that go into a horse’s mouth? There’s jointed, hollow mouth, slotted, snaffled, pinchless, to name a few–all crossed with riding style, mouth type, and compatibility with other riding aids. And that’s just the bit for the mouth. There are dozens of other accessories that would put the cosmetics industry to shame with its diverse selection and over-promising of results. In terms of actually riding a horse, all these accessories purport to give the illusion that little to no effort was involved in the display of horse and rider oneness.

What of the costs you might be asking. To put a scale to this, an entry-level “hide it from your trainer and barn buddies” bit is around $50, and fancy custom saddle could cost as much as a cheap horse, around $4000. All brands will obviously rationalize their worth, and horse women would mortgage their homes for the right equipment, so it’s up to you to know the feature set and sound competent while you dissuade her from commiting to eating ramen for a month to afford horse accessories.

One often overlooked cost of loving a horse woman has got to be what I call the “barn look.” To be fair, the outside weather and daily contact with horse manure and mud do contribute to the barn look. While glamorous women in real life, these horse women bundle themselves up until they resemble the Wampa snow beast that wanted to feast on Luke Skywalker in Empire Strikes Back. But even weather aside, horse women regularly demote clothing unfit for public consumption to “barn” status. Barn status also means very irregular wash cycles, because we men innately understand how silly it’d be to wash something only to have it get dirty again. Horse women are the dorm slobs of their sex.

But wait, there’s more. So what happens when you combine layers of tight clothing and hours of strenuous exercise, ankle deep in mud and manure? The barn aroma. This one is good if you have a penchant for really pungent Indian food AND and mulchy armpits. I should probably toss in the words aged and marinated into the mental mixture.

If you still want a horse woman after reading this far, then here is the basic advice.

1) Win over her horse as you would her father
2) Praise her horse and marvel outloud at his eating, whinnying, and pooping abilities
3) Get to know everything horse-related, and prepare to defend why a $500 saddle can be just as good as a $3000 one

Perhaps all this sounds a bit dreadful, but the truth is that women who love horses are loyal, sensitive, passionate, and they are always performing some kind of kegel exercise to improve their riding seat. This can have many benefits if you can get a horse woman away from the barn. Finally, if you love a horse woman, make the best of it. Let’s face it, you are infact the third wheel.

Bold Color
“This season there’s a lot of bright, playful color,” says Malaise, who believes these red devil horns work on almost any skin tone. “It’s dangerous and sexy‚ like you just committed a scrumptious sin.”

Bling
It’s less about spectators than looking spectacular. Zoom in on the trend—a silver chain with gaudy pendant will sharpen any outfit and keep the focus on clean lines. 

Blustery Lips 
From Angelina to Naomi C., voluptuous lips make a bold statement and convey a mysteriously seductive allure. “They are synonymous with movie-star chic,” says Malaise of Vietham.com, who shows that men also can get the puffy lip look–on the spot!

Smells also trigger memories and associations. I never thought it was strange that my mom used to press her nose and lips up against my cheek and inhale forcefully. She once explained that doing so meant she loved me so much that she wanted to rip off a piece of my cheek with her forceful kiss, like a scavenger, gleefully making off with a morsel. It was an acceptable explanation to a six year old. To reciprocate, I’d kiss her back, taking in the smell of her skin, the food that she was cooking, and the particular scent of the laundromat downstairs from our apartment.

The next time I thought about the sniffy kiss happened as my nose was buried in the cheek of a girl I affectionately called “my little bit of Danang.” Danang is a big city in central Vietnam, think Dallas except take 2 feet off everyone’s height. I called her this, because my best friend was also from Danang and always pushing his own hobbit-sized brand. Where was I? Oh yes, still kissing and until this moment, still unconsciously sniffing. The realization of what I was doing struck me as so bizarre that I immediately stopped, and asked her, “Is that strange? The way I kiss you?”

“It’s a little strange, but I don’t mind,” she replied.

Skipping now to present day, my wife tells me that the first time I sniff-kissed her–she wondered, “why is this man snorting on me?” She has since gotten used to my squashing of my nose against her skin and scurrying off with a tasty morsel.

One such cariacature is Andy, a slightly gaunt, 50 year old Vietnamese male coworker. He would be completely normal and impervious to the malaise of our minds were it not for ONE disturbing mannerism: he finishes his sentences by drawing his thin lips into the corners of his mouth and produces an odd slurping-sucking sound like the one of an obnoxious child, armed with a straw, refusing to acknowledge that there’s nothing left in his drink to slurp. Right then and there, we latch onto that trait and imagine what his pillow talk would sound like, how he’d come on to us in his Vietnamese-cafe-trolling fobby way, or how his orgasm noise might meld with this nightmarish mannerism.

Take all these machinations of our minds, and multiply it by hours, days, weeks and you’d arrive at 11:30 pm, office time. Our office is divided into three parts: the lobby, the main offices, and the back cubicles. Each section has its own light switch. After about 6-7pm, we turn off the lobby lights to save power. Duckie and I get up from our desks, head toward the lightswitch for the back area. The moment that happens, there’s a mad dash for the second light switch at the end of the hall way. There’s no telling who’ll be the victim on any particular night. Like the daily life and death struggle on the Serengeti plains, the weak and ill are the first to go. The moment Duckie and I sense a twitch or scuffle of laptop carrying bag, we strive to make sure the other will be the one left behind.

So the mad dash. It’s a few seconds that can seem like an eternity. I see Duckie’s fingers, in slow motion, reach for the second light switch and I brace myself for the damp shroud of darkness. After a whole day under the fluourescent lights, it’s so dark that I can feel a ripe, violet glow lingering on my lashes, blinding me further. In the next epic second, my mind brings back all the monsters we created that day for an encore.

*thhhwwwiiickkkkkkkkk*
*thhhhwwwiiwwwwwiwiwwiccccckkkk*

Good God. I can imagine the grinning Andy, sucking on his toothpick in happy anticipation of me…touching me. The fear is nearly paralyzing, but I work myself into a frenzy of mental counterstrike and I BECOME that monstrous creation. I hear Duckie’s girlish, nervous giggling, and I lunge blindly forward to avoid being the victim. I hear myself making that awful sucking sound with my teeth and lips as I swaddle my irrational fear in the monster’s mannerisms.

It’s a perversion of the archetypal romantic lovers’ nighttime meeting. Our fingers almost meet and the electricity of our proximity charges our symbiotic fear of Andy. We grope the darkness in a futile Kurosawan manner, hoping to locate the other, yet dreading the contact. When we finally grapple each other and are able to negate each other’s stealthy evil, there is a flurry of attacks and childish squealings of delight as we collectively conquer Andy. Yes, we’ve made it to the front door and all is well as the moonlight reveals us in our multi-splendored absurdity, real or imagined.

He was only six or seven years old when I first helped him realize and defend his sexual pride. As a kid, he was too adorable looking, and already even had some of the physical traits that skewed him towards 12-15 year old girls to say, ‘oh him, he’s gonna be a looker’. His innocent and infectious smile partially hid a devilish smirk that made women either want to nurse, placate, or sodomize him.

I was afraid for him. It sounded too perfect. Something terrible was bound to occur, and I was determined to divert it somehow. The death-knell for his super-mechanic dad would be his only son being the gay. My mission was clear. I would terrorize him with homosexual antics to gauge his reactions, while at the same time infusing my heckling with a pedagogical reverse psychology. My pseudo-gropes teased him mercilessly, and I flamboyantly declared him part of my harem. I vowed to push him into egregious heterosexuality by corrupting the beautiful man-romance fantasy festering in the young womb of his mind.

He’s all sixteen, strapping, grown up years now, and he has delightfully reached the mental capacity to bemoan his ‘whipped’ status in solid, traditional, heterosexual relationships. There’s a certain welling up of pride in my heart each time I think of him, tearing himself up over the wretched and trivial frivolity of girl problems. I think of how fortunate it is for our family that his sexual identity had been thrown off course early on, so that its effect has thus far been minimalized. I’d like to think I had some hand in such a warm, feel-good story.

Me: 5′4, 105, very sexy, petite and full of energy
(for shopping! I’m always well dressed in my
gucci and luis futon. I’m the usually the best
dressed outta my girlfriends. My friends say I’m
elegant, rich-looking (hehhe but not really!),
stylish, and also I am a very good friend sometimes.
People say that I’m very generous because I always
dress my man up good in versace/polo, you know! But
I’m not all about looks, I also believe in
stability, good relationship, honest and trust, and
nice car (yeah it’s a fashion statement too)

The man I’m looking to spoil? You should be a SWM,
prefarable in your 30s with a high security job so
you can spoil me back! I only want WHITE
professional males to reply to this because there
are some lessons of the orient for me to teach you!
just kidding, please don’t think I’m a easy girl.
I am looking for the true love that will provide my
future.

Please be:
WHITE
6 feet or taller
Generous (and the ability to be generous!:)
Athletic
Polite and highly educated
Good family and nice skin

No perverts please! Hurry, I am waiting for you.

Best response (further proof that desperation is an amazing source of willpower)

From: John
Subject: you’re an idiot

You fuckin’ can’t spell your own purses right! What the fuck is a luis futon? I think you meant Louis Vitton(sic). You sure you’re the best dressed and most elegant? I doubt it. If you’re that good, send a pic and we’ll see about it.
I’m 32 years old, 6′2”, 190lbs, half white/asian. I’m in SF as a investment consultant and I also model part time as a hobby. You better be some fuckin’ amazing chick to post that bullshit on the internet. Prove it.

John

> > — Malaise wrote:
> > > John,
> > >
> > > Pls send your pic. And I’ll send you mine. Don’t
> be
> > > the “idiot”. =)

I don’t have anything to prove, you better back up
your ad. Fuckin’ retarded, don’t play these bullshit
games about how awesome you are. Let’s see it

John

— Malaise wrote:
> Your loss. Please don’t email me again. You have no
> faith, and that is
> non-negotiable.

Don’t fuckin tell me about faith, that’s the last
thing you can lecture me about. Faith is earned and
proven, if you can’t spell Louis Vitton(sic), why the hell
should I believe you.

I stand corrected though, are you cute. You need an
English teacher though. = ) I’d be willing to help.

http://photos.yahoo.com/bayarea_dude94105

John

Duc and I had our good share of the spoils, and gained many fond memories. One particular memory that plagues our daily vernacular is Nhung. She has a particularly odd inflection on her phrases that sounds like this. It wasn’t altogether attractive, but it did elicit all sorts of juicy phrases in my mind. Another thing, she was substantially thin. This girl was about 5′3 and must have weighed no more than 80lbs. I told Duckie (Duc) my hypothesis that her deflowering would result in a horrible bone-crunching “you broke my bone!” wail. Her face was pretty, mostly. With makeup, she could look very fine indeed. She had striking eyes, a delicate nose, and a gummy smile reminiscent of Lolita-esque braces. We once coaxed her into mocking Mexican slang, ESE!” and that was riotous. Duc and I would sometimes spend all day speaking to one another in her infectious accent. It was like verbal soy sauce.

She was the ideal incest fantasy, that plum combination of sister, flirt, and vixen. I used to get jealous of the gifts she bestowed upon the evil Duckie, and sometimes pretended to accidentally forget them at my house. When it was my turn to receive her attentions, she was always generous and thoughtful. I would delight in wondering what would be my next favorite thing.

But she didn’t last very long. James’ interest in her waned with his increasing obsession with the mothball smell of her clothes and the ill-timed discovery of her minoxidil-9.