All I can say is, John Wayne must be turning over in his grave. The revolution to emasculate the American male is drawing to its successful conclusion and I, for one, am not happy about it.

A recent article in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review titled “More guys are discovering beauty products” all but sounded the death knell for quiche-rejecting real men everywhere. The gist of it was that guys who used to survive trips to the mall with their significant others only by hiding out in some sporting goods section are now standing manicured-toe-to-manicured-toe with her in a health and beauty aisle or, worse, personal care boutique.

Said a store manager quoted in the article: “It seems like guys are starting to see that it’s important to have the same amount of upkeep as women do.” The story goes on to paraphrase this same guerrilla in the war between the sexes as saying that, to a woman, a man who cares for himself is more likely to care for his lady.

Yeah, that’s my idea of a great relationship: two people who compare lotions, balms, and exfoliates together, then fight over limited medicine chest space to store them. Is she kidding? Most women would prefer Boy George over Clint Eastwood, mainly because they have more in common (i.e., they like the same brand of hand cream?)

Why do I get the feeling the French are behind this?

Anyway, all I can say is, guys, we shoulda seen it comin’. For decades now, the traditional American guy-the one who was too busy building the greatest nation on earth with blood, sweat and tears to stop and freshen up-has been systematically torn down and replaced by metrosexuals who wouldn’t chew off a finger nail if their lives depended on it.

Remember when we were told we weren’t sensitive enough? Charles Bronson was out, Phil Donahue and Alan Alda were in. We were told it was okay to show our emotions, and to have a good cry. (Obviously none of these so-called experts had ever been around a group of guys when their favorite NFL team lost or the cable went out during an playoff game.)

Systematically expunged from television (which, as we all know, determines all of our society’s values and, coincidently, mass markets the products to support them) were male icons who always wore the same clothes (Columbo’s crumpled rain coat) or who weren’t afraid to show sweat stains after a week in a posse tracking some stage robber (the Cartwrights).

Today we ridicule rednecks and tell men that they’ve got to get in touch with their internal feminine side. Problem in, we’ve poked and prodded her so much that she’s morphed through our skin and have taken over our external shell. Today we smell great, we’re perfectly coiffed, but we recoil at the thought of changing a flat tire lest we smudge something. It is so much easier to text message the auto club and let one of the last remaining real men come and do it for us.

Now, before anyone gets the impression that I’m one of the few remaining guys who shop at “Neanderthals R Us,” let me say that I am all for personal hygiene. Showering, shaving, brushing, combing, flossing, deodorizing … these are all good things. I just don’t thing a guy needs multiple trimming devices, or several scents to choose from, or baby soft hands, knees, or elbows.

Thus, the line has been drawn and the battle joined. And I, for one, will give up my Supercuts^TM free haircut club card when they pry my cold, dead fingers from around it.