Dear Sarah Miller

We're on to you, Sarah Miller.

We read your September 2007 Men's Health article on "Animal Magnetism" and "Being Cool."

"You want to impart to everyone -- especially any woman who might be sizing you up as a potential hook-up -- that hey, being you is pretty good, maybe even fun," you wrote. "It's a simple concept that's hard to fake."

You continued: "Thank God, then, that there are no rules pertaining to what women find cool. There are cool loud guys and cool quiet guys. Cool guys listen to jazz and electronica and rock and country, as do uncool guys. (No one who listens to jam bands is cool)."

Hold up.

First of all, Sarah Miller, we question your credentials. Most of your "article" sounds like you're trying to browbeat your reader into being the perfect man for you. To wit: "Cool guys refuse to engage in activities that make them look silly..."

Eff that. The "sillier" the activity, the cooler one is. We're all about the playing of the I Never during happy hour. And so what if we like to crush the meatballs thrown by our 8-year-old God son when it's our turn to bat in whiffle ball, and we throw untouchable curves when he bats?

Does this make us uncool? No. And wait. We forgot. Oh yeah.

Jam bands.

We submit that those of us who still listen to the jam bands are the epitome of cool. Cool is letting go of every care and worry so one can bounce up and down to an 18-minute fiddle solo. No worries about what one looks like. No trepidation. Just bouncing and arm waving and a li'l "WOOOOOOOO!" every once in awhile.

Nothing is more cool than that.

So, Sarah Miller. We leave you with this: We are cool because we march to our own drummer -- and that drummer follows the 18-minute fiddle solo with a 27-minute solo of his or her own. So think on that, Sarah Miller. Think on that.

And don't even get us started about the li'l chart on page 160 that says women are more likely to tap our ass if we wear cargo shorts and a clean white T-shirt than if we wear denim shorts and a flannel shirt.

OK. Not so much with the denim shorts. Ever. Never, ever. But flannel shirts? Nothing wrong firing one on with our old combat boots and ripped jeans like we did last Wednesday while cranking the Citizen Dick, right?

Wait. What?