Tuesday, June 07, 2005
I'm a man's man
Real men don't read
I've grown a beard before and I grunt while thumping my chest.
You see, I'm a real man. I get up every day at the brink of 4:30 and do nothing but flex in the buff for three hours. I don't work out during that time; I just flex.
At 7:30 I head over to the where the school bus stops just down the road, and take some little twerps lunch-money so I can buy my breakfast. Of course my first meal of the day
is bacon fried in fatback. I've got no time for that sissy-hippy yogurt stuff. If there is no bacon around, then I go out back and kill a deer with my bare hands and have
scrambled eggs and venison. After breakfast I read over my schedule, which I branded on my inner thigh the night before, because you can't trust paper.
I then go to the gym and grunt as loud as possible while lifting as little weight as possible. You see, there is an inverse grunt-weight lifting ratio: you grunt when you lift little, because your massive biceps are at the brink of combustion, and you silently stare at your competition while you left heavy weights, because you're just that damn hardcore.
After working out, I go to the pool, but not to swim. Only commies swim. No, I just stand on the high-diving board and flex for all the lifeguards to see, because I know they want tickets to the gun show.
After the gym I eat my lunch of 4 raw eggs mixed with Miller light, just to get going what I personally call a "health buzz."
Normal feeble men would go to work at that point. As a real man, I know only submissives go to work. I have no concern with any worldly possessions other than my quadriceps. Oh, and my power tools. And Mr. Peterson.
Like any real man I walk around with a toothpick in my mouth and squint, because you can't look serious with an idle toothpick in your mouth without a solar-defying squint.
Like a real man, I only respond to women in the form of pick up lines like "Hey baby, do you have a sewing kit, because I'm ripped!"
Yeah baby, I'm a real man, and I'm coming to your town to sleep with your daughter.
And it's going to be a long, long summer.
I've grown a beard before and I grunt while thumping my chest.
You see, I'm a real man. I get up every day at the brink of 4:30 and do nothing but flex in the buff for three hours. I don't work out during that time; I just flex.
At 7:30 I head over to the where the school bus stops just down the road, and take some little twerps lunch-money so I can buy my breakfast. Of course my first meal of the day
is bacon fried in fatback. I've got no time for that sissy-hippy yogurt stuff. If there is no bacon around, then I go out back and kill a deer with my bare hands and have
scrambled eggs and venison. After breakfast I read over my schedule, which I branded on my inner thigh the night before, because you can't trust paper.
I then go to the gym and grunt as loud as possible while lifting as little weight as possible. You see, there is an inverse grunt-weight lifting ratio: you grunt when you lift little, because your massive biceps are at the brink of combustion, and you silently stare at your competition while you left heavy weights, because you're just that damn hardcore.
After working out, I go to the pool, but not to swim. Only commies swim. No, I just stand on the high-diving board and flex for all the lifeguards to see, because I know they want tickets to the gun show.
After the gym I eat my lunch of 4 raw eggs mixed with Miller light, just to get going what I personally call a "health buzz."
Normal feeble men would go to work at that point. As a real man, I know only submissives go to work. I have no concern with any worldly possessions other than my quadriceps. Oh, and my power tools. And Mr. Peterson.
Like any real man I walk around with a toothpick in my mouth and squint, because you can't look serious with an idle toothpick in your mouth without a solar-defying squint.
Like a real man, I only respond to women in the form of pick up lines like "Hey baby, do you have a sewing kit, because I'm ripped!"
Yeah baby, I'm a real man, and I'm coming to your town to sleep with your daughter.
And it's going to be a long, long summer.
