Defining the Real Man
by Ian Flanagan
A is for Apple – So your doctor says that you’re horribly out of shape and should inquire about little green, healthy, things called “apples” at your local grocery store.
B is for Busty – Who cares that they taste like crap, apples that is, the girl behind the counter is frigging gorgeous.
C is for Clog – Unfortunately you won’t be eating any more apples, as soon as you got up to the counter some fat hippy wearing small boats for shoes takes the place of the big-breasted-beauty.
D is for Dog – Alright you’ll just walk a little more. Sparky could use a run around the block, he hasn’t exactly been so quick on his feet lately.
E is for the Establishment – Your boss notices you walking Sparkster at lunch, he’s impressed and you get a big promotion. He says you’re like the son he never had.
F is for Fornicating – Your big promotion also comes with a heavily endowed, and by endowed I mean in the cleavage sense, secretary.
G is for Girth – There is no such thing as an inverse-penis size to sex-frequency ratio. Sorry man.
H is for Hippies – You catch a co-worker eating wheat grass yogurt and immediately turn him to the higher-ups. Again you are commended for such an amazing feat, and are rewarded with a three-month vacation to Ireland.
I is for Irish – Being Irish, you’re automatically the most manly of men, and thus are excepted into the culture of Ireland with open arms.
J is for Jessica – By open arms I mean open legs. The legs of the hot bartender.
K is for Kidneys – You inadvertently leave yours behind in Ireland (they shriveled up, died, and fell out).
L is for Love – Back at home, you’re struck with a new found hope of finding your one true love.
M is for Masturbation – However it doesn’t happen instantaneously and you find that you must implore this technique of surviving your dry spells.
N is for Natasha – The office secretary. Turns out she was sleeping with you due to deep feelings of passionate love for you.
O is for Ovaries – All the one nights stands, nothing, but on your second real date she has to get pregnant. Crap!
P is for Pregnancy – You want to have kids, you want to start a family. Only problem is you’re living with a hormone-drive-pure-evil nightmare of a wife.
Q is for Queen – It’s a girl, and you pledge to love her like the son that she was supposed to be. (You’ve already bought the baseball wallpaper.)
R is for Real-Estate – You never thought that buying a house would be so expensive that you would have to sell your first born child, but hey, unexpected things happen all the time.
S is for Steak – A good steak dinner takes your mind off the guilt of selling a child.
T is for Twins – Nine months later Natasha gives birth to twins. A girl, to replace the first one, and a boy for you to actually love.
U is for Unfaithful – Only one of the twins is yours. (Luckily it’s the boy.)
V is for Vows of Alimony – She took the kids, the house, the cars, and the fucking Miami Vice DvD’s. Bitch.
W is for Wedding Anniversaries – You didn’t even make it to one.
X is for Baseball – Real men don’t know any words that start with X.
Y is for Yeti – You get fired and go back to your old job as Yonkers the Yeti at the local kiddy theme park.
Z is for Zucchini - So your doctor says that you’re horribly out of shape and should inquire about little green, healthy, things called “zucchini” at your local grocery store.
Know that fantasy, the one about the hot nurse? I didn’t quite get what all the fuss was about. Like if I’m gonna have someone stick their finger in my ass I would almost rather have it be some old man. Not that that tickles my pickle or anything, its just that at least I know that when I run into them in a bar called “The Titty Twister” and I’m completely shit faced I’ll be saying “Hey baby, remember that time you slipped your finger up my poo hole?” to someone I’m hoping not to sleep with. Basically having a female, a hot female, nurse ruins all possibility of ever having sex with said nurse. Nurses do some of the most amazingly boner-destroying things.
I still thoroughly believe that an actually good looking nurse (if you can find one that doesn’t refer to herself, in a very husky voice as, “Georgia, but you can call me George.”) is nothing to get aroused over. Dental assistants however are a completely different story. They don’t shave your pubic hair and never know what your body fat is. So when I arrived at the dentist to find the most gorgeous woman standing before me I was, naturally, intrigued. She was really putting on a show too, “Ooh baby, yea, pick up that retainer. Ooh baby, ooh yea, wash it off, wash it off good. Now dry it, that’s right, rub it baby, rub it.” She motioned me over to what will hitherto be known as the VIP seat, she however did not know this and called it “the middle chair.” This dreamy dental hygienist then informed me that I was about to receive the most amazing lap dance and molar sealant. At least that’s what I think she said, was hard to hear over the theme from that movie where the guy has sex with the dental assistant. Then she leaned forward in the “bend-and-floss” maneuver and I was presented with what can only be called a face full of cleavage. Not even my freshly bleeding gums could tear my consciousness from these perfect breasts pressed firmly against my face. That is until I had a sudden revelation. Mr. Johnson, he lives downstairs, also happened to like the gorgeous hygienist and her two fabulous side kicks. So as I laid there, Mr. Johnson was climbing a ladder, stretching, pumping iron, doing anything he could to impress her. Now normally this would have been mildly ok, but I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I am seventeen and getting a full-on, all-out woody in the middle of the children’s dentist office. One glance at the ten-year-olds on either side of me told me that would be changing dentists.
Camping; The First Night
So we pulled into the campsite at like one thirty in the morning. Its pitch black and cold, but being the manly-men that we are we decided to dodge sleep and have a few drinks around the fire. Now the processes of building a fire is two fold; you must prepare yourself mentally, and physically. Mentally, because of all the vampires, zombies, and other shit. Physically because of all the vampires, zombies, and other shit.
We gathered our wits, but more importantly we gathered, zombie, vampire, werewolf, Taliban, Australian, killing tools. Each of us had at least one weapon, the pool creating the following arsenal: a BB gun, a few knives, a hatchet, a flashlight that you had to fucking wind up to make light, a stick, a sling shot, one of those pink lawn flamingos, and the brute force of our own bare hands. We were now ready to hunt for wood.
Must have been a fucking lumberjack reunion, save for the one we had sharpened into a werewolf death machine, there wasn’t a stick on the ground. Then we found what we were looking for. A giant, boat sized log, that was still rooted in to ground. A few minutes of throwing ourselves against it and we had it free.
Now in order to carry this sob, we had to rearrange the weapons. Everyone ended up in a decent position for carrying, save for one, who decided the best way to hold the little flashlight was in his mouth. This might have been ok, but at that very moment we heard a scream, the sound of a chain saw, another scream, and then silence descended over the forest. We dropped the log, drew our weapons, thrusting, jabbing, and shootings BB’s in all directions.
Turns out the campsite next to us was watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We got back, and threw the boat on the fire. Little did we know the entire end would instantly go up in flames, and start spreading down the log. Now we had been very clearly instructed not to do any wood chopping due to the late hour, but this seemed like something that warranted a little noise.
We had to stop the fire’s spread while someone else hacked away at the log, thus we opened our flies and started peeing on the log, as another of our party tried, in vain, to cut the log in two.
Of course one among our ranks didn’t help at all. During the excitement of the attack of the vampire-chainsaw-wielding-zombie he had, honest to God, deep throated the flashlight. Where as the flash light might have liked it, he did not, and spent the last hour and a half of the night dry heaving.
Camping; Rules
“Oh man, you guys, that was a Burger King dump!” And a rule was henceforth set, stating that we could no longer defecate in the comfort of the motor home bathroom.
At first we hadn’t thought this to be too big a deal. There was a decent campground bathroom, which by the way was weird because this wasn’t a real campground, so as long as we shat before the zombies and vampires came out we would be fine. A few nights into the trip we were told a story about half-cow-half-human monster. The night grew late and we headed for bed, understanding that it was just a silly story. Until, of course, it attacked us. It spent hours trying to get inside the RV, hours! We just laid there not saying anything, until someone among us noted that they had to take a “mad fat shit.”
“Screw that man, its old, and late, and there’s a cow beast trying to kill us.”
“Actually I have a take a crap too.”
“Alright lets go, one of you guys grab a flashlight and the BB gun.”
They came back about fifteen minutes later breathing heavily, and rather pale.
“How was it? Did you see him? What’s he look like? Did he eat Greg?”
“Nah. Everything went alright, cept my shit.”
Apparently the bowel relief this member of our Donner party was hoping to experience hadn’t panned out. The seat had been so cold that it had caused his ass to, as he put it, “pucker.” This puckeration prevented any hope of a continuous poo, and instead he produced what can only be called “rabbit dumps.”
The Game
“Honey, can you take the trash out please?”
“Can’t hun, the game’s on and the guy’s are here.”
“Bill just do it, it’ll only take a second.”
“Alright, alright at half time.”
“No, it really should be done now.”
“Look, it can wait until half time. Now make us some sandwiches and get us some beer, woman!”
*Sigh* “Alright, sure thing hun.”
Minutes later.
“What’s this?”
“The divorce papers.”
“Shit.”
Baseball
Know what sucks; when you get one ball stuck inside the cup, and another outside.