[1165] in Humor
HUMOR: Are You Man Enough?
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Andrew A. Bennett)
Fri Oct 27 11:07:59 1995
To: humor@MIT.EDU
Date: Fri, 27 Oct 1995 11:03:37 EDT
From: "Andrew A. Bennett" <abennett@MIT.EDU>
Date: Thu, 26 Oct 1995 23:36:54 -0700
From: connie@interserve.com (Connie Kleinjans)
From: Michael Leibig <leibig@itp.ucsb.edu>
From: "Desdinova E. Light" <imaginos@tezcat.com>
Subject: Denis Leary article (from Details magazine)
> Are You Man Enough?
> by Denis Leary
>
>
> Here's a cold hard fact you must now chew on and swallow: If you are reading
> this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real men do not read anything
> other than Guns And Ammo or Sports Illustrated or Shaved Beaver.
>
> Do not mention Fire In The Belly. Do not clutch your copy of Iron John. Sit
> your soft little ass down and listen up. Understanding macho means you do not
> possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy I am by writing this piece.
> (I am wearing a powder blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type.)
> Ernest Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and wrote
> some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by blowing his
>head off
> with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not commit suicide. Real men
>know
> just how much life sucks. Real men grit their teeth and take it bill after
> bill, war after war, tumor after tumor. You do not greet Death, you punch
> him in the throat repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said
> it best when he said, "Fuck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on."
>
> Macho is a very slippery thing. You do not read about it, you do not write
> about it, you do not even know the correct spelling of the word. In a vain
> attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I did not research the roots
> of the word while writing this article, but I can only assume that "macho"
> comes from "machismo," which sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being
> macho implies a tough, hard, blocklike approach full of pistons and rods
> and axels and other big steel-type stuff.
>
> It's hard to live by the old macho code these days. They've chipped away at
> it over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been reduced to a few
> beers or a couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise, your A.A. friends begin
> to stare across the dinner table with that "I-personnaly-think-you-have-a-
> problem-and-that-all-alcohol-should-be-banned-so-that-I-won't-feel-the-urge-
> to-drink-myself-into-a-naked-stupor-but-I'm-not-gonna-say-anything" look on
> their faces. No mess, no mauling, no mistress, no mas.
>
> From time to time people try to use macho as an image builder. Bush tries to
> make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club member. He's not. The last
> macho President we had was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR -- a man stricken
> by polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis and the Great Depression,
> all while smoking three and a half packs a day. "The only thing we have to
> fear is fear itself!" Yeah, and staircases of course. And soccer and
> dancing.
>
> I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map. Sometime
> in the late 70's -- right around the time the Villiage People released "Macho
> Man" and Barry Manilow sang "Copacabana" and Robby Benson was mewling his way
> into the hearts of teenage ultra-virgins -- men made a serious mistake. We
> started talking to each other. We stopped punching each other and began
> discussing why we wanted to punch each other. I'll bet my right testicle
> that if I had done some research I would have found a dramatic decline in
> facial cuts and brain contusions starting in 1977. Now we're supposed to
> be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings and cry at funerals
> and care about our hair. We are, in short, supposed to be women. Hello,
> my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.
>
> I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal pay for
> equal jobs. I belive women should have control of their own bodies and be in
> positions of power. I believe we should have the same sized shoulder pads in
> our suit jackets. But I also believe that men should be men and women
>should
> be, well, women. Women should be soft and smart and mysterious. And men
> should have their own tools. I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old
> macho days, when men would brandish hammers and build huge, bulky cars that
> sucked up gas and tore open the ozone layer and crushed small animals beneath
> totally useless but totally cool-looking tail fins. When men were apes
> with good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston, Bill Holden,
> Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah. Men who
> drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone and drank
> some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on drinking. Men
> who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain seizures of who just plain
> fucking blew up. Men who had cancer five or six times. Men made out of
> leather.
>
> My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off the tip of his thumb with
> a power saw, duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital,
> smoking a Camel nonfilter on the way. My dad's theory was simple: no pain
> -- no fucking pain. My dad smoked five packs a day, worked three jobs
> seven days a week, ate beef for breakfast, lunch and dinner. One night
> in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a side order of bacon and extra
> steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit up a cigarette, and
> exploded.
>
> I don't want to hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold has caved in.
> In Terminator 2 he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy, protecting the kid
> and hoping the world wouldn't end. Bullshit. There was even a sequence at
> the end of the movie where a huge truck full of flammable liquid tears down
> a highway for about three minutes and then doesn't blow up. A sign of the
> times if there ever was one. Every real man knows the one golden rule of
> Macho movie-making: If you see a truck onscreen, blow it up. In Thelma
> and Louise the women saw a truck. What did they do? Susan Sarandon pulled
> out her gun and blew the truck way the fuck up. Another sign of the times.
> Arnold's tromping around praying for the earth to save itself, Ms. Davis and
> Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and screwing their way all over the
> macho West. Citizen Kane? A materpiece. But every real man knows it would
> have been better if a huge Mack with the word ROSEBUD amblazoned on the
> trailor drove through the front gate of the manion and then, KAA-POWWWW!
>
> Another movie matter I'd like to get off my girly little chest: asses.
> Part of this new male code has men baring their butts onscreen the way
> women used to. Mel Gibson, kevin Costner, Michael Douglas, and, of course,
> Arnold. Hey, if I wanted to see Kevin Costner's ass, I would have married
> him. You never saw Bob Mitchum's ass. I am appearing in a very macho
> movie called Gunmen, which will be released early next year. It also stars
> Mario Van Peebles and Christopher Lambert. I can guarantee you will not see
> any of our asses. As a matter of fact, I can almost guarantee you will never
> see my ass on any movie screen, but if one day you do, it will not be
>shaved.
> It will be hairy and hoary and very, very white.
>
> Our macho movie idols have changed forever. No wonder they end up baring
> it all. Listen to the names -- Mel, Kevin, Michael, Arnold. In the old
> days movie stars had real names: John, Bill, Duke, Buck, CHuck, Rip. Kevin
> sounds like your skinny Irish cousin with big Coke-bottle glasses and a
> heat rash; Mel, the guy in charge of aisle five at Woolworth's. ("Excuse
> me, Mel. Where are the light bulbs?")
>
> It's getting very bad, boys. We don't blow up trucks anymore. Hell, we
> don't even drive trucks anymore. We drive simple little Japanese cars with
> air bags. In the old days we used to rip out the seat belts and fly through
> the windshield ready for action. "Thrown from the car." Remember that
> phrase in acciden reports? Always the sign of a very macho driver.
>
> We seem a little sorry, a little more plump, a lot more ladylike around the
> edges. If you want to reclaim your macho self, if you really want to be a
> macho, macho man -- stop reading this article right now.
>
> If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help. Forget
> Robert Bly, or "Fire in Your Prostate." Do not go on a Male-Bonding
> Self-Discovery Weekend, which is just another term for Circle Jerk as far
> as I am concerned. Here, instead, is a guide:
>
> BALLS, a.k.a. CAJONES: You should have several. Preferrably brass or
> steel. Extra large.
>
> CRYING: Never. Ever. Over anything. Not death in the family, not a
> bullet in the chest. You may tear up ever so slightly in one eye only
> when watching a favorite sports legend retire. You may tear up in both
> eyes only when kicked, accidentally or on purpose, in the cajones.
>
> KISSING: See SPORTS
>
> HUGGING: See SPORTS
>
> SPORTS: Once all men within reach are dressed in a team uniform, it is
> perfectly acceptable to kiss and hug and grab each other's ass. This is
> probably because all men are latent homosexuals and prefer male company to
> female company. But if some guy points this out to you, punch him directly
> in the throat. (Optional retorts: "Prefer this!" or "Fuck you!" or "Shut
> the fuck up!")
>
> HEALTH: Never go to the hospital or visit a doctor. If you have a stroke,
> keep drinking and act like you prefer to use only one side of your body.
> If you cut off a limb with a power tool -- so what? That's why there's
> duct tape and staple guns. If someone tries to take you to the hospital
> after a heart attack or maiming, punch him in the throat. (Optional
> retorts: "Drive this!" or "Fuck you!" or "Shut the fuck up!")
>
> DIET: Meat, cigarettes, meat, booze, meat and coffee. In case of aneurysm
> or alcohol-induced coma, see HEALTH
>
> FIGHTING: At all times, over anything. Never hit a woman, or a child.
> Or a bus. Never hit a priest until he takes off his collar. (If it's the
> pope, wait until he removes the large hat.) Clergy will often provoke a
> punch in the throat with their "Violence doesn't prove anything"
> pontifications. (Optional retorts: "Prove this!" or "Fuck you, Father!" or
> "Shut the fuck up, Padre!")
>
> DRINKING: No falling down. No puking -- unless emptying stomach in order
> to continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few war stories: "See
> that scar? I was in Nam and I ate a grenade and it blew up my colon." If
> your aim is off due to alcohol consumption, it is acceptable to punch
> someone in the head or solar plexus.
>
> SEX: You're usually too drunk or just plain stupid to have sex but pretend
> you get a lot, i.e., "You should've seen me last night, blah, blah, blah."
>
> Absorb this information and you should be on your way. If you have any
> further questions, call 1-800-CAJONES. Remember: We're men. Big, boxy,
> sweaty, ignorant men. We have penises. Well, we used to have penises.
> Either way, I think Billy Martin said it best when he said, "Hey, I can
> drive."
>
>
> ---------------------
> Copyright 1992 -- Denis Leary and Details Magazine.
> Taken from the September, 1992 Issue.
