[2423] in Humor
Humor Classic: I'm wearing [...] peach panties as I type. (fwd)
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Michael Behr)
Fri Aug 21 13:35:05 1998
Date: Fri, 21 Aug 1998 13:26:29 -0400
From: Michael Behr <mabehr@alum.mit.edu>
To: humor@MIT.EDU
I've seen this a few times before, but it's still funny.
-Mike
----- Forwarded message from Rourke McNamara <rourkem@chapterhouse.com> -----
From: Rourke McNamara <rourkem@chapterhouse.com>
Forwarded-by: "Kevin D. Clark" <kclark@cabletron.com>
Are You Man Enough?
-- by Denis Leary
Here's a cold hard fact that you must now chew 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, 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
that you don't possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy that I am
by writing this piece. (I'm 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 don't 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 don't read about it, you don't write
about it, you don't even know the correct spelling of the word. In a vain
attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I didn't 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, block-like approach full of pistons and rods
and axles 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 AA friends
begin to stare across the table with that 'I personally 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 FDR. FDR -- a man stricken by
polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis all the while smoking
3.5 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 Village 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 nut 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're, 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 believe women should have control of their bodies and be in
positions of power. I believe we should have the same size shoulder pads
in our suits. 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 or who just
plain fucking blew up. Men who had cancer six or seven times. Men made
out of leather.
My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a power
saw, duct taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital smoking a
Camel unfiltered on the way. My dad's theory was simple: no pain. No
fucking pain. My dad smoked 5 packs a day, worked 3 jobs 7 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
a coffee, sat back, lit up a cigarette, and exploded.
I don't wanna hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold caved in.
In Terminator 2, he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy, protecting the
kid and hoping the earth 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 3 minutes and then doesn't blow up.
A sign of the times if ever there was one. Every real man know the one
golden rule of macho movie making: if you see a truck on screen, 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 and Ms. Davis and Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and
screwing their way all over the macho west. Citizen Kane? A masterpiece.
But every real man knows it would have been better if a huge Mack truck
with the word ROSEBUD emblazoned on the trailer drove through the front
gate of the mansion and then KAAAPOWWWW!
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 the way women used
to do. Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglas, and of course, Arnold.
Hey, if I wanted to see Kevin Costner's ass, I would've married him. You
never saw Bob Mitchum's ass. I am in a macho movie called Gunmen, and I
can guarantee you that you will never see my ass on any screen but if 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 the 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 accident reports?
Always the sign of a very macho driver.
We seem a little more sorry, a little more plump, a lot more lady-like
around the edges. If you really want to reclaim your macho self, if you
really want to be macho, macho men, stop reading this article.
If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help. Forget
Robert Bly or Fire In Your Prostate. Don't go on a Male Bonding Self
Discovery Weekend, which is just another term for a circle jerk as far as
I'm concerned. Here, instead, is a guide:
BALLS, aka COJONES:
You should have several. Preferably 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, accidently or on purpose, in the COJONES.
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 out this fact 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 while using a power tool -- so what? That's why
there's duct tape and staple guns. If someone tries to drive 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!' or 'Shut
the fuck up!')
DRINKING:
No falling down. No puking-unless to empty the stomach in order to
continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few war stories: 'See
this scar? I was in 'Nam and I ate a grenade and it blew up in my colon.'
If your aim is off due to alcohol, it's acceptable to punch someone in
the head or solar plexus.
SEX:
You're probably 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, blah, blah.'
Absorb this info and you should be on your way. If you have any further
questions, call 1-800-COJONES. Remember: We're men. Big, boxy, sweaty,
ignorant men. We have penises. Well, we used to have penises. Either
way, I think Billy Martin, the late Yankees manager said it best when he
said, 'Hey, I can drive.'
----- End forwarded message -----
--
-Mike
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mabehr@alum.mit.edu
I sometimes wear my mind on my sleeve. I have a history of taking off my shirt
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