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Wednesday, 2 December 2009

I am man, hear me complain.

I hate Macho men. I hate them to the point I want a small asteroid to hit them in the face, obliterating it till it ironically resembles a giant vagina. And wherever they’ll go a huge parade of irony will follow them like a cartoon raincloud reminding them how incredibly ignorant and borderline pathetic they are. LOOK KIDS, ITS VAGINA FACE MAN!! Let’s laugh and throw rotten courgettes like he’s a leper, although one who enjoys Nickelback and finding convenient opportunities to remove his shirt. It’ll be like The Elephant man for people who have the ability to appreciate more aspects of life than proclaiming to the world you have a penis; probably a small one that needs to wee all the time. Take my petty wrath you self- conceited cabbage men you. And hopefully other macho men will uncontrollably try to fornicate with the face of said monstrosity, delicious Irony...mmm.
There are certain things that men aren’t allowed to do apparently, certain acts or opinions that somehow parallel the intellectually butchered thought processes of Idi Amin or Charles Manson.
What’s that rationally open intellectual male, you enjoy the works of Joni Mitchell or Annie Lennox?! But they don’t have wee-pipes! YOU’RE NOT A REAL MAN!! These feeble minded cries of ‘injustice’ are usually followed by, what has pretty much become a stock insult, ‘hand in your man card’. As if you’re Dirty Harry being asked to give in your gun and badge because you ‘don’t play by the book’. Well sod books and reading for that matter, (ironically often used by Macho men, unless it’s NUTS. Sports AND bewbs?! Truly an elysian fields of testosterone)
You like female musicians? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t drink beeer? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t furiously masturbate to the sight of 11 overpaid Neanderthals kicking a ball like children in the Middle Ages did with a cabbage?! HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!! YARGHHHH ETC
Sod your man card; I’ll be here learning how to count beyond 10 without the aid of a popup book. As I’m writing this I’m currently eating salt and vinegar crisps and listening to Thin Lizzy singing, SHOCK HORROR, a love song. Better retain my credibility and punch a stranger before my testicles shrink like oranges exposed to radiation. I’m pretty much a very awkward male, I can’t run a few meters without passing out and I’ve pretty much gathered I’m as attractive as an Autopsy footage, but at least I can appreciate things more evenly regardless of gender, intelligence or the amount of ‘EXPLOSHUNS’ involved. I’ve pretty much convinced myself the only chance of me getting a wife is if I have her shipped overseas and taught English from a crude cassette tape.
And while I’m here in your head, I also despise those soft-spoken ‘good looking’ men, those indie landfill farts, those smug pretentious bastards, those women-stealing, somehow irresistible flesh wastes. The guys who wear a Revolver shirt yet have never heard of Paul McCartney, the self-conceited mopes who never remove a scarf, as if they’re a post-op trying to hide her bulging Adam’s apple, the smooth talking arseholes who wear brown trench coats inside as if they’re in an S.S tribute band. Yeah, those pillocks. Somehow women find this irresistible, as if these idiots can mentally latch onto their ovaries like some crude ‘cronenberg’-esque perversion. Everything they do is to get women or because they love themselves more than Narcissus in a room full of mirrors and portraits of his arse. It’s sadly sets the stereotype of ‘pretty face over anything resembling a decent personality’ that women are often accused of. Eventually women will realise how hollow these men are and ditch them once they see them for the smug Easter-eggs they are. And then who’ll they come running to??! WHO I ASK?!...
...Not us in any bloody way, but the tossers at the start of the article. Because this world is a cold and tepid place where mediocrity thrives...only tuna sandwiches and Def Leppard redeem us.
I am man, hear me complain.

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