There Are No Real Men Left In The World
There was a time when nearly 100% of the world's differences could be resolved with gentlemanly blows or a gentlemanly bullet to the spleen. There was a time when the only medicine or treatment someone sought for an illness or psychological state was a strong belt of whisky to calm the nerves, or a strong bullet to the spleen to remove the infection. There was even a time when men like Marlon Brando and James Dean could have homosexual relations without being gay. Sadly, those times are over, because real men don't exist anymore.
Go ahead. Try to point out an authentic, actual man. You can't. It's a physical impossibility. It's as if I just asked you to look at the famous drawing of the old hag and the young lady and pick which one was definitively there. There is no correct answer, because seeing either one is stupid.
Are you going to try and tell me that the muscle-bound automobile aficionado at the local watering hole is a man? Unlikely; he is twice divorced and pays child support while trying to persuade you to come back to his shack for offspring number seven. In the era of true men, child support did not exist. Men, like lions, killed off any previous offspring that other men had sired in order to best spread their genes. A man could deposit his genetic materials hither and thither as he pleased, confident that they would eventually be terminated and eaten by a better man than he. In a few slim cases, strong progeny would survive, and become the baby-eaters of the next generation. This is where the term "man-eater" comes from. Nobody knows that anymore, because nobody is a man.
Don't take this to mean that your Oxford-graduate golf-shirt-and-slacks pillow-biting husband is a man by default, either, because a real man, forced with either settling for a victory by default or a failure, would kill himself on the spot (or obtain an immediate sex change) in order to stop degrading his gender any further. Now, suicide is illegal and frowned-upon, and those who do engage in it often use decidedly un-manlike ways of doing so, such as an overdose on pills or crying out their body's supply of water. Up until the time of the modern "man", suicide was a hard, gritty affair in which a man placed his chin on his chest and proceeded to eat through his ribcage until he reached his heart, at which time he would self-administer a tattoo on his still-beating life organ that advised future coroners and undertakers that he had been an unfit man.
The Oxford man fails the most primary of all men tests: the test of survival. Placed in a situation where he disagreed with something another man said, he would pursue a piddling route of pseudo-intellectual analysis pilfered from a slow-witted blog, parroting the half-witted notions of someone else not fit to possess ownership of a penis and testicles. In a different, better time, he would be subjected to a furious session of what is known as "dominance humping", wherein he, as the weaker man, would be expected to submit to mimicked and/or authentic penetration from the stronger man. A comparison of total hairs present on each man's body may have also been pursued for accuracy.
Today's man relies entirely too much on his feeble brain while allowing his muscles and talons to atrophy (in the case of the latter, sometimes even deliberately stunting growth), never realizing that loose clumps of gray intestine-like matter were never meant to be used as a thinking device. The man of yesteryear primarily used his brain as a way to impress females; removing bits and pieces of the grayish, flower-like substance through the nose and placing it on a woman's hair was a way to claim her as one's own. Brains were also used to resolve territorial disputes, as clear boundaries were defined by stretching out the hippocampus into a long, fence-like object.
One certainly can not look to me as an example of a true man; simply by writing this primer on true man-dom, I have revealed myself as not worthy of the title, since real men have little time to waste on writing, unless the writing is to advise another man of a manly gathering or feast. If I could live up to the description, you would never have read this, because I would currently be in the process of spreading my seed and throwing my brain at anyone who stood in my way. Alas, modern culture and evolution have reduced me to this state, while real men rot in their graves, many of them bearing the tattoos on their hearts that caution us against this fate. Perhaps, somewhere, there are men engaging in at least some of the noble acts I have described here, but most likely that is only a fond wish.
