Dick O’Masterson
The greatest man day of them all is upon us. And that would be St. Patrick’s Day.
For those of you who don’t know what Saint Patrick’s Day is, fuck off my site because you’re obviously a woman and don’t belong here anyway.
Men are the reason civilization is not a boring piece of shit, and Saint Patrick’s Day is a perfect example: a celebration for the sake of celebrating, and not because someone is about to have their something sealed in a mason jar under the sink or have their wages effectively garnished for the rest of their fucking life.
If it weren’t for men, aliens with all kinds of incredible technologies would look down at us on some distant March 17th and say to each other, “These assholes are boring. And they have not yet learned to appreciate the precious gift that is life. Come. Let us give our corn dog trees and boob enlarger to those guys that know how to party in Alpha Centauri.”
“Partying” has been a part of being a man since we invented killing animals, eating their meat to live, and trading said service to our useless counterparts in order so that we may give them the greatest seven minutes of their lives. Nothing’s changed in a hundred thousand years. It’s called human nature. There really ought to be a book written on the subject, but it would be a very short book consisting only of the sentence that I just said. The end.
If not for men, the global idea of fun would be sitting around making catty remarks about your friends and lying about what you had for dinner last night. Guess what, ladies; dinner is everything you eat after 6:00 PM. That includes, but is not limited to: half the head of the blueberry muffin I was saving, any and all granola bars packed to the wrapper with chocolate chips, and any yogurts, frogurts, Go-gurts, or any other damn “gurts” that go into your pie-hole.
And why lie about it? For a stupid reason. You know it’s a stupid reason because no man has ever done it. I can see it now: a man sitting down for a pint with his mates and saying, “I’m pretty tired. I just ran two miles and did about a thousand sit-ups,” when he actually just sat around the house reading Us Magazine and wondering what it would be like to fake an orgasm with Matt LeBlanc.
Bullshit.
Men don’t do that because we don’t expect a pat on the ass for doing something that’s good for us. It has nothing to do with men talking less than women or any silly ass thing like that. Women just spout that nonsense so they don’t have to shut the fuck up when they obviously should.
“Why am I still talking? Because I’m a woman! Don’t you know that that’s what we do! We gab and gab and gab and gab and gab.”
Jesus. But I’m not even thinking about how annoying and obnoxious and infantile women are every second of every goddamn day of the year. As a man I’m thinking only positively — and that means counting down to a man-sized celebration. A festival of man, wallowing in his rich heritage of maleness and bonding and the kinds of things I can’t even put into words because they’re so visceral and dripping with atavism and power — which happen to take the form of drinking oneself into oblivion.
It also happens to start in two hours. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.
