The primary objective, or: How I learned to stop worrying and love my balls

In my first blog post, I'd like to clarify my objective on this blog. In reading on FI and its predecessor, HB, I noticed an extremely positive trend: masculine chest-pounding.

Let's look at Lee the Agent. Over the years this scholar has pushed masculinity to an extreme. In his final post on HB, he describes a character holding a satchel with just a crowbar, a coil of rope, and a revolver. Now add a bottle of Jack, and that's my overnight bag! A recent story of his featured a character carrying around what sounded like a delicious prostitute fillet. Lee the Agent, as Ludacris might ponder, what you got in that bag?! Bravo, sir.

Since writing a final post on HB in which he pondered how to achieve alpha male status, the Junkyard Dog has found a way: satire! A recent story showed hilariously how a couple who discouraged their son to join the Army got their just desserts when their son was killed, his body never returned to them. His corpse is America's property now, bitches!

Don't worry Junkyard Dog, many great writers have grappled with this issue before. Chuck Palahniuk, notable author, and my hero (second only to this guy), had a serious crisis on his hands. He, sadly, was a faggot. Now, I know what you're thinking. You read a book by a faggot? Doesn't that make you a faggot? Hold on, gentlemen. Palahniuk's characters are almost always twenty to thirty-something men searching for some way to achieve masculinity while they aggressively fuck women. This is honorable. For years I've been proclaiming that even if you are gay or some kind of minority, you can always work your way to earn respect among the ranks of true men, by sanitizing your identity to appear more like us. We'll still ridicule you endlessly for where you come from, but you're a good sport, right?

Other authors have tried but failed to achieve the task of manhood. Don't be fooled by weak losers like Earnest Hemingway. He drove an ambulance in World War I. Seriously, Ernie? War's for killing, and one of the few true arenas of masculinity we have left. If you're not gonna fight, don't ruin the fun for the rest of us.

In books like For Whom the Bell Tolls, Hemingway's main character falls in love with some Spanish ho, a "rape victim" who clearly wanted it from the rambling fascist armies. Although I can forgive this character for falling into the trap of love, I can hardly forgive him for statements like when he claims the earth moves when he makes love to this woman. Well the earth only moves for me about a minute after sex, relative to the burning tires of my Chevy Camaro as I escape the scene.

To pick up where Hemingway lamely left off when he woke up one morning and ate his breakfast out of a shotgun, I will solve your crisis of masculinity. I have been doing some reading and have solved my own, with the help of literary heavyweights like Tucker Max and Maddox. Seriously, having an X in your name is awesome. So without further adieu (believe me, that is the last French word you will find in my posts), I present my first tip for great men.

I've been sleeping in my clothes a lot lately. This is a recipe for manliness. Watch any action movie, and you will notice that the hero does a lot of things with his clothes on that a normal man does with his clothes off, like swimming or having a conversation with a woman.

While some may find doing these things uncomfortable not stripped to their bare caveman essentials, I think it shows a certain machismo. A man needs to be constantly pretend to be civilized so he can trick the rest of society, i.e. women, children, and faggots, into serving his manly needs.

You may think I'm over-analyzing this trend. After all, action heroes need to keep their clothes on so movies where they rip people's spinal columns out through their throats are safe for the whole family. But consider the trend's implications.

People often argue that Jeff Buckley's death was a suicide, because he drowned after going to swim with his clothes on. I say he was trying to be manly to make up for his ninny, whining "rock" albums. Now you may say, hey, Jeff Buckley was a beautiful person, a talented musician with a four-octave voice range! I say people who use words like "octave" ought to be punched in the voice box. And you're right, Jeff was a great guy. It takes a true hero to rob the world of such "talent."

So while the male norm used to be trying to remain pantless and shirtless at all times, I say keep your clothes on. Yeah, it may show true disgust for the woman you live with when it's six oclock at night and you still aren't dressed, letting the milk from you frosted flakes dribble down your bare chest and into your boxers as you watch Two and a Half Men (isn't Charlie Sheen the coolest?). But she'll be even more freaked when you refuse to take your clothes off, even during coitus. It says, hey, I never let my guard down, especially not for you, bitch.

And you'll always be ready in a true test of masculinity, like if a minority tries to rob you in the middle of the night. You'll be sharp and intimidating in a full suit, looking like you just came back from your high-powered job and ready to start a fight. Plus, then he has no way of ridiculing you for your inferior-sized junk, which hey, man, is just genetic and can't be helped. But don't worry, that's what these tips are for.