I watch football, drink beer, pass gas, toss the toothpaste cap in the trash and leave the seat up.
That’s right. I’m a “real man.”
And I love concerts. But they have to be manly concerts. None of this “getting in touch with my so called feminine side via sensitive lyrics” b.s. I’m 100 percent foul-mouthed, burly, carnivorous, one-wipe-is-good-enough male. I want crunching power chords, bombastic drum solos and screaming vocals. I want Metallica, Van Halen and Slayer. I live for GWAR and Bret Michaels is like a god to me. That’s what being a real man is all about. Yeah, baby!
And I’m looking for a “real woman.” Someone who knows how to get the pit stains out of my T-shirts after a loud night of rockin’ with UFO. Someone who doesn’t have to be told to get up and get me another beer at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Someone who understands how to treat a real man such as myself. A real man’s life is the life for me.
Of course, I work a real man’s job, and I don’t mean I’m a therapist, counselor, paramedic or any of those other sissy jobs. I’m talking he-man, sweat-and-muscle, real-man work. Lemme tell you, I earn my money the real man way, and as long as there are road-kills to scrape off the roads and highways, I’ll have plenty of money for Marilyn Manson and Ronnie James Dio. I’ll bring home the bacon so you can fry it up in a pan.
So, ladies, here’s your chance for a real man. No surprises, no gimmicks, no games. I like to crack my knuckles before Blue Oyster Cult takes the stage, and people just love it when I light my farts while waiting for the Scorpions or to come back out for the encore. In fact, why don’t you real ladies do yourselves a favor and call me right now at 555-4864. That’s 555-HUNG!”
And if I’m not home, leave a message with my mommy.