Here's To The Man

"Men are nicotine soaked, beer besmirched, whiskey greased, red-eyed devils..."- Carry Nation

Or so sayeth that long dead pug-faced lesbian in training, so famous for bringing her crusade of morality and forced prohibition straight into the whiskey stained bars of Kansas, one hand wielding a hatchet and the other a Bible. Personally, I think she just needed a slap in the mouth, a cold pint of Newcastle, and good hard ramrodding up her snooter cooter. But that's the problem with women who don't drink these days, isn't it? Perhaps if they just shut up for two seconds and enjoyed a shot or two with us, life wouldn't seem so serious now would it?

But that's because I'm a man, and I think like a man. So here's to being a man, in all our chest thumping, knuckledragging, ass farting glory. Here's to the guy's guy, the misogynist, the drunkard, the consummate chauvinist pig, the blue collar farmer's tan, the ass grabbing tit-slapping slackjawed yokel, the soccer hooligan, the drunken Little League coach, the pool hustler, the card shark, and the pimp.

But I digress, and for fear of sounding too much like a homosexual, this article is a celebration of all things Man, and by delving deeper into those who personify that quality, perhaps the one true reason we do the things we do shall come to light. So grab your filthiest highball glass, pour yourself a shot of the cheapest shelf whiskey you can find, light up a Lucky Strike, slap your woman in the mouth, and scratch your balls in celebration of those who should be celebrated.

Here's to the Rat Pack, and by the Rat Pack I only mean the Holy Trinity...Frankie, Sammy, and Deano. Fuck Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. No, much like Judeo-Christian folklore, the three shining members of the Rat Pack embodied the characteristics that every man in the 21st century SHOULD follow, but few rarely do. They carried on their backs a cross that few other men could bear, but they did it with gusto and a drunken machismo few have dared to attempt since. Count the fact that they hung around with the hippest black Jew to ever bang a hot Swedish broad, and baby...you've got a walking, talking, living, breathing example of how a man should act. Their code of ethos was quite simple really: Drink like a man, and that means plenty of hard liquor on the rocks. Broads may come and go, but your pals? Your pals are forever. When in doubt, swing...in both senses of the word. Regret is a dangerous enemy to have watching your back, so never ever regret anything you've done, just make sure you've had a damned good time doing it. And perhaps the most important creed of all to follow: Pray silence. Oh, pray silence, because we're all in this shady enterprise together, so who's going to point fingers. Don't rat on your friends, fellow readers, or what the fuck's the point of calling them your friend in the first place? So raise your glass high to the Rat Pack, because we'll never see their kind again.

Here's to Hemingway, a man most alcohol fueled writers such as myself can only aspire to be, yet always fall so drastically short. Let's face it, folks...the man lived like a fucking man. Traveling around the world in a drunken whirlwind of bullfights, barroom brawls, and deep sea fishing, daiquiris, shots of tequila, and the hunting of wild defenseless animals, this man puts most our lives to shame. Sure, the self-loathing and the inevitable double barrel full of buckshot puts a depressing footnote on the story of his life, but all great men in this world know instinctively when last call is about to be called. I don't blame him, though. In the last days of his life, he found his memory was completely shot, and he couldn't write anymore. I'd kill myself too, IF I was even a good writer and had 1/10 the literary skill that man possessed. Plus I hear he possessed QUITE the pimp hand, and layed it down strong. Word. So raise your shot of tequila high to dear old Ernest, and go forth and shoot an endangered animal or two or three in his name, because guns are loud and noisy and stink...much like most of us men.

Here's to that one guy who, while trapped under a boulder, sawed through his own arm with a Swiss army knife. I bet that guy has to walk around with his balls in a wheelbarrow, THAT'S how big those fuckers must be. I'd shake his hand if ever met him, but I'm right handed, so it would just be awkward. So raise your prosthetic arms and hook hands and show your fucking respect to this guy, even if I can't remember his name.

And to keep this crappy editorial short, here's to those who do things most people would just consider fool-hardy. I'm talking about the pirates, the cowboys, the alligator wrestlers, the titty bar DJ's, the pimps, the hitmen, the hobos, the soldiers, the firemen, the drug dealers, the prize fighters, and the drunken editorialists of the world who day by day risk their lives because doing what they do can only be summed up in one sentence: It's fucking cool. And quite frankly, when it all comes down to it and the campfire has been smothered, the reason we men act like men?

Because chicks dig it. Period.