So you think you're a man, huh? You think you're tough? Think you're bad? Well, I got news for you pal – you're not. Sure, you might possess a pair of testicles. You might go fishing every once in a while. You might even watch Walker, Texas Ranger on occasion, but it don't make a f*ck no way, cause you ain't a man.

Not till you read this article, you ain't.

Real men don't cry. Real men don't bitch. Real men, men like me, don't give a fuck about shit. Men like me learn from their mistakes, then they make "'em again just because. Then they eat a 96 ounce steak and wash it down with a nice tall glass of buttery mashed potatoes. That's what real men do.

Real men, manly men, fix all their problems with elbow grease, beef jerky, and the American flag. Real men don't drive SUV's, real men drive Dodge trucks. Real men talk about Hemis, Angus beef burgers, and Pamela Anderson. Real men don't give two shits about World Cup soccer or Lance Armstrong. Real men boo Lance Armstrong. Real men have balls.

Manly men like me don't need women. Being manly is about not needin' shit. And womens is less than shit. Me? I jerk off to my reflection and I jizz lighter fluid. Know why? Cause I'm a real manly man.

Real men smoke Marlboro reds and ride wild stallions and drop kick rattlesnakes. Real men shave with chainsaws and guzzle Jim Beam and body slam elephants and throw special ed buses over mountains. Real men punt babies and break things. Real men eat grenades and shit mortar shells. Real men read Shakespeare. Then we laugh at how fuckin' queer it is. That's what real men do.

Real manly men don't do pilates or yoga or hee-cha kung fu fuck. Real men bench press cement trucks and hunt after grizzly bears with a moldy toothrbrush. Hell, I know this sumbitch Tom Jenkins did just that. Didn't come back alive. Died like a man though. More than I can say for you. Shit.

Know what I just did? Grew a beard. Yep. Took two seconds. Damn thing's down to my feet by now. Guess what now. Fuckin' shaved it.

Yeah. Pretty fuckin' manly. Probably goin' to the Hip Hugger later. Probably see you there. If you got the balls.

I ain't got nothin' else to say. Real men don't say much. Ya'll wanna find me, I'll be out in the middle of the street flexin' my muscles and talkin' Nascar.

Meantime, your candy ass got some stupid pansy questions for a real man? Best direct your mail to this here address" if you got the balls.

Mr. Kelly Titfinch
You've Got Male Productions, 447 East Smith Street
Bloomington, Indiana 47401

P.S. Shit. That's my name. I don't give a fuck.