For full effect, download “Every Time We Touch” by Cascada and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
This will be a two-part post, with my epic introduction displayed tonight, and being dismally concluded tomorrow. Wait, did I just use the word epic again? I am such a trendy nimrod! Maybe I’ll go start a Twitter account or something.
For the record, I think that I am a pure man, 100% through and through. My masculinity shines forth boldly as I have a stockpile of sports trivia interspliced between my vibrato bass voice and Crossfit workout schedule. Yes, I am a man. Disregard the enigmatic statistic that I lived in a house baked with estrogen and high-heels, I am the complete opposite, as manly as they come. Line me up with any other dude out there and I’ll laugh along with them trading back and forth hunting stories, late night engines rebuilt in grungy garages, and the replication of the heartbreak we felt for Gary Anderson that fateful NFC Championship game.
There is however a moment that contradicts every ounce of testosterone in our buff bodies, which usually happens when we are attempting an explanation at what happened last night on our hot date.
Swamp Thing: “Yeah man, things were going great. I picked her up, took her to dinner, she was laughing at my jokes, things were feeling pretty good.”
Chief Kent: “Oh yeah, then what happened?”
Swamp Thing: “Well, I took her home, went back into my room, put on a movie and uh…you know…started….uh…”
Chief Kent: Mischievous look across his face “Started what? Did you guys uh start, you know…?”
Swamp Thing: “Uh…yeah, well, we uh…kinda started… Well, I uh…put my arm around her, and uh…you know, we uh…started to uh…” Looking back and forth in the same manner as someone who is about to tell an extremely racist joke, “We started to uh…cuddle.”
Chief Kent: “Oh man, I once had a gargantuan amount of respect for you until you just said that word. Go play My Little Pony in the corner why don’t you. HA!”
I HATE the C-word, everything about it. It’s the most feminine, anti-masculine, come-here-and-I’ll-show-you-the-pink-ballerina-tutu-I’m-wearing word out there. No one can feel tough after saying it. Not me, not Chuck Norris, not even He-Man can utter that vagina-lined verb and look themselves in the mirror, it’s impossible. The C-word instantly invalidates your manliness.
As frustrating as it is, we have to say this word, we are forced to say this word. How else are we supposed to describe what went down during our forced viewing of “The Notebook?”
Fishmitts: “So there we were, on my couch, and I uh…positioned my arm just over her right clavicle in a cupping motion on her tricep, meanwhile my left hand grasped hers. We stayed there for a little while, until she rolled over and my abdomen was touching her behind with our legs interlocked in a very feminine position. During which she reached back behind her neck and played with my hair in a twirling manner.”
Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd: “So, you guys were cuddling then?”
Fishmitts: “Shh… Keep it down! I don’t want the neighbors to know that I talk like a lady.”
Can you see the pain that we holders of the masculine trophy have to endure on a consistent basis? Do you see how difficult it is to avoid the open mockery of our peers and friends as we convey the successes that we saw on our late Friday night escapade? We can’t do anything to get out of this mess. It’s either the C-word or snuggle, and I don’t see a light at the end of either of those tunnels.
Is there anyone out there who knows a better word for me to use than the cursed C-word, because I don’t know any. All I get to do is turn in my man card every time I’m describing the late night embraces with cheerleader, so-and-so, what’s-her-face, or the ugly one. Five bucks to whoever texts me where those four girls came from. No matter how you look at it, there is no tough way to say that you C-worded with someone.
Now, how you C-word, well let’s talk about that tomorrow…
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