A Ramble


Notice the man cleavage. That's how you know you're doing it right.

Full disclosure?  I have hipster tendencies.  But so what if my deep-v facilitates a man nip-slip here and there.  Ladies love a little mammary.  It’s one of the many ways that I let the ladies know what they are working with:  A mammal.  And yes, I frequent Urban Outfitters…that is, I have ever since I realized that Urban Outfitters wasn’t a clothing store catering to, shall we say, inner-city denizens?  (Note: I’m not a racist, you made the leap.  And about that leap:  You ought to be ashamed).  Regardless, or irregardless for those of you who maintain that two wrongs do make a right, I have hipster tendencies, yet I am not a hipster.  Now, before you object on the basis that those who are hipsters intrinsically deny their affiliation with hipsterdom, allow me to clarify:  I do not wear flannels unless I am going  Lumberjacking, to the 90’s, or to the store to pick up a gratuitous amount of Brawny paper towels.  Moreover, I do not have a fixed-gear bike (though I admit, a strong case could be made against my bike, albeit for aesthetic reasons).  I do not have a tattoo, and I do not have a Tattoo.  I do not think bands “sell-out.”  I think bands begin to make money.  Basically, I am a real person in hipster’s clothing.  Why is this important?  It’s not, but I thought you should know.

In other news, I’ve given up on my dream of becoming the leader of a crew.  Instead, I adjust my attention to bromance.  A bromance mandates man-dates, which is always a plus because it allows, nay, necessitates a pun.  Basically, I need a bromance to affirm that I am a desirable man to men.  Sure, women respond to me the way ice responds to fire (they melt, and then things get a little wet, damp, moist, and, given the previous adjectives, surprisingly dirty), but men are mostly immune to my animal magnetism.  They think I’m queer (definition circa 1870)  or queer (definition circa now), neither of which are bad, just lonely.  I want a Downey to my Law, an Affleck to my Damon, a Brock to my Ash, a Bush to my Blair, a Bush to my Jesus, a Lando to my Han, a Chewbacca to my Han.  You get the drift.  If you want to strike up a bromance with me, send me your man data* and maybe we can have a mandated man-date.  Until next time, word to your mother.

 

*Note: This is NOT code, or innuendo suggesting that you send me pictures of your junk.  If you do, I admit I will look at it.  Then I will laugh.  Then I will post it, thus eliminating your chances at becoming president. 

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8 thoughts on “A Ramble

  1. They covered up the sun until the birds had flown away and all the fishes in the sea had gone to sleep.

  2. kat says:

    A Tebow to your Jesus . . . a Beavis to your Butt-Head . . .

  3. Anonymous says:

    A Bro to your Romance…ich is all I can say….lol

  4. Anonymous says:

    No Brain, No Pain!

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