The ONLY Required Footwear For a Real Man

Having been a man most of my adult life, I’ve come to accumulate quite a few life lessons in regards to what makes a man a man and what makes a man a sniveling, pansy-fied sack of blubbering, window-licking vaginas.  That’s right, I said “sack of vaginas”.

According to all the data I’ve compiled*, the single most important thing that defines a man is what he wears on his feet.  Now a REAL man, one of Bill Brafsky caliber, wears the battered dead bodies of his enemies as his shoes, but that is TOO much man for anyone but him.  More than one man walking around with the carcasses of his enemies as footwear is just too much man for the world to handle at one time.

However, if one endeavors to truly be a man, there are several pieces of required footwear.  For example, I like to walk around my house wearing nothing but a pair of sewage-wading boots, a frilly blue apron with the skirty-part turned up so my junk can hang the hell out and get some air, and holding a soiled feather-duster.  Nothing says “MAN” more than a fucking feather duster, I’ll tell you that much.  When I first saw those boots, I said, “I’m going to get these boots and be a man, and I will stomp the Rin Tin Tin out of any Charlie Whatsits that try to step in the way of my manly endeavors!”

Once, some old lady was all up in my face like, “Hey! Listen up now!  You there, Sonny!  Your stompers make my teeth itch!”  And I was all like, “I’m a man, a big, manly man with manly things to do and I’m not gonna take your old-lady malarkey!”  Then I stomped around until that old lady ran away.  Then I was like, “Yeah, you run, Nanna!  I’ll see you Sunday morning!”

Needless to say, I showed her.  She wasn’t the only one I had to show, either.  On my way home, there was a cat in an alleyway that gave me the stink-eye.  I know it was the stink-eye, too, because I actually went up to the cat and smelled its eyeball and that was one stinky eyeball.  So I said, “Hey, cat, you’re giving me the stink-eye!”  The cat gave me a dirty look and started licking itself.  I was furious.  “I will not be ignored, cat!”, I yelled, and stomped a garbage can right next to it.  Boy, I stomped around that cat up and down that alley, stomping garbage cans, garbage, and bums until I could barely breathe.  I just finished stomping myself a nice big bum, garbage, and garbage can pancake when the cat looked up at me and said, “Well, sir, I didn’t know if you were a man or not, but this stompery you’ve just engaged in proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are indeed one manly man.  You have frightened me into submission.  I shall now do whatever you ask of me.”  I smirked and told this cat he now had to eat the garbage can/bum/garbage pancake I just made in that alley.  The cat didn’t even move.  I told him over and over, while he just stared at me, until I was yelling at him with rage and diarrhetic embarrassment.  “Why won’t you listen to me”, I whined, “You told me you’d do whatever I said!  Why won’t you just do what I ask you?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”, said the cat, “Cats don’t talk.”

I was so distraught I immediately went home and took a long, hot bubble bath with a glass of Arbor Mist Strawberry Zinfandel and a brand-new issue of Cosmo.

*Contrary to the reports of my mother, the data compiled is NOT from sitting in the corner of my bedroom with pee-pee pants and weeping for my Teddy Ruxpin.