Truesday: On Being Aggressive

Sometimes I feel like I just woke up from my real life, which is actually back somewhere in the early eighteen hundreds, where I eat nothing but boiled beets everyday and do something tragic-but-useful. Like, work as a buggy whip delivery boy who has to run wooden crates of that shit from Detroit to Chicago every week. On my back, on my feet. And right after I stepped out of the time machine which brought me here, fresh into our world of plastic dreams and advanced product development, some swoll’d up slab of retired (rejected) dick-dancer on the TV screen immediately tore into me, trying to convince me that I need a gym membership, a rubber band torture-contraption/clothes-rack to darken my guestroom, and a stack of DVDs containing a parade of smile’d-up assholes in tights who I’m supposed to spend my personal time mimicking like they’re Jesus or some shit. Otherwise, there’s no way anyone would love me, let alone hire me or allow me borrow five bucks. So I’m confused, wondering why people are willing to pay to get the kind of workout I used to get paid to perform.

The logic feels broken to me.

Because being “fit” should be the result of doing “fit” activities, right? Shouldn’t it? You know, like you go climb rocks or some shit for a few years and BOOYEAH, you emerge from the desert mountains with some sweet-ass guns and a tan for the ladies to drool over. Perhaps you race cars for a living and have a massive right leg. Or are we just supposed to appear like we’re active, even if we never venture outdoors to actually do anything? Are we supposed to have sculpted calf muscles and quads even if we’re pathetically incapable of running a full mile without erupting into a volcano of tears, snot, and vomit? Do our chiseled biceps need to have the circumference of a pitbull’s head if all we ever do is type shit and drink heavily? Isn’t it false advertising?

And then, in the midst of my hand-to-chin-in-thought confusion, the television explains it all to me quite plainly. You see, back in the day, before Charles Atlas laid it down for the average man/woman, no one really knew what made the male form attractive. It was an utterly confusing two hundred thousand years of our collective existence, and humans tried everything to properly judge dudes, including (in totally random order):

1. Beard/sideburn length.
2. (Height of top hat + extension of cane) / number of pinstripes on woolen suit.
3. Number of working teeth.
4. Presence of White Buffalo hide for underwear.
5. Top speed of hazardously fastened automobile.
6. Ability to score free drugs.
7. Polio immunity.
8. Showing of thick, lush, natural hair in forehead region.
9. Number of slaves under ownership.
10. Length/girth of reproductive member.

Well bro-hams and bro-maidens, those measures were all dated, pedestrian, and pathetically flawed. Horribly and embarrassingly flawed in that they obviously lack universal appeal. Not everyone along our evolutionary chain gave a shit about how rare a man’s underpelt was (or how delicious it was to eat its maker, before it was worn), and (the admitting of) slave ownership is pretty frowned upon nowadays. Same goes for the top hat and cane shenanigans. The drugs… well, that one’s still up for consideration as a close second.

But based on current back-of-envelope statistical wowing and science-inspired assuming, the only way to judge a man has become beautifully obvious. Finally, our evolution as human beings can stop, as we’ve got it all figured out. The unified theory of purpose, as it were. Our raisonner pour l'existence, as a person of effeminate quality might say whilst sipping their vodka gimlet.

It’s all about getting really ripped abdominals.

Some freaky, super conspicuous looking abdomen action. I’m talking about a rock-solid mountain ridge that stretches from the southern tips of the Nips region, further south on down to the thunderbolt you so cleverly trimmed into the ol’ crotchal plains. And no, the old “six pack” is NOT enough to garner a second look nowadays. You need a full “baker’s dozen” if not a complete “biggie sized fries”, which includes a handful of sliver-like ab-ites right under the rib cage and in between the previously-impressive but now ho-hum six-pack. No need to be a boxer, kayaker, or carnival freak anymore with your crinkly-tight stomach. EVERYONE NEEDS THESE for their everyday life.

So the next time you’re looking to get something nice for your recently divorced mom’s birthday, just go for the super-ripped abs off the shelf! Mom will never find another love without them! Or don’t, because she’ll never do as well as your dad anyway.

And if you have a frat-brother or two who simply aren’t applying themselves out in the real world (ever since that “spider monkey incident” no one is allowed to talk about), slap a nineteen pack on them and POW! Success in life like BOOM!

If your baby has an ear infection, just abdominate their doughy exterior and SHAZAM! They’re already graduating magna cum whatever from college, in a half-shirt to display their supreme-ness, waving at you from the stage and mouthing the words “fuck y’all, I’m sleeping with fifteen underwear models tonight, and we’ll be using a color coding system because I don’t give a shit what their names are!”

It’s science.