Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [80]
Here's what One Angry Guy says to The Big Loudmouthed Guy who All The Other Guys think is talking too much:
Hey-loudmouth. Shut the fuck up and let someone else fuckin' talk.
That's it.
We don't have BMFs.
And while we are on the subject-let's get something else completely set straight-guys don't want their girlfriends or wives to be their best friends. Our best friends are other guys. Guys we hang out with. Guys we play sports and sweat with. Guys we fart openly with and compare coughed-up phlegm with or go to hockey games with or play golf with or watch a heavyweight championship on TV with. Our best friends have beards and balls and hair on their backs and we can watch a sixty-seven-yard touchdown pass from Peyton Manning to Marvin Harrison and just grunt at each other in firm admiration and approval because we know how almost impossible a task that is to pull off. I don't wanna have sex with my best friend or give him a hot-oil massage or kiss him on the back of the neck or sneak up from behind him and quietly cup his right breast in my hand while breathing a low and steamy whisper into his other ear.
Here's a headline-we eat food with our hands when chicks ain't around. And if we do use cutlery, we grab one of those huge serving utensils-a great big spoon or a fork with four massive prongs-so we can shovel whatever the hell it is we're eating into our gaping pieholes with even more speed. Getting to the pitchfork first is key 'cause then you can stab at the hands of the other guys when they try to grab some of what yer eating out of the bowl or dish it sits in.
When chicks ain't around we scratch our asses and tweak our balls and reconfigure our cocks in our pants and spit and moan and stare each other down and call each other pussies and faggot and threaten to kick a guy's ass and elbow him in the face for a rebound and spit and snort and grunt and cackle and high-five and fart and then cackle about the size of the fart and then high-five BECAUSE of the fart and then piss and moan and snot snotrockets. We piss in sinks and sandtraps and on trees and in sandbuckets and into old coffee cans and almost anywhere we can find when the bathroom is taken or there isn't one around and we jerk off a lot and it has nothing to do with whether or not we are in or out of a happy relationship it's just at the very least a release of testosterone and/or a form of target practice because the more we do it the longer we can last and making it last longer is a point of pride when you are trying to make the woman in your life happy in bed. We couldn't care less about Sex and the City and we'd really rather stare at a six-color double-page Road & Track shot of the engine inside a new Ferrari Testarossa than we would at actresses we don't know in red carpet dresses from People magazine or even one of the same actresses tastefully naked but airbrushed into ambiguity in Playboy or Penthouse. We like to bang shit with hammers but if we hadn't invented hammers we would be just as happy to bang shit with big rocks-we like to drive fast and throw sticks and chuck small rocks and peg acorns or apples or almost anything we can get our hands on.
And we barely talk during any of this. Except to yell "Nice goal, Schiller!" or "Pass the goddam puck, Lombardi!" or "Think I can hit that pigeon with this bottle top?"
As a matter of fact, Think I Can Hit That Tree? is a game even grown men can play for hours on end. All you need is a tree, two men, and some loose stones. One guy says something to the effect of "Think I can hit that tree from here?" and the game is on: two adult males will throw flat stones, round stones, rectangular stones-thin, fat, chubby, chunky, we don't even care-at said tree until they either run out of stones or they see a squirrel. Then they start playing Think I Can Hit That Squirrel? Same rocks, same rules-moving target.
Pretty goddam simple.
We don't do Extreme Makeovers. You wanna know what