Read some literature by famous men, like Mark Twain, or Mordecai Richler, or Tucker Max.
Start every sentence with, “Actually…”
Eat a bunch of beef jerky because you’re a MAN and you like your meat TOUGH and OVERSALTED and DISGUSTING.
Chop wood. Realize you don’t have a fireplace. Use the wood to build yourself a son. Name him Jedidiah and channel all your hopes and dreams into him.
Pay less for razors and deodorant even though it’s all the same product except the men’s version just smells like an anxious teenager who is desperate to see a full boob.
Walk home alone at night.
Visit the playground of an all-girls elementary school and start handing out the $0.25 (or so) they won’t make compared to a man’s dollar. Laugh uproariously. Collect their tears to make you stronger.
Take up as many seats on the subway as possible. Spread your legs as far as you can. Buy a bunch of fake legs and put them on every seat.
Put your dick inside any new and fun holes you find. (It’s not like anyone is using that VCR anymore.)
Buy a bunch of stupid fucking hats and then get really mad when people don’t like your hats.
Give a shit about patterned socks.
Suppress all your feelings because societally accepted masculinity tells you not to emote. Cry desperately while watching Bicentennial Man.
Argue that men are superior at math and then struggle with a 20% tip on a $14 meal.
Squeeze a mustache out in a single day by tensing all your facial muscles. Do not poop.
Receive endless praise for doing the exact same things we naturally expect all mothers to do. (Did you not throw your kid into the dishwasher today? Wow, so brave.)
Tell your firewood-based son how you seduced your wife. “Much like a cat, son, you must wait patiently for a woman. Do not approach her. If she wants to be pet, she will stand on your chest and start batting you in the face. You’ll just know.”
You and your wife, thinking about how you first met, smile warmly at each other. Slowly, her face falls and she walks to the bar to pour herself a drink. Listen to her sigh heavily. You reach out for her hand, but she walks away before you can touch her.
Play catch with your son. Throw the ball right at his face. When he falls over in pain, remind him that this is what it is like when a woman breaks your heart.
“Never fall in love, son,” you say as you turn and look ruefully at your wife, standing by the kitchen window. She scowls back and closes the curtains.
Ask your wife where it all went wrong.
Weep into your hands as your wife asks you for a divorce. Beg her to stay. Beg her to not take your son.
“Not Jedidiah,” you say. “He’s only a boy! A boy made of wood!”
Move into an apartment. Get a girlfriend. Rebuild your life. Become a man Jedidiah would be proud of.
Gather all your gold into a box and bury it under the Statue of Liberty. Leave detailed instructions for your son to find the gold on his 21st birthday.
When he makes it to the end of his journey and finds the box you stashed, there’s nothing inside. He looks up at the sky, knowingly, thinking of you. The gold was inside of him all along.
I don’t know, like, golf?
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