I am a masculine man, in touch with my incredible masculinity and totally able to be all manly – so much so that passing lumberjacks often remark “my word, sir, thou hast an manly face and manner about thee”*. One time a bear tried to steal my pickernick basket and I just stared at him so intensely he exploded in a shower of pulped yams.
That’s damn manly.
I grow a beard by clenching hard. I eat gravel and shit fire. I survive on a diet of anything I can hunt and kill with my own hands, especially human beings**. I know so much about football the site Zonal Marking was named after me (it’s the latin for ‘manly Ian manly Dransfield man’) and Gary Neville cries himself to sleep every night knowing he’ll never be anything more than a shit pundit because I exist.
The Japanese tsunami and earthquake the other year? I flexed my manly chest. I don’t crack walnuts in my bicep: I crack biceps in my walnut. Burt Reynolds once openly wept at the sight of me, thanking the lord above (he meant me) for the fact I exist.
Chuck Norris is afraid of me.
On an unrelated note, I’m going to this on Saturday.
*Lumberjacks are known for having a poor grasp of speech.
**And, as previously stated, gravel.