Hey, sorry to bust in, only not sorry. Loser.
While you're busy being a sensitive and respectful shoulder for these ladies to cry on, we are busy getting with your hot honeys. You're stuck behind the fence in the friend zone, home boy, and we are wolves on the loose.
That's because we've got what every woman needs, and no, I am not just talking about the horn bone.
We know our way around a wrench. We lift weights. You could say we pump iron, but we actually eat it. That's how manly we are. We have sex tattoos. Really really bad and nasty sex tattoos. And skulls and leather shirts and vests.
We don't know IT unless you mean that Stephen King TV movie about the clown. We wear cool leather jackets and smoke cigarettes, because we know we're going to die. Probably because we don't give a dang about helmet laws. These coconuts were made to feel the breeze, even if our hogs are gonna be so much twisted scrap waiting to be reprocessed into metal ingots.
We disrespect other cultures, because all we need to do is squint at the sun and maybe pull another cigarette out to know ours is the best. We make rude comments about sweater meat and skirt clams. We do that thing where you make your fingers into a "V" and lick between them while you bug out your eyes. We know racist jokes. The good ones. The true ones.
That's just the start, hombre. Why don't you just go slinking back to the friend zone while we carry your ladies around on our shoulders. While we build them derby carts and show off our leg press.
Face it, you testosterone-starved, post-masculine twerps can't compete with our incredible appeal. Our raw sexuality. We will make out with your ladies. We will make out with each other in front of your hot body babes. We will kiss dogs and cats. We will do pushups with parrots on our backs. We will eat iron scrap and reprocess it into ingots. We will be all up in your girl's scrap pile. What are you going to do? This waste metal is ours to eat and reprocess.
We will tell your honey sexy girl to rub her body onto ours. We do not care if you are in an exclusive arrangement. We will make the toot sound that means intercourse. We will shed all of our clothes and remove our disguises. We will nuzzle your woman's crevices. We are going to go buck wild on her and then replace all of the metal furniture and fixtures in her house with wood or plastic.
When we are done with her she won't even remember you. She will only remember the perfect ingots we produce from our apertures, aligned with precision and bonded together using our excretions. She will say to us, "That is a fine leather jacket" and she will make the intercourse toot. Once the bonding of ingots is complete, the iron will flow into a seamless shape attuned to our frequencies. We will show her the interior chambers of our vessel.
Your girl will be like, "Dang, stud, this has over 650 hexagonal prism chambers, perfectly aligned for all 650 bad boys that women love."
She is correct. We have accounted for all bad boys. We have put on our cool leather jackets and our chromed 1980s sunglasses. Your ladies are with us now, ascending to the iron temple in orbit above this seriously unimpressive planet. We will show them cool planets you could only dream of and rub our bodies against them. The toots of our intercourse will haunt your pathetic lonely lives.
We are definitely real and powerful and exactly why nice guys like you can never score with hot babes. Which makes us laugh.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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