Man Up. Cry a Lot!
David opens up to our readers, and comes off like a baby... or does he?
I am a man! A hairy, football loving man. A man who believes Budweiser props up the food pyramid. A man who wears sweat like a fashion statement. I eat raw steak and fart in public. Because I am a man! I rip phone books in half to impress strippers and children (or dwarves, I'm too manly to differentiate). I live in an apartment, yet still own a hatchet. An autographed headshot of Burt Reynolds sits on my nightstand ("Hey kiddo, avoid bran cereal and never perm your chest hair. It's not manly. Burt"). Words like "male" or "guy" are too soft for describing me. Only "man" or "manosaur" will do. And like the text-book definition of a real man, I cry. A lot.
I eat buffalo wings and Cheetos smothered in Hell's Blue Flame Lava Sauce. And I do not cry. Yet, tears flow when John McClain stumbles about searching for his wife at the end of Die Hard 2: Die Harder. The queen alien pulls apart Bishop in Aliens. My eyes moisten. During The Long Kiss Goodnight I choke up when Samuel L. Jackson saves the day screaming, "You can't kill me, muthafuckas!"
Nail me in the goods with a frozen turkey and I won't weep (although I may grunt loudly). Yet, show me the scene in Cast Away where Wilson the volleyball floats off and tears will roll. I, too, have lost volleyballs. And if you think volleyball is unmanly, then you've never seen Top Gun. Yes, I cry when Goose dies (I also cry when Arnold Schwarzenegger melts in Terminator 2: Judgement Day).
People say I will shed tears of joy when my children are born. True. But only if I happen to be watching Akeelah spell "pulchritude" in Akeelah and the Bee at the same time. But that means the hospital – or backseat of my Honda Civic – would have to subscribe to Showtime. Unlikely, especially since the backseat of my Honda Civic isn't cable-ready, nor does it have a television. It's more likely I would catch Babe and bawl ("That will do pig." And the crowd goes wild!). If it is December, then that means It's a Wonderful Life. There will be blubbering. Although TNT plays Kill Bill a lot, and I cry during that one too.
It's okay to be a man and be overcome with emotion while watching a film. Unless, that film is Beaches, because that means you are a woman. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a woman, except for the fact Beaches makes you cry.
My male friends (who by my definition are not men or manosaurs, unless you count having a penis or dinosaur genes) occasionally shun me for my manly wet works during movies. I shun them for their love of indoor plumbing and collection of Steely Dan albums, and they may not admit it, but I know they sob at the end of The Wild Bunch. Who doesn't? Yet, they will never graduate to manhood if they continue denying it.
So be a man. A real manosaur. A man who knows how to operate a chainsaw and openly admit to shedding tears during The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There is nothing more manly than that.
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