Last issue Katie Burrell wrote a really great article about the lack of bangable guys at McGill. Fun article, but it kind of read like rejected dialogue from Now and Then. Katie’s dream guy is a big Irish dude who wears Captain Highliner’s sweater, has a jaw that makes Superman feel like Barbara Walters, and is packing a wiener that can do calculus. Either that or some cowpoke from the Appalachian mountains that has skin like a moisturized armadillo, a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones if he got shot and became an angel, and calves big enough that Wrangler jeans dedicated a factory solely to manufacturing denim that can hold them. This fickle notion of what makes a man a man can make girls like Katie search their surroundings and complain at the direct lack of fuckable guys. Well let me tell you, that is just batshit crazy.
First of all, to understand this problem we need to understand the world around us. Growing up we all took health class, and in between looking like shit and smelling like sadness our gym teachers spent hours inundating us with the importance of body image issues. Women in movies aren’t real. We got it. The problem here is that they spent all that time talking about how the perfect female figure doesn’t exist, but never addressed the fact that there really is no deep-sea diver named Pablo that cracks great jokes, catches giant marlins with his dick and makes fresh hummus in his rectum. These guys aren’t real. Women spend their lives growing up watching Irish Spring commercials and salivating at the thought of that barrel-chested dreamboat walking out of their TV and treating their neither regions like visiting foreign ambassadors.
Here’s the thing: the guys in those commercials are painfully girly. I’ve been on a few of those sets. I’ve met these hacks. If you made an estrogen shake by placing all of the women from The View in a food processor and sprinkled it with the tears of all the white doves of Atlantis, those guys would be like “This doesn’t have enough estrogen. Bring me the breast milk of Susan Sarandon.” In real life the actors playing the cowpokes and Irish sheepherders of your dreams have names like ‘Perry’, and their favorite drink is ‘Perrier’. Do you realize how confusing that must make the lives of their personal assistants? These pansies spend 3 hours a day in front of the mirror worrying about specific muscles that have names that sound like extinct Latin dinosaurs. In the real world the guys that occupy those manly jobs are literally fucking ghouls. Have you seen the movie Waking Ned Devine? That movie makes me cry it’s so good, but there’s a reason that all those Irish sheep herders look like shell fish dressed in human clothing.
Women are pretty much naturally fuckable. If a girl throws on some heels on a Friday night she can get laid. Even if she looks like Mr. Miyagi with a coke hangover, if she stays until last call some guy 18 deep would probably just love to take her home. But a girl comparing a guy to an Apollo with a cowboy hat is like a guy comparing a girl to a 1980s Karen Allen with a 12 pack of PBR. It’s just silly. I propose a new tenant of manhood. A guy with a footloose and fancy free body untouched by a gym, whose idea of a great date is to get drunk and riff about fun things, that is the new definition of man. In fact, that goes the same for women. That is now the new definition of a fuckable person. Let’s teach that in health class so that all of the kids can grow up to wicked gals and guys who won’t even watch Irish Spring commercials because they’ll be too busy doing something great like stealing their parents car or learning how to break dance.
~ John Mitchel
