Yesterday, Adam and I had a celebration of our masculinity. The festivities were far deeper and more significant than any “Wild at Heart” study guide could possibly have suggested. In no way did we discuss our goals, dreams, desires, or utter lack thereof. We did not encourage one another, nor did we make eye contact.
Instead, we grilled meat and then feasted upon it.
As our steaks roasted over the open flames, so the bonds of our friendship were seared and sealed. As the bovine flesh browned and sizzled, so did our hearts warm towards one another. Our incisors tore the meat, our tongues savored the flavor of the flesh, our molars pounded the steak into a husky pulp, and our esophogases hastily dismissed it to the stomach to be digested. While we consumed the grilled meat, we were entertained by the cynical, antisocial tidings of Seinfeld. Adam and I laughed and grunted our approval through our mouths stuffed with seasoned flesh. Truly I say to you, we eagerly ate the steaks, and it was good.
I don’t expect any of my women readers to understand the significance of this particular male-bonding ceremony. Indeed, I anticipate them to be revolted, as they traditionally are to my exploits. Well ladies, you can keep your deep talks, secret-sharing, pillow fights, and pajama parties. I would much rather have a gutteral meat-feast any day of the damn week. Anybody who thinks otherwise should just shut up and let me punch them.