You know what? I’m getting sick of the whole “Portland doesn’t have any real men,” shtick. Even though, on some level, I get it. I could go on a whole diatribe that cross references Portland’s pseudo-European zeitgeist with the rise of Don Draper and then link the whole thing with the metaphorical emasculation of tight jeans, hipster-infantilization, and small bikes… But, fuck it. I’m just going to cook some bacon WITH A FUCKING GUN!
There. Problem solved.
There’s nothing like the smell of bacon and gun oil in the morning. Yummy
PAC FTW.
Well, and I for one right here am a manly type motherfucker who nonetheless hates it every time he hears about what “men” do.
Those aren’t men. Those are redneck idiots whose last words are inevitably “Dude, check this out,” and we’re all better off without.
So our butch women come in for no attention, huh? It’s kind of fun when chauvanism rebrands itself as feminism.
So here’s what I learned:
These men wrap meat products around their Freudian version of their own “meat product”.
They fire and fire and fire.
They unwrap their now hot, steaming meat product.
They eat their meat product in a bonding ritual.
This is masculinity.
OK. Got it. Thanks. I’ll stay in Portland and be a wussypants.
Guns are neato.