Mantastic! ~Fin~

While the use of tildes on either side of the word "Fin" might suggest some sort of ominous dorsal ridge skimming the water, my intention here was the unnecessarily inclusion of a foreign word in a pretentious grasp at sophistication, one so very commonplace that its dependence on cliche only screams to the world that I'm a hack. Clearly I'm trying to get into character here in the hopes of better understanding dear Prof. Chiarella, an effect I mean to heighten through the donning of a turtleneck and the quick application of Crisco to my face to enhance my already pallid glow to downright sickly, vampirish levels:


That done, let us breach the even more hideous depths of the man's affected prose. I'm less concerned here with stumbling upon the Holy Grail of masculinity as I am an end to this hellish pit into which I've cast us. To borrow from the urban youth, "my bad, yo," but I promise I'll finish my grisly business this time. I fear some of us may already be suffering from a sort of frostbite of the soul, and the longer we dwell amidst the barren, arctic wastes of this man's intellect, the more we'll have to amputate later. So, let us proceed.

41) Speak to a waiter so he will hear, curiously, appears immediately adjoining 42) Talk to a dog so it will hear, clearly betraying the rosy impression our host has of those in the service industry.

45) Break another man's grip on his wrist. Why am I not surprised that Prof. Chiarella sees masculinity as predicated upon enacting his favorite scenes from an episode of Walker Texas Ranger or any of Steven Segal's exquisite canon of work? Personally, I have found squealing in pain and bawling like a hungry infant to be the best bet, for inevitably the man's man clutching you wil turn away in disgust, at which point you kick him in the small of the back or break your bottle of Bartles & Jaymes "Body Shot Lime" over his head.

46) Tell a woman's dress size. Never out loud. Not if you want to live.

52) Step into a job one one wants to do. Like reading your work, sir?

55) Point to the north at any time. Thanks, Daniel Boone. How very rustic of you, defying our savage, contemporary days of GPS phones and sedentary, indoor existence. I hope that little skill comes in handy at the tenure meeting when your department chair tells your sorry ass your scholarly acumen is no longer required.

59) Write a thank you note. Fair enough. And what sort of note does our sage recommend?
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-definition television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
Wow, not only did he come off as his usual pretentious self, but he also made himself seem a cheap, ungrateful prick. Of course, it would definitely ensure a second invite from me, if only to ambush him in my living room and hold a dry-cleaning bag over his head until he stopped fighting.

61) Cook bacon. Yes. A hundred times YES. Put it on anything and everything: burgers, sandwiches, salads, even your children will be better human beings with a few strips of bacon judiciously hidden amidst their flaxen curls.

62) Hold a baby. ...nestled in bacon. Obviously. Get them used to the heady aroma of grilled pork early on, and if you're really lucky and they end up smelling vaguely of bacon for the rest of their lives, then that's just all the more reason to hug your delicious progeny every single day.

64) Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. You mean we're not supposed to desperately cling to the oversimplified lessons of our second grade history class? Okay. "I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer." Wait a second...what the fuck was that? A gnome? Rats? No wonder the Irish kids on your block beat the sweet shit out of your chubby ass at every opportunity. I'm tempted to track you down next week myself and tell you Saint Patrick sends his regards, courtesy of Lefty McUppercut and Righty Fitzsuckerpunch.

That's it. I'm done with this guy, lest my paroxysms of rage give me a stroke. I think I'll instead turn to some student papers now; at least they have something intelligent to say.