Eyes over here, mister namby-pamby fish lips. These ain’t manboobs, moobs, saggy mansacks, hairy nipstacks, or any other indecent alternatives to a virile physique. What I have on display here are two perfectly rigid beechwood-aged swab-the-deck-and-make-it-shine gladiator pecs.
Come a little closer and take in the full view. I am the peak physical fulfillment God intended when on the sixth day he snapped his almighty fingers and created pecs, cocks, and Ted fucking Nugent.
Look here. “Sun’s out, guns out” is a feeble platitude for rawboned lameasses Instagramming their somehow ironic beach trips.
Please.
Any puny toddler in pull-ups can grab a dumbbell and pop out some biceps. You ain’t nothing ‘til you sculpt a barrel into that chest at the gym. Better yet, do some hard time in the pen on a B&E with intent charge. You’ll have nothing but sweet, sweet time to carve out that upper trunk when you aren’t ducking and dodging the toughest dudes on the yard like Slim Chippy and Mop Handle Burke, not to mention Garrulous Twink and Three-Can Sam. You’ll follow your nose straight to the concrete if Sam catches you eyeballing that giant schnoz of his.
But especially watch out for Jeffy Madz. Crazier than a shithouse rat with a head full of swamp water. Claims he was named after two of the Founding Fathers but everybody knows Jefferson and Madison is the intersection where the nuns found him swaddled in a size 16 shoe box. His daddy must’ve been yoked up huge, too. Jeffy Madz is a frequent flier doing a double life jolt and he’ll rip your got dang clothes right off your back just for fun.
I had a ringside view for the epic chow hall brawl between T-Bone Capone and Short Rib Copernicus when Jeffy Madz jumped me from behind and tore my shirt open at the neck. “Whatchu got in there?” he screamed into my face. “Lemme see them titties!” Everybody laughed so hard they didn’t notice T-Bone getting hauled off by four guards, his face so swolled up they started calling him the Great Pumpkin after that. Even that dude was laughing.
Then Jeffy Madz snuck up on me during free draw in art group. Thought he was sizing me up for a good molly whopping, but nah, he was just sweating me again on account of the pitiful softness of my pecs. I hit the bench twice a day after that and got all the cardio I needed running from that dude. It taught me respect for myself and respect for tradition.
I see you cutting your eye at me when you go prancing down the street with your girlfriend all easy breezy like you’re on your way to the candy store for wham-whams and zoom-zooms. How can you turn away from these marvelous mounds of man muscle? I know you want to be a good sucker ducker and stay out of trouble, but buddy, you’re inviting my fist up your prison pocket if you don’t throw me a simple wave or head nod when I’m out here sweating like a dog in church trying to keep my lawn looking nice for all you pantywaist suburbanites.
A sumptuous feast of inspirational masculinity is awaiting your measly gaze. Will you rise to the challenge or do I have to go full Jeffy Madz on you and snatch your got dang polo shirt up by the collar like I did to the last dude that lived in that house? Why do you think the seller was so motivated? What do you think the “intent” part of “B&E with intent” means?
Don’t make me come in there.
