Saturday

What happned to "Men" in America?


A few months back my wife loaded up our four children and headed out of town. I saw before me the rarest of opportunities to indulge some long repressed manly urges. My wife was enjoying some quality time with her relatives hundreds of miles away and blissfully unaware of my evil intentions. I was preparing to undertake an ancient cathartic ritual with no assurances that I would escape unscathed.

I secured the doors and dimmed the lights. I peered furtively through the shuttered windows ensuring that I was proceeding unwatched. I then unplugged the phone to preclude untimely interruptions. From my secure hiding place I produced an untouched bottle of Kentucky’s finest bourbon. I set it on the counter and just stared in silent reverence; a moment of respect, if you will, for the makers of such a refreshing distilled spirit.

I poured myself a shot. I brought it close to my nose and savored the delicate bouquet. I downed the shot and found the glass refilled as if by its own accord. The fiery tendrils of the bourbon stirred deep within my gut releasing a long overdue rush of testosterone.

I stripped down to my briefs and hurried over to the shelf that houses my collection of DVDs. Hundreds of movies awaited me but I was hesitant, overwhelmed by the task. So long I had repressed the “man” within I found myself unsure at the moment of truth. I admonished myself for hesitating and quickly scanned the shelves. One by one I found what I was looking for. I searched each title seeking those cinematic monuments to manliness.

When the frenzied search had finished I held before me, in my trembling hands, those great testaments to adrenaline fueled carnage that graced the hidden recesses of my collection. I dusted each with a respectful awe and found myself filled with a child like anticipation. Titles such as “Full Metal Jacket” and “We Were Soldiers” graced me with their presence. “Saving Private Ryan”, “Wind Talkers” and “Hamburger Hill” called to me with their siren’s song. They promised respite from the politically correct metro-sexual reality of modern America. They harkened me back to a time when me were men and killed things.

I could hardly contain my excitement and tried unsuccessfully to insert my disc into the slot several times. It was no good. It was like the first time all over again. I began to break out in a cold sweat; doubting my resolve. I had to do something quick or risk losing my nerve. Then I remembered! I quickly returned to the bourbon for strength. It had never let me down before and this time was no different. Two more shots had successfully steadied my hand and I was ready to try again.

I settled in on “Full Metal Jacket” to open with. I felt excitement rising as the movie began. With each passing sequence I felt the urge to break things rising within me. Next was “We Were Soldiers”. As Hal rallied his troops I found myself standing up in my recliner cheering on our boys and cursing those commie bastards.

“We Were Soldiers” gave way to “Saving Private Ryan” and cursing commies gave way to killing Nazi’s in effigy. With each movie I felt my manhood returning. With each shot of bourbon I found myself further lost in a fantasy world where men were men and killed things (yeah, I know, I already used that line but by then I was getting pretty drunk). Such ecstasy I have rarely known.

The rest is a blur of carnage, bourbon and testosterone. I can’t honestly say how many movies I watched or when I passed out. I do know that what was once a fine bottle of bourbon was reduced to an empty glass shell.

When I awoke the next day I realized a few things. They follow in no particular order of importance:

I realized I had developed an inexplicable desire to break something and that wandering around the house in my underwear was not as cool as it seemed when I was drunk.

I realized that hangovers still suck and remembered why I don’t drink copious amounts of bourbon. My head was pounding like hell and the echoes of gunfire, grenades and used bourbon were tumbling through my brain like Pacman on an Oprah-esque binge.

I realized that passing out in a recliner has deleterious effects on a forty-year-old man’s body. It took two full days to recover from that near crippling indiscretion.

But most importantly I realized that manhood has taken a leave of absence in America. I’m sure there are plenty of courageous “manly men” out there but they have been relegated to Neanderthal status by the politically correct establishment. They have been driven into hiding for fear of being labeled throwbacks, insensitive asses, warmongers or the like. They have been forced to trade their testicles for aprons and their testosterone for Latte.

It seems that modern liberalism has lost perspective; forgotten history maybe. Warriors have always been the protectors of freedom and the innocent. Without warriors nations fall. The elite have also forgotten something else: “Enlightenment” has always been the precursor to “the fall”. Great nations that became enlightened quickly disappeared. The Greeks and the Romans are perfect examples of “enlightened obsolescence”. When political correctness dictates that men are no longer able to be men the end cannot be far.

Yeah, I know, this is pretty deep stuff I’m drawing from a night of alcohol fueled fantasy but I like to think I learned a lot from that one night of reckless indulgence. I like to think I rediscovered some piece of the “man” hidden within; some primal and necessary part that had been lost. I definitely discovered a way to dispose of all the evidence before my wife got home. Man or not I’m no fool.

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