I Am Man, Hear Me Grumble.

So I’m going to be less soulful and philosophical today.  I mean, I don’t really want to be but I said what I said, so I best stick to it.  Initially it’s probably going to sound all serious, and you’re going to think, “what a lying douche, he promised this would be inconsequential”, but stick with it because I am, if nothing else, a man of my word.  Right then.  I am a man, that much is genetically provable, and as a man I have noticed that it can be quite hard to be one.  Not years of oppression hard before anyone gets uppity, I am aware that we’ve had it pretty good and I’m not saying that any of our hardships – yes, hardships – are as hard or indeed shippy as many other genders.  So back off.
It is often rather difficult to know how to be though.  For instance, I was sat on the bus earlier and, due to the sunny weather, shifted mentality and intense relief only brought about by the recent evacuation of the workplace, when I saw a quite heavily pregnant lady get on, I offered her my seat.  Well, that was bloody rude of me apparently, something that she made perfectly clear by staring at me for a good few seconds as if I’d just thrown my own waste at her, before rasping that she was ‘quite fine on her own, thanks’.  She then stormed off and found a seat at the back of the very busy vehicle.  Now I can only assume that she thought I was taking pity on what I saw as a weak, poor lady, incapable of coping without the self satisfying aid of a big strong man.  I wasn’t doing that though, I was just trying to be the least shitty shit present.  I didn’t necessarily expect her to take the seat, but no thank you would have done the job.  To be fair though she’d probably just had a bad day, I mean, less money, being ogled all day, all bloody men being awful – it can’t have been easy.  And all this on top of the fact some bastard had put a human in her.
Then there’s masculinity in general.  Let’s use crying as an example.  I’ve seen a lot of crying recently, and sometimes it just happens regardless of penis or vagina.  Sometimes it’s unavoidable.  Usually though, men don’t seem comfortable leaking from their rugged, hairy eyes.  Even those who will admit to having a bit of a sob occasionally will avoid doing it in public if possible, claiming that that sort of thing just doesn’t turn the taps on for them.  It’s fine not to cry, I’m not advocating full time bawling, it’s just not something the ladies seem to have issue with and it would be nice if one wasn’t labelled ‘girly’ or ‘soft’ for having a cry.  But no.  To be a man, or maybe a Man, you must remain dry of face unless your team lose that important game, or you get incredibly drunk, wander through the streets in the small hours, arrive at your ex girlfriends and scream up at the window, through mucus and ocular saline, the many, many presently well hidden reasons she should take you back.
I have often heard female friends and acquaintances talk about ‘wimpy’ men.  I have heard the same whine how poorly treated they are by their butch, swearing, sport loving beau.  I suspect that it’s obvious, but you can’t have both.  You don’t get to be disgusted by soft, gentle, thoughtful men and then moan about the hulk you’ve chosen to be with. No, you don’t.  No.

So, sure, it’s not wanting the vote, or any sort of sexual liberation, but it’s still a valid point regardless of historical events.  Yes, we get Yorkie bars, but to be fair, they’re dreadful.  Really I’m just saying it can be very confusing, and we’re only simple, us men.  You only have to look at adverts to see that.  We’re all people, mostly, and by talking about a man being a man, whilst at the same time getting all frothy over a waxed, preening, hair dyed, moisturised cock bag.  I’ve not put it perfectly, but there it is.  Next time: some more introspective bollocks.

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