Or…how to talk Kanoa Igarashi into a "terrible
mistake"…
International Women’s Day has come and gone,
and thank heaven for that. Nothing worse than empowered women.
They’re like highly praised precocious children. At first it’s kind
of cute, then they start interjecting their thoughts and opinions
and feelings into adult conversations. Hush, baby, better
seen and not heard.
Yesterday some obese shut-in commenter who masquerades as a
woman online asked if I’d be doing a follow-up for International
Men’s Day, come November. I will not, because I don’t observe
International Men’s Day. As far as I’m concerned we enjoy that
occasion on each of the other 364 days of the year (365 this time
around the sun!)
Nothing worse than empowered women. They’re like highly praised
precocious children. At first it’s kind of cute, then they start
interjecting their thoughts and opinions and feelings into adult
conversations.
Besides, International Men’s Day was founded by a Men’s Rights
advocate, and I’ll be damned before I get in bed with those soft
cock rape apologists. They epitomize everything that’s wrong with
the pussification of the modern male, totally unable to take
advantage of their innate superiority.
“Oh, it’s sooooo hard to be a man,” they cry.
It isn’t.
It’s best to occasionally give women, even pretend ones, what
they want. Makes your life easier, in the long term.
Like how I throw the odd game of chess, let my wife grab a
victory, so she’ll keep playing in the future. No big deal, doesn’t
cost me nothin’, and it isn’t her fault she’s terrible at the game
despite playing hundreds of matches. Females struggle with many
facets of life, like opening jars or changing a flat tire or
employing logic.
Here’s the follow-up to yesterday, the top ten men of the WCT
top 34, as ranked by sex appeal.
10. Jadson Andre: Four words, jug handle head
job.
9. Jack Freestone: Seems like the guy most
likely to wax his asshole. And while I enjoy a hirsute fellow a
clean playing field facilitates hitting it hilt deep.
8. Taj Burrow: A warm brown bear to snuggle on
a cold winter night, Taj’d make a top notch sugar daddy.
7. Kanoa Igarashi: Young, impressionable, the
type of kid you can talk into making a terrible mistake.
6. Kelly Slater: Sultry Valentino eyes, and the
off chance he could pump you full of a bit of his own skill.
5. Matt Banting: His head shot looks like a
clean cut Ex-Mormon who got kicked out his his home and learned to
earn his keep on the streets of SF’s Castro District.
4. Gabe Medina: I’m not really into guys who
shave their pelts, but I’ll make an exception for Gabby. Smother
the boy in butter, toss him on the tarp you keep in your basement
sex dungeon, and trot him out on special occasions.
3. Owen Wright: On a tour overflowing with
short muscled acrobat babies Owen’s the only one built like a real
man. He’d play big spoon, I’d nod off towards sweet dreamland while
he runs his hands through my own virile crop of man hair.
2. Jeremy Flores: That accent, that fiery
temper, that French disposition to the libertine! There’d be
shouting and fighting and recrimination, but so much sweet love to
temper it all.
1. Julian Wilson: The human equivalent of a
kinder egg. But instead of a toy in the center there’s a moist pink
virgin’s proxy.
Because I’m never one to miss a chance for synergy, because our
audience has swelled recently, and because it’s tangentially
related to my previous words, I’d like to re-offer my pitch for Hurley’s newest ad
campaign. No one responded to my calls, but maybe
this time it’ll find its way into some hands that matter.
Picture this:
A pristine white sand beach, deserted but for Kolohe and John
John. Slim supple bodies glistening with cocoa butter, sweat
beading on their chests and trickling down towards the waist of
their low-slung board shorts. The surf is flat, but they don’t
care. Their hearts are filled to bursting with unbridled joie
de vivre. They exist in a pure moment, filled with a
hedonistic disregard for the mundane, unbridled by life’s
distractions.
Kolohe leans over and playfully pokes John John in the ribs.
With a giggle born of innocence John John returns the gesture, his
hand lingering just a little longer than necessary. They lock eyes
and come together.
Laughing, gasping and grunting they begin to roll across the
beach, arms and legs tangled. They wrestle with abandon, two young
men in their prime delighting in their strength and
flexibility. Kolohe pins JJ for a moment. John John is on his
back, Kolohe straddling his hips, shoulders down, back arched. John
John reverses, grabbing Kolohe’s wrists and pinning them to the
ground. He presses down with all his strength, we see his back
muscles ripple, proud firm buttocks pointed skyward, only a thin
layer of nylon denying the viewer a glimpse of his pink,
blond-fringed, asshole.
They lock eyes again, chests heaving, moist lips slightly
parted. There’s a meaning behind the gaze, but is it merely the joy
of two competitors testing their strength against each other, or
does it spring from something deeper, something more sexual?
Smash cut:
Hurley Boardshorts: Guaranteed to stay on, but so fun to
take off.