I am twice the man you are and then some. Plus infinity.
An open statement to critics of the girly drink,
You have offended me one too many times, oh narrow-minded puppet of the populace. Now you earned a rant. The subject? “Girly” drinks. The reason? They’re not girly. The proof? Me. Have a seat and get out a dictionary. I’m about to use big words, the kind of big words that have three syllables, the kind of big words of which your Natty Light past has deprived you. I’m “totally stoked, bro” to tell you all the myriad reasons why I ooze manliness from my inner core, while you excrete gooey blobs of insecurity which scarcely coat your hollow and insecure self.
Let’s define some terms before we begin. By “girly drink,” I refer to any alcoholic drink which is not beer or a shot of hard liqueur. By “girly,” I mean an insulting qualifier meant to question the masculinity of any man holding such a drink.
I call the premise of girly drinks stupid. By association, I also call anyone who believes this premise stupid. I have good reasons to back this up. My opposition has Natty Light (this fight, it seems, is already going my way). I like the taste of beer. I also like the taste of girly drinks. Yeah, I said it. I like the taste of pink colored Long Island iced tea, with extra pink #25 dye and served in an extra feminine glass. Surely I have just conceded my masculinity and admitted to my secret stash of capri pants?
The recipe for the previous sentence is 1 part NO, 1 part FAIL, and 2 parts WRONG (mix and serve over the rocks with a garnish of SUCK). My taste for girly drinks means I like the taste of sugar. It means I like the taste of cranberry juice and iced tea. Just like you, oh semi-obese average American frat boy (SOAAFB from here out), I think sugary things taste good. Here’s the thing, though. I’m not fat. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
The question I pose, therefore, is when the process of adding alcohol imparts its blessed femininity to the drink. If I slip a shot of vodka into those kids’ Sunny Delight (in the infamous “purple stuff” commercial), do I negate their badass sports credentials? Hmm, didn’t think about that, did you? Along similar lines, I relish the idea of going into SOAAFB’s kitchen and drop kicking his ice tea out of his hands, all the while calling him a meta-level biotch for drinking a girly drink without the alcohol.
If juice is gender neutral and alcohol manly, how does their sum equal femininity? Is it guilt by association? Only the feminine guys drink girly drinks? This would not explain the iconic masculinity of James Bond, martini drinker de rigueur. Nor would it explain the picture of me below, which shows the man beast into which I morph when my masculinity is questioned over a drink.
Let’s say what we are both thinking by now. The girly drink is girly because all your friends think its girly. It is straight-up, old fashioned peer pressure. This is the point in the post where I summon the icy winds of truth and step in to tell you why I am more manly than you, even whilst holding a sex-on-the-beach with pink umbrella.
You see, while the SOAAFB’s are standing on the side of the bar drinking Milwaukee’s Best, I am busy dancing and not caring what other people think. While SOAAFB is busy getting fatter and accruing manliness by means of showing his fellow SOAAFBs how much he can drink, I am out doing real, manly things. I ride a hundred miles on a bike in the rain. This is hard. This is manly. SOAAFB watches baseball highlights on ESPN and drinks. This is easy. This is neither manly nor girly; it is androgynous and boring. While SOAAFB thinks his gun collection and trophy fish above the mantle makes him a man, I think it means he went to the gun store and went fishing, respectively. You know what would be manly? How about you run that deer down and break its neck with bare hands. I’m not saying I did this, but I’m also not saying I haven’t.
I could go on and on about the multitudinal ways in which I am manlier than the most beer-swillingest SOAAFBs around. I could tell you about the mountains I climbed, the injuries I’ve survived, and my vastly successful campaign to pursue awesomeness in its rawest form. I could flush out this post with exemplary photos of SOAAB’s flaccid body, in particular, his womanly manboobs. I could also point out the cowardliness in allowing social pressure to shape one’s tastes in life. I wont though. That would just be immodest. Nobody likes an immodest post. Like mom used to say, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, write a thousand-word blog post detailing your elitist and always-correct viewpoint.”
Keeping these words in mind, if you see me and I happen to be holding a “girly” drink, please refrain from puffing up your metaphorical chest by insulting your perceived chinks in my impenetrable armor of manliness.
Oooh. Big man. I bet the ladies are impressed.
The beer in your hand doesn’t make you a man. The number of beers you drank last night does not make you a man. Those photos of you on Facebook with 40s taped to your hands do not make you a man. I suggest running a marathon on a treadmill of broken glass in bare feet while on fire. This will give you a start at understanding the quantity of manliness contained in my left big toenail alone.
You can call me girly when I sing Madonna at karaoke. You can call me girly when I paint my toenails and watch Sleepless in Seattle with my sorority sisters. However, by calling me girly for holding a barely wine, or any drink not in a pint glass, you must accept that I have already won a war you had no intention of starting. You keep your keg of insecurity, SOAAFB… I’ll take my manliness served iced cold in a tall glass of made of flawless victory.