cNutgroist

What is a Man? What constitutes that great mass of tumbling, rumbling masculinity, that firm be-nippled flatbreast of terrible flesh and brutal bone thrust rigid and strutting upon this earth the poor beast thinks its own? Is it the stout meaty rhythms of the heart, paced against the futile fleeing haunches of venison promise before us as we gallop naked to wrestle with it, locked jaw on proud stout antler, heart beating hart, to death and glory and port wine soaked supper? Is it the unpredictable fury chased down upon the denizens of the copse, with arms used as legs and legs used as more legs, pubic hair at last curling wildly as you tear through hedge dispensing incisor-rooted justice to hare, squirrel, dogfox and vole? Is it the muskrat stench of febrility brought forth to the vermin of the hearth, a lesson learnt too late of the fragility of existence, squashed short by gently applied, almost kindly yet unstintingly brutal pressure to the blinking and dazed tiny head betwixt forefinger and thumb? Or is it just about having a big dangly willy and a pair of fatty balls?
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