The Main Attraction
But even if the worst should befall your party and you find yourself at the mercy of some savage predator's dripping fangs, don't worry! Because that was the entire point of this trip. Now that a threat has been made upon your life, you're not only allowed, but (thanks to the Verdant Vengeance Act of 1947) legally required to stab one member of every native species found in your immediate vicinity.
The desert sun beats down mercilessly, sucking every last drop of fluid from your body like Steve's wife while he's away at church every Sunday. You lie motionless, feeling each drop of sweat squeeze out from between your pores and chase its way across your desiccated body. Then you see the shadow -- the fluttering silhouette of wings. The scavenger lands hesitantly behind you. It approaches, but quickly backs away. It's taking its time, making sure you're not a threat. It hops forward again, and when it hops back, the wicked beak takes a hunk of your leg flesh with it. Yet still you do not move. Its fears suppressed, it bends its neck to dine from you once again, and only then -- too late -- does it spot the cold glint of steel.
When it clutches at your wrist, the realization still bouncing around its feeble bird head, you cannot help but laugh. You're not doing this for food, or trophies, or even sport; no, you do it because you like the feeling of something hard and pointy sinking to its hilt inside soft, supplicant flesh.
"Just like your wife, Steve!" You shout to your raptor-stabbing partner.
"Nobody's impressed!" Steve shouts back indignantly, "You know how I like a challenge: If banging my wife was so all-fired hard, I'd be doing it right now instead of crushing this scavenger's brainpan with a hammer!"
There's no mistaking this scenario for self-defense. Those speed lines are clear as day. That man up there is charging a shark with a pocket knife. Hey, it's like they say: "The best defense is HAHAHA YOU THINK TO CHALLENGE ME? MY BLADE IS THIRSTY. COME, SHARK. REFRESH IT!"
And although proper '50s dress code dictates that no man is presentable without his combat knife, we all understand that sometimes things come up: The blade became stuck in the bones of your last opponent, has been knocked away by a particularly wily marmoset, or you've simply grown bored with civilized combat and long for the fulfilling barbarism of hand-to-hand. If you find yourself disarmed, remember: One can always, always, always wield an animal as a crude bludgeoning device against its own friends and family. No matter the scenario, a real man chooses his own priorities. Ultimately, it's up to you to make time to ...
BEAT THEM WITH THEIR OWN KIND.
But when the blood-rage subsides, your furious howls slowly start to resemble human language again, and the last monkey truly understands the concept of mortality just before the light goes out in his eyes, remember the most important rule of all: Be respectful to nature. Never let it suffer needlessly. Always ...
Put Two in the Dome, Just to Make Sure
A real man is a brutal man, to be sure. But he is not needlessly cruel. While he does all his proper fighting with fists, blades or the frightened and confused bodies of his foes themselves, a man should always keep a pistol handy to finish the kill cleanly. But remember: Guns are not to be used at range. If God wanted you to use firearms to defeat your opponents, he wouldn't have given you all this boundless rage. Firearms are just and only for execution. If in doubt, just remember what Two-Tap Tony says:
"When it forgets all it knew but fear and pain, only then is it time for one in the brain!"
You can buy Robert's book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, and follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Or you could just buy a kayak, a knife and some stabbing clothes and go get in touch with your natural roots.
For more from Brockway, check out If Old School Comics Were Written For (And By) Drunk People and The 7 Most Hilariously Badass Magazine Covers Ever.