One of the very best things about men is the bafflingly stupid shit we do that often results in greatness. Where would the world be without the reckless, awesome retardation of the male gender? If not for the first man to think, “I shall build a horse equivalent... and power it on explosions!” would we have the automobile? If it wasn’t for the man who thought, “I can solve this problem… by cutting it open!” would we have modern medicine? If not for the first man to think, “I will watch pornography... through the telephone!” where would the Internet be? So this post is an ode of sorts; a textual power ballad dedicated to that unique combination of poor analytical skills and pure, steely awesomeness that is man. These are just images of men being men: Doing awesome, unexplainable things just because they look cool. Yes, here they are, eight prime examples of why I love men:
Wait… that came out wrong! Don’t start the list ye-
Well, look at that: It’s the pimped out Chinese Raptor Cavalry. Jesus, I don’t even know where to start. Do I focus on his pelt of foxes? The fur-tipped clitoris on his head? Or the terrifying implications made by the World War I-era Kaiser helmet that his hawk is wearing?
No, instead I want to draw attention to something most of you probably missed: There appears to be a goat’s skull and spine where his penis should be. Appreciate that for a moment, please. He’s wearing the desiccated remains of a goat for a codpiece, and look at his face. He thinks that’s funny.
He’s probably the tribe's comedian. I’m sure he has even more jokes to tell you; just lean a little closer, so the Raptor-Kaiser can whisper them in your ear.
What on God’s swollen left testicle is the possible explanation for a man para-gliding with hawks glued to his elbows? Do the birds do his bidding, or do they despise him passionately? Are we witnessing the world’s first eagle-navigated flight, or the first terrifying seconds of a bird-murder? I do not know. I put forth that it is impossible to know. I suggest to you that this image is in fact a Koan: A Zen parable whose very inability to be explained will eventually bring enlightenment.
What, you disagree?
Well listen, hotshot, if you think you have a logical-sounding explanation for this picture, I suggest you either:
A) Look up the word “logic” in a dictionary, because you clearly don’t know what it means. Maybe you’re getting “logic” confused with “hot dogs” or “impotency.” It happens to me sometimes.
B) Have mercy on us groundfolk, Hawk-Man! Our pitiful senses are limited by the earth we must tread!
Listen: Don’t laugh guys. It’s tough living in Russia. I mean, you finally get finished forging your house-analogue out of the ruined corpses of old buses discarded by the affluent pig-dog Western nations, and what’s the first thing that happens?
What was he supposed to do? Just bow down and let the grizzly gangs run the place? No, goddamnit. This is a man! He put down his bowl of shoe-leather soup, strapped on his Ursine Assaultin’ Trackpants (every Russian has a pair) and he went to beat that fucker to death with a pepper-mill. What doesn’t make sense about this to you?
Is it the pepper-mill? It’s the pepper mill, isn’t it?
Well, what do you use to spice up shoe-leather soup, smart guy?
Some questions might be running through your head right now, such as: “Is that guy underwater on a BMX bike? Is that a fucking shark? Is he trying to ollie? Is…is he ollying over the shark?” And finally: “HOLY SHIT IS THAT SANTA CLAUS?!”
Yes. The answer to all of those questions is yes. And the answer to your last, unspoken question, “why the crapping hell?" is easy: Because “good” is a relative term subject to the speaker’s moral compass. So even bloodthirsty sharks have “good” little boys and girls, and they have to get presents too. Being Santa is like being a mailman: Neither snow, nor sleet, nor underwater shark BMX rallies shall keep you from your appointed rounds.
There’s no fancy explanation for this one: You just parked in the wrong motherfucking spot. That’s not me being cute with descriptions, it clearly says “This is the Wrong Motherfucking Spot” on that sign back there. And there are always consequences for ignoring the rules... it’s just that sometimes those consequences are a little more Gravity Hammer-centric than others.
If he’s not the John Shaft/Buck Rogers of meter maids, well then the only other explanation I can think of for a large black man with a hammer-from-the-future bludgeoning a vehicle to death is because this particular car appears to be a Porsche Boxster. And Boxsters are the vehicle equivalent of a puka shell necklace: If you're ever unfortunate enough to see one up close, chances are you've already been roofied and the owner is off somewhere doing his pre-date-rape stretches. Maybe Halo Shaft up there is just trying to make the world a better place, one double-popped-collar-wearing douchebag at a time.
Buster Sword guy is like The Little Engine That Could if somebody hung those novelty steel balls from the undercarriage. Buster Sword guy built himself a sword that everybody with any knowledge of basic physics knows you cannot ever practically wield, and then he fucking wielded it.
That’s not to say that he wielded it well--if there is a victor in that video, it is certainly not Buster Sword guy. However, it is also not the palette. No, the only victor here is the force of gravity itself who, but for the lack of lips, would be screaming, “I told you so!” by the end of the tape. Still, Buster Sword guy should not be mocked. He is a fantastic man-problem. He built that fucking sword himself, you know. He lifted it countless times. He knew the exact weight of the metals it was formed from. He knew full well that he could not swing the finished blade and yet even still, upon completion, he turned to his friend and said, “Turn the cameras on. I am going to murder a family of wood now, and it must be filmed.”
His motorcycle is matte black, its “holders” are of the sword variety rather than the conventional “cup” and he obeys the helmet laws... to a truly terrifying extent! He is the Samurai Cyclist, and he is a man doing what man does best: looking badass without really knowing why. Honestly though, this is what all men would look like without the level-headed censure of a woman’s influence. There is nothing particularly strange about this picture; this is just man at his most organic.
The great tragedy here is that, upon donning his custom built spiked shoulder pads, full samurai helmet and facemask; sheathing his swords in their spot-welded custom holders; and mounting his night-black, motored steed, this stupid world did not have the decency to end in a ball of fire, so the Samurai Cyclist found himself without a suitably post-apocalyptic landscape to race through. But did this stop him leaving the house? No! For he is man! He saw the unruined world outside and thought, “Fuck it. I’ll just take this thing to Nordstrom’s instead.”
And so he did. He probably bought a sweater there, chatted up a puckish salesgirl and maybe tried a sampler of this new cologne he had his eye on. But all the while, inside his head, you know his thoughts were naught but steel and fire. And maybe just a touch of argyle.
The temptation here is to chalk this picture up as just another one of those infamous "arab car stunts." But look closely at this man; he is not a reckless teenager trying to keep himself entertained in the most lethal way available to him (because his country unfortunately outlawed the more standard lethal teenage entertainment: Carlo Rossi). This is an older man--almost respectable looking, actually--with the kind of beard one can only grow while lost in the desert for decades after having your heart broken by a treacherous lover. This is a man who should know better, and probably does. No, I don't believe this is staged. There is something in that steadfast, noble posture that tells me this simply cannot be the case. I choose to believe this is just how Cycle-sheik gets from point A to Point B like any other commuter… except that “Point A,” in this case, is probably a portal of fire that only opens once every 50 years to let him roam the streets for a day, and “Point B” is a motherfucker that’s about to get stabbed at 75 miles an hour.
That's right: stabbed. Oh, I'm sorry... did you miss the sword?
Well, that’s probably the best example of this point that I can possibly offer: When you stare in awe at a photo for several minutes and the very last thing you notice--almost as a side-note, really--is that the subject is armed with a three-foot, steel blade, what else can you be dealing with but a Man, in all of his bafflingly awesome, stunningly retarded glory?
You can pre-order Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead on Amazon, or find him on Twitter, Facebook and his own site, I Fight Robots, where you can read more uncomfortably graphic odes to men! Spoiler alert! There's humpin'!