Some commenters talk of the value of “sammiches” (known as “sammies” in more civilized climes). I’m here to talk about the value of the howl.
It’s Spring here, the worst time of year for weather in Godzone. The last few days have been fine and clear though. I took advantage of a brilliant starry night to stand on the clifftop with Dog and howl at the moon while Horse stood at the fence and watched.
As always, I get a rager, my shorts bulging out like a tent pitched on the face of a cliff. Horse gives a snickering snort. Dog gives my rager a quick double-take then loses his voice in mid-howl. He staggers away a few paces, cocking his head left and right as if trying to stabilize the fluid in his ears.
I carry on howling unchecked. I really do let it rip. I envision all good men joining me around the world. Throughout the skies our howls resound. The fembots’ eyes widen with astonishment at this commanding display by men. The howl brings forth an eye-filling thrustiness, the likes of which the fembots themselves could never have inspired.
What’s that you say? You blokes in cities don’t have cliffs? So do it on top of a high-rise office or apartment block, against the backdrop of the setting sun. Turn side-on, presenting your profiles to the gawking fembots. Each of your silhouetted poles stands forth, it does, like the mast of a keeler on port tack heading due North through the roaring forties.
Or do it on your balcony, or front yard, extending yourself with your howl. Go with it, grow with it men!
Don’t make the mistake of trying to compete with their shrill voices in discourse. Howl ’em down instead.
Don’t be a pussy, be a rager. Show those floozies the stuff that dreams are made of. Burn and rave at close of day. Wise men at their end know hard is right. They do not serve, who only fawn and date.