bad dudes
I subscribe to the beefcake philosophy of masculinity. As a manly man, I often start the mornings off by inserting a bag of oranges between my rippling pecs and using them to squeeze myself a pitcher of fresh juice. Then, chaining a broken down omnibus around my neck, it's time for a vigorous morning jog, oftentimes while listening to that most manly of songs ('It's Raining Men' by the Weather Sisters) on my iPod. When I get home, I write my very manly Kotaku posts (like this one), then hit
the George for a manly evening of tight leather-pants dancing. The rest of the evening will often be spent in quiet masculine contemplation, making naked muscle-man poses in my wall-length bedroom mirror.
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