Collage 156               H u m o u r N e t               13 OCT 95

Following my use of the word "cojones" in Collage 154, a few people
have written and asked me exactly what the word is supposed to mean.
Well, I can give you some examples: "cojones" is what it takes to
issue an all-profanity Collage. (This, however, is balanced by the
*lack* of cojones that lead to starring-out words like "sh*t." See?
I did it again. No cojones.)

Cojones is taking over a neighboring country for no good reason.
"Huge cojones" is staying there while the entire world prepares to
pound your butt into the sand.

If "cojones" seems to be synonymous with "stupidity," well, then,
you're getting the picture. And--not coincidentally--"stupidity" is
almost exclusively the domain of the male sex. Therein lies the key.

Cojones are male. In fact, they (not "it," unless he's had a
*really* bad day somewhere along the line) are a rather important
part of the male anatomy.

That's not to say that all men have cojones--these days, men with
cojones are destined for the "endangered species" list. And what
about women? Women can have cojones--Janet Reno is a good example.

So, how does one acquire cojones? For some good pointers, read Denis
Leary's "Are You Man Enough," appearing here as Collage 156--with
many thanks to Brenda. This is one of the most entertaining
assessments of the sad state of male affairs that I've seen in a
long time. Unfortunately, my lack of cojones has led me to--once
again--star out certain words. Sorry. The censors, you know ...

Oh, and be sure to pronounce it correctly: ko-JO-nez.

Enjoy them!

- Vince Sabio
  HumourNet Moderator
  HumourNet@telephonet.com
  No Cojones
(No one who runs a pansy Internet mailing list--especially one with a
name like "HumourNet"--could possibly have cojones. Unless, of course,
he sends out a Collage with an opener like the one in #140. :-)
____________________________________________________________________
          Opener (above) Copyright 1995 by Vincent Sabio
  Permission is hereby granted to forward or post this "Collage";
  please observe the guidelines stated at the end of the message.
____________________________________________________________________

Are You Man Enough?
by Denis Leary

Here's a cold hard fact that you must now chew and swallow: if you
are reading this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real
men do not read anything other than GUNS AND AMMO, SPORTS
ILLUSTRATED, or SHAVED BEAVER.

Do not mention FIRE IN THE BELLY. Do not clutch your copy of IRON
JOHN. Sit your soft little a** down and listen up. Understanding
macho means that you don't possess it. I have proven myself to be
the pussy that I am by writing this piece. (I'm wearing a powder
blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type) [sic] Ernest
Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and
wrote some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by
blowing his head off with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not
commit suicide. Real men know just how much life sucks. Real men
grit their teeth and take it bill after bill, war after war, tumor
after tumor. You don't greet Death, you punch him in the throat
repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said it best
when he said, "F*ck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on."

Macho is a very slippery thing. You don't read about it, you don't
write about it, you don't even know the correct spelling of the
word. In a vain attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I
didn't research the roots of the word while writing this article,
but I can only assume that "macho" comes from "machismo," which
sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being macho implies a tough,
hard, blocklike approach full of pistons and rods and axles and
other big steel-type stuff.

It's hard to live by the old macho code these days. They've chipped
away at it over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been
reduced to a few beers or a couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise,
your AA friends begin to stare across the table with those "I
personally think you have a problem and that all alcohol should be
banned so that I won't feel the urge to drink myself into a naked
stupor but I'm not gonna say anything" looks on their faces. No
mess, no mauling, no mistress, no mas.

From time to time, people try to use macho as an image builder.
Bush tries to make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club
member. He's not. The last macho president we had was FDR. FDR--a man
stricken by polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis, all the
while smoking 3 & 1/2 packs a day. "The only thing we have to fear
is fear itself!" Yeah, and staircases, of course. And soccer and
dancing.

I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map.
Sometime in the late '70s--right around the time the Village People
released Macho Man and Barry Manilow sang Copacabana and Robby
Benson was mewling his way into the hearts of the teenage ultra-
virgins--men made a serious mistake. We started TALKING to each
other. We stopped punching each other and began discussing why we
wanted to punch each other. I'll bet my right nut that if I had
done some research, I would have found a dramatic decline in facial
cuts and brain contusions starting in 1977. Now we're supposed to
be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings and cry at
funerals and care about our hair. We're, in short, supposed to be
women. Hello, my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.

I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal
pay for equal jobs. I believe women should have control of their
bodies and be in positions of power. I believe we should have the
same size shoulder pads in our suits. But I also believe that men
should be men and women should be, well, women. Women should be
soft and smart and mysterious. And men should have their own tools.
I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old macho days, when men would
brandish hammers and build huge, bulky cars that sucked up gas and
tore open the ozone layer and crushed small animals beneath totally
useless but totally cool-looking tail fins. When men were apes with
good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston, Bill Holden,
Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah. Men
who drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone
and drank some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on
drinking. Men who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain
seizures or who just plain f*cking blew up. Men who had cancer six
or seven times. Men made out of leather.

My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a
power saw, duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital
smoking a Camel un-filtered on the way. My dad's theory was simple:
no pain--no f*cking pain. My dad smoked 5 packs a day, worked 3 jobs
7 days a week, ate beef for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One night
in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a side order of bacon and
extra steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit up a
cigarette, and exploded.

I don't wanna hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold caved
in. In Terminator 2, he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy,
protecting the kid and hoping the earth wouldn't end. Bullsh*t.
There was even a sequence at the end of the movie where a huge truck
full of flammable liquid tears down a highway for about 3 minutes
and then doesn't blow up. A sign of the times if ever there was
one. Every real man knows the one golden rule of macho movie making:
if you see a truck onscreen, blow it up. In Thelma & Louise, the
women saw a truck. What did they do? Susan Sarandon pulled out her
gun and blew the truck way the f*ck up. Another sign of the times.
Arnold's tromping around praying for the earth to save itself and
Ms. Davis and Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and screwing
their way all over the macho west. Citizen Kane? A masterpiece.
But every real man knows it would have been better if a huge mack
truck with the word ROSEBUD emblazoned on the trailer had driven
through the front gate of the mansion and then KAA-POWWWWW!

Another movie matter I'd like to get off my girly little chest:
a**es. Part of this new male code has men baring their butts
onscreen the way women used to do. Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner,
Michael Douglass, and of course, Arnold. Hey if I wanted to see
Kevin Costner's a**, I would've married him. You never saw Bob
Mitchum's butt. I am in a macho movie called GUNMEN, and I can
guarantee you that you never see my a** on any screen but if you do,
it will not be shaved. It will be hairy and hoary and very, very
white.

[Editor's Note: I fully agree. I have no interest in seeing some
guy's hairy butt on the screen. And this isn't sexist--if women
had hairy butts, I wouldn't want to see *them*, either. :-) </vs>]

Our macho movie idols have changed forever. No wonder they end up
baring it all. Listen to the names--Mel, Kevin, Michael, Arnold.
In the old days movie stars had real names: John, Bill, Duke, Buck,
Chuck, Rip. Kevin sounds like your skinny Irish cousin with the big
Coke bottle glasses and a heat rash; Mel, the guy in charge of
aisle five at Woolworth's. ("Excuse me Mel, where are the light
bulbs?")

It's getting very bad, boys. We don't blow up trucks anymore.
Hell, we don't even drive trucks anymore. We drive simple little
Japanese cars with air bags. In the old days we used to rip out the
seat belts and fly through the windshield ready for action. "Thrown
from the car." Remember that phrase in accident reports? Always the
sign of a very macho driver.

We seem a little more sorry, a little more plump, a lot more ladylike
around the edges. If you really want to reclaim your macho self, if
you really want to be a macho, macho man, stop reading this article.

If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help.
Forget Robert Bly or FIRE IN YOUR PROSTATE. Don't go on a
Male-Bonding Self-Discovery Weekend, which is just another term for
Circle Jerk as far as I'm concerned. Here, instead, is a guide:

BALLS, A.K.A. COJONES: You should have several. Preferably brass
or steel. Extra large.

CRYING: Never. Ever. Over anything. Not death in the family, not
a bullet in the chest. You may tear up ever so slightly in one eye
only when watching a favorite sports legend retire. You may tear up
in both eyes only when kicked, accidentally or on purpose, in the
COJONES.

KISSING: see "SPORTS"

HUGGING: see "SPORTS"

SPORTS: Once all men within reach are dressed in a team uniform, it
is perfectly acceptable to kiss and hug and grab each other's a**.
This is probably because all real men are latent homosexuals and
prefer male company to female company. But if some guy points out
this fact to you, punch him directly in the throat. (Optional
retorts: "Prefer this!" or "F*ck You!" or "Shut the f*ck up!")

HEALTH: Never go to the hospital or visit a doctor. If you have a
stroke, keep drinking and act like you prefer to use only one side
of your body. If you cut off a limb while using a power tool--so
what? That's why there's duct tape and staple guns. If someone
tries to drive you to the hospital after a heart attack or maiming,
punch him in the throat. (Optional retorts: "Drive This!" or "F*ck
you!" or "Shut the f*ck up!")

DIET: meat, cigarettes, meat, booze, meat, and coffee. In case of
aneurysm or alcohol-induced coma, see "HEALTH."

FIGHTING: At all times, over anything. Never hit a woman. Or a
child. Or a bus. Never hit a priest until he takes off his collar.
(If it's the pope, wait until he removes the large hat.) Clergy will
often provoke a punch in the throat with their "violence doesn't
prove anything" pontifications. (Optional retorts: "Prove this!"
or "F*ck you Father!" or "Shut the f*ck up, Padre!")

DRINKING: No falling down. No puking--unless to empty the stomach
in order to continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few
war stories: "See that scar? I was in 'Nam and I ate a grenade and
it blew up in my colon." If your aim is off due to alcohol, it's
acceptable to punch someone in the head or solar plexus.

SEX: You're probably too drunk or just too plain stupid to have sex
but pretend you get a lot, i.e. "You should've seen me last night,
blah, blah, blah, blah."

Absorb this info and you should be on your way. If you have any
further questions, call 1-800-COJONES. Remember: We're men. Big,
boxy, sweaty, ignorant men. We have penises. Well, we used to have
penises. Either way, I think Billy Martin, the late Yankees
manager, said it best when he said, "Hey, I can drive."

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</collage156>