Village Idiot Strikes Back 



Well you get the point. We as men pride ourselves on having a razor sharp wit amongst our peers, our brothers, our comrades…. to possess the ability to launch a verbal assault, attacking their virility, intelligence, sexual prowess (or lack of), sexual preference, their mothers morality  (again, or lack there of), is something that can make legends of otherwise weak men. 

If the verbal slander is witty, sharp, and fast as a speeding bullet, even the target of the disparaging assembly of vowels and constinants will concede in a gentleman manner with a “Wow, that was a good one.. I’m… I’m. … speechless. You got me real good.”  Generally this is followed by some laughter, and more often than not, a slap on the back, or a firm sincere handshake or high-five, PROVIDING it falls into the following criteria: 

1. Relevancy – you cannot just fire some random fuck up of theirs from 10 years ago if it is does not pertain to the the matter at hand.

2. Stinging burn, with no physical show of remorse or pride…. has to be ninja-like. Stone faced..

3. Must show intelligence… anyone can attack a mom or wife… that is child’s play.

4. An attack of ones integrity, moral character, or self image or either of the previous combined,  is the most prolific assault…. and certainly noteworthy.

So those are the rules set forth. There is also an unspoken rule, one known to most men who have even a thimbleful of intelligence. One’s female love interest is not fair game. No matter how cool she may seem. No matter how expansive the banter is with said interest. And for the love of God, whatever you do, never ever ever do it on social media. If you do it amongst a group of friends in a public setting…. It may result in a very quiet, or very non quiet ride home that night.

Do it on social media? That will result in at least 24 hours silence. Followed by the release of the Kraken…

I used to have a Jiminy Cricket. Poor bastard set on my shoulders for years getting flicked off and crawling back up my pant leg to mount a spot on my shoulder right next to my ear. That poor little prick, crawled back up there time and time again for nearly 12 years. But by year 13, he was smart enough to know that I was not going to fucking listen. 

So I digress, moral of the fucking story here is as follows:

1. Women are delicate flowers and should be treated as so.

2. If you want to talk shit about them, do it in the bedroom as your mounting them as if they were your trusted steed, or in solitude with your most trusted friends…..



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