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Action movies, whiskey, women, and whiskey. These are a few of a man's favourite things. They wake up with the sun, kill their food, and come home and bed their women. They like boobs, they smoke cigars, they go on riverboat gambling trips. They watch sports, they spit, and they crush p***y. Tears water their beards, moustaches are their pick-up lines, and sweat and sawdust their cologne.

A real man doesn't have time for the gym. Their daily routine is their workout and it doesn't stop when the pilates class shows up. They don't stop working because they fell off the ladder. They don't miss the bus, they make a game-time decision and decide to give it a head-start and then outrun it.

They don't drink craft beer, they drink Canadian beer. They don't ask for directions, they choose a spontaneous detour. They don't get a cold, they get a drinking challenge from their immune system. They don't watch what they eat, what they eat watches them.

Bottom line: being a real man takes a real man, and here are some of the best examples of doing so.

Crying? You Mean Sweating Through My Eyes?

A real man cries. Women have been saying this for centuries. A true, chews-on-tinfoil after supper to clean his teeth man knows how to show his emotions and let his guard down when the time comes to do so.

When the New England Patriots came from behind to beat the Atlanta Falcons 34-28 in Super Bowl 51 in January every man on the planet wept for one reason or the other. They were Pats fans, or they weren’t-- either way they shed a couple estrogen drops.

Or when John McClane and Hans Gruber are in their final stand-off at the end of Die Hard and McClane pulls out the Beretta that’s taped behind his back, shoots his enemies and says, “Happy trails, Hans,” a slow-clap induced weep is inevitable.

Your Steak Too Bloody? Give It One Of Your Tampons.

There are only three ways to eat a steak: medium rare, rare, and still f*cking grazing. A bloody steak is a symbol of a man’s commitment to manliness and a presentation of triumph at the top of the global food chain.

Preferably a man will hunt and kill his own meal with nothing more than a chip on his shoulder and their bare hands, but on the rare occasion that he’s too busy to get to the farm or fields, it’s an okay practice to let another man cut your steak at their butcher shop.

Served by itself or with another steak.

Enjoy a tall glass of straight vodka and a side order of cigarettes. Either way, you’ve got yourself the perfect Sunday breakfast.

Brakes? You Mean The Coward Pedal?

Just like Motley Crue sang in their legendary song “Kick-start My Heart,” when men get high, they get high on speed. It’s in man’s nature to go fast. It’s in a real man’s nature to go super fast.

Whether it’s out-running a bear or a cheetah on foot or playing a game of chicken in the pick-up on a Tuesday evening at rush hour, a real man only pumps his brakes when he’s trying to last longer in the sheets.

In the streets, it’s like pushing your pecker back up inside your body for a man to yield to another car, truck, van, bus, train or plane. It’s a clear admission of guilt and an even bigger admission of being a pansy.

Kidney Stones? You Mean Piss Bullets?

The only thing tougher than a man’s fists are his internal organs.

Think about it: they eat thunder, sh!t lightning, floss with a machete, and drink copious amounts of scotch.

Not to mention late night bear hunts and early morning bobbing for salmon.

Real men are hard on their bodies not because they have to be but because they know there’s another man out there somewhere being even harder. Competition is the best motivation.

The only reason the manliest of men get diagnosed with kidney stones is because he knows he may need to use them in a fight or just to show off his precision in penile aim to his buddies. It’s in no way associated with dumb sh!t like diet and genetics, it’s choice.

Inhales Helium … Voice Gets Deeper.

You always look people in the eye as a man, and you always speak from your testicles providing they are in working order. If they are, your voice will be rich with grit from labour-based jobs, and hot with the aromatics of whiskey and cigars.

A man’s vocal acoustics are deep, raspy, and unaffected by stupid sh!t like genetics, biology, and emotions such as empathy or sympathy. Men talk strong. Men talk when needed. Men make fire and put it out. Science doesn’t control a man, a man controls the science.

A real man lets everyone in the neighbourhood hear him. From his over-sized pick-up truck engine to the smoke-addled lawn mower and whipper snipper, a man makes his presence felt in everything he does.

Cold Medicine? Do You Mean Bourbon?

It’s been a longstanding rumour that there is such a thing as the “man cold.” Since the beginning of time sissies and women have been trying to level the playing field by spreading mistruths about real men.

The truth: real men drink a cold away. They don’t use green f*cking tea, Vic’s vapo-rub, or root of eucalyptus or some other hoity toity feminine sanctioned hygiene product to rid their body of impurities and foreign organisms, they pour a stiff one, light a smoke, and get back to sawing, hammering, or screwing.

Buckley’s tastes awful, it’s in the f*cking ad campaign, but it doesn’t work. At least not on a man who bends steel and grows a beard before he leaves the house in the morning. Anything in the whiskey family will do the trick, but only when drank straight over an eight hour time period.

Now you know the truth about a man cold. You’re welcome.

Feelings? Never Heard Of Them

Men feel. Sure. They feel thirsty, horny, hungry. They feel for dead things trapped in the attic, a clog in the drain, and they feel for lumps on their balls once every ten years.

But feelings, as in, an emotional state of consciousness, that stuff doesn’t compute in the male mind. They don’t have the time or the need to feel anything but the knife being sharp, the BBQ being hot, and the life of their next meal leaving its body.

If men had time to feel nothing would get done. You think Macho Man Randy Savage had time to ‘feel’ before he stepped into the squared-circle with his long-time friend turned foe, Hulk Hogan? Hell no he didn’t.

Dig it?!

Pre-workout? You Mean Cigarettes?

In a time where vegans and vegetarians are free to walk the streets like the rest of us, and in an age where science and dieticians are waving protein shakes, weight-gain supplements, and organic green beans in everyone’s face there still remain men unwilling to bend to what they define as a pre-workout routine.

Steak (breathing), coffee (black), and a healthy helping of cigarettes (non-filtered) are all a true man needs to prep to attain mass. And a gym? What’s a gym? That place your sister goes with her selfie machine and yoga mat?

Real men chop wood, build houses and cities, and have sex. In that order. We don’t need a fancy schmancy gym bag and water bottle, they dig wells and use animal pelts to carry their whiskey and smokes. There’s no need for state-of-the-art footwear either; steel-toed boots or bare feet suit just fine, and they workout in Levi’s Reg Tag jeans, not Under Armour-- chest hair is their under armour.

Calories? You Mean Delicious Points?

Men don’t give two sweet fiddlin’ f*cks about what they eat. Real men anyways. Sure, they watch what they eat. They watch it move through the woods, they watch their bare hands strangle the life from its body, and they watch it cook on the fire they built themselves from one stick and sheer will.

Each glorious calorie only strengthens a real man’s inner man making them one step closer to becoming the ultimate “super” man.

With all the daily activities real men do on the daily (fights, construction, deconstruction, growing a beard, and more fights) it only makes sense that they take what’s theirs and revel in a job well done, crushing, rolling, and then smoking the femur of their latest kill as they reflect on another well deserved meal.

Directions? You Mean Those Things Women And Foreigners Use?

A real man knows where he’s going. There’s no such thing as getting lost, only going a different way because they’re bored with the “right” way. A real man blazes his own f*cking trail. Period.

If God wanted men to ask for directions he wouldn’t have given them the testicular fortitude and determination to stay the course no matter how off track their female counterparts think they’ve gotten. A true man knows that eventually the way will present itself to him either through mental visions or signs from above.

An unwritten rule (real men don’t read rule books) that every man’s man denies at all cost is the fact they might be a bit lost. Stubbornness is a virtue and only fuels a man’s need for speed.

Dubstep? I Thought Your Radio Was Puking.

Real men don’t know what dubstep is and they like it that way. The real man’s ear is finely tuned but can not pick up on the frequencies of this computer created phenomenon made by weak, feeble humans of either gender.

A man who calls dubstep music isn’t a true man. He’s a joke. He’s a loser. He’s a shameful example of the Y sex chromosome. And he probably has mommy issues, which is understandable because everyone knows dubstep can only be made in a mother’s basement where the creator still calls home.

Rock ‘n roll, heavy metal, and even heavier metal is the soundtrack to a real man’s life. End of story. If the music doesn’t have two guitar solos, screaming, and a 20 minute drum solo it’s not music.

Tattoos? You Mean Deep Tissue Massage?

The mark of any great man is his tolerance for pain. A real man can withstand extremes. Extreme cold, heat, sleet, and nagging without batting an eye or groaning about there not being enough water, blankets, sunlight, band-aids, or oxygen.

Getting a tattoo for a real man is comparable to a butterfly landing on the snout of a puppy sitting on a bed made of goose-down blankets and ergonomic pillows: a f*cking cinch.

Barbed-wire arm bands, coloured or otherwise; full-sleeve koi fish and dragons, on BOTH arms; f*ckin’ Japanese scripture is always cool; and anything tribal that involves thick black line work and no merit to your own personal or familial history is always a safe bet for the manly man. That goes for any tatt.

Oh! And you have to refer to your tattoos as a ‘tatt’ or ‘ink’ in public as often as possible so people know you’re super manly, and thus, super dope.

Rehab? That’s For Quitters.

The only time a real man quits is when he’s been beaten by another manlier man and even then he’s not really quitting, only planning his retaliation.

When it comes to booze and drugs a real man can fire it up all night long, sleep standing up, and still be on time at the job-site in the morning. If you want to stay up with the boys, you gotta get up with the men and only a real man knows the importance of balancing party and work-- why do you think the toughest guys have mullets?

Alcohol is what keeps a man in the game. Drugs are what he uses to up his game, and combining the two is like Popeye’s can of spinach.

I Never Killed A Man That Deserved To Live

As a man one must be ready for anything at anytime. As a species men are hunters. They are breeders. They are beasts of action, not privy to letting emotions sneak in the back door and rob them of what’s rightfully theirs.

Often times a man’s biggest threat comes in the form of other men. As previously stated, they are wild beasts and as such it is not uncommon to find two males or even a group of males (known in science as a circle-jerk), fighting to the death for reasons as large as adultery and treason, to matters as seemingly insignificant but just as worthy of cause, as cutting another man off in traffic or cutting in line at the club.

Marathon? You Mean Taking My Morning Stroll?

Fight or flight? Never heard of it. More like fight and flight. Kinda like shake and bake but more manly.

The only time a real man runs is when he’s chasing something. A gorilla, an ostrich, a burglar, or a goal. With each stride the true man can run a marathon, shave, do his taxes, and stitch a stab wound all at the same time and all before the sun comes up.

Whether he’s running the alcohol and cigars from his system to make room for more liquor and cigars, or simply just out for a light 45 km jaunt to the store, a real man only sees results, not obstacles. He only sees the finish line, not the glass and asphalt in his feet- obviously a real man doesn’t need fruity footwear called sneakers. It’s barefoot or bust.