I may be a beer-swilling, slobbering, hairy-ass brute, but I wouldn’t call myself a manly man — especially not by Holy City standards.

For one, I don’t wear pastel polo shirts.

Two, I would never ever wear a bow tie.

Three, I don’t listen to frikkin’ Hootie and the Blowfish, Cravin’ Melon, Edwin McCain, or any of the other half-dozen Southern soft-rock acts who built their careers staring at the cracked-rear-views of freshman-15 sorority sisters.

Four, I don’t need to tie a shoestring to my sunglasses to keep them on my face. Apparently, real men look like librarians.

And I will never ever go to a Tupperware party, not even if they’re serving brats and beer. I hate to say it, but I am not a real man. Unlike, say, the burly men of Man Cave.

What’s Man Cave, you ask? Well, it’s difficult to explain. But, apparently, being a member means you have to like grilling (which is good) and beer (rock on), and, um, listening to your buddies as they try to sell you Man Cave-approved barbecue gear out of the official Man Cave catalog.

And it gets worse. To be a real-man member of Man Cave, you not only have to like sales pitches from so-called friends, you have to like bad puns, the kind dreamed up by marketing agencies, the kind that have been approved by focus-groups composed almost entirely of scrapbooking, Precious Moments-collecting stay-at-homers. See, these guys don’t just like attending high-testosterone Tupperware parties and fending off the sales-pitch advances of other men, but they like to do so at events called “MEATings.” MEATings? I haven’t seen such a gross disregard for proper capitalization since the dot-com boom.

Of course, the men of Man Cave and their predilection for sausage parties aren’t the only things that remind me that I’m not real-man material — you know, other than the fact that I’ll shamefully admit that Dirty Dancing is an OK movie and that Patrick Swayze’s “She’s Like the Wind” is an all-right song. There’s also the junior birdman of Persia: Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

Two week ago, Iranian Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei said that his nation would deliver a “punch” on Feb. 11 that would make the leaders of the world tremble in fright. I know. Scary. Ballsy, even.

As you know, that day came and went, and as it turned out, Iran’s punch was more of pinch. See, the Axis and Allies fan in me was expecting Iran to detonate a nuclear bomb. Instead, they just announced that they can produce the uranium that can be used in a nuke, which Ahmadinejad insists they aren’t planning to do anyway.

According to the Daily Mail, Manly Mahmoud said, “When we say we do not manufacture the bomb, we mean it, and we do not believe in manufacturing a bomb … If we wanted to manufacture a bomb we would announce it.” Apparently, real men suffer from premature proclamations.

Now, Ahmadinejad is not the only leader who has made me question my very masculinity. There’s also Mark Sanford.

As you know, Mark’s wife Jenny has been making the rounds, hawking her tell-all Staying True to anyone who will listen. And in her memoir, Jenny details how the governor set the new standard for manliness.

And exactly how did Mark Sanford do this? Well, not only did Mark need a chaperone to go along with him on his trip to break up with his mistress, but the Luv Guv also asked Jenny — you know, his wife — for permission to go see his Argentinian cutie. Wait a second, permission? To go see your mistress?

You know, on second thought, if this is what it means to have balls, then please, by God, I don’t want them.

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