Here I sit, waiting for my 1 hour flight to Detroit from Chicago, and of course I’m on a 1 hour delay. As I gaze thoughtlessly into the crowd of strangers parading past me, it occurs to me, the man boob is becoming ever more ever-present. One might ask, how do I notice this, and it is simply, how can I not. This mysterious male feature has really taken shape over the past few years. Much like the female version, it comes in all shapes and sizes, however us males typically have to earn ours. There is no special formula that leads us to these flabby protrusions other than lack of exercise, too much gourmet fast food, and of course the sweet nectar of barley and hops. Apparently there is some mumbo jumbo about a health disorder leading to this fabulous flab, but that is just heresay in my world.
Both young and old are affected alike. College aged males slothed through the terminals, man jugs a bouncing, obvious victims of a lifestyle consisting of large amounts of mountain dew and Taco Bell all while playing mind numbing hours of Halo. Middle aged weekend warriors were not stonewalled with the effects either. These gladiators of recreational action have spent countless years packing on the muscle only to fall victim of the inevitable gain of extra pounds leading to a blubber infusion near the pectoral region.
Then there’s the mammoth of the species. This slow-moving behemoth has long ago decided that physical fitness was a passing fad that he had no interest in partaking in. Not hard to spot, but fewer and fewer throughout the terminals, I was able to observe 3 of these special creatures (lucky enough to watch as 1 was in their natural habit, Potbelly Sandwiches, engulfing a 9 inch monster and 44oz coke; I spied another 7 inch delight in a bag on the table, perhaps a pre-flight 3 bites before boarding).
It was than that I was struck, my focus wasn’t as much based on the development of these man cans, but rather the tighter then Shawn Merriman’s hands around Tila Tequila’s neck, shirts being worn. At some point, men decided to wear shirts that no longer providing the baggy protection from displaying their over juggly chesticles but rather squeeze into Ed Hardy’s overpriced, over-revealing creations.
So dudes, the time has come for action. Much like when we try to warn our buddies about the fury he is going to unleash by attempting to wrangle that hairy chinned, gorilla at the end of the bar, after 9 drinks (see Devious Scale), we must act and warn them about their mitties. There are only 3 acceptable ways of doing this. First, straight out, matter of fact, i.e. “Dude, new shirt… not good, your flab is flying, control that.” Second, constant ball busting, typically within a larger group of male friends at a sporting event or in the local watering hole. The cohort must consist of a minimum of three close friends in which have the freedom to bust balls at will because of past catastrophe that they helped you avert in another 11 drink episode (see Devious Scale) in which the wildebeest at the circle table in the corner was snorting at you in delight.
Finally, the final way to force your friend into wearing a bigger shirt is by a constant barrage of purple nurples and titty twisters. Engage this attack at a moment when defense systems have not yet been deployed, bringing attention to the weakened area in hopes that the thin fabric of Affliction and Ed Hardy (see side picture of douche bag —>) will never grace those shoulders again (or at least until he supports those moobs).
The fact is, guys get fat, fine, but for the love of everything holy… wear a bigger shirt!! I speak for society, we do not want to see the outlines of your chubby, hairy nipples, followed by the banana shaped bouncing that burns into our retina’s, leaving us simply dumbstruck.