When Our Favorite Blogger decided to flee south of the border this week, he knew there was only one square-jawed paragon of manliness qualified to wear his testosterone-filled clogs.
Unfortunately, BC was too busy being completely fucking awesome to make it, so a devastated Chris had no choice but to instead recruit me and the rest of the ragtag group of ball-scratchers you’ve seen this week. Sorry about that.
Assembling a crack team of muy macho hombres for a mission like this isn’t as easy as it sounds. Whether you’re knocking over a handful of casinos or just trying not to fuck up someone’s blog too badly while that son of a bitch is off puking cheap tequila on a sunny Mexican beach, you need to find people with the right mix of skills and talents and chemistry.
Now, anybody who’s seen a movie in the last hundred years or so knows there’s a formula to this, that there are certain types of people you need if you want to get the job done. Shit, even Dorothy needed some brains, some muscle, and that one kinda femme guy to get back home.
And white boy dreads aside, we all know that Chris is a pretty smart guy. He wouldn’t have tagged me for this gig if he didn’t think I’d fit a specific need.
So now I gotta wonder… which one am I? I’ve spent the last few nights trying to figure it out:
The Leader – Every team has one: that inspired, confident dude who knows how to work with a team of egos and combine them into a single implement of ass-kickiness. Kinda like Phil Jackson, but without the douchebaggery and insulting fake Buddhist persona that makes the Dalai Lama think twice about the whole non-violent passive-resistance thing.
Don’t get me wrong. I like telling people what to do, and I dig me some plans that come together. But this is Chris’s show.
The Muscle – The Fantastic Four had The Thing, The A Team had Mr. T, Guy Ritchie had Madonna… Let’s face it, you never know when some other group of super heroes/soldiers of fortune/African-baby-stealing pop icons will wanna throw down. The Muscle might be all that determines whether you win the day or spend it crying in a pool of your own blood and urine while Madge kicks the shit out of you.
Seriously, did you see her guns? Bitch’ll fuck you up.
A quick look in the mirror is all I need to know I couldn’t possibly be the muscle.
Fuck, I’ve let myself go. How depressing…
The Ladies Man – Suave, debonair. Women want him, men want to be him (without all those nasty, itchy STDs, of course). Sure, he’ll spend most of the mission tanning on the beach and seducing waitresses, but when you absolutely, positively, need that secret entry code to the bad dude’s underground lair, and said code is known only by Mr. Bad Guy and his evil sexy female lackie, then, friends, you’ll know why The Ladies Man is on the team.
Definitely not me. I mean, even if I hadn’t become fat and bald in my old age and still had passing good looks, I’m happily married. The Mrs would crush my nuts in a vice if she saw me talking to the evil Ms. Putsoutalot.
The Brains – When Muscle and Sexin’ Shit Up can’t help you, sometimes you just need a Smarty Pants. He’s the computer genius, multilingual, hipstery looking dude who can quote any episode of Dr. Who while smugly hacking into EvilCo’s network using a paperclip and a calculator watch.
I joined the Navy because Star Trek went into reruns. How fucking smart could I possibly be? Exactly. Next.
The Slightly Effeminate Dude Who Just Might Be Gay But We Never Know For Sure Because Hollywood’s Full of Pussies Who’d Rather Hint At His Sexualizy Than Upset the Sensibilities of the Insecure Macho Male Audience By Including an Openly Gay Man In an Action Flick – I’m pretty sure I’m not this guy. I mean, sure, people have, in the past, assumed I was gay. And I’m secure enough in my own masculinity to recognize why some people go gaga over Anderson Cooper…
What, with that chiseled face of his… and that silver hair… and those dreamy eyes that you could just gaze into for days at a ti… Shit!
The Big Fat Dork – Comic relief, the nerdy-yet-not-smart guy who fucks everything up. Think Gilligan, or that one Hobbit that Galdalf wants to throw down the well after he knocks that armor into it, alerting the Orcs in the Mines of Moria that the Fellowship is there. Or people who know shitlike that…
Yeah. I think we’ve found a winner.