Our goal here, in this place defined by its peculiar nowness, is to appreciate that which you offer: your entirely false machismo. Woven between the seldom shampooed follicles atop your head, delicate strands of acquired personality, smelling thin like dried peppers. Your voice, reported to mimic that of a locomotive outside the window, cannot bear that description when listened to with keen ears. It is closer kin to a dove's fart or the lovelorn bleating of a mole. But put your body in that shirt, and those trousers especially, and the ruse is beautiful.
