A friend of mine recently likened my unconfirmed and alleged sexual exploits to a series of heroic and occasionally harrowing action-adventures. (Can I sue the Collegian for libel?)
And despite being a fervent vanguard in the advancement of man freedom — mandom for short — I was a bit taken aback.
At first the notion seemed a bit crass, but as I somersaulted off of my full-size bed in a storm of early testosterone flow one recent morning, I began to warm to the idea.
I mean, what man doesn’t want to be a part of an epic adventure?
Even the occasional engineering major ascends to stardom as the frivolously antisocial virgin number-cruncher sidekick.
So I slipped on my snazzy Batman boxers and snugly placed my authentic Indiana Jones cap upon my head. Then, with a slow, seductive Sean Connery inflection, I turned to my self-proclaimed Mirror of Erised and said, “The name’s J. — J. David McSwane. The J. stands for Justice.”
But as I narrowly dipped beneath the door frame of doom, skirted past the bookcase of the elder roommate and embarked upon the beer-stench-sticky-floored living room of death, I remember something a wise man, my uncle Ben, once told me: “With great power comes great responsibility.”
A man freedom fighter sworn to supreme bachelordom — I’m a certified defender of the manverse and chair of the Intergalactic Coalition for the Advancement of Whiskey as a Food Group — I wondered why the word “responsibility” came to me. Not having yet investigated which of my roommates had fresh milk that I could steal in small unnoticeable rations, I dismissed the idea.
As I hurdled over the advancing stool of bar and intrepidly plunged into the pit of cushion sofa, I reached the third and second-to-last stage of manlightenment: humbling one’s self before consuming Fruit Loops. You never know when these manpiphenies might hit you.
To be a true man of sexual adventure, I have come to understand, takes sacrifice.
As I crept into the icebox tomb of sustenance — the heart of the famed Cottage of Hottage — I began to evaluate what I might be willing to sacrifice: Having a home and mortgage? Check. Being an engineering major? Check and a smiley face emoticon. Never again admitting to anyone that you like the band Heart. A reluctant check.
Going it alone for the rest of your life, never to have the consistent and caring touch of another kindred spirit? WTF? There’s been a disturbance in the man force.
Eager to identify the source of this unacceptable entropy in the manverse, I turned on my internal Indiana Jones soundtrack and dared to embark into the dark vacuum where my soul once was (before I was hired at the Collegian) .
Tune in next Monday for another frivolous and pointless installment of “The election is now over, and McSwane has considerably less things about which he can rant.” In next week’s column, he will look death in the face and laugh — the fourth and final stage of manlightenment . or he might just write about something entirely different.
J. David McSwane is a senior journalism and technical communications major. His column runs Mondays in the Collegian. Attempts to save his soul can be sent to email@example.com.