The Trinity in My Manly Home

 By The Indomitable unwashedWalmartThong

The Holy Trinity shall not be desecrated.

There exists in my house a sacred triangle: it’s composed of the TV, couch, refrigerator. This is where all philosophical thought originates, where argument adheres to strict rules of conduct.  Rules inviolate.

Take Myles Doughty’s (Slightly Stoopid) rules regarding monkey rolls in the wrestling room at Pt. Loma High School and multiply times ten.  I am that strict regarding the Holy Trinity.

First, if I am on the couch, then anytime is beer time.

Second, whiskey consumption begins after 5 p.m. (or 3 p.m. if there was a recent full moon)

Third, there shall be only 12 paces or less from couch to refrigerator.

There I sit, a solid philosophical rock, a legend of logic, a modern Vitruvian Man, with a few modifications.

Recall Vitruvian Man by Leonardo Da Vinci.  If I were to have four arms, two would handle cans of beer, and the other two would handle snifters of single malt Scotch.  Then you would have to cut the hair, for at my age there isn’t much left upon my pate and body (except that which grows from the nostrils, the ears, eyebrows, and knuckles, nape, the arms, back, legs, groin- hirsute in gorilla-like proportions, damn it.

Sometimes I have to buy gallons of depilatory juice to fill the tub, and relax with a beer and snifter.  Afterwards, I employ the residue hairfoam in daub and wattle to patch the stucco on the house. Add the wattle under my chin, the pot belly surrounding the fleshy dot that I used to ID as the belly button, and the year-round tan (except for that tiny area where the thong adorns my loins).

Ensconced upon my throne, I am the embodiment of the American Male. My erudition is near perpetual and unlimited.

Nuggets of aphorisms appear when my extra large synapse fires.  For example: The more children you breed, the quicker a beer appears in the sacred triangle when you utter, “Get me a beer.”

And for the mere genius in simplicity: Today is the tomorrow of yesterday.

From my perch upon the couch I can view the wilds of a canyon. Coyotes trot by in the morning. Squirrels frolic. Bunnies feed.  And I wonder if I should retrieve the pellet gun or the 22 caliber and take a couple of bunnies for the BBQ.

Thought clarity prevails: the pot belly I have nurtured prevents me from galloping upstairs to retrieve fire power.  Also, I own neither a pellet gun nor a 22 caliber rifle.  No bunnies for the barbie; hot dogs now on menu. Dogs will make a very nice addition to beer, chips and dip, excellent choices for today’s male diet, unless you have health standards.

As sunset approaches, from my sanctuary I command, “Get me a beer.”