It was the fifth straight month that I hadn’t made my numbers. I expected the worst. But when Bruce took me aside that day, he didn’t fire me.
“You know what your problem is, Don?” I didn’t. “You’re smothering your inner warrior. You’ve forgotten the thrill of the hunt, the intoxicating lure of fresh blood. Frankly, Don, you’re acting like a beta-male, at best. Happens to all of us sometimes. And when it does, we go on an Iron ShaMan of Fire retreat weekend, to get back in touch with our testicular birthright. Pack your bags. You leave Friday.”
And so I found myself around a campfire with twelve other men in need of masculine reinforcement. And I do mean found myself. The group leader, King Savage, explained that reclaiming our power-phallus started with appreciating the distinctive male musk: “You can’t really love yourself until you really smell yourself.” So we blindfolded ourselves and crawled around the fire sniffing each other. For the first time, I felt like I truly understood what it meant to stink like a man.
From there, it was a manly whirlwind of raw venison, drum circles, and poems about our fathers. King Savage encouraged us to throw off the feminizing, emasculating shackles of civilization and embody our totemic male archetype, be it Hercules, Gilgamesh, or Matt Lauer. Then, on the last day, we each had to capture a bear, skin it, and wear its skin like a chief’s mantle. Iron ShaMan of Fire, Inc. couldn’t get insurance for us to use real bears. But minor quibbles like that can’t stop a determined, powerful, wild male from dominating his dominion. So we used stuffed animals instead.
Wear this shirt: to terrify your other toys into submission.
Don’t wear this shirt: to your child-abuse trial.
This shirt tells the world: “I don’t take any crap from inanimate objects.”
We call this color: Boy, We Wish We Could Come Up With Something More Clever Than “Black Bear”.
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