Whenever I see one of those big guys, those beefy athletic guys, not roly-poly chubby guys, but stocky ex-high school jocks, that kind of guy. Every time I see one of them coming my way, especially in shorts, I think: “Man if I were ever stranded on a deserted island, no food, and had to resort to cannibalism, I’d sure like to have a guy like that along.”
Okay, I’m not a big fan of cannibalism, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a practicing cannibal; I don’t make a habit of it. But I respect it as a lifestyle choice, I guess, like vegans or the Rotary, if that’s your thing. So if the situation ever came up, if I was ever pressed into making that decision, and it’d be a tough one: eat human flesh or starve in the Andes, I really want to have a big beefy guy nearby.
I’m not thinking about his ass at this point, this meal ticket, when he’s lumbering toward me, though that’s where the biggest chunk of meat is, the rump roast. I’m not imagining that to be a tasty morsel. I’m turning my head to the side; I’m looking at his calves. I’m eyeing those two big drumsticks, those huge Fred Flintstone drumsticks. I’m picturing Wilma serving them to me on a giant, prehistoric dinner plate that tips my car on its side.
There’s no real point to the supermodel matchstick gams. Nice to look at, sure, but save those for the first course, the hors d’oeuvre platter. No, give me the six hours on the Stair Master ham-hocks, that softball-in-the-park, honkin’ juicy dark meat.
Think about it the next time you get on a plane. Switch seats with your fellow passengers until you’re next to the beefiest guy in the cabin. He may come in handy!