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A monologue from the play by Charles Evered
She wears a blouse like that because she wants to be able to see the extent to which you are able to keep yourself from lookin’ at ‘em.
The point remains that the more you look at ‘em, the less likely it’ll be that you’ll enjoy ‘em someday. Be the cowboy, Steve.
The cowboy doesn’t look at ‘em. The cowboy doesn’t have to. You’re supposed to be the cowboy. Used to be we’d cut down a tree and split it, throw some logs on the campfire and stir up some grub.
Now what are we? We are exactly what the eunuchs who run television shows depicted us into being.
Marginalized metro-sexual tubs of butter incapable of threatening our own shadows. We are confused, confounded, passive and compromised little toady boys.
What are we? Are we men? Do men even really need to exist anymore? If they don’t need our p*nises anymore to have a baby,
if you don’t even need to differentiate one gender from the other anymore, then why have two separate genders at all?
Why don’t we all just be one gender? Why don’t we all just be a bunch of “Sam’s” or “Terri’s”—lets all cut our hair down just to the middle of our necks.
Lets all wear pants or “chinos” or whatever the hell so called men wear now.
Why have pants at all, when you think of it, lets just have “leg coverings” so as not to offend those who don’t feel comfortable wearing pants, and better yet, lets not wear clothes at all,
as wearing them is in its own way discriminatory toward those who prefer not to so publicly declare their own gender.
You want to be alive again brother? You want to break the chains? Don’t look at ‘em.
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