Pink is Not for Men

I want to take a moment to apologize to my faithful reader body, every last loser, pimp, pervert, bum, slob and drip. I know you've all been anxiously awaiting the thrilling conclusion of "Mickey Does Vegas," and if you aren't, hey fuck you. However, there's a more pressing issue that has recently crept up the leg of American society like a date rapist with a garbage bag full of roofies. I fear that if it isn't recognized and brought to light, it will destroy the universe as we know it. Or at least the part of the universe that I like.

Now, I'm not sure what the hell happened in the 20 minutes I was on the shitter, but that's about how long it took for the whole goddamned world to go pastel baby pink on me. Every article of clothing I steal lately: baby goddamned pink. And in case none of you guys got the memo, Mickey Hanes don't truck with men's clothes in girl colors. Not since the cradle, and even that wasn't my idea. I can only hope this problem is still contained in the bizarre country of Californiaworld, and hasn't spread like the clap to the other 37 states.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't pink been the undisputed color of the chick population since the beginning of time? Why do you guys feel the need to sissy yourselves up to feel cool? Did you run out of ideas? I don't care if it's a badass leather jacket dude, it's still pink leather and you look like a fruit! What the hell is next, purses? Over my dead fuckin' body! I don't have any shoes that go with that shit. I'll walk to the nearest bell tower I can find and Lee Harvey Oswald my ass into the history books before I let that happen. If guys wearing pink is truly considered cool, then welcome Mickey Hanes as the antichrist of cool. I will be the uncoolest motherfucker you ever laid eyes on. And if you're wondering how this is going to be a change, then hey, fuck you too. Call me what you want, but I will revel in my closed-mindedness while waiting out this limp ass fad from the comfort of the Vietnamese opium parlor in the basement of my apartment building. Fuck all this noise.

When I first noticed men starting to wear pink, I thought nothing of it. Probably just another huge influx of homosexuals, you know, like the 80's or whenever Ricky Martin comes to town. Good for them. But as the ether started to wear off, the world I'd known and comfortably disgusted suddenly morphed into a Terry Gilliam-style pink nightmare.

I was so angry when I got home that I went straight to the dresser drawer where Nevil sleeps, jerked his snoring ass out of his sock and went all Cambodian style switch happy on that undergrown munchkin. Man that felt good. For me, anyway, I can never tell about Nevil since he just giggles maniacally whenever his life is threatened. When I was done with him, that midget looked like a pound of raw hamburger meat that had been rolled in broken glass and hair, then set on fire with a magnifying glass and put out with a fire extinguisher. And not the chemicals inside, but with the actual can. For a second I felt bad, until I remembered that fucking midget had been using my razor to pretend-shave the other day. Serves him right.

There are so many things that I just can't wrap my brain around. Why I was born. Why I'm still alive, and why my neighbors call me anti-Semitic names for locking Nevil in the community oven while it's turned on. He's my goddamn midget; I'll cook him until I think he's learned his lesson! But guys… fellas… men… we did not emerge as the dominant and far superior sex on this planet just to skip around and make pretty like a bunch of giggly five-year-old schoolgirls. We are the alpha males! Haven't women taken enough from us already? They're probably laughing their asses off in their secret chick societies while they hand-knit sweaters that are too big for everyone, and yet we still hand them our testicles on a pink platter. Well not these testicles! I'm not letting them out of my sight for a second, even if it means never wearing pants again.

Don't jeopardize your manhood for the whim of a fad, guys, because these kinds of things are fleeting, like a tax return check. It's sand through your fingers, or if you prefer, tiny greased pigs through your fingers. Don't compromise the strength and domineering nature of all that is man, but embrace it, cherish and protect it till the end, and then use it to oppress someone smaller and weaker than you. You know, like a real man. Now go out and lie to some chick to get her to sleep with you before you piss me off further, you prancing pack of girly chimpanzees.

If I offended anyone with this column, good. Then I didn't bake my midget in an oven for nothing. Maybe you can run home and cry yourself to sleep on your overstuffed pink throw pillow and write about how Mickey Hanes was mean to you in your faggy little journal. Don't forget the part where I compared your nads to Skittles, princess.

What's that you say? Maybe I've got this whole thing wrong? Maybe I should go get myself a frilly pink jumpsuit, pick up some flower-oil skin moisturizer while I'm at it, and plaster my walls with happy teddy bear and ducky wallpaper? Never gonna happen. I'm never going to accept or believe that being a pussy is stylin'. Just like I'll never believe that George W. can read, or that Michael Jackson is really black. You people are sick.

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