On men and crying
Men: it’s alright to cry. No, really. Under exceptional and strictly controlled circumstances, it is now socially acceptable to blub like a little girl and not feel particularly stupid about it afterwards.
You may wish to think of crying as a way of getting in touch with your feminine side, only without the risk of dressing up in a soiled bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, mincing round the house whilst everybody’s out shopping, only having to explain yourself away, ever-deflating cock in hand, when they pop back early because they couldn’t find anywhere to park. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Or simply, you may wish to shed a tear after watching a blood relative losing an argument with a bailing machine, whilst gazing on in wonder at how they manage to fit that astonishing volume of internal organs into such a relatively small space. Your call, even if, as experts in the manly arts agree, crying is the wrong reaction in this instance. A real man should be exacting bloody revenge on the tractor driver at this stage (for example, by force feeding him his own offal), before retiring to the lingerie department of Marks and Spencers to check current stock levels according to the Duckworth-Lewis scoring method.
Times when it may be deemed acceptable to cry:
* The unexpected death of a much-loved dog which once saved your entire family from death in an unexplained house fire. Crying over cats, non-heroic dogs, goldfish or hamsters is out. A real man shouldn’t even possess a hamster, except if prescribed for internal use.
* The birth of your first-born son and heir, on the proviso that the words “look at the lunchbox on ‘im” are spoken as soon as the gender is ascertained.
* "Tributes are pouring in for so-called comedienne Dawn French, accidentally flensed to death on the Norwegian leg of her tour". Crying with laughter - totally OK, fella.
* When Jenny Agutter says “Daddy! My daddy!” at the end of The Railway Children. However, you must then immediately watch either “Walkabout” or “An American Werewolf in London”, and freeze-frame the nudey bits.
Times when it is unacceptable to cry:
* Sporting defeats. Suck it up, man, it’s only a flesh wound.
* When it’s only a flesh wound.
* The death of a celebrity, screen idol or senior member of the Royal Family or self-styled princesses of all your hearts. Get a grip, man! They’re hardly likely to open the sluice gates for you, are they? Exception: Spock’s funeral in “The Wrath of Khan”.
* On losing your job. Revenge, man, revenge! We suggest the following: a scoop of sodium iodide crystals in the toilet bowl in the executive washroom, followed by a hefty slosh of hydrogen peroxide in the cistern. Leg it, and await the screams following the next flush.
* Running over wildlife in your car. It’s not a cute, fluffy bunny, it’s food on your family’s table.
* Getting caught mincing round the house, ever deflating cock in hand, wearing a bra and panties lifted from your mother-in-law’s laundry basket, you frigging used-underwear stealing pervert. Buy your own, for crying out loud.
In summary: No, I'm not crying. There's something in my eye. Yes. Something in my eye.
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