How To Be a Man in 2025

Listen up, you fannies.

If you don’t know me at all and you find this post, you might expect to find some luminous horseshit about how you need to eat twice your body weight in protein every day and cut out carbs and inject creatine flavoured molasses into your third gonad thrice daily while lifting metal plates thrice weekly and dressing in a fucking spandex mankini.

You might expect me to recommend that you need to read the holistic bible and become a Christian and complain about fuckin immigrants and buy a fucking semi-automatic potato launcher to put into your basement to defend your cans of baked beans from the government so you can feed your family of nine kids and your wife in her pristeen summer dress when your social fucking credit runs out and you’re gettin Clive Owen vibes like Children of Men or whatever.

And you might expect something about eating raw tongkat ali straight from the plant and hanging from a fucking bar for forty minutes a day and seeing a functional magician and a dietician and a fucking nutritionist and a fuckin therapist and taking sixteen lead-filled supplements that make ya balls heavy by suckin testosterone from the parts of ya brain that make ya think for yourself.

But it’s just not like that.

I could begin this article with some fucking shag line like:

Men are facing a crisis in 2025.

or

Never has there been a greater need for a men’s liberation movement.

But it’s not like that either.

Regardless of what your inescapable social media algorithm tells you on a daily basis, men aren’t facing any kind of crisis. And if you even mention the words men’s liberation and speak about it with any level of seriousness, you need to take off that tight fucking t-shirt that shows the outline of your nipples. You need to stand in front of the mirror, bollock naked and tell yourself in your best Schwarzeniver accent:

Stop being a fucking pussy.

The internet is single handedly creating fucking losers out of men, telling them that they need to lift heavy weights and eat steroids and/or amino acids till they look like a fucking neckless pit bull — telling them that they need to learn fucking Ju-Jitsu aka how to rip another mans underpants off without looking gay — telling them lies about how the men of old were big fucking bloated small dicked powerlifters who ate nothing but dry fucking chicken breasts and grey broccolli.

If you didn’t know already, I’ve been at culinary school for the last nine months, learning how to cream into a brandy snap, how to slap a chicken in the oven and how to pull the brains out of a dead octopus while it stares at you like your old mother.

And over this time, I’ve gotten to observe the life patterns of the other guys in my course whose ages range from 17 to 25. There was one older guy in the course, but he pulled out as I believe he was on the verge of scalping several of the younger blokes. And I can’t blame him for thinking this way. Although scalping is not my thing, young blokes have lost their fucking way. And 50% is due to simply being young blokes, but 50% of that is due to the internet.**

The technological conditioning of fellas

Ya see, you’ve got this bottleneck type situation like when yer in Tenerife and there’s some hot bird gettin paid to shuffle all the young horny fucks into some empty club. On the internet, it’s the lure of being more attractive, of being desired by women and being feared by men that drives you down the sales funnel into the standard male algorithm. And it’s not just the young blokes getting sucked in. It’s all blokes.

I’ve got older mates who seven years ago were practically fucking socialists, aspiring writers and artists who hated governments, read great books and smoked damiana for breakfast.

Those same guys (more than one) now take creatine and forty other supplements daily. They lift the equivalent of five of their tiny wives, five times a week. They eat five times their body weight in protein from dead animals and seagull shit milkshakes, which makes their shit smell like a dead fox. And all the while, they get more and more paranoid about their shrinking winkies and incessant balding and the adrenal fatigue that comes from lifting too hard and trying to balance with pre-workout and Red Bull without having a fucking heart attack.

They worship Trump without balance and refuse to see anything he does as flawed. They are keen to deport people based on their race, believing that race plays a factor in crime. They’re fucking always talking about immigrants. They are unbalanced bible worshippers, hard-line, again refusing to see anything in the bible as flawed, but believing every word without investigation.

I’ve always been anti-government, anti-establishment. I saw hope in Trump ending wars and uprooting the military industrial complex, but that hasn’t happened. And look, you fucker, saying something he does is wrong doesn’t put me in the opposite category, but that’s just how we are trained to think now.

• If you agree with one thing from one side, you are assumed to agree with everything from that side.

• If you disagree with one thing on one side, you are assumed to be on the other side.

This has become the situation to such a degree that you might find yourself beginning to criticise or feel negatively toward something that your side of choice does, and then internally censoring yourself and changing your view due to the fear of falling out of favour with your new one-sided tribe.

The algorithm grabs you by the wiry pubes and drags you into an extreme version of yourself. There is no in between.

A man is not a fixed thing, you fucking turkeys. It’s an idea.

The 1950s seem to generally be the time when we believe men were still men, before we got broken by MTV and McDonald’s. But hardly any men lifted weights in the fifties. Hardly any men ate twice their bodyweight in protein. In fact, the general quality of food in the fifties was much worse.

There is also some idea that men went to work, then came home, smoked Camel shite cigarettes and drank whisky in an armchair, reading the Beano while their wives cooked them beef and mashed potatoes, and home-schooled the kids.

But it just wasn’t like that.

In the 1950s, there were artists and writers and meat eaters and vegetarians and smokers and non-smokers. There were hippies and suited corporate men and zookeepers and Formula One drivers. There were alcoholics, drug addicts, geeks, scientists, wife-beaters, wife-eaters, drag queens, men who secretly wore their wives’ underwear, men who spied on their daughters in the bath, men who murdered their whole families, and men who sought spiritual enlightenment.

Every man in the 1950s was an individual—much more than we are today, since they didn’t have that damn algorithm driving them into conforming to some fucked up ideal of what a man is supposed to be.

There has never been a single definition of man.

A man is a rich spectrum of dudeness. A geek can be a fucking man. A flappy homosexual dancing on the mardi gras float is as proud a man as the arrogant turkey fucker covered in tattoos who guards the 7-Eleven after midnight. And thinking otherwise doesn’t make you a traditionalist, it makes you a C.U.N.T.

And regardless of what the parasitic algorithm tells you, this spartan, no-neck, hang from a bar, shrinky dick version of a man is not something that men have ‘lost’. It’s one tiny, limited version of what a man might be. And yet we’re told it’s best if we all become that.

Surrender to the algorithm creates men who believe they’ve finally become men, not knowing they’ve always been men. And it creates those who can’t live up to the lie, so they think they are losers because they aren’t men.

What a fucking joke. We’ve lost the ability to think. We’ve lost the ability to challenge. We’ve lost the ability to be balanced and to find ourselves.

But it’s not too late. All you have to do is stick up your massive, yellow, stinky middle finger to the fucking internet. Turn it off. And walk your own way instead, as men of the past did before social conditioning tools became so advanced.

Do whatever you want, be whoever you want to be. Because a man is just a fucking idea, like mental herpes.

It’s just a fucking idea.

“But, Frank, Frank.”

“Yes, Mildred?”

“Can I be a man. I mean, even though I have tits and a fanny?”

“Well, let’s not open that can of beavers just yet, Mildred, okay? Why don’t you go ahead and cut off your tits, sew up your fanny, staple a dong to your crotch, and we can talk, okay?”

“And, Frank?”

“Yes, Mildred?”

“If I am a man, will I have to drink Guinness?”

“I’m afraid so, Mildred. You’ll also have to learn to scratch your plastic nads every forty seconds or so, okay?”

“I’m in, Frank!”

“Good for you, Mildred.”

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** Source: your uncle’s unwashed perenium