guilty as charged... with the stories.

i don't get excited about a lot of things. certainly there are times when my outward countenance would suggest that i'm all a-twitter inside, but the harsh reality remains that ben's ocean of emotion is usually about as smooth and glassy as josh lucas' dome:



... like buttuh.


maybe it's the substantial level of mellow i was able to maintain as a student of recreation parks and tourism management (outdoor option! pass that granola, brotherman!). maybe it was the perpetual contact buzz i maintained in 2002 by co-inhabiting a 12X12 hot box courtesy of my freshman roommate (wake and bake johnny... wake and bake). maybe it's that one class i took senior year in which i actually had to hug a tree (fer real). i just don't allow myself to get all jazzed up about a lot of nonsense and whatnot.


UNTIL NOW.


what's got your fresh cotton batman mansy panties in a twist, ben?

oh nothing... just...

THIS:





HOLY CRAP! DID ANYONE ELSE HUM THE NATIONAL ANTHEM JUST NOW???

this, my painstakingly manicured and thoroughly house-trained male friends, is the SOG navy seal knife. like any good father, my own dear old man decided that i should own the muhammad ali of knives. this suave s.o.b. is designed to dismantle terrorist-harboring third world villages, dig latrines amidst rocket fire and a hailstorm of ninja throwing stars, and to declaw live maneating grizzly bears... all while blindfolded and naked. it actually says on the box that you're not allowed to operate this high-tech, state of the art piece of nad-kickery without a fistful of redman stuffed in your maw. i mounted this sucker on my dresser top right next to my john wayne shrine and i swear the painting started to cry... straight bourbon.

since my dear old dad shipped me this little shard of america i've been sweating pure testosterone. i now shave with it daily, with my mustache alone rendering enough loose hair to create a life-size wookie. yesterday, as i bench pressed a clydesdale, i noticed that my pecs were not only enormous, they were also lactating premium grade gasoline. by sheer man-willpower i can turn on my cable-less television and every channel will feature either roadhouse, predator, or big trouble in little china.

and everything i eat tastes like steak.

"how can i too scale this jagged mountain of masculine awesomeness?", you might ask.

STEP ONE: get a haircut alice. you look like my sister.
STEP TWO: reduce your diet to a daily 2500 calorie intake of beef jerky and moonshine.
STEP THREE: listen to nothing but johnny cash. period.
STEP FOUR: buy, steal, or fashion this knife out of the scrap metal from an enemy fighter jet or the bone of an orca whale that you've personally killed with your bare hands.

then come find me. i'll be on the summit of everest in nothing but american flag boxers and an ac/dc tshirt smoking a cigar and roasting the yeti i just killed.