It’s increasingly important for us torturers of living creatures to live up to the collective Metrosexual expectation at work, given that we freely admit to sleeping on the ground, and consider bathing optional.

We’re like the city kid that bought his first four wheel drive vehicle, way down deep he knows it needs a deep mud puddle to gain legitimacy.

And while both Congress and our beloved President are lecturing us on the benefits of compromise, suggesting both Executive and Legislative branches could use a leavening of us compromise-prone sporting types, who dearly love those grandiose boasts at the water cooler, yet compromise so the Missus can share the same tent …

… when our real motive is to claim we rubbed ourselves down with greasy pork belly before chasing all them ravenous Grizzlies away from our trembling and fearful family.

It was them or me, so I kissed my wife goodbye then rubbed the bar on my nether regions and ran hell for leather at the biggest one, the one drooling the mostest …

As the only thing better than stretching the truth … is a complete outdoors falsehood involving loincloths, ravenous predators bigger than us, and a dull Buck knife.