Idiots and douchegoblins have spent countless hours contemplating answers to the age old question: What makes a man?

“A real man provides for his family.” - Sap

“A real man is in touch with his feelings.” - Wuss

“A real man fights for what he believes in.” - Dumbass

“A real man would be able to pleasure me.” - Meggie… Wait! What?!? Fuck!

Whatever.  You buttmonkeys go ahead and spend all the time you want thinking that gobbletygook and hullabaloo.  I’ll be sitting here watching Steven Seagal’s Out For Justice and listening to his acoustic masterpiece, Songs From the Crystal Cave–SIMULTANEOUSLY!

Because I know.  I know what makes a man:

An average-sized wiener and a couple of lopsided testes.  What’s up ladies?

Yeah, I’m rockin’ what it takes to be a man, but I’m also representing something else: A sleeveless shirt.  I’ve got the package to make me a hot-blooded hombre.  But when I need that extra edge, that little something to supercharge my masculinity, I slip into one of my many BADASS SLEEVELESS SHIRTS.

And as a full-fledged badass, I need that little something all the time.  You got it.  I wear sleeveless shirts constantly.  Everywhere I go.

When I came to work today, I was jamming to a cassette tape called 200 Animal Mating Sounds on my iWalkman.  I let the soothing sounds of track #127, “Musky Male Moose” motivate me. I was sporting my Tuesday Morning Sleeveless, a faded “Bad Boy” shirt I nicknamed “Lady Killer.”   I originally broke Lady Killer in at the gym while I “shredded my guns” with some intense curls.

My boss saw me, peeped my gear, sprouted a fat vein in his forehead and shouted, “Goddammit, Garcia!  Are you TRYING to piss me off, or are you just that stupid?”

This is the kind of challenge to my dominance and badassery I face every day, and as my homeboy Woody Harrelson said in the Oscar-deserving classic,  White Men Can’t Jump, this shit “ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.”  I promptly dropped into a horse-stance, cocking back one hand at the hip and confidently thrusting the second forward.  With the fury of a donkey-punched feminist, I roared something indiscernible and kung-fu sounding as my fist passionately raped the air.  I stared into The Boss’ eyes with determination.  And yes, my headphones were still on.  Track #129, “Rough Riding Rhino.”

“What does that even mean, Garcia? That stupid thing you just did, what does that mean?  Are you fucking retarded?  Get to your office!  I’m not paying you to pretend to be cool!”  The vein in The Boss’ forehead reached critical mass.  I wanted to poke it, but I was kind of stuck in my horse stance.

I wiggled my way out of my intimidating pose, gave The Boss a nonchalant “pfff” and strutted to my office, making sure my pecs did a dance as I walked by.

Had I arrived at work in a vagina button-up or a lame-ass polo with sleeves, things would have been a lot different.  I probably would have lost The Boss’ respect or even been asked to go work/assimilate with the rest of the staff.  That is most certainly not my style.  My sleeveless shirt is like a magnificent shield against all things stupid.

These pythons must be free.  My sensual shoulder flagellum, or what the haters call “nasty-ass arm hair” needs to breathe.  When I raise my hand to high-five another badass or swat at a mosquito trying to eat my pheromone-rich blood, I want the breeze to cool my Old Spice Original Scent-caked armpit that’s been fully exposed through the 26-inch anti-sleeve.

Sleeveless shirts, motherfucker.  Only to be worn by TRUE BADASSES.

- David C. Garcia, the man with no sleeves