Proud to be a boy!

 

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)

     Well, at least, in spirit.

     Let's face it- none of us stay young forever, at least those of us whose names aren't Paul Rudd. But that's not to say one cannot be young in spirit, if not in the flesh. Case in point, my kid brother, Cecil. Cecil's coming up on 55 and, let's face facts, he's starting to lose that boyish figure and baby face that's been prominently featured for decades on boards at Boys and Girls Clubs and private boy's schools all over the greater Manhattan area.

     Now, while it is true that Cecil remains strenuously focused on junior high school wrestling and Olympic men's gymnastics (while bitterly complaining that they're never as young as their female counterparts), Cecil also peruses the news.

     And today, my only brother came upon a fascinating news article on Vice that may very well meaningfully alter the trajectory of his incredible life, a trajectory that, I hope, will help get him in touch with his more manly side that has remained undeveloped since seeing Peter Finch in Sunday Bloody Sunday.

     It was about Enrique Tarrio, the honorary white man who was made the chairman of the Proud Boys, just before he surrendered to authorities to begin a five-month jail sentence. Tarrio came across as quite a standup guy, not embittered at all by the bogus charges and getting railroaded for burning a sign. In the article, Tarrio gave a fascinating glimpse of the culture of the Proud Boys, those virile avatars of conservative white American masculinity.

     This is what Tarrio said in his startlingly frank interview:

     “At our national event, every year, we put a boxing ring together, or I rent an octagon, the guys put gloves on, and they just fucking go ham on each other. (T)hey don’t even want to fight. They get drunk, they slap each other’s asses, they kiss each other on the fucking cheek, lick each other in the fucking face, you know? And I’m like, you guys were just fucking calling each other the most stupidest thing just a month ago.”

     Tarrio went on to describe these hypermasculine and anti-homosexual events as “pretty magical.”

 

     I agree! It was after reading this article that Cecil, standing naked before the bay window of his SoHo loft and made a momentous decision. He was going to join the Manhattan chapter of the Proud Boys. He called me in a state of breathless excitement and told me that he'd finally found his purpose in life as well as his "true north" (which, he'd unhelpfully added, was the precise direction to which his phallus was pointed after reading the Vice article).

     Now, like any other good big brother, I wholeheartedly support any endeavor in which my baby brother wishes to insinuate himself. That especially went for the early 90s, when Cecil first got the idea for www.cecilsprays.com, the world's first live sex chat room in internet history. However, I'm well-versed in the financial sector, not the street fighting industry.

     To that end, I reached out to none other than Corey Lewandowski, a manly man if ever there was one. You might remember him. He was my good friend Donald Trump's campaign manager during the 2016 campaign. One night at an event, he valiantly doubled as a security guard and, in admirable defiance of the Me Too movement, manhandled a Fox female journalist.

     So, hoping I could use Corey to put me in touch with the Manhattan branch of the Proud Boys, he asked me, "Who are you again?" (That's a running joke Lewandowski and I have whenever I call him on his cell phone). Well, eventually, after we got that playful give-and-take out of the way, Corey reluctantly put me in touch with someone he described as being "somewhat connected" to the street gang, the Proud Boys.

     This almost young conservative gentleman, who still lived with his parents, was nicknamed "Fight Boy" (I never got his real name). Through his connections, he put me in touch with those who were actually members in good standing with the Proud Boys and they wanted to know what my business was. I told them I was one of the wealthiest men in New York City, a titan in the financial industry, and that my younger brother Cecil wished to be a Proud Boy.

     It has to be said that good old capitalism was what saved the day and when I told this proud boy that I was a billionaire who wouldn't be averse to making a generous donation to the Manhattan chapter, his attention was piqued and a meet and greet was arranged. Cecil met the Manhattan Proud Boys later that night after our stretch limousine chauffeur Jeeves dropped him off at a nondescript brick building in Hell's Kitchen that was nestled between a Korean nail salon and an adult book store.

     I'm happy to report that Cecil just got out of the hospital and the doctors say that there were no lasting injuries as a result of his hazing. Cecil told me from his ICU bed that there was no face-licking or ass-slapping during the playful hazing ritual but he's hopeful that there will be some during the next phase.

     I'm also happy to report that my $100,000 check to the Proud Boys Manhattan chapter cleared and they'd used to money to get a new location for their headquarters that they'd yet to share with us.