I can do macho. Don't let the hipster hat fool you. I've chopped wood. I've been known to eat a rare steak. I once popped my own jammed thumb back into socket and only cried for an hour.
Are men really on the sum of that one part?
In advertising, writers are sometimes required to perform Macho Marketing, which is to fluff the chest hair of a product or service. The creative brief reads something like this:
AUDIENCE: Men, TONE: Manly, DUE: ASAP
For nearly 20 years, I've pumped iron for dozens of brands, in categories ranging from power-tools to golf tournaments, men's hair cuts to hunting. Over the years, I've noted a number of trends associated with Macho Marketing. We men are simple creatures, content with our grilling and overstuffed recliners, subservient to the intelligent practicality of the women of our lives (if secure in our belief in our superior upper body strength). We're not "politically correct," though we're resigned to be seen antiquing with our spouses if it means being allowed to watch a football game later in the day.
We ignore our rising blood pressure, our weakening hearts, and our bad cholesterol, but place the utmost importance on maintaining an erection that lasts just short of three hours.
We look terrific without a shirt. Except when we don't, and that's cool too. We're unafraid to show our adorable dopey side, willing to set aside all sensibility for the sake of an enormous television we can't afford. Oh, we do speak knowledgeably on the important topics: beer, sports, mowing grass, grilling. We're only made completely helpless when asked to watch our kids or to make a reasonable decision about home decor.
We go big or not at all! We admire the imagination of the dudes who transform backyards into hockey rinks. Our heroes wrestle bears and bungee jump from bald eagles. We ignore our rising blood pressure, our weakening hearts, and our bad cholesterol, but place the utmost importance on maintaining an erection that lasts just short of three hours.
Hand us a pistol and we'll shoot you a bullseye. Send us for groceries and we'll come home with frozen pizzas. Request romance and receive tickets to a monster truck show. It's all good, because we're men, as noted by our baseball cap worn backwards.
Yes, I am an unrepentant Maestro of Macho Marketing, and I have the beer-breath to prove it. Should I be worried that I've contributed to an industry that has whittled an entire generation down to a Horrible Hagar cartoon? Should I not probe deeper into the male psyche and learn his secret yearnings, his hidden talents, his deepest wishes for his enduring legacy?
Nah. (Burrrrrp)