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n case you’re wondering, I’m all about being GQ, ok? But I think that lately GQ magazine has been getting it wrong a lot and as a serious GQ kind of man, I’m frankly a little concerned. Just look at this guy in this suit on p.131 of the latest issue. What a boof. You can tell he’s uncomfortable being photographed wearing those silly looking clothes but GQ is paying him a ton of money so what’s he going to do? Besides, his friends are all a bunch of boofs so he doesn’t really give a shit, right? Well, I do. I do give a shit. So let’s get some GQ stuff straight right here and now.
GQ used to be a mag for real men. Now, as evidenced in this recent issue that sits in front of me, they are all about so-called manly men which, given the content of late, is apparently code for fluffy boy. I’m not yet exactly sure what the term fluffy boy means (because I just made it up) but I think that it expresses something a propos. Do you like it?
And can someone please tell me what is up with these fragrances for men? Men do not need to smell like anything other than men. We don’t need fragrances, we don’t need cologne. I don’t care if they did it on Mad Men - it’s wrong. A fragrance for men? What kind of a man goes around smelling like honey dew melon and hinoki? I guess I could see it if you were going to a Fallout Boy concert but what kind of man goes to a Fallout Boy concert? No kind of man. You want to smell like something, how about piss? If men want to smell like something, it should be piss. You think I’m kidding? Well dig this, Fallout Boy, women love it. Stinky feet? No. Breath? Nizzo. Armpits, well yeah, maybe if you’ve been out chopping wood all day long ( women like a little woodsy b.o.) but if you haven’t just gotten in from a jungle safari or you haven’t been chopping wood all day long but yet still you feel the need to exude some kind of manly aroma, may I suggest piss?
I’m changing my name to Baudelaire and introducing my own fragrance:
PISS
The new fragrance for men
From Baudelaire
I’ll offer a number of subtle variations to suit any occasion. Once you've settled on one, you must then master the application. You want a single short spray on the top of your head, one on the crotch, and one on the ol’ butt crack. Play with the volume till you get it right.
I have in mind a magazine ad that will be one of those three-page foldouts so as you flip through the magazine you’ll find, on maybe p.98, a bunch of GQ looking twats standing around for no apparent reason in some deserted, bombed-out industrial area. The sky is dark and cloudy. A light rain seems to be falling. Then you flip open the opposite page and you’ll see me (dressed as Baudelaire, the French poet) towering over them. I’m about three hundred feet tall in the photo and kind of ethereal. You can kind of see through me like I’m a spectre and I’m taking a wizz right on their heads. They all sport some form of moppy, bad-boy hair-do and they are just standing there with smug, self-satisfied looks on their faces while I piss on them. They look smug and self-satisfied because they know they’re going to get laid.
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Learn how to party like a GQ bad-ass.
It’s time to talk about appropriate recreational activities for the GQ guy. Too much drinking on a regular basis is really not very GQ because it makes your body look puffy and the GQ hombre wants buff, not puff, so let’s widen our horizons. For my money, nothing brings out the GQ party bad-ass quite like heroin. Recreational heroin, that is. Now, of course, we’re not going to shoot heroin, needles are very NOT GQ. No, we’re going to smoke it. It’s called ‘chasing the dragon’ and it’s very GQ.
Here’s what you need to do. First, drive on down to the Dirty Boulevard dressed in your most flippantly ‘fuck you’ street attire and find The Man. When you find The Man, don’t speak or take off your shades (Illestva $377.00) just offer him a cool ghetto handshake. When he grabs you by the collar of your slate grey, cotton blend bomber jacket (Burberry $795.00) and sticks an 8” Italian style switchblade up your nose (Cocobolo, $224.00) and screams, “What exactly is a reverse mortgage, mutha fucka?” retreat to the safety of your brand new Audi A4, drive a few blocks west and find a more accommodating Man. Once you’ve ‘made the score’ and you’re back in the relative safety of your cool mid-town loft with all of your camera ready GQ party side-kicks, it’s time for pleasure.
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GQ Confessions.
This morning I hit myself in the eye with a booger. That’ll teach me to do something non-GQ like picking my nose. Picking one’s nose could only conceivably be GQ if you had maybe a really fine embroidered cloth napkin in front of you and enough boogers to make an interesting design when you’ve laid them out on the napkin. Otherwise no.
I guess naming your dick isn’t very GQ but I named mine anyway. I call him Caitlin (but I’m thinking of changing it). Send your GQ dick name suggestions to haroldGQ@gmail.com
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GQ Cultural Awareness Update.
GQ guys disdain cultural insensitivity but they also know that you can’t always just laugh at yourself, sometimes it’s fun to laugh at other people and other people sometimes just need to get over their precious selves and roll with the world. GQ guys also know better than to let some race-baiting bullshit artist get the jump on them and brand them as White Males.We GQ guys don’t ever let anyone mess with our brand. Oh, and by the way, a bunch of us aren’t even white anymore. But anyway, I made up this really totally P.C. joke that’s good for any party or hip, corporate meet-and-greet occasion and is sure to be a big hit with all you really sensitive and highly evolved freedom fighters out there and it goes like this:
ME: How many Samoans does it take to screw in a light bulb?
YOU: I don’t know (you ignorant, racist bastard), how many?
ME: I’m sorry (sucker), but I’m not sufficiently familiar with Samoan culture to answer that question.
Ha, ha, so it’s like the joke is really on you, Mr. or Mz. P.C. Twaddlebot. Anyway, where were we? Being an astronaut is very GQ.