It is how I start my morning. I get out of my bed with 8,000 thread count sheets made of pure pre-Revolutionary Egyptian Cotton. Each one costs $435 and you can feel the oppression of the Mubarak regime in every fiber. I then slip on my $185 Brooks Brothers morning robe and walk into my kitchen. I command my Bonavita voice-controlled coffeemaker to begin brewing my coffee.

While I wait, I persuse a book written by a white male. In it, women cannot stop having sex with a man whose description matches the author's photo very closely. He also talks about death, and thinks about it while working at a magazine in the city. That filthy, magical city.

I then pour the coffee into my "Write Like A Motherfucker" coffee mug. I drink it black and do not play with Legos while I frown and drink this coffee. I read the book and nod knowingly at the scene where his friend from the expensive school does the heroin.

Then I begin my day like every man should start his day.

I hit myself in the balls with a hammer.

I use the right kind of hammer. It is a $219.99 fourteen ounce Stiletto Milled Face Hammer. It is a hammer Hemingway would have used. It is the hammer women find most attractive when spied on your affordable $4,509 tropical hardwood coffee table covered with Esquire magazines. I strike ten to fifteen times and remind myself that men have rules. We do not play with Legos, not even with children.

And we definitely strike even the midseam of our $185 Ashland five pocket Billy Reid corduroys with the hammer that reminds us that we are men. We drink our coffee black and hit ourselves in the balls methodically with the swing of someone who understands that hitting yourself in the balls instead of doing fun things is a craft.

We will make a list while we hit ourselves in the balls, and think about evolving to our next stage of manhood. This will be an important list others will tweet with "must read" and "important", even as I do not because Twitter is for children. But I will have others do this for me. Unpaid interns, perhaps, who I will show the proper method of swinging the hammer into the balls while drinking your coffee black in your bathrobe.

With my iron balls I will utilize steps, tricks, and procedures to sex as no other man does.

I will acquire a lathe. I will sit at this lathe in my $160 Style of Success dress shirt and lathe away at whatever lathes lathe at and I will become a grimmer, more perfect person. I will acquire the 47 things my closet needs to have no matter who I am. I will be appreciated by women for my recently uncompleted memoir and my important ability to make a hamburger just like Ernest Hemingway did.

I will not play with Legos, and instead I will hit myself in the balls until I die and fall into my custom-built $75,000 Burberry casket with hand-stitched double sealing and Afghan silk pillowcases. It will be a man's sleep, without Legos or smiling. Fellow corpses will applaud my manhood, but I will disdain their praise. A real man always does.

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