Spit anywhere I want. Got that, Mask Boy?
Smoke big-ass cigars. Not only does it look boss as hell, it keeps me from eating too much candy. Let’s just say that I’ve earned a reputation for having a sweet tooth, which is why the fellas call me Sweetie. It’s one of those tough-guy nicknames that’s ironic, because I’m anything but sweet. Trust me. They just as well could’ve given me the nickname Jawbreaker instead. Great, now I’m craving one of those. Thanks a lot, Masky Wonka.
Smooch bodacious babes. Tattooed hotties who have piercings and hair so red you almost forget that the smoke is coming from my stogie and not their scalps. I’m talking perfect tens, and they’d kill for a night with a rebel like me. My Facebook is full of them and they click “like” on all the comments that I leave on their pics—but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mask Zuckernerd?
Grit my teeth to show that I’m not exactly happy with how close you’re getting to my PT Cruiser. That’s right, the one with a Harley-Davidson sticker. The only souls who can lay hands on this throbbing hunk of American muscle and live to talk about it are me, myself, and the guy at Jiffy Lube who changes the oil for me—so back off, buddy. Or I’ll breathe. That’s what you’re so afraid of, right? Well, I refuse to live in your Spin City, Michael J. Sux.
Whistle when I see the price of gas. If I do it just once? Yikes. Twice? Whoa, momma! They’re practically giving that diesel away. My Chrysler kitty only purrs for regular, but I like to rep for my fellow bad boys who are out there hauling ass in a semi. When I see them on the road, I like to give a little salute to show that we’re cut from the same leather. They usually salute back with one finger, but I wouldn’t expect anything less. If you don’t like it, maybe see if you can buy one of those masks for your eyes, Zerro. (You know, like Zorro, but a loser.)
Speak freely and clearly without any stupid fabric silencing my words. If I’m going to tell someone to shut up and stop calling this number because the person they’re trying to reach doesn’t live here anymore, I’m not going to be hiding behind a mask. Just like I don’t hide behind one when I post online. I wish I could take credit for the image of a Minion dressed like the Punisher bowing down before God, who is wearing a “Fire Fauci” T-shirt with the sleeves cut off while whizzing on the CNN logo, which I reply to medical experts and other trolls with, but the name of the artist remains unknown. Maybe you can look it up, Mask Ruffalo-when-he-played-a-journalist-in-that-movie.
Beat-box. But I won’t, because I only like hard-rock music. If they don’t have their guitar picks hanging in a Hard Rock Cafe, they’re not badass enough for me. Sorry, Biz Maskie.
Hang a toothpick from my lip. I’m not sure why this is a tough-guy thing, but it is. My guess is that no one has ever been brave enough to ask a guy with a toothpick hanging from his lip why it’s there. But I totally get it, even if I can’t explain it. Kind of like how I can understand why I don’t need to wear a mask, but can’t explain it without getting all pissed off. Especially not to you, Maskhole.
Eat whatever I’d like. The grocery store won’t let me in without a mask, but it’s still a free country in my condo—so everything in my cupboard is fair game. I’ve got cans of Manwich and a box of giant novelty-sized lollipops one of the fellas got me for tough-guy Secret Santa this year, as a joke. The sugary shards are shredding my gums, but luckily blood is my favorite condiment, besides aioli mayonnaise. You must be drooling under that mask, aren’t you, Mask Baby? Ha! You can’t stand to see me living my best life, munching on lolly after lolly. P.P.E.? More like P.P.U. That is one stinky diaper you got there, Mask Baby. Seriously, the smell is making my tummy hurt.
Spit anytime I want. Got that, Mask Boy? I mean, Dr. Mask Boy.