Look, buddy, you’ve got Low T.
It’s kind of like the plot to Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, which is just a damn funny flick, so it’s not all bad.
I would like to begin by making it unflinchingly clear that I, unlike nearly 600 million misled Americans, recognize that modern medicine is, at its best, guesswork, and, at worst, a leftist conspiracy designed by the friggin’ federali to install “mental health professionals” (brain spies) in our YMCAs and houses of worship. “Healthcare” is crockery.
This is why I’m hacked off about how that young brother in Florida was treated for trying to do an honest-to-goodness day’s work for our country’s infirmed.
I mean, look. You (hippie loser terrorists) call it “medical malpractice, grand theft, and fraud,” I (a Rutgers University-educated thought patriot) call it the entrepreneurial spirit our nation has been lacking since we blew it on Sprite Remix and our business leaders lost their nerve.
And another thing. You gotta fake it ’til you make it, and in no field of study is that more true than obstetrics and gynecology, because, honestly, is anybody really sure what the hell’s going on in there?
I am not a believer in many of these so-called “diseases” that have gained popularity in recent years. Multiple sclerosis? Drink a quart of whole milk. ALS? Try prayer, son. These alleged illnesses have made us a nation of excuse-makers, and I blame social media because it is convenient for a man of my age and relevance.
I have, however, come in contact with the penis disorder known as “Low T,” and believe me when I tell you that one’s real and it pisses me off. I ask you, how much more can the American man take? First, they start making sneakers for ladies. Then, they put pink on football jerseys. Now our own wobblers are turning against us? The attack on masculinity must stop, and we’re going to halt it at Low T.
I have a friend with severely low T. His name, because The Eagle Shield is a publication built on journalistic integrity and always names it sources, is Bud “Little Bud” Collins. In college, you could always count on Bud to be yoked out of his mind on anabolic steroids and down to play table tennis in the formal lounge until he got so mad his back zits busted like geyers and he hurled epithets like he was Nolan damn Ryan on the bump. He was lots of fun, and a man’s man.
Today, I barely recognize my friend. He wears Crocs to Unitarian church service. He eats Baked Lays. He and his wife share an email address. My little bud Little Bud is gone.
As many of my readers know, I have abnormally high levels of testosterone in my body and I won’t apologize for it. I’ve earned my CDL, have eaten a can of tuna without opening it, and can leaf-blow the patio with my gosh darn eyes closed. I am more man than anyone can handle (except for my muse Beverlina, who I will miss forever), and that’s what our nation needs in the age of The Good Wife.
If I could, I would share my high T with men like Bud. I would spill my T in the streets if I knew it would restore them to their former glory and I could see them once again do what they love: wash the car in the driveway while the neighbor girl swims laps next door, fight men smaller than them in local taverns, condescend to their secretaries, deny climate change, get two computer monitors for porn but tell everyone it’s for day trading, and live an American life of pride.
Unfortunately, there is no proven method for T donation at this time. So until that day comes, I’ll just keep shaving my back like it’s a face, procuring and maintaining rock hard erections, and praying for a cure to this plague. I encourage you all, this very evening before bed, to hit your knees and do the same. Restoring American masculinity is priority number one.
In the meantime, I will be selling new t-shirts on The Eagle Shield’s online merchandise marketplace. They will not be v-necked, and they will read “F*** Low T” across the chest, because if there’s one thing I have learned in thirty-plus years of cultural commentary and political pundrity, it’s that if you can’t beat them, you can at least be very very rude to them. With every purchase of a “F*** Low T” 100% cotton t-shirt or beer can koozie, a whopping 3% of proceeds will go to my houseboat fund, which I think is a cause we can all get behind.