Saturdays are for the boys!

Saturdays are for the boys, shirtless and howling through the streets. The boys who are, legally and physically, grown men, but who also, at least for Saturday, are boys. Our boys.

Saturday is like if a full moon lasted for 24 hours. Saturday transforms our men, confined in the trappings of manners and society, into our boys, rowdy, unkempt, and free! The boys were always in the men, waiting for Saturday, waiting to let loose, waiting to be the boy they always knew they had inside of them. “There’s a boy in me!” they cry silently through the long and awful week, when they must pretend that they are serious men while they keep one eye on the calendar, one eye on Saturday, their day. The day of the boy.

Our boys sweat and sweat and carry on loudly in the faces of everyone who is other, and everyone who is not the boys is other. Everyone who is not the boys is their shitty boss who doesn’t deserve the space he takes, or an uptight weakling who couldn’t understand what it means to be a boy, a boy like these men in this place.

Our men. Our men who are boys on Saturday. They are ours because we’ve told them they are, they’ll always be our boys, no matter what awful thing lies at the other end of their hands, they’ll be our boys.

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