For The Boys Who Eat Brussels Sprouts
An article has been making the rounds lately explaining and extolling the virtues of the “two kinds of men.”
There may be beef-eating men and bacon-eating men, but there are Brussels sprout-eating men, too. Sure, it may not be as common — choosing a food traditionally thought of as “for the gals” — but we exist. And we’re here to tell you about it. While we won’t scoff at the offer of a tub of roasted flesh, our heart sits in a rocks glass with a Brussels sprout and a splash of viniagrette.
Brussels sprouts-eating men will talk to you at length about ice-skating. They’ll perch over a cup of coffee — black — and recite a litany of probably-true ice-skating facts they saw in their mind’s eye on their last LSD microdose. They’ll read ice-skating poetry on your answering machine at 3 a.m. for you to wake up to. You’ll lose them to ice-skating reveries, journeys into the infinite beauty of their minds, walking a branching fractal of endless neural pathways like the crystals of a snowflake — but they’ll be back, and even better, they’ll tell you all about it. Don’t ask a Brussels-sprouts-eating man to actually go ice skating, they hate it! You idiot!
A Brussels sprout eater gets moonlit erections from killing snakes. Wild snakes, snakes at the pet shop, snakes his friends keep in expensive terrariums, it’s all the same raw thrill to a Brussels sprout-eating man.
Brussels sprout-eating men have the kinds of friends who keep snakes in expensive terrariums and don’t get mad when their Brussels-sprout eating friends kill their snakes in the night. Some people can’t handle a man like this, but a Brussels sprout-eating man doesn’t care. He knows that he deserves someone who can take him for who he is, snake-owning friends and all.
A Brussels sprout-eating man knows that he has to tell everyone he meets about Jack Kerouac. Most people haven’t read Kerouac, and a Brussels sprout-eating man stays up crying knowing that. But he’s not about to let it stay that way. He’s going to take action. Kerouac changed his life.
Brussels sprout-eating men cry. They’re not like other men. Deal with it.
A Brussels sprout eater doesn’t believe in locking doors. A door is a portal to new experiences. An adventure is a state of mind, and a Brussels sprout-eating man knows that every threshold thrums with the energy of rebirth. Also, he really wants people to walk in on him while he’s taking a shit. He loves seeing the look on their faces.
Brussels sprout-eating men aren’t boors only interested in mindless, anonymous sex. They want a woman who writes, a fiery spirit with the mind of a warrior poetess. They want a woman who eats raw curry-rubbed beef with her hands on top of a mountain. Also, the only things that get him off are killing snakes and tricking people into watching him shit. If you can’t accept that, he doesn’t want to know you. He doesn’t need to know you.
A Brussels sprout-eating man knows Star Wars is overrated. He liked it better the first time when it was called The Bible.
A Brussels sprout-eating man has owned swords. And bows. And guns. And morningstars. Maybe he has a favorite. Maybe he’ll let you pick. If you’re very lucky, maybe he’ll let you run your tongue down the katana mounted over his bed after you’ve watched him kill a bunch of snakes.
A Brussels sprout eating man listens to everything from Tool to A Perfect Circle, from Dave Mustaine-era Metallica to Megadeth. From Frank Zappa to listening to Tool some more. Whatever the hell tune stirs his soul. Anything that catches his heart and awakens those deep, savage rhythms in his bountiful hips. He will talk to you for a very long time about why these bands are good. He realizes you might not understand yet. But listen to this album and you totally will. The drumbeat on this song is based on the Fibonacci sequence. A Brussels sprout-eating man knows girls aren’t great at math so you might not know what that is. He doesn’t mind.
A Brussels sprout-eating man knows people don’t fit in neat little boxes. He’s wild, he’s ever-changing, and so are you. And he loves that. He wants to spend long nights on sandy beaches, in rainforest canopies, exploring your deepest self. He wants long conversations, the real kinds that break past that petty bullshit small talk and start to examine who you really are, what you really feel. Share your true opinions, unafraid of judgment. Of course, he’ll be tickled when you share his, but he won’t mind if you don’t — he loves the challenge of explaining to you why you’re wrong and need to see it his way.
But most of all, a Brussels sprout-eating man knows it’s not about what member of the cabbage family you like most, it’s about roasting life to the fullest.