18th Century Explorer Discovers “The Man Isle”
Written by Bwog Staff
The new “Man Isle” at Westside Market, dedicated to stocking stereotypical “bro fare,” has received quite a bit of attention. The LA Times, The Atlantic, The Huffington Post, Fox News, Jezebel, The New York Post, Yahoo!, The New York Observer, and The NJ Star-Ledger have all reported on the condom-bearing, hot sauce laden aisle, which also carries Doritos, razors, beef jerky, and a solid selection of deo. Our own Bijan Samareh also reports. Kind of.
As I depart my ship and land upon this strange island, one thought courses through my humors: can a brother get some food? I dock my ship on the shore of a rare patch of green called Riverside Park. Humans, clad in bare cloth, run with strange devices in their ear, along with dogs which they command through tiny nooses. I try to congratulate one female on such a Roman display of power, but all I get is a “get away from me you pirate freak!” How dare she call me a pirate! Pirates rape, pillage, and destroy. Explorers do that too, BUT we do so in the name of her majesty colonialism! Everyone knows the world would be a better place if it was Europe. And who let a woman out on her own? With a personal beast to command, nonetheless. I would call for a hanging, but my belly rumbles with dissatisfaction. To the nourishment.
As I walk through the streets of this strange city called “New York” (by the way, what’s wrong with York? Still a fine city if you ask me), enormous shrines to the gods litter every corner. The locals seem to practice some sort of polytheism in which each god has his or her own temple. Popularity lies with the ones named “Pinkberry,” “Five Guys,” and “Havana Central.” I believe the former two are gods of some sort of hedonism, as the worshipers stuffs their faces with meat and frozen cream. And “Havana Central?” I’ve heard of Havana, but all I know it as is a fertile land filled with soulless savages. Good thing we took their sugar. I finally spot a grand display of fruits and vegetables under a tarp labeled “Westside Market”. One step close to sweet gustation.
I grab some sort of apple from the display and take a hearty bite. Ah, you can it eat without slicing it, and finish by nibbling around the core, just like an onion! A man in a black garment with the Westside Market insignia accosts me (he must be pretty high ranking, as he wears some sort of skirt on which rubs the residue from arranging his spoils).
“Are you going to pay for that?” he asks.
“Pay for what?” I respond. “What sort of host are you? Take me to your king.”
“I guess you can see the manager”, he says.
“The Manager,” so that’s what they label their supremacy here. He leads me inside.
Now, before I delve into my confrontation with the man known as “The Manager,” I must make note of one thing. People of all colors, religions, and sexes inhabit Westside Market in perfect harmony. A man of one color samples cheese while a woman of another color recommends to him a different cheese. A man wearing a garment of some sort of eastern religion laughs with an Anglo Saxon Protestant. In fact, I even saw two men kissing! Westside Market is filthy with heresy that deserves no sympathy. I’ll report it to my Emperor, but for now, I’m kind of hungry, so back to “The Manager.”
His Managership appears before me, clad in what I believe to be the customary garments of Westside royalty. I kneel before him.
“Your lordship, it is I, Maximus VII of Western Power.”
“Hey there, can I help you?”
I respond: “Yes your lordship, I would like some hearty food and drink to replenish me after long travel and many masculine exploits. Also, a naked concubine to feed me grapes might be nice, too. But no worries if you can’t.”
He laughs. “Oh,” he says, “looks like you’re in luck. Let me take you to The Man Isle.”
He escorts me and I stop dead in my tracks. All sorts of packaged goods grab me by the soul, and I feel a surge of primal, Dionysian bliss. Dried jerky meats hang like serfs after an execution. I stuff them into my face and just for a second, I can see Venus herself.
“Hey man! You have to pay for that,” The Manager says.
“Fine, if you’re going to be so tacky as to have me compensate you, here are some galleons.” I throw him a handful of gold coins and he acts like he’s never seen money before. The economy of New York must be in shambles. “Whoa, real gold?! Take whatever you want.”
He leaves me and I continue feasting, throwing some heavenly goodness into my mouth that crunches with ecstasy. The locals call these “Doritos.” I shall take some as a gift to my king. Next to the “Doritos” lies an array of sauces, one known as “Ketchup.” I begin covering my Doritos with this intoxicating elixir and I finish the whole bag. Next, I grab a can of “Chock Full o’Nuts” to compliment my “Doritos” with protein, only to realize the can is full of coffee—probably a defensive tool to divert curious women from infiltrating the manly sanctity of the Isle. Instead, I swallow a whole box of “Frosted Flakes.”
After so much consumption, I become parched and grab a drink called “Vitamin Water.” What harpy seeks to dishonor my tongue? This isn’t manly. What type of man drinks “Vitamin Water?” Instead, I grab a bottle of Bud Light Ale. That’s more like it.
A woman with some sort of cart approaches me and looks dissatisfied. “This aisle is just so offensive, you know?” Finally, someone who agrees with me! “Seriously,” I respond, “shouldn’t every Isle be The Man Isle?” She then gasps in disgust and throws some “Vitamin Water” in my face. At last! A concubine to bathe my weary limbs. I began undressing and she runs away screaming. She’s probably too excited to lather me and needs to go calm her frayed, hysteric female nerves before returning. I squeeze some ointment known as “Head and Shoulders” onto my head and shoulders in order to prepare. Although it says it’s for people with “dandruff,” it looks a lot safer than the effeminate “Dove” ointment or “Irish Spring” (fuck the Irish). And why would I want to bathe in old spice? Also, I guess women must not contract this thing known as “dandruff.”
Before I can begin bathing, a knight of the “NYPD” order tackles my soapy figure.
“Ah, a wrestling match? I accept the challenge!”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he shouts. He throws me to the streets, and my bath is incomplete. What a travesty! I will tell my Emperor that the shrine known as “Westside Market” requires colonizing.
I stop a man on the street to ask where I can find some water and more cleaning materials. He tells me I can find them at “Morton Williams.” I shall find Sir Williams, and hopefully he will show some more hospitality.
Tags: 18th Century Explorers, BBQ, bro culture, bros, colonialism, debate about sexism in the comments, Doritos, MOM WHERE'S MY PROTEIN, people are still hella ignorant, people used to be hella ignorant, soapy figures, testosterone, The man isle