Last I checked, I am a man still.
My royal jewels hang where they should be hanging. I feel my chest and it's flat, thank god! (Although a part of my head is screaming "what the heck have you been doing in the gym benchpressing all these years and your chest is flatter than yesterday's champagne?")
I arrow my eyes down to my two hunks that are called "legs" and they are hirsute - full of bristling angry black hair curling left, right and centre. Oh who's that on the 8 Days' cover? Fiona Xie, and immediately my schlong undertakes its customary priaptic reaction.
So yes I am a man. A macho man at that, and yet why do I have cravings? And cravings for the most unglamorous of food - gluten, somemore! My wife said only women have cravings and they crave for the unlikeliest kind of food when parturition is near. But I am a man, and I've cravings for gluten, so does this make me a lesser of a man?
As I ponder this unexpected conundrum that has beset me and engendered not a few more white fronds sprouting up on my rapidly-deforested pate, a rumble of volcanic proportions commences in the nethermost regions of my stomach. Go south some more and my manhood has relaxed - deflated and surrendered to more pressing survival needs - that of food, and gluten!
The clock strikes 12.30 and it's gluten time. I gotta get some gluten into my system.
Auf wiedersehen!
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