In response to Chris’ comment on the previous post, regarding a six pack of abs vs. a six pack of beer:
I wondered this, myself, as I pictured two men standing next to each other in line at the DMV, each of them writing a cheque to cover the additional $25 for the privilege of personalization.
The man on the right, his muscular torso wrapped in ACU tan Under Armor, writes deliberately, legibly, and pens the words “custom plates” in the memo field. His purposefully snug shirt outlines each curve of his shoulders, chest, and abs. He signs the cheque and straightens his hair.
The man on the left is draped in a greasy, tattered t-shirt, three sizes too large. You can see stains under his arms, sweat across his chest, and patches of his stomach through the holes in his shirt, which proudly proclaims his allegiance to The King of Beers. His hair is a wreck, and with a borrowed pen he scrawls the words “gay sex” in the memo field, in the naive hopes the Hawaii State Department of Motor Vehicles will be too embarrassed to cash the note.
“That’s a fuckin’ pretty tight shirt, there, bra” said the man on the left.
“I like to give the ladies a little eye candy, you know what I mean? Let ‘em get a taste of Sergeant Six-Pack” responded the man on the right.
“My kids call me Sergeant Six-Pack”, said the man on the left, “but I don’t think it’s because of my shirt.”
“I think maybe it is.”
Silence.
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