Listen up, brother. I am here to tell you what real men already know: a REAL man can only reach peak masculinity when he’s gape-mouthed—his dental amalgam straight-up gleaming—ripping yawns like a legend. Don’t believe me? Have you ever seen anything as majestic as a fully grown adult man, arms crossed atop his belly, unfurling a yawn with dazzling guttural vibrato? That, son, is grade-A silverback. I’m talking apex virility in motion.
Let me explain something to you. Alpha men are hard-wired to do three things: a) hock loogies, b) only talk about protein intake, and c) yawn in public with the intensity of an apoplectic grizzly bear.
If I’m being honest, I take you as the type of male with the tender yawn of a drowsy librarian. I bet you even pretend that you’re not yawning during boring ass conversations. In fact, I’ll wager you strain to keep meaningful eye contact—flaring the shit out of your nostrils, frantically trying to keep your yawn captured in a tight mouth-sized cave until swallowing it down deep—all the while desperately hoping the other person doesn’t notice that you were yawning the whole damn time? Pathetic.
Let me spell it out for you and all the soft palate noobs out there: you, too, can yawn in the company of great men, such as myself. What do Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst, Hollywood bad boy / semi-professional boxer Mickey Rourke, and future Hall-of-Fame quarterback and shaman Aaron Rodgers have in common? You guessed it: they yawn with the veracity of a coked-up mongoose during rutting season.
Sure, some jabronis call it gross, others deeply unsettling. Tell me that while I exercise my god-given liberty to fire up the old submandibular gland and spray a wet one on anyone within eleven inches of my face. How do I know it’s eleven inches? Because I’m the kind of man who always carries a small, little tape measure, and I never forget to account for wind shear, angle of impact, or pattern.
It’s time to embrace it, my guy, that tingle at the back of your throat. The spit pooling under your tongue. That primal, deep-down urge. Let it rip, broheim. Take your rightful place at the top of the glistening man summit. Start stringing moist ones together and know you aren’t alone, bro. We are all one, bro. Like the starlings that fly over the Taco Bell / KFC parking lot at dusk, we are but one wide-mouthed, glittering murmuration of peak masculine expression.