How I found religion

Before I start passing as the younger, only slightly more attractive version of Andy Rooney, I have to stop my usual rant and praise the magnificent creation that is a MAN. Glory hallelujah, c'mon let us adore him:

I love stubble. I love scruff. I love sideburns. I love the tanned nape of the neck below your buzzcut. I love callouses. I love the hard bulge of your pectoral muscle or your other, ahem, "pec." I love the cocky grin you flash when you spy my exessive admiration of your assets. I love how you stick out your chin and your chest when you're ready to rumble, only to shake hands and slap each others' backs minutes later after some unspoken truce. I love the scent of cologne, caught between the second and third buttons of your only clean shirt. I love your furrowed brow when you check out the game or the surf or the remnants of last night's party. I love your bullshit pickup lines and unbelievable excuses.

But most of all, godamnit, I love you, man.