BSBFB

Don’t get me wrong. Any man might sing, but it’s what they sing that matters. It’s how you separate the wheat from the chaff that determines if you’re qualified to stand with a pint and your hand and roar along with the rest of them, the best of them.

For instance, real men don’t sing Helen Reddy songs. They’re not interested in karaoke versions of selections from the Flower Drum Song. Real men go missing when Barry Manilow comes on the jukebox. Demi Lovato songs don’t enter into it.

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The election results are in from the Uncanny Valley, but the race is still too close to call. All we know is that Mike Tyson is trailing badly among voters in the “Excuse me, say what?” demographic. Trump’s righteous bass lines supply a rock-solid constituency to draw upon, but Kim’s over the top shredding style is a hit in the eastern precincts.

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Sometimes, you don’t get the hero you want. You get the hero you need. The world needs more recycled metal, apparently.

Check him out. He’s got a cape, so you know he’s a hero. A guitar hero, if you will. The rest of his outfit doesn’t really mesh, but hey, you can never go wrong with black socks and toddler shorts.

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