Kickin' It (or Tearin' it Down) Old Skool

That's right, folks, we're going Tudor on your asses (a phrase we're sure will catch on any day now). "But wait!" you might protest, "How would King Henry VIII even know what a Nazi flag is?" To that we say: why are you reading this, Scully? Stop harshing our mellow. Just as Schrodinger had his cat, we have our flag. This is our thought experiment, and we don't claim any great practical applications for it. We're more...theoretical physicists of the nuances of contemporary sexuality and the masculine/feminine divide.

BUT WE DIGRESS...

"My parents were famous Nazi hunters, so they weren't around a lot..."

We had pretty ambitious plans for the very first lady Flag Tearer-Downer.

After all, this thought experiment/measure-of-a-man's-character scale did come into existence as a response to namby-pambies of the supposedly "less-fair" sex, not our own. Our treatment of the first woman to tear the Nazi flag off the estancia (if you're still clueless as to our mission statement, or a first-time reader, here is a helpful reminder) would be an important gauge of whether or not we are as gender-blind regarding guts and day-in-day-out heroism as we think we are. We know that there are weak, Emo, female namby-pambies as sure as there are fearless, effortlessly confident and cognizant, modern male Amazons. 21st century dudes aren't all John Mayers, Rod Blagojeviches and Jesse Jameses who crawled out of their box of "Summer's Eve" brand douche to torture us...there are many good lads out there. We know this for a fact. A semi-fact, at least. But we just keep running into the FailBoys: men who - to quote 'Sixteen Going On Seventeen' - are "roués and cads" that apparently just want to write on us. Manly fail. Like this one:

A Weeping Man Is Often Endearing. Not In This Case.

Let us all suspend disbelief for a moment and take politics entirely out of the equation before we delve into this prickly, prickly Friday flag-tearing-down scenario...

Yes, we know...Temporarily suppressing the political animal is a Herculean effort, especially when staring right at the smug mug of Glenn Lee Beck, b. 1964. It's hard for us too. We follow politics like pint-chugging Liverpudlians follow soccer/footie/the beautiful game. Like hawt hawt Kiwi men with borderline frightening musculature and skin kissed by the wicked sun follow rugby. Like us brawny Americans in team jerseys eating guacamole and following OUR GRRRRRRR FOOTBALL. Yes we are girls. Yes we occasionally use sports metaphors. Stop the presses and call the AP.

There might be a Darwin fish stuck to the rear-end of one of our (fuel-efficient) cars. One of us might, in fact, have thought for a rather long time that the Darwin fish was the original kind of car fish.

"What if I’m not a superhero? What if I’m the bad guy?"

And what if, just what if, Edward Cullen, you came back from your headboard- and pillow-destroying bonefest with Bella and - instead of having to deal with a demon baby that will end up being cursed with the demonic name of RENESMEE - found a Nazi flag hanging from your airy glass house in lovely Forks? What would happen THEN?!

We're weak. And not, let us assure you, from hunger. We're weak-willed and couldn't wait any longer to let you know how we think Edward Cullen, modern-day Byronic hero, naturally glittering immortal, and champion of eternal monogamy, would tear down the flag. (Disclaimer: NOT to be confused with Robert Pattinson, who will have his morose, dirrrty hipster, Zac Efron-loving, emo day with the flag, we promise. KStew may or may not be involved. Also, a bong. Might it look something like this? We will neither confirm nor deny.)

New Rules, Old Words

Words have power. Yes, yes, yes, we all know that.

And I'm not going to make a lot of stuffy points better suited to aging professors about semiotics and facts and true-life things changing drastically depending on what words we assign them and what connotations we associate with those words. You can arrive at those conclusions on your own, 'hos.

I'm just going to play it loose and random. Like Diana Vreeland...

...Why Don't You?

Rahmbo! Oh, Rahmbo... You and I Should Dance A Mambo...

In a world devoid of über-masculine, balls-to-the-walls buckets of pure testosterone outside of novels written for Dakotan haüsfraus and womanizing creatures from any clichéd action flick, there is one notable, heart-stoppingly captivating exception... 

[cue dramatic movie trailer music] 

HE lives his life at the center of power, privy to the darkest - most dangerous - State Secrets, intimate with all the forces that shape our perilous world...

Years ago, HE lost an appendage in a tragic, tragic accident... 

HE fights for what he believes in and lets nothing get in HIS way...

HIS temper is furious. Rumors of HIS crushing wrath have traveled far over land and sea...

And yet, for all his Alpha-'Bro'-ness, HE is devoted to one lucky woman, the mother of HIS three children...

HE is a man, a myth, a living and breathing (faithful) legend...

Creation Myths, Or: How It All Began

So, gentle readers (if you exist and/or are gentle), perhaps you are wondering: how did all this flag-tearing-down postulating begin?

And even if you’re not, we really want to tell you. This is a blog, after all. A shrine to our ongoing games of T.I.D (Tear It Down) and so much more - things pertinent and impertinent.

It all began in college (not that long ago, we swear). We - Liz and Cailey - had just finished dinner with a group of our female friends, all of whom were lamenting the general state of men(?) in their lives. These men(?) were not all romantic prospects or long-term lovers.