Man Candles by Yankee Candle. For Men. Capital M. Men who don’t want to smell no “vanilla.” Or “cinnamon.” Sure, that shit is delicious in a pancake, but Men smell like Man Town, population: Men.
On Tap might seem like it just smells of beer. Good, American beer that’s brewed by the labor of a Man’s back. On Tap means more than that, though. On Tap is a keg in the back yard in the good ol’ U. S. of A. Burgers pop and crackle on the grill. The stars and bars fly overhead, and the Blue Angels criss-cross the sky in a pattern that spells, “Fuck yeah!” in a language of smoke that only Men can read. On Tap is the look you give your buddy when the sweat pours down into the brim of your cowboy hat. It’s better to smell a candle than that old hat, which reeks of ten years of solid Man effort. Debbie won’t even let you bring that hat indoors anymore, because the stench scares the cat. But a Man’s hat belongs outdoors, anyway. Outdoors is where George Fucking Washington fought for our freedoms! Outdoors is where baseball is played! Outdoors is where bald eagles zoom overhead, depositing freedom nuggets on your cowboy hat. On Tap smells like that nugget. On Tap smells like a beer burp. On Tap smells like a night in jail because you drank the whole damn thing, because you’re a Man.
Grass. Exhaust. Blades. Saturday. Drunk. Riding Mower. This ain’t no walking candle. This is a motherfucking riding candle, because a job that’s done right is done with an engine. A job that’s done by a Man makes a loud noise. This ain’t no woman machine that slices apples for a church cake, or whatever they do — this is a machine that CHOPS UP NATURE and spits it out into an organized bag hooked onto the back. Nature is tamed by such smells…smells that smell like nature, only better. Nature is free, which sounds like a lot like communism to me. Americans pay for their grass scents, and damn right. When you can’t be around your mower, with its vibrating seat that gives you the tinglies in your Man parts, you can still smell Saturday, even on Monday in the office. Sure, the candle is a fire hazard, but hazards are what Men do. Men hazard. Men chop. Men ride. Men smell.
You can’t see my Man candle…but you can take a big nose-full. You know what else you can’t see? LIBERTY. JUSTICE. GERMS. But we all know they’re there, because of their smell. They have the odor of camouflage, like the sales floor of a Bass Pro Shop, the only store a Man needs. Camo smells like a fishing trip taken with your buddies. You put on that camo and sneak up on those fish and hook them with invisible Manliness. Sometimes you lose your buddies in the dark, because you’re all in camo, and then you step on something sharp and metal in the wilderness. But that candle smell by the campfire brings you all back home again. Also, that wound on your foot is kinda starting to get a little ripe. You coulda washed that out in in the lake or something, but you cauterize it with the wax drippings from your Camouflage candle because that’s what puts hair on your chest. It’s fine. No, really, it’s fine. Better than new! Sometimes camouflage limps a little, okay, Bob? Yes, my foot is supposed to be gray! Your foot is pink like some kinda little girl!
The grizzled old Men who sit on rocking chairs in front of the Main Street hardware store tell of a place, a special place. A place where Men are always Men. A place where they do Man things, in a Manly Way, while wearing Manly clothes that smell of Camouflage and things Men ride on. A place where every Man is handed a beer, and every beer is on tap. A place that is more Manly than even the Manliest place in the world, which is not France, you disgusting hippie. That place is Man Town. Man Town, part of Man County, located in Man State, a proud subsidiary of The Unites States of Motherfucking Man©.
Man Town is a place where Men are Men, and other things are what they are, too. There’s no confusion in Man Town. There’s no political correctness or weird colors, like mauve. What the fuck even is that color? Sounds foreign to me. The year in Man Town is The Good Old Days, when you could pat your secretary’s ass like a Man and nobody whined about it. Man Town is paved with guns and pork chops, with jock straps and American flags. In hindsight, maybe flags were a poor choice for Man Town’s pavement, but Men don’t apologize for being fucking awesome. Man Town smells like itself which, if you don’t already know what that smells like, nobody can explain to you, because you’ve already lost. Lost what? You don’t even know, do you, you poor un-Manly bastard? Maybe if you Manned up, you’d learn. So scratch that itch that’s happening deep down in your pants and take a giant whiff. You might not be glad you did…but, then again, you will.