Steve McQueen

Some men buy motorcycles to compensate for their small penises. Other men have motorcycles for penises.

In this day and age it’s easy to forget about traditional manliness. The world is so rife with art gallery going, fashion conscious men that the very idea of badass he-men is all but a fantasy unless you one day see a lumberjack trudging down the sidewalk with a tree slung casually over his shoulder. Even the macho superstars of yesterday have been cast into the shadows to make room for a new breed of rock stars clad in make-up and effeminate vampires who (shudder) fucking sparkle in sunlight. In these dark times it is comforting to reflect on men of exceptional caliber who were true testaments to everything it means to be a man, and one such man went by the name of Steve McQueen.

Born on the 24^th of March, 1930 to a stunt pilot father and an alcoholic mother, it seems like he was destined from birth to become either the kickass powerhouse that he was or the weird kid in your homeroom class who always smelled like a dead cat and collected his fingernail trimmings in a matchbox. He spent his childhood jumping from his great uncles farm to living with his alcoholic mother and whatever abusive stepfather she was married to at the time.

At the tender age of twelve, McQueen had already joined a gang and spent many of his early teenage years committing petty crimes. When he was caught stealing hubcaps by police, his stepfather beat him senseless then shipped him off to a reform school, where he kicked every ass necessary to get on top.

He didn't smoke because it looked cool, he just liked to remind cancer who was in charge.

After leaving reform school, presumably in a pile of wreckage and broken bones, McQueen tried his hand at a variety of different jobs, including towel boy in a brothel, carnival salesman, oil rigger, and lumberjack. It probably would be safe to assume that he also wrestled mountain lions and had drinking competitions with grizzly bears for fun on his off time.

One day he met two Merchant Marines and decided that joining the United States Marine Corps was the next logical step in a progressively more awesome list of occupations. Fortunately, he was honorably discharged in 1950 after a slew of rebellion, including spending two weeks away banging his girlfriend when he was supposed to be trapped on a ship full of dudes in the Caribbean.

This is when McQueen started getting into acting, supporting his newfound interest by participating in motorcycle races on the weekend. His love of racing motorcycles and cars is what persuaded him to do the driving in the incredibly famous chase scene through downtown San Francisco in the movie Bullitt. It was so difficult to find stunt riders as talented as McQueen that they actually had to film him chasing himself in the motorcycle getaway scene from The Great Escape. He donned a German outfit for some of the scenes and with clever editing it looked like someone else was chasing him through the backcountry of Germany. For insurance purposes they had to have his friend and look-a-like Bud Ekins jump the Swiss border at the end of the chase, but you can bet your ass and half a titty that he wanted to jump it all by himself.

Legend has it that when Steve McQueen threw up this peace sign, Muslims and Jews dropped

their weapons and hugged for a full five minutes before going back to killing each other.

Aside from being an avid classic motorcycle and car collector, motorcycle and car racer, and pilot in his fucking off-time, McQueen was also a notorious womanizer and party animal. He was good friends with Sharon Tate, and was even invited to the party in which Tate was murdered, but instead opted to do cocaine and slam a model all night long. Yes, while drug use may have killed a lesser man, it ultimately saved Steve McQueen’s life. Pay attention kids, this is good stuff.

He was a pallbearer at Bruce Lee’s funeral and convinced Chuck Norris to take up acting, so in a round(house)-about-way McQueen can also be credited for all of those Chuck Norris jokes that were funny for about a week, but not funnier than watching him punch out dudes stuck in bear traps on Walker: Texas Ranger. That shit is timeless.

McQueen died in October of 1980 at the age of fifty due to complications from surgery to remove tumors from his abdomen. The tumors were an effect of mesothelioma, which he got from overexposure to asbestos. McQueen felt this was a result of removing asbestos from a troop ship while serving in the Marines. He was cremated and his ashes were spread in the Pacific Ocean, where they were probably ingested by sharks who started fist fighting and fucking everything worth fucking in sight.

So cocaine saved his life, he smoked like a chimney up until he was diagnosed with cancer, and it was concluded that serving his country killed this daredevil drug abuser. This dude was born to kick ass but apparently was too busy racing motorcycles and conquering womankind to take names. I’ll just assume he had an assistant to do that.

Hopefully the tide of manhood will rise once again to drown and wash away all of the scrawny and androgynous pussies that dare to call themselves men and leave in their place a new breed of take-no-shit lumberjacking diehards to rein in a new era of awesome. Until then we can only revel in the glory that those like Steve McQueen have generously left behind for us; the men for all ages.

Al Murray-Lawson