Divine Advice For He-Man
Dear Divine Advice, I’m used to enjoying a certain level of respect. At restaurants, I get seated immediately even if I don’t have a reservation, I can park my Bashasaurus wherever I want and never get a ticket, and I don’t have to wait in line at Disneyland Eternia. I can vanquish Skeletor with my eyes closed, I can beat Lebron James at B-A-T-T-L-E-C-A-T with one hand tied behind my back, I can run a 45-minute marathon and a 6-second 100m, I have a 20-meter long jump, I can throw a 135 mph fastball, I have a 145 mph slap shot, and can kick a 101-yard field goal. In spite of all this, I’m incredibly depressed. In public, I like to project this image of a huge, super-confident bodybuilder who never wears a shirt, but deep down inside, I’m a slightly smaller bodybuilder who dresses like a 16th-century thespian. The fucked-up…
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