I'm Not a Real Man. Or Am I a 24th Century Man?

I'm not a real man.

No, no, no. You're just being nice. It's true. No! Stop it! Listen to me! It's true.

I am not a real man.

I am tiny. With the exception of my gut and big breasts, I have no mass. My arms are sticks. My legs below the knee are almost non-existent.  You could totally snap me like a twig. A twig with a gut and big titties.

My face is fat. No cheekbones. No defined chin. Just droopy fat. I look like I'm 16.

Worst of all, the facial hair. Or lack thereof.

I have no facial hair.

If I were to go without shaving for months, I would simply have strands of disgusting hair growing in a sort of anti-Hitler mustache. And approximately four strands of hair growing out of my chiny-chin-chin.

It's hilarious. My best dreams, the ones that are so good I realize they are a dream when I am dreaming them, have to do with me suddenly having facial hair. I will be amazed at the incredible beard I can grow. Sometimes, it may just be a bad-ass mustache or  even just sideburns. Other times it is the perfect amount of Indiana Jones class stuble.

In there dreams, I always realize, "Wait? Why do I have facial hair all of a sudden? Surely this is a dream!" It always is. A wonderful, wonderful dream.

Most people dream about winning the lottery. Some people dream about falling in love. Other, similar, but less juvenile people dream about the act of sex. Hitler dreamt about ruling to world. My wet dream is about growing facial hair (that is meant as a joke. A dream about facial hair has never literally been a "wet dream." Don't want you to think I'd that strange...)

Oh, and all the wonderful things I would do with my facial hair (if I had it)! Goatees!  And villainous mustaches (with that curl on the end that I cut stroke whenever I laugh manically)! And that British look where all that is shaved is your chin (like Watson used to have before the Holmes reboot)! And Obi Wan Kenobi class beards! And Indiana Jones, best of all, level stubble! Oh, the facial hair I would grow (if I could)...

I am not a man. I exhibit no manly characteristics. I've never been punched in the face. I've never thrown a perfect spiral. I have never watched an entire sporting event without getting distracted, not even when I have been at the game. I've never gotten drunk and snogged a chick. I don't know shit about cars.

I am not a man. But, aside from the breasts, I'm not a woman (and even those are not womanly. Wouldn't want to titty fuck these titties) either. So what am I?

Could I, perhaps be a 24th century man?

Not the kind of 24th century man portrayed in Star Trek. Captain James T. Kirk is far too much of a man for me. Even Bones, with his constant complaining and fear, is more man than I will ever be.

No, I'm an actual 24th Century Man, not a fictional one.

I have less hair on my body because I am simply more evolved. Farther removed from our monkey brethren. My arms and legs are tiny, because in the 24th Century, man does not need muscles. Machines do all the work. Man simply needs hands. For operating computers and masturbating.

For in the 24th Century, man need not have sexual relations to reproduce. Machines do all that for man as well. They keep the species going, so sex is a thing of the past. Therefore, courting skills are no longer known by 24th Century Man (which explains why I lack them). All 24th Century Man knows is masterbation.

I am 24th Century Man! Hear me roar! If I were not so easily defeated by 21st Century Man (aka Real Man), you should feel threatened! Because there would be the chance I could replace you, were I not far inferior to you in everyway.

Oh. And the breasts? 24th Century Man is the source of delicious milk. Because Cows are extinct.

Damn you McDonalds!