Portrait of a True American Man
I am an American man.
I live in a modest house with my modest wife and average children.
I work 60 hours a week at a job that brings me no satisfaction for the insurance.
I don’t care for funny things, but that Bill Engvall sure can sure tell a joke.
I type in all caps in my Facebook posts — even the ones about restaurants.
I am an American man.
Just give me a phone that makes calls. That’s all I need.
Lock her up!
I have enough wraparound sunglasses to get me by.
I live in the Midwest somewhere.
I am an American man.
My favorite channel is, of course, USA.
I own a dozen guns that I keep securely locked away in a closet with a babyproofing doorknob cover on it. Just try and take them.
You can take the man out of the country, but you can’t take the USA out of me.
I have a purebred mutt-dog named Patton. His name? Patton.
I am an American man.
I watch nothing but WWII documentaries, and the weather.
It didn’t take a village when I was growing up.
I call a lot of people libtards — a lot of people.
My cousin studied philosophy. You know what it got him? Turned gay.
I am an American Man.
You can quote your Shakespeare. As for me and my house, we’ll quote the Scriptures.
I can trace my lineage back as far as it matters — 1776.
My nickname is Little Burger. Burger was my daddy.
If you want this country, you’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
I am an American man.
