Look at me.

Not at her.

Or even at that furry, little kitten over in the corner.

Just at me … you jerk.

Now that I have your “attention,” tell me – just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Super Sexy Old Spice Guy?! Trying to get us to use your crappy body wash by turning our own loving women against us … how dare you! You want to know something that isn’t very manly … how about getting the women in our lives to do your dirty work instead of just addressing us face to face like a real man. It takes an awful lot of nerve to just come waltzing in here all suave and shirtless, flaunting diamonds and tickets to whatever stupid thing our women might be interested in merely to peddle your muskrat-scented wares, all thinking that you’ll convince them to convince us that we should smell like you!

Listen – we may not have rock hard abs, and we can’t fart diamonds, and the only horses we’ve ever ridden were the ones at the county fair when we were seven, which still somehow resulted in a trip to the emergency room and a handful of stitches, but like it or not, our ladies knew exactly what they were getting into when they settled for hooked up with us.  They’ve come to accept us for all of our faults, be it smell, fashion sense, or a general lack of any athletic ability whatsoever, and the last thing we need is you screwing that up for us by sauntering in here with your deep, seductive wordplay and chiseled abs that you clearly had to put in countless hours of sweaty and arduous grunting and flexing at the gym to sculpt.

Besides, what do you even care if we smell like sweet honey papaya infused with just a hint of mango … that just leaves more women for you anyways, right?!

The point is, us mango bathers have got a good thing going here, despite the incredible odds that stud muffins like you create for us, what with your incredibly good looks and your shallow personality tucked neatly underneath an evening’s worth of free drinks.  We’ve fought long and hard to overcome the stereotypes inflicted upon us by the football captains in high school, then the fraternity presidents in college, then the boss’s kid at the office, and we’ve come too far to have that all swept away from us by some dude on a horse who thinks we should bathe with his body wash that smells more like country club sweat than anything a sober human might want to stand around.  We may not have everything that you have – most prominently abs, a yacht, and something else that I forgot because I, too, was momentarily distracted by said abs, but we do have one thing that you don’t have … luck, and as long as we’ve still got that, you can lather me with pineapple-scented body wash until the cows come home…

…well, you can’t, per se, but … well, you know what I meant – we’re not giving up the fruity-scented body washes, so screw you, and your abs, and the perfectly groomed stallion of a horse that you rode in on.

And stay the hell away from our women!