I want my soap to be fired onto my torso out of a functional civil war cannon staffed by manly men with full beards and the far-away, dead-eyed stares of people who’ve seen too much and learned how to repress their emotions through rage and booze! It should smell like motor oil and bootstraps and it should have the texture of sandpaper and my father’s disapproving glare. It should make me ashamed to have skin. The packaging should feature a less self-aware Ron Swanson stoically choking out a more youthful version of himself who still had dreams and knew what it felt like to love. That’s a man’s soap!
