What type of man are you?

Lumberjack. Actually I work in data-processing for Lumberjack.com. But I’m pretty manly, honest. I can open jars.

Social media influencer. My Instagram page is largely filled with shots of my pug, Arnold, wearing different jackets.

A great hunter. Sometimes I roam the tundra for weeks in pursuit of elk. Though sometimes I go to Lidl. One way or another, my tribe depend on me.

I use an all-in-one body wash on my body, my hair and also the dishes. It’s called Man Wash. In the advertisements women are very attracted to it and advertisements have not lied to me yet.

I bathe in the blood of my enemies. Yeah, I’m talking about you, Steve

I moisturise. I Exfoliate. I have a shelf of beauty products I rotate through depending on the day.

I diffuse the situation with words. I am very emotionally intelligent.

I crush the interloper’s skull with a rock and feast on the gooey mess within. Yeah, Steve, I’m talking about you again.

I instigate a messy physical altercation that concludes with me rolling around on the ground slapping my enemy and crying while a security guard rings my mother. “Sharon, he’s at it again,” says the security guard.

I have no mother. I was carved from a burning oak during a lightning strike then raised by a wolf and an eagle. In other words: quite a non-traditional family.

My Best Friend. We often hit the clubs together.

A foul castrating entity who tries to quench my masculine fire with her constant attempts to cook me dinner and clean my clothes. I wish I didn’t live in her attic.

I feel a stirring in my brovaries. I have so much love to give. I just want to settle down.

I run away. Nobody is going to stick me with no baby. I’m a free spirit.

I feel hungry. Man, I’d love to eat a fresh baby about now.

Confusing. What are “wo-men?” I wish everything was just men.

To be respected. They are my friends, my colleagues, my employers and the guardians of the peace.

Delightful creatures. They are such whimsical flibbertigibbets. I whisper sweet nothings in their ears and they are enchanted by my moves and my musk (Man Wash, see question two). They are not creeped out by me in the slightest. I don’t care what Sharon says.

I hug him and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

We fight until one of us is dead. Do you hear that Steve?

I shake his hand. By that I mean that I take his hand in my hand and try to crush the bones of his hand until he cries.