There are two kinds of Assmen in this world. Wild, hairy assmen, who put stickers that say things like "Why Be Normal?" all over their trucks and drink Corona beer and wear fezzes at parties for attention; these are the Assman Desperados. Our job is to ferret them out and expose them.
Then there is this other kind of Assman, like Adam "Assman" Lang. He doesn't seem especially retarded, appears to be polite, and can spell and punctuate within given normal parameters. He doesn't advocate his local sports team kicking your butt, and he admires the taste of Guinness.
He also offers a quite plausible reason for calling himself "Assman": "The nickname Assman was granted to me after my sophmore year, whence I recieved a citation for showing my ass to unwitting and innocent bystandars upon the lands of one of our country's national parks. Why the very ass which God himself bestowed unto me was offensive to these individuals is beyond me, but the law is the law."
He is, by all normal sorts of indicators, a likeable chap.
We at Assman Field Research Institute (AFRI) are not sure what to make of Assman Lang. He skews our studies quite badly, frankly, and we're a little concerned that other Assmen may follow his example and divert valuable Assman genetic resources back into the wider human evolutionary trough, where they may sit, dormant, waiting for an Assking to come along, one with enormous powers of Assitude, a mammoth Ass Figure able to harness and control terrifying elemental Ass Powers with which he could, concievably, wreak havoc upon our fragile ecosystem.
The stakes are unimaginably high. One slip-up and we'll all be wearing sombreros tomorrow and listening to Sammy Hagar.
To wit: I give you the flip side of Adam "Assman" Lang.
Andy "Assman" Jones. See the mock wanted poster. Height, weight, date of birth. Wanted for "public intoxication" and "public indecency" and "raging against the machine." Woo woo! That last bit alone would have given the Institute reason enough to move the big hand on the Assday Clock another minute forward.
But then, like a true Assman, Jones takes the ball, breaks into the open and runs crazy-legged downfield for the goal line: He's "pimpin' rock," he's got some sort of mohawk in one picture and he's drawn an afro on himself on the other. He also appears to believe he's some sort of ninja. He's a goddamn Ass Master.
His presence comforts the Institute, for some odd reason. We remain slightly unnerved at the existence of apparently docile Assmen such as Lang, but meeting Assman Jones feels just like riding a bicycle.
