McSweeney’s Internet Tendency: You Don’t Have the Mental Stamina to Outlast Me in This Dry Sauna.
Judging by your lack of eye contact while I stare at you with my own penetrating gaze, you understand my sauna prowess. You and your six-pack abs, which are perhaps a little six-packier than mine. But who’s the one sweating, huh? You, going by the dark splatters on the parched deck beneath your chin. Your tiny constellation of thirst den shame.
