So you're probably thinking by "steakhouse challenge" I mean a specific steakhouse offering some kind of medal for consuming a ridiculous amount of semi-raw meat in a specific time frame. That's not what I'm talking about here; I'm talking about the general challenge any self-respecting meat-slinging slop-trough poses. When you walk into a steakhouse, you're betting your sweet colon you can process the monstrous slab of moo-cloth you're about to cram down that ‘perty little mouth o' yers. Don't get me wrong, Dorothy, I love me the old steakhouse challenge as much or more than any other swinging dick out there, I just know how to take it like a real man.

That steak will bitch slap you, bang your girlfriend, and brag about it on your Facebook page. Now, my definition of a steakhouse challenge may need a little more explanation. This isn't some kitschy marketing attempt to trick dumbass tourists into ordering a gargantuan dinner plate meant to rob them of their innocence by dangling the "if you can eat it, it's free" bullshit in front of their bewildered faces. No, I'm talking about the mental transformation any red-blooded American male undergoes upon entering the sacred shrine of blood and smoke that is the American steakhouse.

Primal urges begin to stir deep within your loins as you drag your knuckles past the case of raw, dripping meat that will soon be your dinner. Then comes the menu, seductively offering the "Texas-size" 48-ounce T-bone steak as you're being pumped full of cleavage and liquor from your meat wench. By the time that seared slice of hot, golden testosterone slides across the table, you've already made the devil's bargain with your dignity, and you hear your own quietly shaking voice announce to your compatriots, "I will ravish that bleeding slab of cow flesh; I will demolish this steak or die trying."

The problem is, most of those shaking voices belong to utter pussies, just like you. The first mistake you meat-noobs make is thinking that all you're doing is ordering dinner. That's how a fucktard approaches a steak. You aren't eating the junk parts of a fish to impress your girlfriend here; a steakhouse is where you go to suck the cholesterol out of a cow's ass. Literally. If you show one ounce of weakness at any point in this battle, that steak will bitch slap you, bang your girlfriend, and brag about it on your Facebook page. You've got to stare down that steak like you're either going to eat it or fuck it in the most uncomfortable place imaginable, like the backseat of a Volkswagen Beetle.

Around the halfway point that steak is going to start to smack back and your pimp hand is going to have to stay extra strong. This is where the real technique comes in. You tell all those carb-laden sides you bought a la carte to go fuck themselves, and concentrate on the protein. Side dishes are what women eat; the meat is the enemy here, not a whiny little bitch loaded baked potato—keep your eyes on the prize.

Toward the end of your hero's journey you will encounter a blissful, nirvana-like state. Your blood pressure will suddenly lower, and your pulse will become a dull echo in your ears. In this heightened state of awareness you will suddenly notice the glaze of moisture forming around your eyelids. You have made it to cow heaven my friend; you now have the meat sweats.

Some people—and by some people I mean whiney vegans and hippie douchebags—think the meat sweats are uncomfortable. But like a virgin's opinion on boobs, you can just shake your head and say "you just don't get it, do you?" The meat sweats are like the endorphin rush those dumbasses who "jog" or "exercise" keep talking about. Once you burst past the plateau you are suddenly greeted with the blissful state of pure meat seduction. But don't stop there. Your steak is almost gone, and victory awaits.

Well, not for you, bitch. While my steak will be riding home in my fully satisfied gullet, the rest of your disappointed steak will endure the demeaning walk of shame home in a Styrofoam box, telling you how it's totally normal for something like that to happen to a guy. That steak really does want to preserve your feelings, and is totally cool with lying to make sure your shattered dignity survives to eat another day. But it still knows that you just weren't quite man enough for it. And there it is; you wanted the truth, but you just couldn't handle it.

Guy face down in a steak plate at a restaurant
"How you like me NOW??" —Brown Cow