Hollywood Beach, America.

The little Aryan boy is named Paul. He and his raven-haired friend (I didn't get his name) were loitering outside of a shoreline shop that sold Corona bathing suits and tanning oil, 'shooting' at various objects, people, and sea gulls.

They seemed to be having fun with their rifle, so I asked to take their picture. They posed for me as seen here, only Paul pointed the gun at me. I kindly asked him to point it to his left so that the camera could see it. He complied.

I thanked the boys, and they ran off, the raven-haired whispering to Paul, "Maybe we'll be in the PAPER!"

Dick Measuring

If the world was about to end and all that was necessary to save it was to have a man run around a restaurant and touch all four walls after last call without stopping to engage in homo-erotic activities, two biceps with a typical man's conscience between them would fail to save us all from catastrophe.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.