William Munny, killer of women and children, killer of just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another, rode into Big Whisky unaware of the local ordinances.

He didn't know guns weren't allowed. Who'd ever heard of such a thing? Damn law was downright incongruous with accepted small-town Western norms.

So Will Munny, guns hidden under his coat, walked into the Big Whisky saloon totally unaware he was being dismissive of the local ordinance. Regardless, Little Bill, the sheriff, felt entirely justified in meting out a little frontier justice. He took to beating and stomping the hell out of Will Munny.

Never mind that Will Munny came back later after he was healed up and proceeded to aerate Little Bill's skull, along with the skull of any sumbitch who took a shot at him, along with that sumbitch's wife and all that sumbitch's friends. No, never mind all that. The fact is things could have been a whole lot less messy if Little Bill had just made the rules, the town philosophy if you will, a little more accessible to strangers.

There might have been a whole lot less killing because as you know, it's a hell of a thing, killing a man. Takes away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have.

It's not much different from our little Internet town, our Big Whisky.

The thing is, the people who've lived here for awhile know the laws, know the philosophy. But Big Testosterone is growing all the time. New shopkeepers, prostitutes, farmers, tradesmen, and mouse-shit sheepherders are moving in every day and they haven't been properly indoctrinated.

Oh, I'm not complaining about the fighting, the philandering, or the occasional fellating practiced by the local hooors, I'm talking about the flouting of Testosterone philosophy. You won't get kilt or beaten senseless if you don't know the lay of the philosophical landscape, but you may not get the entire flavor of the site; you're just licking the candy shell without knowing that there's a delicious Tootsie Roll treat underneath.

Folks ride in here and they might assume, maybe because of the mannish name of the site or the mannish pursuit we all share that we're all cretins; Neanderthals that learned to walk upright only this morning, one hand on a club and the other brandishing their upright and warty appendage to boot.

All of us who come to this place lift weights for some purpose, whether it be for sport, the artistic pursuit of an esthetic body, to gain strength, or to look better naked so that bedding women is a little less daunting. But there are other places you can go to gather info about lifting weights and eating better and turning yourself into a badass mofo. Granted, I don't think any of them come close to us in quality and depth, but that may a biased opinion.

None that I've seen have an underlying life philosophy. Most have the intellectual depth of a toilet seat. They have function, but no life lessons to teach or share. They are as soulless as the Tupperware site.

Likewise, those who visit Bodybuilding.com remind me pretty much of a group of wandering village idiots who gathered around a dim light bulb because they couldn't figure out how to build a fire. While they feature the occasional quality article, their core members generally represent every meathead stereotype that makes most of us want to lie about the fact we lift weights.

A bodybuilder? Who, me? I laugh! The truth is, I do a lot of gardening. Push around heavy wheelbarrows filled with sod and stuff.

But I think we're different. We not only want to build your body, but we want to build your mind, and at the risk of sounding pretty lofty and presumptuous, we want to make you (along with ourselves) better all-around men, too. Of course, we have our own fairly unique idea of what the modern man is and is not.

Maybe you've heard the term "T-Man" bandied about on the site. It doesn't just refer to the members of the site. Instead, it refers to men who've adopted the T-man philosophy.

And get this straight: just having muscles or just being a bad ass doesn't automatically make you a card-carrying member. You have to be equally committed to building your mind — spending as much time building it as you do your body — and you've got to have integrity.

And I'm certainly not talking about being an oversized Boy Scout who scolds people who curse and who helps old ladies cross the street. Oh, we might help ladies cross the street, but we might do a double take at the lovely little lady lumps, in the back and in the front, of the short-skirted thing that passed us going the other way.

And while we're on the sweet subject, women are hugely respected by T-men. Equal pay, equal rights, equal everything, and when they say "no" it carries the same weight as when the 300-pound bouncer says "no" when you ask him if you can get your under-age cousin Stuey into the club.

That doesn't mean we're not picturing you women naked, doing unspeakable things to you, every time we look at you. That doesn't mean we don't want to make soup out of your panties and grow strong from the nurturing broth. As we often say, we make no apology for our biology.

And screw that gender-neutral stuff that by law permeates practically every institution. The worst thing that ever happened to American business was the death or, more accurately, the denial of sexuality in the workplace.

Hell, I'll go one step beyond that: I think all progress has come from the innate desire to show off for the opposite sex. Neuter us and we all go back to the caves.

Cynthia can come into work wearing a skirt so short, you can eyeball, depending on your orientation, either her left or right lower butt lobe from the front; a fitted shirt so tight that the top button is practically spinning from the strain, and in your mind's eye you keep seeing an image from one of those movies where intrepid mountaineers are climbing K-2 and a close-up shows the ropes fraying fiber by fiber until it lets go, causing the lead climber to fall into the chasm below which sets off a milky white avalanche of breast...

Sorry, my images got mixed up, but my point is that Cynthia can come into the average American office looking like that and we can't say anything because nooooo, that's against the law and company policies and we'll either be fired or relegated to the mailroom. All we can do is strangle back our coffee and ask how the Peterson account is coming along.

You should see the Testosterone office. Women can work here naked if they like, and they often do, especially during the summer months. (In the winter, they're naked except for their Ugg boots.) And we don't even have to pretend we don't notice. Right now, Cynthia is standing by the Xerox completely naked and I can see that she's shaved her soft pubes into the shape of the T-Nation tribal logo.

I can even compliment her on it without fear of legal retribution.

"Hey Cynthia, nice snatch! And by the way, how's the Peterson account coming along?"

As such, we're creative as hell.

And no, I'm not giving a pass to cretinous bosses who blackmail women into blowing them during lunch. They should be Will Munnied in the head.

And speaking of laws, T-man respects them unless they're stupid and fall under the category of victimless crimes. I'm reminded of medieval monks who weren't allowed to eat meat on Fridays. Rather than go hungry on those Fridays when their favorite fishing hole wasn't providing any action, they decided that baby rabbits were fish. Problem solved. And they probably didn't go to Hell, either.

Along the same lines, authorities banned nine-pin bowling in colonial America. Rather than give up their sport, the clever early T-men invented ten-pin bowling. Problem circumvented. Stupid law circumvented.

Using the same mode of thinking, we'll sometimes use illegal drugs or supplements to improve ourselves because, frankly, you government institutions don't know nearly as much about the subject as we do. So bug off.

And just to be clear, the brains and integrity part are even more important to the notion of a T-man than the physical part because with brains, you can build brawn, and that's what this company has invested heavily in.

But I sure can't diminish the iron. We all come to T-Nation because of a mutual love of iron. Maybe we all share in common a specific genomic sequence on some lonely chromosome. I've read that most of the world's population can be traced back to any one of probably five or six conquerors throughout history, so it's possible we're all related to Genghis Khan's weightlifting cousin, Manny "Big Guns" Khan.

There's just something about the iron, maybe it's the feel of the bar, or maybe the sound; talk about the music of the spheres, what sounds better than 45-pound plates jangling against one another? Maybe it's the feel of hoisting something overhead that most people can't budge. Maybe it's the ache that indicates a workout well done, or maybe it's the looks of muscle and sinew that's synonymous with some ancient and fleeting definition of heroism.

That trait might not be essential in defining a man, but it's sure a hell essential in defining a T-Man.

Then there's the question of demeanor. Gone, hopefully, are the days of swaggering around in cut-off shirtsleeves. Have you ever seen a well-pedigreed pit bull walk down the street? The other dogs bark or yap ceaselessly, but the pit bull is generally indifferent. It knows its power and is confident in it.

Similarly, a "well-pedigreed" T-Man displays the same type of quiet confidence. Unprovoked displays of machismo or violence aren't cool and only denote weak character.

Of course there are times when you need to use the muscles you've cultivated. Sometimes there isn't a way out; sometimes somebody needs help. That's when you cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

T-Man is Batman, not Superman. He didn't just show up with powers, he had to train his brain and his body and his skills. He gets dirty along the way. His character might be a little less sunny but it's bulletproof.

It's a funny thing, being a man. Women are born women, but men have to be made. Blame it on culture, biology, or endocrinology, but a man is expected to be much more than his anatomy. There are, or at least there used to be, great expectations placed on the brow of a male. These are the things I'm writing about; the old, maybe antiquated notions of maleness.

I don't know why I care if men aspire to these same ideals, but I do. I don't know why I want to improve myself in every way, but I do. It's probably pretty sad that I even have to talk about such things, but these masculine ideals sure as hell seem to be in decline.

Maybe this whole column comes off as cornball to some, but I hope not too many. I need to think that this mindset is shared or appreciated by at least a few; I need it for my sanity.