To Get Hot, Break Your Jaw. Then Everything Else

“Looksmaxxing”—achieving the hottest, manliest version of yourself—can be intimidating. It’s hard to know where to start, but we recommend with your jaw. Crack that bad boy wide open.

A big, broad, shockingly vast jaw is the bedrock of masculinity. You’ve heard of the jaws of life—get ready for the “jaws of wife,” because the women will be flocking in short order. Plus, while your jaw’s wired shut and healing, nobody makes you talk about your feelings. You can sit in silence with your boys for six to eight weeks. Soon enough, you’ll be mewing in your newly minted maw.

Next, take a look at your legs. Those gotta get longer. A lot longer. You can surgically break and lengthen them at either the femur or the tibia, dealer’s choice. But for the record, breaking the femur hurts more, so men who choose the tibias are betas.

Once you’ve broken and lengthened your legs, you must repeat the process with your arms. I mean, you don’t wanna walk around like a little T-Rex, do you? We didn’t think so. It’s the classic Jurassic Park binary: You can either live life as a disproportionate dinosaur stomping around all alone, or you can get experimental arm-lengthening surgery and emerge as a wounded, sweaty, shirtless Jeff Goldblum with long, billowing arms to catch yourself a total baddie to make a wifey.

While you’re in a full body cast recovering from the many breaks and fractures, it’s time to revisit that face. You can’t mog with the mug your mother gave you. Let’s address the elephant in the room: You need a rhinoplasty. Your nose must be perfectly straight, but also look like it was broken in a really cool bar fight where you acted heroically and got hella laid after.

To limit the use of anesthesia, which is, medically speaking, for pussies, have the doctors break your cheekbones while you’re under. We want angular faces. Even the barest sign of softness and gentleness, in either facial bone or spirit, must be eliminated. Your cheeks should be so sharp they’re not allowed on an airplane. You’re not looksmaxxing right till you gotta be checked with the baggage, pal.

Buy a leather jacket. That’s an easy one. We probably should have led with that. Then break your ankle trying to drive a motorcycle.

Slick back your hair. Eat a raw steak. Eat any raw meat you can find. Every restaurant dumpster is another space to looksmax. Jump right in and lather your skin in the collagen of god-knows-what and shoot up dark-web peptides like heroin, because it might actually be heroin.

Once you’re out of the full body cast and at least two inches taller, you gotta bash your skull in—just for the cool scar. It would help if it perfectly bisected your eyebrow instead of being randomly on your forehead. You don’t want to look like Harry Potter; you’re going for Harry Hotter (a.k.a. Gavin Newsom).

Now it’s time to break your fingers. More specifically, get your fingers broken one by one by a guy named Rick—you owe a ton of money to an online gambling ring. But the good thing is, now you’ll finally be able to palm a basketball, which is the peak sign of masculinity. Buy some silver rings to accessorize your new husky digits, such as a titanium wedding band you can take off whenever you’re out with the bros.

Looksmaxxing is mostly medical malpractice, but it’s also a lifestyle. Drive that motorcycle very slowly down to the local pub and order the darkest brewski on the menu. Make fun of the US women’s hockey team for winning a Girl Gold Medal. Male loneliness epidemic? Cured. Face card? Accepted. Credit card for all the brewskis? Declined. We’re also credit-card maxxing.

The beautiful paradox of looksmaxxing is that you never actually max out your looks. There is always something else to be done, something else to cut from your diet (potassium is next), something else to be prescribed by a shady doctor. But the ultimate looksmaxxing hack, for only the most successful maxxers, is to break your neck to get the kind of thick-ass, beefy jugular that allows you to pull around a truck with a rope in your mouth. We’re talking Guinness Book of World Records shit. And if breaking your neck actually kills you, then you were just too soft.