Countervailing Misandry

In honour of equality, and (moreso than anything else) my unquenchable thirst for insulting entire demographics of human life in large swoops, I will now present several reasons why women are not, in fact, the brighter sex — as a side-note, I am of the firm belief that neither sex has any intellectual advantage . . . It’s all culturally and environmentally variable, in the end. Live with it.
But, yes, far too often do I hear this argument, this notion that women are somehow mentally superior to men by the merit of their feminine natures. In keeping with the tradition of generalising everything to such a broad degree that it somehow narrows itself, magically, back down into something singular, I will enumerate several factors in the general populace of women that make me wonder why they think they’re so dang-gum high-palootin’. (No, I will never disclose why I used the phrase “dang-gum high-palooting” ever. My secret.)

Now, it’s a well-accepted fact that men have no fashion sense. In fact, were it to be up to the decision of a man, there would be one shoe, one pants, one shirt, and one sock. Two underwear, though, because . . . Well, boxers or briefs? Sure, they’d be repackaged and recoloured, because nobody wants to look all the same; but, shit, who cares about V-necks versus A-shirts versus jersey cuts versus . . . Whatever.
Thus, it can be said that the fashion industry is left in the hands of women. For all intents and purposes here, all those who seek out penises are “women,” which is to say that one can assume I am referring to homosexuals, too. No, I can’t take Queer Eye for the Straight Guy away from the gay community, as I’m sure they’re so proud of its accomplishments. Anyway, women are in charge of the fashion of the world, and that’s how it is.
Explain this, then, in some way that makes the so-called smarter sex seem smart: Sizes. Yeah, that’s right . . . Women’s sizes. Nobody can explain them; nobody. Yeah, you can tell me what they mean in the sense of cut and sizing, sure, who can wear what or what have you, but . . . Exactly what system of measure is being utilised here? Inches, centimeters, nautical yards? Nobody has ever been able to answer this question — even those in the retail world who work with this shit — but, yet, we adhere to them. Hell, women judge themselves off them.
“Oh, look at me! I’m a size zero!” Did you know they have fucking negative sizes? Tell me that makes sense, please. Oh, I’m so skinny my waist folds space and time around itself and forms a negative plane, tee-hee!
All I am left to conclude is that women are satisfied to follow a system of measure with no logic, for the sole sake of their self-esteem. Doesn’t sound so good to be a twenty-eight waist when you could be a two.
Unless, of course, it has to do with bra size, then, fucking hell, use centimeters because it looks bigger that way.

How many times have you been around this scenario: a woman, in a bar/club/restaurant/diner/Waffle-House, lets a man buy her drinks for an entire night. Then, the next morning, she wakes up with a hangover and stained sheets, not to mention some hairy, drooling guy laying next to her. What do they do? Get all . . . Shocked . . . And disheveled. Commence the shouting of “date rape!”
Okay, I have a quick bone to pick with the legal system of America about that, too. When a person voluntarily consumes intoxicating beverages and gets behind the wheel of the car, it is their fault when they run over a six-month-old baby, right? Drunk driving, reckless driving, all that sha-bang. But, when a woman voluntarily consumes an amount of alcohol that renders her staggered drunk, then someone has sex with her — to which she expresses no argument because she's dead-drunk — it’s the fault of the other party involved here, now? I propose a “drunk fucking” law that charges people who get drunk and “accidently” have sex with fines and charges; preferably, they spend some time in a jail cell and learn what it really means to involuntarily engage in intimate activity.
(But, not to take anything away from actual date rape situations, of course; hidden drugs and spiked drinks and what have you — bad, bad.)
Back to the original subject, however; seriously, how many times does this work? At what point does the woman actually stop and equate alcohol with loosening inhibitions for easier sex for the man with the drinks? When does it get through that men do not buy you shit for the sheer sake of it. When a stranger gives you gifts, I will tell you right now, it is not because he is Santa Claus . Well . . . He does want access to a chimney of sorts, at night, and he won’t complain if cookies and milk are had afterward, but I don’t think there will be jingly bells and red, fur coats . . . Or maybe there will be, what with fetishes nowadays. Hell, blinking lights and mistletoe being involved wouldn’t surprise me, anymore.
Nevermind, Santa Claus is the one getting women drunk and having sex with them. He even leaves presents! For which they prescribe medicated ointments, I understand.

Do you know what else for which women are responsible? Soap operas. Yeah, it ain’t men sitting around, drinking brewskis and eating peanuts, in front of Days of Our Lives. I’m rather certain that soap operas actually are responsible for terrorism and most heinous crimes in America, too. Salamu Al-Jazzy Jeffahed couldn’t take it when Cindy left Jeff to marry Rick, the long-lost twin brother of Vinnie who is now Veronica because of a tragic surgical mishap performed by Dr. Lou who was possessed by demon-babies from medieval Japan. Thus, he bombed a kindergarten. Are you happy, now, Cindy? Also, have you ever noticed how all evil characters in soap operas are Latin? It’s always Rodriguez or Miguel or Carlos or Quesadilla-Maria. Never Bob.
There are more faults with soap operas than there are words for in the English lexicon: bad acting, poor directing, terrible writing, predictable plots, stock characters, redundant settings, rehashed ideas, unoriginal content . . . If Gustave Flaubert were to be writing Madame Bovary in the 20th century, she’d be watching soap operas and not reading romance novels.
Not that romance novels ever stopped sucking. Which is another industry that women wholly endorse alone.
Explain that away, women.

Before I end this, I will remind everyone that, no, I have not forgotten about retarded sports programs, machismo advertising, or The Man Show. Men do stupid shit, too. Women do just as much, though, is my point.

Explain to me why, precisely, women wear some kinds of make-up? I can understand lipstick or eyeliner or foundation . . . That makes sense, aesthetically. However . . . Eye shadow? Okay, what? No, that’s not any shadow, because it’s fucking blue. Or pink, grey, red, purple, brown, beige, checkered, pinstripe, etc. Speaking as a man, I can not say that I have ever thought to myself, “Damn, she’d be gorgeous if only the space between her eyebrows — which are, in actuality, pencil-lines that aren’t fooling anyone — and her eyes were blue.”
Yeah, it’s not attractive. Prostitutes of the 17th and 18th century wore heavy make-up solely to cover pox-marks and other blemishes created by disease. Do you know what heavy make-up tells us, women? You’re a time-traveling prostitute from the 1750's who has been transported into the future by a mad scientist bent on taking over the world via implanting whores bearing smallpox into the future.
That’s . . . pretty sexy, actually.

Adios.