Friday, July 15, 2005

Women's Lib?

I read somewhere that in biblical times, a woman who was on her period would confine herself to a tent until it was over. I am confused as to why we discarded this practice in favor of crying because Starbucks is out of medium cups and screaming at coworkers for five to seven days. Please pass me my tent!

In many ways, women’s lib has messed it up for a lot of us. I’m sure I’ll probably get mean glances from everyone in the feminine hygiene aisle from now on, but did we really know what the hell we were signing up for when we said we wanted to be equals?

First, let’s look at the term ‘equal.’ I’m pretty sure it still means ‘same.’ Did our fore mothers take a good look at what we were trying to be equal to?

Men are complete nuts, no pun intended. They voluntarily squeeze themselves into tight pants and knock each other down on muddy fields twice a week for six months. They grow two feet of bangs in order to comb them over bald spots and don’t seem to realize that the rest of us know that parts in your hair almost never naturally occur right next to the ears.

Instead of manufacturing pants that actually fit, they all either walk around in pants which are too big for their waists (or remnants of waists) and harness themselves in belts, or they subject us to glimpses of butt and back fat we’d really rather not see, thank you very much. They shred their faces to bits in an attempt to appease our desire to snuggle faces against something smooth, when in reality we probably aren’t really snuggling with them nearly as much as such self-mutilation would deserve.

They can’t talk to each other, they don’t really talk to us, and consequently die of stress related diseases, leaving us with a decade or more to spend their money and start dating again. And we want to be equal to men?

My theory is that men are loopy because of work. You try leaving the cave before sunlight, dragging a heavy club with you, fending off dinosaurs and pterodactyl attacks just to bang a small mammal to death so you can have a bloody, uncooked and smelly dinner, and see what it does to you. Note that in the crash of stock market in 1929, you have heard zero stories about women leaping out of tall buildings. Men are insane, they work too hard and take it too personally, and this is what we wish to emulate?

Let’s keep it real, shall we? The housewife of the 1940’s got up, saw her husband off to work, and then took her ass back to bed. She probably resurfaced about noon, scraped together a bit of lunch, and maybe decided to slather on some makeup to go shopping. She’d return to the house at about four, and maybe run the vacuum cleaner four lines over the carpet and fluffed the pillows. Really, what other cleaning do men notice? A wet cloth lazily swiped over a toilet seat every morning will make that toilet seat gleam as if scrubbed on a daily basis.

And let’s say he’d want dinner. Fine. Salt and pepper a chicken breast, boil some carrots and mash a potato. Thirty minutes tops, and you’ve got a happy if ignorant husband in the evening, you having spent the majority if your day sleeping and spending his money.

Okay, perhaps this doesn’t cover children. Children definitely add a considerable amount of work to the scenario. But I have news: legally, you are FORCED to send children off to school once they turn five years old; at the very latest, six. Once again I assert the going back to bed schedule, this time after both Daddy and Junior are off to their respective buildings.

This may not be a very popular point of view, but I urge you to compare it to commuting an hour each way every day, working fifty hour workweeks in uncomfortable clothes, spending hard earned money on expensive lunches which only serve to add to our ever widening girth, in addition to the cleaning and cooking outlined above.

You do the math and tell me what the hell ‘equal’ actually means.

1 comment:

Smee said...

even i loved that and im a bloke