To Do The Dishes, To Clean Up My Room, To Do The Laundry, And In The Bathroom...
Chicks, man. Why do they have to ruin everything?

Everything guys try, all of a sudden girls have to run out and do the exact same thing. But they never do it quite the same way, which ruins it for us guys who want things the way we want them, all butched up and hug-free. It doesn't matter where you go now or what you do, there's always going to be some "equal" chick there watering down the testosterone rush: at sports events, voting, playing cards, sex... you can't even hide from them at work any more. All we can do is take an infinitessimal amount of pleasure from the fact that we know they're only making 75¢ on the dollar compared to us. It sounds unfair, but that's called reparations. If we can't hire unqualified secretaries anymore based purely on breast size and have to cancel Circle Jerk Thursday, we deserve a few extra bucks per week to compensate for the degradation of Penis-American* culture.

Manliness is in full retreat. The very existence of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy is evidence enough of that. There's no way I should know anything about textured wall coverings or to look for face moisturizer with sunblock in it. But I do. How am I supposed to unlearn that? The answer is, I can't. My manhood has been permanently and irrevocably compromised.

I don't really care that much about the War on Christmas (although I will defend myself to the death if necessary when the bloodthirsty secularists come for my porcelain Mickey and Minnie nativity scene with the Goofy baby Jesus) but I'm all about the War on Dude-ness. Because it's not going well.

For years now, ever since that dark day of 26 August 1920 (or as it is known among dudes, "Black August 26th" because we can't remember what day of the week it was) when we let them have a say in how stuff works, we've been in retreat. Sure, the skirts came off, which sounds great, until we realized they'd only been set aside in favor of pant-suits.

The more chicks push, the more ground we give. They want to "talk", we retreat to the TV. They want to watch TV with us, we turn on sports. They want to watch sports all of sudden, we fall back to the position we are in now, to fantasy sports.

Thus far it has been an impregnable fortress of dude-dom. Girls no likey fantasy football. I don't know if it's all the details that their little heads just can't handle or if it's just that they as a gender just aren't any good at math... I don't know. But up until now, I haven't been asking. All I know is they stay outside the bubble. Finally, something a group of guys can do together, sitting around a table, smoking cigars, drinking scotch, completely naked. You have to be careful where you drop your cigar ashes in that case of course, but we're being manly. Like men. Like Vikings. I like to think Erik the Red played fantasy football in exactly the same way.

The guard has to go up now, though, because once again the ladies are coming for us. It isn't fantasy football that's threatened directly quite yet, but look at this: Fantasy Fashion League.

Look familiar? It has a "season" in which "teams" accumulate "points" during several "weeks" of "play".

I know what you're thinking guys: "Haha, isn't that adorable. Let the girlies have their thing and we'll have ours and never the twain shall meet."

Just remember they said the same thing when we started letting them go to college. They're not playing. They're practicing. This is the first step. Once they learn how to master and manipulate bullshit statistical arcana on a spreadsheet for fun, they're coming for us.

Watch. You'll see I'm right. It will be subtle when it begins. When your wife, your sister, your mom (hopefully not all the same person) casually ask "Oh, so who are you starting at running back this week?" at first you're going to be 1) amused and 2) thrilled that they asked because you're a boring-ass fantasy football player who can't wait to talk about this shit for hours on end to anyone who even remotely feigns any kind of vague interest.

This is what they want. They need our guards to be down. This is how we got office birthday parties. Do you want something like that in your house? Do you? Do you want to have your big fantasy league draft day with crab puff hors-d'oeuvres and fresh-baked sugar cookies and people crying with joy when they get the player they really, really wanted?

Goddammit. That all sounds really really good. Except for the crying, but I'm not going to lie and say that doesn't happen anyway. You women are insidious with your baking and your compatible sexual organs. How do you fight something you want so very badly?

Try to remember, men: there are more of them than there are of us. And they live longer.

What I'm saying is give up. Forget the rest of that crap I said. Surrender. There are worse things than being pussy-whipped. And all of them were invented by chicks. Like co-ed baby showers. Think about that.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 2.1


Pops


*= if you haven't heard that term before, I honestly wish I could say I invented it, but I didn't. You know what, fuck it, I did invent it. I take full credit. Send money.
- posted by Pops @ 9:53 AM