Oooh, must have been months, now!


How long has it been since I had a big ole misogynistic spew on wordpress? Since I expressed my opinion of the despicable airs they give themselves over shopping, and dancing? Since I repeated the old phrase “Mate, if they didn’t have pussy they’d be stacked ten high down at the tip!”? Since I cut loose?

Poor Dave. His fiancee dumped him. He’s been in in hospital, now he’s in pretty much continuous pain. Back at work of course. A fact of life for a man: you must work. Work or wind up a street person, especially in these economically rational times. No one will rescue you, no one will swoop in and take care of you, no – you don’t get supporting mother’s.

So Dave’s back at work. I was eavesdropping, as always. Turns out – with the chronic pain thing – that his fiancee began to notice that he just isn’t as much fun anymore. She wants to go out dancing. Cyndi let the cat out of the bag, you know: girls really do just want to have fun. Want to feel good right now, this moment. It’s your job to serve up fun. Entertainment. To make their day go zing!

As for that vaunted feminine compassion: pain that isn’t accompanied with obvious blood and pus doesn’t get much sympathy. “Yeah, he may have X, but I get period pain“. Thing is: a man living with chronic pain looks every bit like a man just kicking back and taking it easy, and nothing irritates them more. They seriously cannot bear the sight of a man – their man – lounging around and doing nothing. There’s something instinctive and primal about it. There’s always – why – so many jobs to be done. And if none are obvious, she’ll swiftly make one up.

I got the impression that the crisis came when she wanted him to put up some shelves or something. They always want something, you know. They got needs. It’s never quite enough. Of course – of course – Dave could not. I wonder if she actually came right out and said “Well, what use are you then?” or only thought it real loud. I can just picture the moment, the second she turned, that she simply wrote him off. They can do that, you know.

You see, a man loves his woman like a woman loves her children. “She can do no wrong”, as Percy Sledge put it. It’s biological: male romantic love is biological mother-love, re-routed and modified by the Y chromosome. The things that physically attract men – small, big eyes, fine hands and feet – are the same as get a female’s progesterone punping. Blokes tend to take relationship breakups hard.

But a woman loves her man like a rock-climber loves his rope. He’ll coil it, care for it, most of all continually monitor and keep an eye on it. The moment it exhibits weakness – straight in the bin. Hence the continuous stream of little jobs: always testing, always making sure. And you should hear them talk about how “betrayed” they felt when their man failed them. That’s the thing guys – they do not feel about you the same as how you feel about them. They use the same word, but the word that best describes their emotions is not “love”, but “hope”. And when it’s over, what they feel is not forlorn love, but disappointed hope. And anger at you for wasting their time, because they each know that their time is short. “Look at your watch now”, said Gwen, “you’re still a super-hot female.”. But not for long, and they know it, the ticking seconds draining away into years, conjuring forward the terrible, inevitable day when they suddenly turn invisible.

But Dave has it better than Jeff, who married and was divorced by one of ’em, poor bastard. Family court is one of the most harrowing things that one human being ever does to another, and blokes usually aren’t ready for it – the anger, the hate. They think that five, ten, fifteen years of marriage means something. No-one told em that when your woman writes you off, it simply doesn’t. Not to her. No-one ever explained to them that she never actually loved you, because they are incapable of it – they only ever love their children, their personal, intimate crotchfruit.

Speaking of which,

It’s almost enough to make you believe in synchonicity. e-Harmony (yes, I’m on a couple of matchmaking sites. So I’m a bit bipolar – sue me) matched me up with some person. I go to her profile, and guess what’s there:

Q: Who is your greatest inspiration?
A: well, I guess it’s my two kids blah blah blah

Someone please send this person a clue, and explain to her that other people feel about her kids pretty much the same as she feels about other people’s kids. “Inspiration”? Please. So some three or fifteen year-old has already achieved more with their lives than you ever will, and you aspire to emulate them? God.

Of course, the thing is that she has not really understood what the word “inspiration” means. She hasn’t actually read the question. Instead, she has read each item in the profile questionnaire as “What’s the most important thing in your entire fucking tiny world?” and to each she replies “Why, my rug-rats, what I made all by myself from my body! My life’s greatest – and come to think of it: only – achievement!”

And then, no doubt, commiserates with her friends over coffee about how there are no good men out there. Where’s the father of your kids? “Well – after fifteen years of marriage I suddenly realised that I didn’t love him anymore, so I accused him of molestoring his own children and took his house, the fucking loser. Fuck him. And so what? What about me? What I want to know is: where are all the good men, and why won’t any of them fall in love with me and commit – commit goddammit – to taking care of me and my kids for the rest of my life? Why are all the men such flakes and losers? How come all the good ones are taken?”

You can’t explain it to them. They are not able to understand, for much the same reason that you cannot explain the motions of the planets to someone who has not grasped that the earth is not the center of the universe.

Childless women are weird about their pets – animals specifically bred to be emotionally retarded (true story – you know that face licking is puppy behaviour?).

Feh. I think I’ve run out of bile quicker than usual, although I do intend to write a review for Lillith Saint Crow’s “Dante Valentine” books.

The sound track to this post has been any one of several dozen songs about how important is is to dance on a dance floor. And shop.

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