Could someone please explain to me how all of these Men who dust, hoover, shop and generally run up their wives’ bottoms are always without a doubt married to some bugger else? From my own personal viewpoint, I do not believe in their existence. I deem that this race of Wonder Man is a myth fabricated by females who yearn for that Utopian constitution where domestic drudgery is equally shared by the two sexes and this fantasy warms their hearts and minds while they labour with everyday life, up to their oxters in Domestos and Fairy Liquid.
Yet it is a myth that endures not unlike the theories of Darwin
What absolute garbage, who do you think you are fooling? When any one with half a brain cell can see that your eyes resemble ‘piss holes in the snow’, that your breasts are hanging down to your knees not to mention that you have yesterday’s baby puke on your T-shirt and shit under your fingernails and that’s on a good day! You poor cow you are morally and ethically obliged to prevaricate this piece of fiction in an effort to preclude insanity while trapped in this prison we all know as ‘domesticity’ and so it has to follow that some deluded female well versed in fantasizing created the fabrication ‘New Age Man’ and it is this legend that has survived to date.
At the end of the day, it all boils down to brainwashing by society and the demands placed on the shoulders of females by the ‘Brotherhood of Man’. I do not refer to that swinging pop group of the 70s but to the fraternity that subscribe to the male species. The reality being that life will not get any easier and taking solace in the fact that if you are lucky it will not last forever (with any luck you’ll drop dead from boredom or submit to dementia).
To be fair to the gentlemen among us, they cannot help the validity of them being born with a brain the size and power of an amoeba and it must be our responsibility to take up the challenge and assist in the re-education of these poor unfortunates. The first step would have to commence with them grasping the understanding of elementary communication skills as they are very undeveloped in this area. The big problem with men being their inability to interpret simplistic messages and a few examples of these are as follows:
Now, if I was to mention to another female,
“Would you put the tablecloth on the table for me please?”,
that would be translated as,
“I am ready to serve the meal and I would appreciate you laying the table for me.”
This task would be accomplished without the aid of elucidation or indeed a safety net for that matter. Not so easy for Johnny boy, oh no! When Fanny emerges out of that hell hole of steam commonly accepted as the kitchen, resembling a school lettuce, all limp and green, all that will appear before her will be a table wearing a cloth of all things. This will be HIS entire contribution towards supper, dinner, breakfast or any other repast that you may have been preparing and sweating over for the last 4 hours and even then you will be made to feel indebted to this great benefactor or; heaven help you my dear. On the rare occasions when you discover the mettle to remonstrate, you will I guarantee, encounter a glance of such condescending magnitude that will prompt your any hose to roll down to your ankles. After all, you did only ask for the cloth on the table, there was no mention of crockery or condiment set so what did you expect?
“Well my dear I have learnt not to expect anything out of this life and most certainly not from you, oh spouse of mine, just you recline in that supine position while I single handedly prepare gourmet delectation of gastronomic proportions. No, no I’ll stir the sauce, cut up the bread (butter soldiers for him) and lay the table all at the same time using the 6 pairs of hands that I don’t have and God only knows where I insert the broom so I can sweep up along the way!”
It is times such as these when those ‘Kitchen Devil’ knives in the drawer (the ones he so generously bestowed on you for your birthday), begin to summon you sweetly singing,
“Come to me devil spawn and bury me deep within His soft parts.”
I withstand the enticement (and not without considerable effort) and the concept of watching him bleed to death all over the soufflé because I’m far too busy masticating his food for him so he does not have to wear down his teeth with all that tiresome chewing.
Now stop it ! I must not berate him so severely for there has been the odd occasion when he has thrown caution and moths to the wind and opened his wallet (the nifty little leather ensemble complete with mortis lock and chains) and offered to but me a takeout meal so I won’t have to cook after a busy day. What a big hearted guy I married, why do I have the audacity to complain?
“What would you like pumpkin”, says he setting the time delay on the lock of his wallet.
“Oh I think I could go for an Italian anything but pizza thanks,” trill I (swept up in the delirious carefree moment and casting my apron to the 4 winds).
“OK fluffy bunnikins (my pet name for him is slime sucking warty fartikins - sweet or what), I wont be long”, pipes he picking up the CAR KEYS!! on the way out.
Oh poop, he has taken the car, this could take some time, thank God I ate yesterday. Some time later (6 hours to be precise) he returns, my intrepid ‘Great White Hunter’ stimulated by the kill, the Provider is home with the chow. The lengthy delay in reorienting from the hunt as meant that you have got everything ready in preparation for this veritable banquet of Latin proportions, the candles are lit, Mario Lanza tootling on the c.d., freshly baked bread cushioned by pats of garlic butter and he says,
“Couldn’t get any Bolognese, they only did pizza so I got you chicken and chips instead”.
I think I lost something in the translation here and somehow a ‘Mac Chicken’ burger doesn’t quite meld with that chilled bottle of Lambrusco from Tescos. Good job my imagination is fruitful, and its the thought that counts isn’t it and anyway any complaints could be misconstrued and that could result in the end of takeouts as we know them, Jim.
Another component that indicates feminine superiority is the undertaking of bathroom hygiene and the very fact that Men have no concept of this whatsoever. Why is it that no matter how big a toilet bowl you may have, Men always manage to urinate everywhere but in the receptacle specially provided for the amber liquid. Men can turn a simple bodily function into a complete irrigation of the entire bathroom area, douching everything and body in their wake. Is this some man thing dating back to a primeval era when they felt obliged to leave their spoor for females to follow? (it does nothing for me)
I realise the practical and physical difficulties they face in having to balance, straddle and hold one’s penis (using one or both hands - yeah right) and peeing at the same time. You know that’s more than one thing for the brain to compute - have a heart and its not manly to be caught sitting shaking hands with the baby’s father (peeing). Men hold to the belief that this practice is a sure sign of latent homosexuality and refuse outright to adopt this position. I accept all of these factors but wring out the bloody toilet mat when you have done! After all I don’t expect Him to get out the old ‘marigolds’ and scrub my ‘skid marks’ do I? Yet it is commonplace to find me in the bathroom dressed in my ‘Sou Wester’ and waders disinfecting myself silly and hosing down the bathroom tiles.
“Its a ‘man thang’, I have been reliably informed.
“Oh all right then darling next time you have to pick up a used tampon just remember its a ‘woman thang’........
The same applies to that crust of scum they insist on leaving in the sink after shaving but I have to admit on securing revenge in that quarter. Seeing him coming out of the bathroom, sliced to pieces resembling a snowflake with all of that toilet paper stuck to his face does give me a sense of vindication and this is heightened by the secret only known to me. That classified information on closer examination would reveal which actual body part I had shaved with His razor and one of these days I really should share that information with him but not just yet eh?
Identical problems emanate with washing up and laundry and for the longest time I have requested (nay pleaded for) the purchase of an automatic dishwasher but all I get in response is the well worn adage of,
“Why have a dog and bark yourself”?
“Thank you Aesop,” but I do not quite understand what the dog has to do with the above chores but He seems to comprehend the deep meaning of this philosophy and that’s what counts. I have also tried to back my argument by informing him that women no longer visit the nearest river carrying laundry in vast bundles on their heads and he was genuinely surprised by this revelation. Once I dispelled this allegory, I felt it safe to familiarize him with that humming thing in the corner of the kitchen (the washing machine) and the magical way you put dirty clothes in and pull clean ones back out. I still have quite a bit of groundwork to cover before he completely stops wearing my underwear when he has none left (that refuse to come off the bedroom wall without peeling off the paint that is) but I am patient when that virtue is called for. I have noticed, however, how coquettish he becomes when he’s wearing my French knickers.
Last but not least I feel I must discuss the different ways men and women undertake in looking after domestic pets. I have read that the dog is ‘Mans’ Best Friend’ but I feel this premise is well open to conjecture. After returning home to find that faithful and loyal beast sitting cross legged, holding a somewhat crudely hand written poster (very clever dog) indicating that she is desperate for a slash, while sits oblivious watching the television. Now, I do not know how tenacious the dog was supposed to be but that was above and beyond the call of duty as far as I am concerned and I got the distinct impression that he was definitely off her Christmas card list. Maybe it is the way both cat and dog pin me to the floor demanding food as soon as I walk through the door that indicates they are both aware that the next tin of ‘Chum’ or ‘Whiskas’ could be a long time in coming.
It is this comprehensive yet subtle list of tell tale signs that completely whoosh over the top of his noggin well that and the way the cat is learning to use a can opener or the dog sitting at the dining room table banging a knife and fork that immediately comes to my attention. It is said that we are the only household in North Yorkshire to have a dog that brings the car keys on hearing the command ‘walkies’ instead of her leash (now that’s desperation - see Travelling Man). However, the last straw had to be His idea of healthier exercising and this comprised of tying her to a rotating clothes drier on a blustery day and I can still recall the glimpses of her whizzing past the kitchen window in orbit around the garden. Mentally, I doubt if she will ever recover and she absolutely refuses to venture out on a windy day without being sedated first.
It must be said that our dog lives in the hope of better things to come being the devoted, loyal if not slightly stupid beast that she is. The cat, however, true to feline nature is a cynic who refuses to be patronized or fooled into believing things will change for the better. His hypothesis being that if he is not allowed out to perform his ablutions in dignity and privacy then its caution to the wind and devil take the high road and a crap in his master’s slippers or;
“Stuff you big guy this will cure your bunions.”
Cats have it sussed with this independence lark maybe I should try crapping in footwear in an effort to get myself noticed, then maybe not... Failing this the cat has realized that a gentle massage on the testicles with one’s claws out is a successful ploy in being noticed, may be a good time to grow my nails is like now....
Have you ever dared ask the question,
“Could you dust for me please,” bold isn’t it with just a hint of rebelliousness, to be answered curtly with,
“I don’t do dust”, and this it elucidation in a nutshell, take it or leave it.
I wonder often in moments of reflection as I descale his underpants what his reaction would be if I used in my defence,
“Sorry, I don’t do sex”, when requested to comply with the more unsavoury bedroom acrobatics.
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