A little while ago I noticed a particularly catching headline on one of the women’s glossy magazines. Don’t worry, I hadn’t bought it or anything, but the bold red font practically leaped off the cover, wrapped it’s tendrils around my face, and laid it’s horrible eggs in my oesophagus. The magazine’s main article was named “The Secret Life Of Men”, with the tagline “How to decode his signals”.
This made me snigger, which turned into a chortle, then a guffaw, and before long I was asked to leave the store as I was howling over their lucrative publications.
Ladies, you have been force fed a great myth. All your lives you have been drip fed tips and tricks on reading your man’s secret signals, his body language, or the perturbing excretions from his sweat glands. You have been duped into believing that the male gender is a complex whirlwind of valiant honour, nobility, and meat. You have been taught that a vast array of firing synapses lie behind his eyes, scrutinising your attire choices and social cues.
|Typical lazy man, if he was a cat.|
Well, this revelation may be akin to waking up from The Matrix, but men are remarkably simple. Their problems are generally straightforward to the point of childishness. I would wager that 75% of men’s problems would disappear if you gave them a biscuit. I’ll take a custard cream, if it’s not too much trouble.
This is why the world would be a much better place if it was run by women. As things stand, men have done a pretty lousy job of running everything so far. We’ve had a global financial crisis, rioting in the Middle East, and the continued existence of Marmite. Our record is less than dazzling to say the least. We destroy, pillage, dump, raze, dismantle and poo on everything we come across. We can’t be trusted with these big red buttons and shiny things, especially when those tempting interfaces are linked up to mass destruction devices. We’ve run it into the ground, and it’s up to you, my sisters from other misters, to heal the world. You are the true creators, and only your patience and understanding can stop us from suffocating underneath a mound of bacon.
|Inventive, yet useless|
Of course, when the ovarian revolution comes, men will be required to stay at home. We’ll lay on the couch in our pants, letting our paunches loll over into a bowl of semi-fresh popcorn. We’ll have to stay inside and take mental notes on the bikini volleyball championships while you go around fixing everything for us. Because that’s what we’re like. We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to make such a mess.
Just remember to wake us up when you’ve finished. Once you’ve cured cancer, solved global poverty, and weaved a brand new ozone layer out of our discarded beer cans, let us know. We’ll stumble outside, blinking, dazed by the glorious illumination of our green and loving Earth, and we’ll immediately start a war about cheese or something.