I don’t get it. As a woman – and therefore one always in control — I really don’t get it.
Guys – and I mean that literally; I’m speaking to my testicled friends today. Oops — my bad! That adjective is less than adequately specific. Some of my female friends have more balls than many of the men I know; some others just keep the marbles belonging to their men in their purses. Now that I think about it, that brings up an interesting question. Coach makes specific bags for our change, our credit cards and our cell phones. Why have they not come up with a little dual-compartment carry pouch for the deely-bobbies? When we just drop them into our purses, the little things get lost in there with our keys, hair brushes, Kindles and the like. Then, when we need our men to step up and be men, we have to fish around in there – and ultimately upend the darn purse — to find the things (flicking off any clinging Lifesavers or lint particles) and loan them back. Such an inconvenience! I know what you’re thinking – why even take them away in the first place? Why not just leave them with their original owners? Well, that takes me back to the topic of this post.
Guys (here we are again) – okay, men – I realize that you were the Creator’s prototype and that dividing your processing between two brains was, with all due respect, not a flawless plan (fortunately, when She created her new and improved model She put all the wiring into one functionally superior CPU). However, when She made you, She purposefully made one of those brains much larger than the other (we’ll call that logical one BB, the BigBrain) – likely with the intention that you would use it to mitigate the impulsiveness of the other one (we’ll call that one MB, the what-the-heck-were-you-thinking-if-you-bothered-to-think-at-all MiniBrain).
Exactly what is it about that little wand of yours that causes the MB to press the override button and render the BB helpless and totally useless? It’s supposed to be the other way around! When the MB gets excited, the intended function of the BB is to grab hold of the reins and yell “Whoa! Down, boy! Let’s chill and give this a little thought first.” Instead, MB raises that divining rod of yours (with the right pill, it can actually pull a Lazarus and resurrect that sucker from the dead) and drags you, little-head-first, into trouble that the BB would have been smart enough to avoid.
Years ago there was a misandrist who decided she would rid the world of men who resembled the ones who’d abused her. This Pied Piper of penises was a hooker by trade – and from all appearances — a relatively inexpensive one. But competition for stiffies was stiff in the red light district as were the risks. So, she packed up her daisy-dukes and took her show on the road – literally — posing as a hitch hiker along the local highways. Slowly, middle-aged white men began disappearing from the town. But police eventually caught on. They found the missing bodies fertilizing the lush garden behind her mobile home. Now, think about it. Had all the synapses fired as they should, when those men saw this skanky-thang on the roadside, dirty blonde hair matted and disheveled, cigarette dangling from the toothless gap between her parted lips, BB would have kicked in and said: “No way are we poking anything in that thing. Let’s just go home, kiss the little lady waiting there and hope she doesn’t have a headache.” But BB was bound and gagged. MB saw an opportunity for a roll in the hay for the price of little more than a six-pack of Bud – and ended up rolled in the hay with which she mulched her petunias.
Unless one has an unnatural affinity for polar bear love, Alaska can be a lonely place when you’re a man. Well, one such man’s MB saw the woman of his dreams onstage at a strip club. This was in a town in which there were fourteen men for each available woman. Now, BB recognized that these were pretty stiff odds; that mama could have her pick of competing candidates. And judging from the way she rode that pole, it wasn’t her first; she had likely done more than a modicum of comparison shopping. BB saw the red flags and warned MB that she was not exactly superior marriage material. But the ever-hopeful MB was in love. He decided that his palms were hairy enough. It was time to sweeten the pot. So with MB in full control, the desperate oil rigger purchased a $1.5 million life insurance policy and named the object of his penis’ affection as his beneficiary. Three months later, BB’s final “See, I told you so!” collided with MB’s “Holy crap – you were right!” as the ambitious stripper’s bullet collided with the unfortunate oilman’s forehead.
Still don’t get it, dude? Okay. One final example. And I’ll dumb it ‘way down for you. Boy meets Girl. Boy proposes. Girl accepts. Boy meets Girly. Boy shtups Girly. Girl finds out. Boy says he’s sorry. Girl says “kill Girly.” Boy kills Girly. Girl rats-out Boy. Boy goes to the big house. Boy becomes Bubba’s Girly.
Guys (you know who you are), we feel your pain. We know this dual-controller thing is difficult for you. But just as we are well-versed in using your MiniBrain to control you, we also know you have the capacity to use your BigBrain to jam the brakes on your daredevil friend. You can do this! Learn to say “no!” Just because it moves is no reason for you to chase it. That hoochie-mama-coochie can be fun temporarily, but it can also be a dangerous – potentially fatal – option!
So let MB have his say.
Then shut him up and let BB make the decisions.
