I’m beginning to think “man” should be considered a four letter word. It can be an honorary title…like those college diplomas passed out to celebrities who didn’t earn them. “Man” can be the first three letter word given four-letter word notoriety.
Why? Isn’t it obvious? Man…or rather men…are different from us. We can love them…cherish them…but by God, we rarely understand them, do we?
First off, men have their own brand of math. The kind where $30 will buy enough groceries to feed an entire family for seven days, and six inches equals a foot. They’re like under-developed children, fixated on games, sports, and the endless pursuit of getting back into the womb.
Basically, everything we need to know about men can be summed up using my theory on dogs and cats. If you don’t understand the male psyche, watch a dog in its natural habitat. Watch the dog play in the mud. Rolling in it. Reveling in its muddiness. Watch as the dog chases every ball you throw. Then think of men and their games. Picture a football game, or a baseball game, where man rolls and slides in the dirt on a quest to chase the ball.
Women don’t do this…because women are like cats. And a cat wouldn’t be caught dead rolling in the mud. Unlike dogs, cats are meticulous about cleanliness.
A dog will unabashedly hump anyone’s leg. I have never in all my life seen a cat hump anything.
Cats like sparkly things…like diamonds.
Need more proof? Watch a dog eat. Then watch a cat eat.
I believe this explains why men are so enthralled with the idea of the convertible. They have a deep-seated need to stick their heads out the window, tongues flapping in the breeze.
And when it comes to dogs, there are so many different kinds. Big dogs. Medium dogs. And of course, the small dogs.
Short men are like small dogs. Some people refer to it as the Napoleon complex, but I prefer to call it the small dog syndrome. Have you ever noticed a territorial Terrier, a persnickety Pekinese or Poodle? And then by comparison you have the laidback Labrador, the gregarious Golden Retriever, or the gentlest giant of them all, the Mastiff. Small dogs are almost always noisier, more aggressive, and high strung…as if they come from the Jersey Shore. And big dogs lay around all day licking themselves and drooling. Because at their core, both men and dogs are just a little gross.
Sure, we love them…but do we really need to know everything about them?
I think there is such a thing as too much information, and I think when you’ve reached that point even a good marriage can start to fold under the pressure. Where is it written that husbands and wives should witness each other’s bodily functions? I absolutely don’t need to see what he discovers upon blowing his nose. And I most definitely don’t need to come running to see if his latest foray in the rest room would make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. I want a rule that forbids a man from taking a dump while I’m in the shower. In fact, I think there should be a law written that that explicitly prohibits men from doing anything gross at all while in the presence of a woman. The faces they make during sex are bad enough, it’s a wonder we ever invite them for a second go. But to be forced to see into the seedy underbelly of the male existence just may be too much for many of us to bear.
I’m giving men a hard time here, and maybe they don’t really deserve that. They have a lot of good points. For one, men are portable. Mine would be perfectly content living in a shed or a tent in the woods. He isn’t picky about what I cook, and has been known to eat things that were probably long since destined for the trash without a single complaint. And most men, at least, don’t mind killing the errant spider as it climbs up a wall within our personal space.
So for all their icky habits, and dirty ways, men have a place in our hearts, and our homes. As long as they wipe their feet first.
Until the next time…I’ll be catching shit for this blog for days to come!