By Ross Barkan
March, as you might have heard, is Women’s History Month. Conservatives will shout that this is only one more example of the liberal media propagating their values in an already totally egalitarian society, while liberals will shout (or whine, as the Conservatives like to say) that women need to be empowered because they face oppression from America’s patriarchal construct. As a man, but more importantly an asshole, I fall somewhere in between on this supposed debate over the merits of Women’s History Month. (Does this debate even exist? Fuck if I know). What I do know is that my girlfriend dumped me nary a week ago and I plan to share my observations on the female gender as a humble, curly-haired 19 year-old fellow.
Sociologists, biologists, ecologists, economists and botanists tell me that women are “people.” As an amateur zoologist (and an asshole), I must take exception to this assertion. My studies in the practice known as “dating” in which the male assumes the role as “boyfriend” and the female assumes the role as “girlfriend” have taught me that females, like 19th century battleships, need to be anchored to the dock at all times. By dock, I mean me. And by me, I mean society. And by society, I mean my dick. Males will know what I am talking about. Women, quite simply, aren’t like you or I. They’re special creatures with special wants and needs, needs which grow like weeds in the garden of your proletarian domicile. Everyone knows you must destroy the weeds.
A great singer named Kenny Winker once crooned, “Don’t make love to any part of me. My dick tells lies just like my son of a bitch face.” Mr. Winker was both right and wrong. I would like the female gender to make love to my body. Repeatedly, preferably. In fact, the lack of fellatio my ex-girlfriend was willing to provide me secretly irked my troubled soul, despite the fact that a multi-national corporation, in one of the most bittersweet moments of my life, informed me that my phallus did not fit into their standard-issue contraceptives. This is aside from the point, though. Mr. Winker, intentionally or unintentionally, presents a fascinating paradox. How can women be “people,” fit to walk, talk, and breed in a society, when they wrong me so?
Paradox or not, William James, a 19th century pioneer in psychology, and Bubba Crosby, a former reserve outfielder for the New York Yankees who owns a career batting average of .216, share something in common. They both haven’t broken up with me. In fact, William James died seventy-nine years before I was born. What does this have to do with women, you say? I’ll answer with a quote from my good friend, the amateur philosopher and potato chip connoisseur Craig John Heed: “Women shouldn’t be allowed to work, vote, marry, or have children.” Are these irrational sentiments, perhaps? No. Mr. Heed is correct in his scientific expositions because a fictional 2004 study by Johns Hopkins University revealed that women, in fact, have no souls. As a devout Christian and neo-Pagan, I cannot respect something that does not have a soul.
Remember, the male always pays for meals. Even the casual observer can see that women consume far more than they actually need, whether it be food, money or petroleum. A female is a veritable black hole, a fissure in the cosmos raping the spectacular star field visible from your heart’s telescope. Were I to apply Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s law of Immanence to the female debate, one would see females aren’t actual people because they can’t play in the NBA. It’s common sense, really. When so few of a gender can dunk, are they even worth saving?
Last week, when I was not a single, I was watching a portion of the movie Titanic, which TBS had decided to air instead of an infomercial for goiter reduction surgery. I was alone, back home in Brooklyn, idling away the minutes before I would go to sleep once again in the a.m. As you might have heard, the Titanic sunk. Before the ship split in two like a stale breadstick and drowned in the Atlantic, the deck officers allowed only women and children to board the lifeboats first. You’ve probably heard this by now. Women—the same supposed gender that can’t dunk a basketball, be President of the United States, invent electricity or walk on the moon—were allowed to be saved before men. And then eight short years later women had the audacity to vote in a presidential election. Hell, next thing you’ll tell me is that they let demon-wizards from Alpha Centauri vote.
I write this piece with a bitter heart. In a month when we are supposed to be celebrating the woman, I am now without one. I only wish we could domesticate the poor species and keep them from overgrazing. In these tough economic times, we need all the grain fields we can get. Women need to learn that hearts, like a 1912 ocean liner, can break. They can sink. Also, if you look deep enough into them you too can see Kate Winslett naked.
God damn I’m lonely.
