You know those tests in women’s magazines? “Sex- how to know if you are satisfying your man in bed?” or “Sex- what he thinks he knows about you?” or “Sex- what you think you know about him?”
My personal all-time favorite is, “Sex- 10 things you need to know about your man.” There follows a list of the ten stupidest things I have ever read! In the real world, that list of 10 things could be reduced to a single item:
“He’s a man!”
But, you can’t sell magazines with a test list that only has one rule, which also just incidentally serves as the reason for everything he does. And why? Because women are complicated, that’s why. And, because women are complicated, they expect men to be complicated- but we’re not, and therein lies the great cosmic joke and the root of nearly every marital and/or relationship problem between men and women.
Here’s a case in point, and tell me how many of you girls out there have done this: you’re snuggled up next to your man on the couch, or you’re sitting across from him in a restaurant, or you’re walking hand in hand with him through the mall, and he has this fixed, glazed-over thousand yard stare; so, you lean in close, look dreamily into his eyes, and you ask him,
“Honey, what are you thinking?”
In a moment of sheer panic, his first instinct is to run, but instead, he gets this terrified look on his face, like he’s just taken a wrong turn into a really bad neighborhood, and spends fifteen seconds stammering before he blurts out an answer that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever…
“I… uhm… I, uh- that is: I wasn’t thinking!” Which we all know is impossible, even for men.
No woman in the world wants to hear that, and we know it, but the answer you want to hear is equally terrifying, and we know that too. You want to hear that we were thinking about you, but we know if we tell you that, then:
a) You are going to know that we were thinking, and:
b) We probably were not thinking about you, even though we were supposed to be thinking about you, and:
c) You are going to expect us to tell you in great, unending detail what we were thinking about you, even though we weren’t thinking about you, when you asked us what we were thinking?
You can see how none of that is going to work out well for us, can’t you?
The problem is, we weren’t thinking; at least not specifically! And if, in an odd miraculous moment, we were actually thinking specifically of something, it probably wasn’t you. More than likely, we were thinking one of three things:
1) Fire, good.
2) Food, better.
3) Beer, excellent!
Right about now, the girls are asking themselves,
“But, what about sex? Don’t men always think about sex?”
And, they are asking themselves, “what about sex” (?) because they have been stubbornly misinformed all their lives that the only thing men think about is sex. (If that is what you have been told, and you really believed it, then why in the world would you ask us what we are thinking?) Consequently, women have always been on constant defensive guard with men concerning sex. What that means is, women are the only ones who are constantly thinking about sex!
I know you’re not going to believe this, but men don’t think about sex, at least not specifically. They don’t have to. Men think about the simple mathematical equation that might add up to sex, which explains why they are always so surprised and happy when they get sex. (Maybe. Surprise!)
Don’t believe me? It’s elementary arithmetic. (And, by that, I mean rudimentary) If you add Fire, Food and Alcohol, you might get sex! (Maybe. Surprise!)
One million years B.C. Kronk, the caveman, has just clubbed a poor unsuspecting Brontosaurus to death and dragged it home for dinner. Kronk builds a fire and soon the sweet, mouthwatering smell of charring Brontosaurus flesh fills the air around his cave. Kronk has also learned that if he combines ripe berries with some wild grain from the fields, mashes it all up and puts it into a clay pot, and lets it set under a tree for a few days and then drinks it- he gets all ‘stupid’.
So, following the smell of charring Brontosaurus flesh, in wanders Marleen, a pretty little local cavewoman. She’s cold and hungry. She wants some of Kronk’s charred Brontosaurus. Kronk reasons, and quite correctly, that if he allows Marleen to warm her cold and hungry body by his fire, fills her growling stomach with charred Brontosaurus, and then gets her all ‘stupid’ with his berry/grain beer, he might get sex! (Maybe. Surprise!)
The equation is simple: Fire + Food + Alcohol = Sex! (Maybe. Surprise!)
Everything is great until the following morning, when Marleen, the pretty little local cavewoman, awakens with a hangover the size of the charred Brontosaurus she ate the night before, realizes she has been ‘stupid’- very stupid, REALLY STUPID- and is at first filled with unrelenting remorse, and then rage, as her bloodshot eyes fall upon the still sleeping, but ever smiling and pleasantly surprised, Kronk.
Marleen smacks the hell out of Kronk with his own club. This, quite naturally, stirs Kronk from his peaceful, but ever smiling and pleasantly surprised slumber. Kronk is confused. He is no longer smiling and pleasantly surprised. Kronk has a knob on his head! Why did Marleen hit him? Why is she angry? He had provided a fire to warm her body, food for her belly and alcohol for- well- alcohol! So, they got ‘stupid’- very stupid, REALLY STUPID- why isn’t Marleen smiling and pleasantly surprised?
Marleen is not smiling and pleasantly surprised because she is suspicious, (Not to mention REALLY hung-over!) and wondering if Kronk has developed any powers of reason beyond Fire + Food + Alcohol = Sex? (Maybe. Surprise!) And, if he has, then just who the hell else has he been surprising with his ‘stupid’ reasoning?
So, after clocking Kronk with his own club and unceremoniously rousing him from his peaceful, but ever smiling and pleasantly surprised slumber; the first thing Marleen wants to know is:
“What are you thinking?!”
My Dear Readers- my book, A DogHouse Manifesto, is now available for purchase and is listed by title at PublishAmerica, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com and other fine book-sellers worldwide.
A DogHouse Manifesto © by Mitchell L. Peterson.
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