The Fair, the Fare and the Furry

Women; where do you start in such a far reaching topic? Well, let’s start with the obvious. I. Love. Women. Not all women. I draw the line at 15 stone munters with faces resembling a bulldog chewing a wasp and ne’er dare cross it, but as a loose generalisation it approximates closely my inner feeling when the word ‘woman’ enters my head. I think it’s worth pointing out at this stage that when I say ‘love’ I actually mean that I would graciously – one could say almost heroically – accept a quick knee-trembler ‘round the back of the pub in between pints. But don’t tell them that.

Of course I jest, but as you well know many a true word has been spoken out of such proclamations of banter. Unfortunately for us males, women know this too and they also know that when we say we love them, we in fact intend to convey that we wouldn’t object to the act of her placing her laughing gear ‘round our purple headed womb ferret and proceed to conduct a search for man-oil. They know it, we know it, but what do they get out of the deal? Simply being told that they inspire heart palpitations and the release of endorphins in our brains is not enough apparently, although a day with our credit cards invariably does the trick.

George Bernard Shaw summed this state of affairs up best whilst at a banquet. Throughout the meal a female journalist continually belittled him until she finally proffered, "Mr. Shaw, I don't know how you can prostitute your art the way you do."

To which Shaw responded, with the smell of blood in his nostrils, "Madam, in our own way, we are all prostitutes.”

"Sir, how dare you!" was the instant riposte.

"Madam, if I offered you ten thousand dollars, would you go to bed with me?" postulated Shaw.

The woman thinks for all of two seconds as galaxy-sized wads of green patterned paper with a fellow that looks unerringly like George Washington emblazoned on the front flash before her eyes. "Yes, I would."

[Indeed the very mention of such a sum of money clearly clouded this poor creature’s thinking to the extent that she couldn’t even figure out what was about to unfurl.]

Perhaps thinking that he’d overvalued the woman a tad, "Madam, if I offered you twenty-five cents, would you go to bed with me?"

The woman was suitably offended by this revised fare, thinking that she was a bit more of a catch than twenty-five cents: “What do you take me for?”

Shaw wasted no time in grasping at the bait he had been seeking, "That, madam, is an established fact. We're just haggling over the price."

To me that sums up the actions of most women in one nice, easy to remember anecdote. We men have all experienced it; we have all exclaimed at one point, “She’s done it again!” followed by a suitable sentence containing the word ‘cunt’ and yet we are powerless to prevent it. By Christ, we see it coming a mile off like one of those runaway trains of a bygone cinematic age, hurtling towards our stricken form at breakneck speed. What binds us to the track in such pitifully unbreakable weak fashion is the notion that the next session of miscreant behaviour – more than likely banned in several US states – is only around the corner. In other words we as men are perfectly happy to let the chugging locomotive steam right over us and then holler to the driver to shift that metallic juggernaut of majestic fury into reverse for a second helping.

I still love women. I really do.

But – and there’s always a but – there exists one breed of woman that I cannot bear, stand, tolerate, abide, put up with, endure, accept or indeed stomach. Yes, it’s the burn-your-bra, Germain Greer-worshipping, man-hating militants who protest through rabidly foaming mouths that men are obsolete, the appendix of humankind, the Betamax of Homo sapiens. They’re otherwise known as dykes. Big, fat, crew cut, dungaree-wearing, army booted dykes. Not the acceptable face of lesbianism, that of girls without a hair on their entire body (and especially none on their chin) who pretend to be inhabitants of the Isle of Lesbos in return for remuneration (a little more than twenty-five cents, one suspects), but the despicable underbelly.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they’re dykes – more than glad – but what rankles is their abject hatred of anything with a throbbing length of gristle between their thighs. These are the sort of left luggage who won’t even extend the common courtesy of using a strap-on to fuck their girlfriend’s brains out because it is a reminder of the necessity of man. How barbarically uncouth of them. They are the type that want not just parity but dominance over men and by feeling this way have become the very adversary that they hope to topple.

It’s this sort of benighted inter-gender warfare that baffles me to bemused bedazzlement. I’m quite happy to let drinkers of the furry goblet get on with whatever they want to do – as they are entitled – and I honestly don’t give a monkey’s pink, bulbous arse what they do to each other so long as they don’t hate another human being for nothing more than having an amusingly coarse adult water pistol attached to their groin.

But what motivates this hatred? No, let’s broaden that to, “What motivates women?” For the life of me I don’t know; men are from Mars and women are from Venus and all that guff. Some of the most notable men in history have sought a means by which to comprehend our impressively breasted fellow humans and about as close as we can get to a leading light is Dr John Gray. What a sad indictment: not even a whispering whiff of French-ness about him and yet there he stands almightily as man’s interpreter of all things feminine. And like his name, his book’s all codswallop, to boot. But to meekly admit that the only aspect to understand about females is their perplexing nature sounds like too much of a monumental cop out to me. My money’s backing that it is a theory permeated by women, for women. We all know who runs the show.

And I’m happy to go along with it. Now, my love, a blow job for monies rendered please.