Chalk it up to the Y

by Crom

Warning to all of you sloth like, recalcitrant, dull, witless, obstupefied wretches who populate this desolate rock, we so foolishly call home. Yes, I’m talking to the males of this not-so fun rollercoaster. I am about to put forth a premise. For those of you unfamiliar with what a premise is, I shall educate you. Premise: A proposition upon which an argument is based or from which a conclusion is drawn. Now then, let us proceed to the dirty task of such. The following premise will concern many people, either directly or indirectly you shall be connected to this premise. Fear not, I have no intension of killing anyone, or sending you mail about jesus. But I digress. And so, unto the breach.

Premise: Women in bars, clubs and other places of social interaction are not there to actively seek someone to fuck, nor do they wish your attentions.

Oh please, allow me to elaborate. There is this massive misconception on the half of the males that women in clubs et al. are looking for a guy to take them home and have their way with them. That they want to dance with us, in spite of our obvious and gargantuan drunkenness, they want to have petty compliments showered on them (and saliva) and that at the end of it all, they won’t mind if you pack up your road show and hit the streets. This makes me fucking insane. I’m not some notorious lothario that can be charming and witty at the drop of a hat, I’ve not had much of a social life, women or other. But, there is one thing my mother managed to impart to me at a young age: Men do not understand women. Sorry boys, you don’t that’s a sad fact. I sure as hell don’t, but what amazes me, delights and fascinates me, is the number of square-jawed homecoming kings who think they’ve got shit on the wire. Granted that getting into a girls underwear requires a minimum amount of skill (in some cases), and that for the most part women allow themselves to manipulated, in the hopes that you’re a stand up guy. Sadly over the course of the next few days they come to realize what a useless sack of shit you are, become bitter and cast themselves back into the fray in the hopes of finding one of us that isn’t a total jack ass.

The truly tragic thing , however, is that in due time you will come around to a point in life in which you no longer feel the necessity to bang anything with a pulse, you will succumb to the gentle hand of father time, and think about children and that ever so popular mortgage. You’ll have wonderful visions of the playing catch with junior, your four car garage, and the kids all go to University and become nuclear physicists. Well, hold up there Billy Jack. Let me inform you of something. If you spend the next 10 years of your life demoralizing and embittering the female population of the world , once you come out of your reverie of stupidity, there isn’t going to be one that wants to have anything to do with you. You’re marked buddy, and all the women know you. You’re like that poor bastard on the Twilight Zone with the mark on your head. No one will talk to you, serve you, give you change, tell you the time, or even help you up if you slip on some ice. You’re effectively a non-entity. Or by some miracle you find a girl who’ll put up with your shit, she’s a reformed heroin junkie with a criminal record, so you can’t get a mortgage or travel outside the country. However, I find that unlikely, since you in your obvious kingdom are worthy only of the finest wench you can find. Hey, lemme give you a little taste of what’s to come. You’re gonna die, and you’re going to die Alone.

Crom