By staff writer JD Rebello
July 30, 2006
I've written some pretty evil things about females in my time, and for that I'll never apologize. But I'm getting older now, and I've realized that it's wrong for me to pick on girls. Much of it stems from a deep-seated fear of women and concerns over my own manhood and— God, that was tough to type with a straight face. My manhood is fine and women are second-class citizens.
But seriously, pimpin' ain't easy for the ladies, and I've decided to speak for all men when I say, I'm sorry.
How do I feel bad for women? Let me count the ways.
1. I'm sorry you think I'm a rapist.
This happens to me sometimes. I'll be walking home alone late at night, and a girl will be walking home alone as well, in the same direction as me. If we're the only two people around, often she'll glance back at me, make a scared look, and walk faster. Now listen, I'm not going to make fun of rape (I'm not about to bite Nick Gaudio's style). Rape is a terrible thing that destroys lives and forces me to listen to feminists drone on and on about how serious the rape situation is (except for when it happens to a Duke athletic program… then somehow it's a race issue).
“Everybody knows at least one fat person, and everybody has once in a while had to pretend she's not the size of a Volkswagen Golf.”
Anyway, it's a pretty rough thing to call a man a rapist—to cast one of us with a scarlet R. It's one thing to accuse Kobe—he makes millions and gets to go home and bang a hot black chick consensually—but to accuse poor me, who's never even harmed a fly of being a rapist? That's not fair. First off, I weigh 150 pounds, and about 135 of that is beer gut and cock. It takes me twelves strokes of the snooze alarm to roll my fat ass out of bed at 2:30 p.m. Not only that, girls can take me. On my intramural softball team, while chasing a fly ball in the outfield, I collided with my friend Jenny (who actually weighs herself in one of those produce scales at the supermarket). Anyway, guess which one of us got hurt? She got up fine, and I had a bruise on my backside the size of a small dog.
Besides my physical limitations, I'm really fucking lazy. I have been late on my last three columns, frequently gotten winded getting up to turn on the TV, and broke a sweat taking a shit last week (in fairness, I had eaten beans). So how am I suddenly supposed to summon the ambition to hold a girl down and go Clockwork Orange on her? This is like when black people accuse the white race of keeping them from economic prosperity. Right. I wore the same pair of underwear for a week straight because I'm too lazy to do laundry and suddenly I'm capable of holding down an entire culture of people? I think you're giving me way too much credit.
2. I'm sorry you watch stupid movies.
On a lighter note, here's a fun game for gentleman. Next time you're at a girl's house, peruse her DVD collection. Girls watch the dumbest shit ever. My Best Friend's Wedding, Bring It On, Save the Last Dance…. Fuck that. Those movies suck.
You know what's in my DVD collection? Black Hawk Down, Goodfellas, Gladiator, and That Time My Roommate Blew a Dog on a Dare. Real films. Movies about something other than broads doing a tango and trying to break up a wedding. Come on girls, you want us to take you seriously? Re-evaluate your entertainment choices.
3. I'm sorry you have weight issues.
I hate having to be fake, so imagine my chagrin when I'm forced to pretend a fat person is skinny. Everybody knows at least one fat person, and everybody has once in a while had to pretend she's not the size of a Volkswagen Golf. Which kind of bugs me. I have a couple of fat guy friends, and I call them fat every chance I get. But for some reason, if you even hint that a girl is fat, get ready to reap the whirlwind.
It's not the girl's fault, of course. It's glandular. And I'm no prize. Honestly, I have to see myself naked everyday. My mirror laughs at me. Someone in my feedback last week compared me to Joey Cora's colon, only with bigger ears. First off, that's excessive. But you know what? I didn't have an eating disorder. I didn't bitch that GQ and Men's Fitness are painting an unfair depiction of the male body that I could never live up to.
And I hate that defense. I took a visual journalism class at Northeastern, and we discussed women's magazines causing eating disorders, and guess who got blamed for this phenomena? You guessed it, men. I've never even read one of those magazines, except for an issue of Cosmo that had an article entitled 100 Ways to Turn Your Man On (which was all bullshit, like lighting a vanilla scented candle… where was role-playing Lizzie Maguire and letting the man be Gordo?).
How could I be the problem? I decided I wasn't and did a little research to find who the editors-in-chief of the big women's magazines are. You probably know where I'm headed with this, but still, prepare to be blown away.
Cosmo – Kate White
Elle – Catherine Ettlinger
Glamour – Cyndi Lieve
Mademoiselle – Mandi Norwood
All broads! So men aren't the problem. The problem is women are limited in choices. Every woman's magazine is designed to make you feel like shit so you buy the stuff in the advertisements. You know what they advertise in Maxim and FHM? Booze and Comedy Central shows. You're being used, ladies. Played like a cheap Korean toy.
And if you don't want this problem, get together and write something like Maxim—something funny that doesn't make you feel bad about yourself and gives you fodder for some down home bean-flicking. When I hear only 5% of women admit to masturbating regularly, I think, “Boy, a lot of women are fucking liars.” I also think, “Women need to loosen up a little.”
Imagine, girls, if there was a magazine with a shirtless Brad Pitt on the cover. Inside were funny stories about guys who can't perform in bed. There were articles on how to build a bar in your basement (for boxed wine). And maybe even an interview with the lady who wrote Sex and the City, because that show's not nearly over-exposed enough.
Now, would you rather read that, or some magazine that tells you you're too fat and should spend all your time learning to arrange a flower bed out of coconut oil and trying to find a way to please the man in your life? You'd read the first one. And it's not far-fetched. I've read Simonne and Ali's columns; girls talk some nasty shit. You mean to say you couldn't get together and write a funny and entertaining magazine that appeals to women without making them feel like shit? Come on, ladies. Ambition is the key.
4. I'm sorry breasts are so important to you.
Back to the self-image thing. I think what bothers women so much is that they have so many criteria for what makes a man attractive. I know girls who reject guys based on the car they drive, or their job, or their facial hair, or their sneakers, or their affinity for sport-farting with the neighbor kid.
As for men, we keep it real simple. Tits and ass. That's it. Personally, I don't even care that much about bosoms. As my roommate Mark says, “As long as there's a handful.” God, I wish women had that attitude when it came to my rodent dick. Anyway, I'm an ass-man. I like a nice set of buttocks. Does that make me a pervert? Of course not. That's just a preference.
In fact, here's a list of reasons I've been rejected by girls in the past. (These are all true by the way.)
“I like guys with bigger arms.”
“I like guys who are taller.”
“I don't like white guys.”
“I like girls.”
Do I get bent out of shape? Of course not. I simply write long-winded columns disparaging women as a cover for my own shoddy self-esteem. And that's healthy. At least I don't bitch and moan on The View. Geez.
5. I'm sorry it's a male-dominated society.
Here's the crazy thing: it doesn't have to be. Women are a lot smarter than men, except in math and science (I didn't say it, the former president of Harvard did, and I'm sorry if I put the ideas of a Harvard president over some feminist who's painting the tuna canals red). The problem with women is that they can't get their shit together. They want to have their cake and eat it too—and the cake should be prepared the way they want, and they only want a teensy piece because “the diet starts tomorrow.”
I liken it to recess in elementary school. The boys would play baseball and the pain-in-the-ass girls would always want to play. After much deliberating, we opened the doors of the “He-Man Womun Haters Club” and let them play. It was like Title IX without the unfair. But here's the kicker: the girls wanted us to throw underhand when they were batting. Well, what the shit is that? We let you play baseball, now we have to change the rules to suit you? Why don't you just throw on a #18 Colts jersey while you're at it.
And nothing's changed. Guys still pay the bill at dinner. Guys still open doors and buy flowers. But when it's time to get paid, is it “wrong” that I get an extra $100 just because I'm a male? Of course not. You're just paying a tax for having doors opened and dinner paid for. A thank you would be nice.
At this point, you may have noticed I've not apologized for the period, because I think that's a myth. I'm sure I've written about this before, but here's my “Big Sexist Period Theory” one more time: When I took my first sex-ed class in sixth grade, I was told that women have a period every month and that it lasts three days. Neat, I thought. Girls certainly need another reason to be a “rhymes with ‘bunt.’”
Anyway, I accepted that. Then, in junior high health class, I was told that it lasted five days. It's worth noting that between sixth grade and junior high the internet took off, so I assumed we were living in a brave new world and five was the new parameter for the female period. Then, in high school bio, myfemale teacher taught me that the period lasts seven days. Christ, I thought. That's a whole week. So I go to college, and lo and behold, a number of girls have told me the period lasts—ready for this? —nine days. Nine days.
Now that I'm older and wiser, I've found flaws in this logic. How, in a span of a decade, did a woman's biological function suddenly change from three to nine days? Is this like global warming? Will Al Gore film a documentary entitled, “An Inconvenient Cunt”? Does a woman's bleeding vag exist on a symbiotic level with gas prices and inflation?
I decided women are full of shit, that the period lasts the duration of a nosebleed and women milk it for all it's worth. Because, honestly, how can a man ever prove them wrong? If we started telling women that our dicks grow and shrink in proportion to how well the NASDAQ does, we could get them to believe us. So I'm on to you ladies, and don't send me threatening feedback or I'll just assume you're pissed because I cracked your code.
Sorry bitches, they don't make wings for the truth I'm spreading. LOL.