I don’t have to ask if ya understand women, ‘cause if ya do, you’re in serious shit up to yer neck already. At one time or another, all of us card-carryin’ male chauvinist pigs has asked himself, “Why the fuck did she do that?”
Bein’ the kind, considerate mate that my ol’ lady swears I’m not, I tried ta delve into the female psyche ta find out a little more about their thought patterns so I could help out all my equally confused brothers.
When we’re young, we all start out like dogs chasin’ cars: we chase ‘em because it’s fun, but when we catch one, we don’t know how ta drive it. We spend the next few years lookin’ for one that’ll teach us to drive, then, after a few trips around the block, we all think we’re the Mario Andretti of Motel 6. Just remember this piece’a advice before ya start the race: Nice guys finish last!
At great risk ta my sanity, not ta mention my freedom, I found myself included in some honest to goodness “girl talk”. They were kind enough ta totally ignore me while discussin’ their love lives, social calendar, and personal hygiene, while I was locked in the end stall with my boots pulled up on the toilet seat. I learned a few things, and reinforced the truth of some observations I’d already made fer myself through years of experience dealin’ with the obstinate sex.
First, I learned that women are after most of the same things in life that we are. Money, fast machinery, good booze, and earth-shakingly good sex. Unfortunately for them, they expect to get them from… You guessed it: Us.
Good fuckin’ luck, ladies! The fast machinery we can take care of for ya’. Unfortunately, the money is all used up on the fast machinery, and ANY sex is earth-shakingly good to us if we’re the ones gettin’ it.
Second, I found out that ALL girls are bad girls. They look fer a guy who treats them good, takes care of all their wants before his own, and is attentive ta their every word, then they marry the poor bastard. From two hours after the wedding, (or less, dependin’ on the best man,) they sneak out and fuck the ears off of every bad boy who treats ‘em like shit, slaps ‘em into submission, and throws ‘em out the door without so much as a Handi-Wipe when he’s done.
I asked several women why this phenomenon inevitably occurs, and they informed me that sex with bad boys was wilder and better than with the nice, attentive, dull motherfuckers they marry.
“Well, then,” I asked, “why not marry the bad boys?” They looked at me like I’d just farted in church, and answered in chorus; “Do we look like we’re fuckin’ nuts to you? Besides, sex is no fun unless we’re getting away with something!”
Now, don’t get me wrong here, this makes it a hell of a lot easier fer us bad dogs to get laid, but if we’re bad dogs who are also good ta our ol’ ladies, what’s goin’ on at home while we’re out havin’ earth-shakingly good sex with somebody else’s “good girl”?
Allow me ta give ya’ an example: Let’s say, for the sake of conversation, that yer offspring is hung like a prize bull. Ya look down at yer own sickeningly average size weddin’ tackle, and scratch yer head. One time, you read somewhere that 97% of all adult male offspring have the same size twat cannon as their daddy. “Okay,” ya tell yourself, “Lucky for him he’s in the 3% that don’t. He’ll thank me some day.”
Now that’ll get ya by unless it gets ya thinking, which is always bad. Never try to think when you’re sober, because then ya start to notice other things. How come he’s skinny, and everybody on both sides of the family are fatter’n hogs? How come he grins just like your ol’ lady’s ex boyfriend in the picture she hid before ya could get a close look at it? You know, the skinny guy with the humongus… Hey! Wait a fuckin’ minute here! Wasn’t she the one who wouldn’t hump ya as often after the weddin’ because she wasn’t gettin’ away with somethin’ anymore?
If I were you, I’d hand the lil’ feller in question a wrench or a shotgun an’ see if he inherited anything from you! After all, it could all just be a coincidence, ya know.
Last, but not least, I learned that women always change. Remember that sexy little thing with the “come fuck me” smile who used to meet ya at the door with a drink an’ a wink? When did she turn into the born-again virgin who greets ya in a bathrobe and curlers, with a list of shit that needs fixin’? If I were you, I’d fix myself a good strong drink, ‘cause it looks to me like you’re gonna have to do a shitload of clear thinkin’ here, Pal. But remember: Somewhere out there is somebody else’s good girl, and she’s just waitin’ for a bad dog like you to come along!
