Female Gratitude for Ya
Female gratitude for ya. Check out their magazines. According to Robert Ardrey in his book The Hunting Hypothesis, they'd be pretty thin magazines if men hadn't hunted all those millennia, if we hadn't been such bloodthirsty brutes.
And I'm not talking about recipes — that minuscule portion of these magazines. I'm talking about the other 90 per cent of the pages. "Tips for when HE has a headache!"..."Five gazillion erogenous zones! — find out WHERE!" "HIS G-SPOT! Find it on page 217!"...."Make him your SEX SLAVE! Instructions on p.467!"
And they say women don't have raunch magazines? Hah! Maybe not the pictoral kind. But their arousal is different. It's more verbal, they say. So it's still porn if you ask me. But without the plastic covering, or government censorship.
It's no fair, I say. They get just as aroused but it's unregulated and available anywhere. And in front of the counters. Right there on the rack, in the checkout line! Where my daughter — and even my WIFE — can see it! Whereas I have to drive.......never mind, or ask the poor.....never mind.
The copy in Cosmo and New Woman rival anything in Penthouse Forum — according to a friend that is. I sure as hell don't read that slime. The stuff in Redbook and Ladies Home Journal is slightly tamer-more like Playboy.
And it turns out females are the prime beneficiaries of all those millennia of male blood-lust. The predations of us bloodthirsty brutes shaped their very anatomy and physiology. According Robert Ardrey women should thank us for...for..for.
I'm embarrassed talking about this folks — but — Oh alright, if they can talk about it openly on every cover of every one of their mainstream magazines every month — then I can too. Women should thank men for their orgasms.
No, not for the current ones. I mean for the very fact that they're able to have them at all. Consider: the human female is the only female animal that has these things. It's a unique human trait. Listen to Ardrey. He posits that: "the year-round sexual receptivity of the human female (remember he said the human female in general, not necessarily the human wife after a snit-fit) was a consequence of hunting."
"Huh?! What?!" you say. Stay with me here. Ardrey again:
"...The female orgasm, through enhancement of female desire, provided one further guarantee that the males would return from the hunt....The lure of year round sex kept the males (hunters) coming back, with the meat that nourished their young and themselves....The enlargement of the human brain made female orgasm possible. The female orgasm isn't a simple reflex, as is the case in the male. (RIGHT! Tell US about it!!) It requires a concentration of the central nervous system."
And what made this enlarged central nervous system possible?
"The adaptation to group-cooperative hunting. And the fatty-acids from meat, which compose 50 per cent the human brain and the walls of the blood vessels," According to Ardrey.
"Man's being consisted first of being a hunter." That's not an editorialist at the NRA or Ducks Unlimited. That's Jose Ortega y Gasset, the last century's most acute philosopher. He continues. "If we imagine our species to have disappeared in the Paleolithic era the word "man" would lack meaning. We would have to call him hunter."
Give em hell, Jose! He wrote this in his classic, Meditations On Hunting.
"Hunting is the master behavior pattern of the human species. Man evolved as a hunter, he spent over 99 per cent of his species' history as a hunter and he spread over the entire habitable globe as a hunter." That's Chicago University anthropologist, W. S. Laughlin.
"The distinctive human brain evolved in consequence of predatory co-operative hunting."-Cambridge anthropologist W.B.S. Leakey.
"50 percent of our central nervous system is made up of fatty-acids ONLY AVAILABLE IN MEAT." That's Michael Crawford of Britain's Nuffield Institute of Comparative Medicine.
"Man is Man and not a chimp because for millions of evolving years we killed for a living." That's Robert Ardrey again.
I could continue but observe the timekeeper reaching for her gong. Anyway, try any of these on the wife when she starts bitching about you, "always goin hunting, and leavin her alone with the kids on the week-end" blah, blah, blah. And let's see some golfer regale his ole-lady with anything half as keen about his week-end activity. Hah!
So, do they thank us for that unique pleasure this carnage made possible?
Please. Instead we get the Anti-Saloon League in 1895, an all-female outfit. They follow us around for another twenty years, jerking our sleeves, driving us nuts. So we give them the vote.
"Okay!..Alright!...HERE!!...HERE'S the goddam vote! OKAY! Now leave me ALONE!! I'm reading the paper!
So they shut up for a year-then Wacko! The Volstead Act!..No more booze. Their doing completely! Then PETA, Fund For Animals, MADD, the Brady Bill, the Million Mom March-every one female dominated. Every one encroaching on our fun. They don't want us to even fondle guns anymore!
Think about it. Think back before marriage. Remember parties and discos? Remember how the chicks always got pissed when their guy started enjoying himself ?
Like clockwork. Let him start smiling, bantering-and that's it! She started frowning. Butting in. Jerking his sleeve. It's instinctive in the female. Soon, she was yanking him away. "Let's go. I'm tired!"
Don't deny it, dammit. It happened half the time you went out.
But ah, after marriage it's the opposite. She's yanking him off the couch. "Come on!... We haven't seen Bill and Becky in months! Let's go out!" Six hours later: "Oh you old fuddy-duddy! It's only 3.30 am, come on! Let's shake a leg! "
I contend that Mardi Gras would collapse without females. I mean it. At any Mardi Gras Ball, after midnight or so, 80 per cent of the tuxedo'ed attendees are sitting down, heads nodding, half snoring. The Neville Brothers wailing on stage. Kool n' The Gang jamming up a storm, the dance floor's rockin' — with 80 per cent females — of all ages.
I've been to more than twenty of these balls. Don't tell me it's not true. The females are always smiling, clapping, boogie-ing. The men nod, smile now and then, but it's more of a grimace.
Britney Spears was the Queen of the Endymion Ball (the biggest Mardi Gras ball) )in 2000. The extravaganza was held in the Superdome. Christ! You'd think us horny old — okay, middle-aged — goats might stay up for Britney!" Professor Humbert Humbert sure would have.
But no. The frisky, smiling, waving, guzzling, boogie-ing wives had to prop up 80 per cent of the comatose husbands when Britney passed. Amazing. The roles reverse after the altar. We all see it. Admit it.
But these are Southern women. And how 'bout Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras? That shameless flashing of boobs?
80 per cent belong to Southern housewives. Mark my words. I interviewed scores of them in the very act. Hey — like I told my wife while shrugging helplessly — it's my job. Somebody has to do it. My cop friends, too. Hey somebody has to keep order down there, make sure these crazy women don't overstep the bounds of decency. And it's best done at a range of two feet or so, they all tell me.
Sure, some dizzy college chicks get into it. Hopeless amateurs, I'm afraid. The housewives provide the real spark and gusto on Bourbon Street. They've been there. They play those panting husbands and frat boys on the balconies and street like a fiddle. And why not? They're the experts. They've already found one in their snare.
Yes, these housewives have the poor suckers panting, stumbling, stuttering, eyes-popping, tongues dry and protruding, arms flailing-all for naught. It's a wonder more don't fall over the railings onto Bourbon St, and crack their heads open like cantaloupes. I myself barely...if Shirley hadn't grabbed....man, my shoulder hurt for-never mind.
These housewives are shameless, merciless. Robespierre, De Sade, Vishinsky, Beria, Guevara were chumps in comparison. Nonetheless, the principle holds. When we wanted to party they scowled. Now when we wanna sleep they scowl. It's always females yanking us around.
And always Against Our Will, Ms. Susan Brownmiller.
Put that in your feminist pipe and smoke it.
December 30, 2000