That NEW Adage

A pressure-relief valve about God, and just about everything else.

Men Have the Strength, But Women Have the Power

Men can lift heavy objects, kill bears, and fend off burglars. We can squash slugs, and live comfortably amidst a room full of partially eaten pizzas, decaying chicken parts, and dirty drawz without the slightest HINT of nausea. Our muscles are bigger, and our bones denser and heavier than those of women.
But women! They have the POWER! They have the one magnetic thing that all we men notice. Influence! With this one thing, they hold us dangling at the end of a long, thick rope. What man of you doesn’t live for the pleasure that a woman brings? (l’m speaking generally, here) To hear her say, ”Yes,” or,”I know you can do it,” or l need you?” In a thousand conversations with the guys over the years, the conclusion l’ve reached is that, ultimately, the only reason we do ANYTHING is to get women.
A man’s life is a great big old river, the mouth of which empties into the ocean of a woman’s lap! Think about it… Why do we shave? Wear cologne? Do you care what l think about how your face feels, or how you smell? When you boil it all the way down, why do Brothers put “rims” on a car they can’t afford in the first place? Why do we work jobs that kill us and buy big houses that will eat up every minute of our spare time? Apart from the need to eat, why do we work at ALL? To impress a woman, that’s why, and you KNOW it!
l’m not being cynical. Shoot! There’s NOTHING better than having a lady think that what you are doing is cool. l’m fine with that. l have sold out to the process, too. l don’t hate it. Why do you think Michael Jordan stuck the ball out there, drew it back, and stuck it out there again before he dunked it? It still only counted for two points. Why did Magic Johnson look away when he passed the ball? To quote Bill Parcells, out of context,”Why d’you think we lift all them weights?” ‘Cause chicks were watching!
It goes WAY back for me.
l was in the first grade. I can see it like it just happened: We were outside for recess, all happy and enjoying life, and l noticed in the distance a group of female teachers watching us from the sidewalk at the top of the hill that divided the playground from the school area. We kids were running around playing reindeer games, and with the ladies watching, l had to find a way to stand out. l saw my chance when we were called to come back inside. I was going to show them how fast l was by racing the other kids to the sidewalk.
Unbeknownst to me, some kid with a weak constitution had decided to unload his morning repast, along with some stomach acid, onto the sidewalk (don’t you get ahead of me! let me tell the story!). So, we’re all running to the sidewalk with me in the lead, as l was the only one with an agenda. Rather than run towards the school- to the right of where l was headed- which was the logical move, l made a beeline to where the ladies were standing.
l reached the sidewalk, which was on a rise, first and dropped triumphantly at their feet (slightly to the left, to be accurate), pretending to be out of breath from my hard-won victory. l leaned belly down onto the sidewalk, (“Whoooh! I’m so tiiied from all dat athletic runnin‘, an’ bein’ in firss place, an stuff!”) and as l looked up at them, expecting to be showered with praise for my speed and skill, l felt something cold an wet on the front of my shirt.
Yeah, you got it. Out of ALL the places for me to cross the finish line, l had to pick the spot where little Billy left his food! lnstead of praise -and kisses?- what l got was laughed at by grown women! They looked at each other, and turned and walked into the school, leaving me there with somebody’s Cream of Wheat on my shirt. For trying to please a woman, l got to spend half a day looking like l fell on a crap-grenade and smelling like a garbage truck. It was the first of many times l was to be embarrassed at the altar of womanhood.
The whole thing is about women. Short of God and Heaven. There is no better feeling than to be walking in the mall and have one of them smile and nod approvingly. l know. l’ve seen it happen to friends of mine. They told me how it felt. They said it felt like having a unicorn walk up to you and eat from your hand. That sounds cool…! Women are like birds who only light on the shoulders of a precious, select few -not like pigeons- although there ARE a few pigeons around, but they are the hogs of the air. And we men live for the feeling of being smooth enough to be chosen by the prettiest birds (l personify, not objectify).
All men know this. Ask some of the less aesthetically pleasing athletes (Rodman?), or the more balled-up, thrown-away, retrieved and recycled of our musicians (Mick Jagger? Keef Richard? Bobby Brown? Shabba?*). The first thing they do is buy longer belts for more notches. Guys who would otherwise not be even a blip on a woman’s radar all of a sudden become ”deep,” ”interesting,” and “sexy.” Their fame is used strictly for womanly conquest.
It is what we want; to be seen as significant by women, and their power lies in the fact that we compost-headed brutes went and let them KNOW it!
They have the power to make a celebrity take millions of dollars and give them to her for a few months of ”marriage.” Or to reproduce with them, knowing that in a few short days, she will be leaving with the fruit-o-the-loin. They have the power to, with a few words, or even just a look, break a man down to a few random molecules. To make him get a duffel bag and barricade himself in a house somewhere and fight ALL the cops.
A man’s wife or woman has the singular ability to bob and weave past all the defenses he uses to fend off the relentless assails of the outer world. A co-worker or a boss can be verbally abusive to no end and not hurt as bad as ONE perceived act of seeming disrespect from the missus.

Don’t tell ’em, though. This is a privileged conversation- strictly between us.

But for those of you ladies who eavesdrop, take heart and have mercy. Don’t nag us and beat us down. Don’t abuse the power you have, as you so often accuse us of doing.
Be the bigger man!

*Shabba Ranks.  A nineties-era Jamaican rapper, somewhere between the Predator monster and a 30 minute microwave McNugget. Sorry. 

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July 3, 2007 Posted by | Humor, The Battle of The Sexes, The Man-Woman Thing | 7 Comments