Gender Vacations?

I’ve said it a million times: “I’m so pissed that I’m never going to view my own time as history!”  I’m getting close — after all, the moon landing was 50 years ago — but naaaah! — it’s not quite the same.  History is what you don’t remember.  Anyway…  Of course, the other side of that coin is I’m not going to be around for all the cool future stuff either, and that pisses me off even more.  Imagine! – 3D social media, teleportation, interspecies communication?  Too cool!  But the coolest thing about the future is there’s going to be – Gender Vacations.  Yeah, it’s gonna happen!  Trust me, some enterprising young person is going to figure out how to do it, and they are going to be richer than Bezos because there isn’t a single person on this planet who wouldn’t pay huge coin to take one. 

Think about it!

Hey, girls!  Tired of doing 4 jobs every day — underpaid employee, wife, mother, self-appointed care giver?  Why not take some time off?  Why not get away from it all with a two-week vacationas a man?  That’s right!  For two weeks, forget about the long lines at public toilets: there won’t be any.  Put away your punitive underwear, and just pick a side.  Scratch whatever you want, whenever you want!  Feels good, doesn’t it?  Isn’t it time you pampered yourself and had somebody else make the sandwich after sex?  Plus, for two weeks, you can be as assertive as you like — disagree and even argue if you want to — with no social ramifications.  You’ll be able to go to a bar and have a nice, quiet drink without a parade of losers hitting on you.  Waste an afternoon on the sofa, watching a ballgame with your hand down your pants.  Even go out on a date with a quick shower and a comb through your hair — because as a man you’re not a wrinkled crone – you’re rugged!  You know you’re curious.  Why not make the call?

Hey, guys!  Tired of getting blamed for everything that’s wrong with the world, tired of walking the tightrope between macho and wimp every day, tired of half the world looking at you as if you were an apprentice stalker?  You don’t need this stress.  Time to take some me time with a two-week vacationas a woman.  Throw away that wooden suit you’ve been wearing, add some style and let somebody else open doors, for a change.  Discover how an adjustable neckline can get those grunt jobs at work done — without lifting a finger.  At home, harness the awesome power of “Yes, dear!” to hang a picture, wash the car, rearrange the furniture and so much more.  You’ll be able to tell jokes again, say hi to children and even give people compliments – all without fear of somebody freaking out and calling you a pervert.  And speaking of freaking out?  Go ahead! – anytime you like.  You won’t be held responsible.  Remember, you’ve got hormones now, and they’re always to blame.  So, maybe it’s time you stopped twisting yourself in knots trying to figure out what women want and try being one for a couple of weeks.  You’ll be glad you did!

Operators are standing by!

Pneumonia!

pneumoniaFor those of you who noticed that WD was missing from the Internet last Tuesday, December 5, I have one word for you — pneumonia.  For the first time in my life, Flu Season means a lot more to me than, “What a pain in the ass!  I have to get jabbed in the arm again this year.”  Apparently, this year’s flu is particularly vigorous, and in my case, it was downright rambunctious.  In fact, it invited pneumonia over to play, and when the two of them got through with me, I ended up in the hospital.  Over the years, I’ve had my fair share of health care, but this is the first time in a long time that I was the guy on the stretcher.  My, my, my! How the medical profession has changed!

First of all, everybody is really, really young — so young “tummy” and “bum” are now acceptable medical terminology.  It was all very much like High School Musical without the music.  However, I know there were drugs involved because, at one point, I thought I was Gulliver lying there, watching a bunch of little people scampering around, acting liked they’d just captured a being from the land of the Old Buggers.

Second, everybody dresses the same.  I remember when doctors wore white coats and looked like serious storks, nurses wore green scrubs, were two ax handles across the shoulders and could flip a 100 kilo man over on his stomach (tummy?) as easily as a fry cook flips bacon.  These days, the guy in purple could be anything from a cashier to a cardiologist, and I have the feeling I gave most of my medical history to a very polite young person who was on her way to get her swollen wrist x-rayed.  C’est la vie!

Finally, and this is a biggie, the wards have gone co-ed — and, even though I believe in a lot more gender equality than most people (for example, I’m a big fan of women in combat) I do not approve.  Why?  Because men and women don’t get sick the same way.  When men get sick, they revert to their childhood and have one thing on their mind: IT’S ABOUT ME!  However, when women get sick, they go a lot further back than that.  They return to a time when plague, and famine and pestilence roamed the Earth, and women were the dominant gender.  This was long before the trauma and drama of shaming and blaming and feminine hygiene, at a time when serious girls didn’t get pushed around by sleazy Red Carpet Romeos who thought they had an Oscar in their pants.  (Kate Hepburn dealt with guys like Sam Goldwyn, she would have laughed Weinstein off the planet, and Ava Gardner probably would have introduced him to her size 5 patent leather slingbacks — but I digress.)

The reality is, sick women are the busiest beings on the planet because, for millennia, they had to be — or our species would have died out.  Think about it!  Give a man a cold and you get a useless mass of whining, crying and complaining — unable to defend himself.  Give a woman a cold, and you will get a clean house, the laundry done, the car washed, a gourmet meal, two kids bathed and in bed and a pot of chicken soup for the guy on the sofa, with the sniffles — and that’s all after she’s come home from work.  So, putting men and women in the same hospital room is just throwing fuel on both fires.

Let me demonstrate.  I was in the hospital, battling the worst strain of influenza this planet has seen in 50 years, with a whack of pneumonia on the side, and when I got out, I discovered I’d gained weight.  Impossible?  No!  You see, every night the girls from beds 1 and 2 would sneak down to the nurses’ station to use the microwave.  They’d come back with batches of homemade cookies, and we’d all watch Riverdale.  I was so sick I could barely eat seven per episode..

Feminism Doesn’t Stand A Chance

equality1Like it or not, folks, despite our best efforts, here in 2017, feminism doesn’t stand a chance.  Gender equality might be a wonderful ideal, but it’s not going to happen anytime soon because men and women don’t get killed, dismembered or injured the same way — in the movies.  The fact is, as long as we maintain our Neo-Victorian attitude toward violent entertainment, gender equality will remain a distant dream.  Let me explain.

Shooting — When minor male characters get shot in films, their guts are splattered across three walls, half their chest is missing and their arteries are pumping enough ketchup to sicken Dracula’s sister.  If the action’s close enough, they fly backwards through a plate glass window, bounce off the windshield of a car and end up in the gutter with their head caved in.  When minor female characters get shot — actually, minor female characters seldom get shot on camera — but if they do, it’s usually because they’ve caught a stray bullet that causes nothing more than a vague look of surprise and a spreading red stain.  (FYI, the recovery rate for female characters from lethal gunshot wounds is astronomical.)

Fire — When men get set on fire in film, they run around, flaying their arms and screaming like a berserk barbeque briquette.  Women are instantly incinerated — no fuss, no muss and very little clean-up.

Torture — When men are tortured in the movies, they’re hanging by their thumbs.  The bad guys are punching the hell out of them while simultaneously zapping them with 500 volts, hacking away with a machete and blowing cigar smoke in their face.  There’s tons of slobbering and swearing and crying and hollering, and this goes on for at least three scenes — while the good guys are racing to the rescue.  Women, however, seldom get past the sinister music and the initial scream of anticipation before the camera cuts to the next scene — where they’re found half-naked in an isolated wooded area (shallow grave optional.)

Dying — When men die, there’s no coming back.  This guy’s been shot 4 times, stabbed, hit by a truck, blown up by 2 mortars and a grenade and dropped off a 12-storey building.  His face looks as if it’s done 12 rounds with a K-Tel meat tenderizer, and both legs are either missing or bent around like a Bavarian pretzel.  He’s coughing and spewing and spitting up god-only-knows-what while he vainly struggles to choke out his last words.  When women die, they are normally on their back, their head comfortably resting or cradled in the arms of … you get the idea.  There’s a tiny smear of blood from the corner of their mouth and they say something like “I’m so cold.” before their head slumps sideways and their eyes close — makeup completely intact.  Honestly, I’ve fallen asleep with more fanfare than that.

Let’s face it, people! The only time women get any screaming-ass agony in the movies is during childbirth.  And if that isn’t the final sexist kick in the head, I don’t know what is.

It’s sad, but until men and women get their heads blown off with some kind of equality in movies, feminism will remain merely a hope and a promise.