As I’ve mentioned a few times on this blog, I love getting Thai messages. I’ve also been amazed at the physical strength and athleticism of the local 100-pound female masseuses, who easily bend and manipulate me despite being half my size.
Last night, I found myself ass-to-face with a 250-pound female masseuse, and it wasn’t pretty. This was the strongest woman I’d ever encountered. When she stretched my legs apart, I thought she was going to make a wish. When she dug her fingers into my back muscles, I checked to see if her thumbs had burst through my chest. I felt like a chicken wing at Happy Hour.
The thing is, it hurt the entire time. I’m not talking minor “ow-ow” pain, either. I’m talking electrodes-to-the-testicles pain. I’m talking catch-your wee-wee-in-your-zipper pain. I’m talking, “Okay, okay, so I messed up – please don’t bite me again!” pain. And, yes, I’m well aware that all three of those examples involve my genitals. If you’re a woman, ask your boyfriend/husband. He’ll explain.
I didn’t say anything, of course. My male ego, which resides in the massive region of man’s brain known as the “Idiot Lobe”, prevents any admission of pain not involving my genitals. But I also can’t deny that my ego took a hit in other ways. If this masseuse and I were gorillas, she’d be the silverback. If we were lions, she’d be the king of the beasts. If we met in the jungle and I could speak only broken English, I’d have to say, “You Tarzan, me Jane.” And if we shared a prison cell, I’d be her–”
All of which has thrown me for a emasculatory loop: if I’m not the king of the beasts, who or what am I?
The implications for my overall gender aren’t very good, either. It’s bad enough that women defeat us so easily in arguments. It’s bad enough they rule our homes and, increasingly, our workplaces. What if they begin to dominate us physically, too? If, instead of nagging us for days on end to finally clean up the rec room, they can simply grab us by the scruff of the neck, drag us there, and make us do it?
That’ll be the end of us, as far as I’m concerned. Brute physical strength is our last defense, the only thing standing between us and three-a-day whuppins for bad behavior – kind of like a relationship nuclear deterrent.
It’s also one of the last reasons women keep us around. If they suddenly get strong enough to open that jar of pickles on their own, or move the furniture around, or carry all those bags of groceries without loading us up like pack mules, what good will we be? What will stop them from sending us off to the glue factory?
Don’t laugh. Plow horses used to scoff at those jokes, too, and how many of those do you see around these days?
I’m just glad I’ve hooked up with a small woman. Sure, she cuffs me over the back of the head six or seven times a day, but those are only light, glancing blows. They’re so inconsequential, I don’t even have to change my behavior, because simple physiology says I can survive like this 40 or 50 years easy.
Women hitting men and men ignoring them – that’s the way it’s supposed to be!
But if nature starts producing more women like my massuese, you can kiss all that goodbye. One wallop from her, and I’d be laid out on my back with a raw sirloin over my eye. You start getting enough women who can hit like that, and pretty soon men will flinch every time a woman raises her hand.
Don’t let that happen, my fellow men. From this point forward, apply strength tests before every romantic tryst. If a woman can beat you in an arm-wrestle, don’t, under any circumstances, mate with her, as that will only help spread her genes to a new, even stronger generation.
Please, guys, heed my words. The future of our gender may depend on it.