Bill Dawes - January 26, 2007

Since I'm not married, it pretty much means that every relationship I've ever been in has been a failure.

This worries my mother a lot because she's set on having a "legitimate" grandchild someday. She's worried that I'm either going to die alone--a horribly decrepit, botoxed, and failed actor--twirling the last few strands of hair around my scalp like a Taliban headwrap to disguise my depleted youth; OR that I'm going to die very soon, in a festering heap of dirty laundry, Ramen noodles and my own feces, living in a Koreatown shoebox apartment.

See, Suzy Dawes is convinced that I need a woman to "take care of" me.

She still asks me if I regret breaking up with Julie Lipper, the heir to the Lipper Financial fortune. I remind my mom that Julie was a Jew and, as a result, her grandchildren would never know Jesus. When she continues with her ejaculations of regret, I try to console her by saying that Julie was an idiot and it might have resulted in half-retard, Jesus-hating spawn. I remind her that there is nothing sadder than a mongoloid in a yarmulke.

I feel bad for my mother. My mom loves me in a way that I'll probably never know or fully understand. A complete love that only a mother can know. I mean, let's face it, I came out of her snatch. There's a certain connection there that I will never be able to fully relate to (although I have wistfully stared at some of my larger dumps with a sparkle of something similar, I imagine).

To make herself feel better about my horrible, lonely predicament, my mother has decided that for Christmas and my birthday, I would benefit greatly from "self-help" books. There is nothing that says "You're a fucking loser!" like giving someone a self-help book. She got me two. I guess she couldn't help herself.

I acted excited about seeing John Gray's face on the covers of both of my gifts, but it was depressing. First of all, do I really need to know what an obviously gay man has to say about procuring poontang? Second of all, what do you say when you get a self-help book from your mother? "Thanks, mom, I've been meaning to kill myself lately?"

Then my mom gave me that pursed-lip, meaningful-nod thing, as if to say "I'm circling the drain, Bill - please make sure you get married before I die!"

She tried to tell me that John Gray researched male-female relationships since the days when Jesus came out of his mom's snatch (not her words) and used that information to decipher the interactions of men and women in today's society.

I don't need a fucking book. I already know why my relationships don't work. Looking at my mother only corroborated this belief. There is ONE word to explain why relationships don't work and that is...

Women.

Women are crazy. Not kooky. Not quirky. Not "full of personality!" NO -- Fucking crazy.

Somehow, the fact that "women are crazy" has enabled John Gray to become one of the most successful self-help writers EVER with his "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" pamphlets!

How so? I know the history of how women being crazy turned John Gray into a rich homosexual, and here it is (as told to me in a dream):

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, a race of Gerbil-Frog philosopher hybrids named "The Johnsons" ruled the universe. They lived in swamps so no one would be able to tell they had bowel problems that resulted in chronic flatulence. The most famous of these was the youngest son of King Abe Vigoda Johnson. His name was Yoda Johnson and his most famous pronouncement was this: "Crazy women are... mmmmm....PFFFFFFFT!" True story.

Looking at, what are you? Heard me, you did bitch

Back on Earth, that adage persisted through millennia of blissfully happy female oppression. Oog and Mog were able to club a bitch for crazy "backgrunt" in the Paleolithic Era. Men could get blue balls in the 17th century and have a woman burned at the stake for it - because once thee gets cock-teased and calleth a woman a "bitch," what's one letter, ye townspeople?

Eventually, men were no longer allowed to barbecue the weaker sex willy-nilly. Ergo, women were able to nag sans consequence for many blabby years. A new solution was required, so men invented looney bins to shut them up. Contrary to popular belief, asylum rooms were padded on the inside because of the excellent sound insulation it provided. As a result, up until the 1920's, men were almost whimsical in committing their wives (and any hussy who gave them blue balls or "lip") to insane asylums. It was a phenomenon known as the "snake pits" and guy were digging it.

Then things changed dramatically.

Apparently, married women learned how to give head shortly before 1920, because somehow, miraculously, an all-MALE congressional assembly gave women the right to vote. How did we fuck that one up, you might ask? My theory is that women, fearing that they would never get suffrage, held a secret meeting in September of 1919 and developed the "up-twist-down-cradle-the-balls" technique. This secured female electoral leverage forever.

It was a quick demise for men and the concept of "female oppression" after that.

Shortly after suffrage, women discovered girl-on-girl head, Vassar was invented, and dykedom spread throughout America in 1950s, circulating with it the new axiom that "men are stupid." It stuck to the collective unconscious of the country like corn in shit. In the 60's and 70's, people would joke, "Women are crazy and men are stupid," before trading keys and giving birth to Fetal Alcohol Babies.

Further improvement in blow job technique in the early 80's, including the kinky pinky in the stinky (or the "disco bj"), enabled the phrase to finally transpose itself into:

"Men are stupid and women are crazy."

Thanks to the economy and veracity of this phrase, it became the hackiest comedic premise of all time and spread like wildfire in the comedy club heydays of the late 1980's.

Then, in the 1990's, John Gray made 1 bijllion dollars from the fucking phrase! He just replaced "stupid" with "from Mars" and "crazy" with "from Venus." The fucker just threw in some stupid planet names to make it look scientific and the rest is self-help history! And my Christmas is ruined.

(Meanwhile, John Gray uses altar boy cum for lip gloss. Isn't that ironic...don't you think? It's like not understanding what the fuck irony is in a song titled "Isn't it ironic?")

So, IF John Gray's hackery is correct, and this most common of phrases to describe the differences between men and women is actually a truism... why is it true?

Well, when women aren't yelling about nonsense and pointing at invisible things, they like to argue that women are crazy because men do so many stupid things that, over time, it makes them that way.

Is that true? Could one be the result of the other?

And that puts us squarely in a "chicken and egg" debate that is as controversial as the decision for Hillary Clinton to run for president. I've never seen a subject so divisive amongst my friends. While many of my friends thinks she's going to lose and has no chance of winning, a lot of my other friends thinks she's really a cunt. They can't seem to reach a consensus about it!

I, for one, take the position of the egg and say that men are stupid BECAUSE women's craziness, beginning with MOM--the craziest bitch of all--has reduced men's brains to such an addled state of John Cleesian (tm) haplessness and confusion that, by the time our cocks and balls have emerged from their innocent chrysalis, we have already been rendered completely moronic.

Hence, the skirt-chasing and the overwhelming need to stick our cocks into anything wet or even wet-adjacent. I mean, hey, I fucked a sock full of vaseline once when I was twelve. I had a friend who fucked a pound of ground beef from Costco! (A fact that haunts me to this day because his parents always had the best cookouts.)

I imagine a book called, "Women Have Innies and Men Would Fuck a Heap of Ground Beef" wouldn't move copy, but the underlying concept is still the basis for the most prevalent gender-based double-standards currently driving a wedge between the sexes.

The other day I was having a conversation with a female friend of mine about the most popular of those double standards. Not the one where women get to show their cleavage in a bar and get free drinks all night, but a man walking around with his balls hanging out in the very same bar is "fucking disgusting, Bill!"

No, I'm talking about The Numbers Game.

My friend contends that a man who has slept with more than 200 women is considered "cool," but a woman who has slept with over 200 men is a "slut."

I disagree completely.

I think that woman is a "whore."

If you're a woman and you've slept with over 200 men, then I can only assume that you carry a Costco-sized bottle of Scope in your fake Louis Vuitton purse and use it as a palate-cleanser after swallowing pecker snot from strangers for money. (That's right, I said "pecker snot." Google it, slut.)

I know a lot of guys who have slept with that many women who are somewhat upstanding members of society: they have those "job thingies" I keep hearing about; they don't masturbate in public; many of them are married now and have children. Some of them even have children they know about. Just from my own experience, I know it's possible for guys to have a lot of sex and not let it affect them.

To the contrary, I contend that any woman with those kinds of numbers is keeping-feces-in-a-jar crazy. If they're not feces-in-a-jar crazy, they are at the very least molested-by-their-uncle crazy, and quite possibly molested-by-their-father-repeatedly-while-mom-was-passed-out-in-the-next-room crazy.

FOR THE RECORD, I know it's not the poor woman's fault if she needs a Shakeys' all-you-can-eat cock buffet in order to spackle the hole in her wall of self-esteem. However, can we come together a little here and admit it's just a little bit fucking nastier when women do it?

And not because her vagina is stretched out like a camel's belly before a trip across the Sahara.

Ironically, I mostly think it's nastier (and crazier) when women sleep around that much because of the simple fact that they are having sex with men. And men are all the same. We are. We are fucking nasty and dumb.

You're telling me that as men we shouldn't be even the least bit concerned when we find out you've banged 200 people just like us? Statistically, at least 80 of those guys are going to be worse; those dumb, disease-ridden idiots who say shit like "Yo" unironically and eat at the "Olive Garden." And since the woman is on the receiving end, she has to absorb him, accept him, and let him run his sweaty, truculent course until he says, "Yo, I'mma cum in you!" and collapses onto the crusty poly-blend sheet fitted around his futon.

The Retard Love Dais

Sorry, women, it's one of the many disadvantages of having an innie.

That's why I fucking hate "Sex and the City." Samantha was a miserable slut, but Candace Bushnell and her band of pole-smokers wrote her character so all her friends just giggled and lovingly "Oh, Samantha"'d all of her cock juggling escapades. Bullfuckinggreenbabyshit! Any gaggle of snobby New York bitches would have questioned her suitability for the clique the very first time they watched her leave the club with some guy she just met. And, after the 40th new guy that month, ONE of them would have at least been like, "Ugh. What a whore! It makes me almost want to hang out with married people!... Okay, I won't go that far, but can we at least find a fourth friend whose vagina doesn't whistle while we're walking down 5th avenue looking for shoe sales? Oh my God, I love the new Manolos!"

Now, if you're a woman, you might be saying, "Bill, you just have a problem with women who actually have control of their lives, their sexual mores, and their choices. You've just been brought up with misogynistic societal constructs, and the idea of a sexual predatress who acts like a man just turns that whole antiquated world view upside down, and now you're unable to adjust your frame of reference to accept this because you're stuck in an ideological gridlock. What you really need to do is ask yourself what's wrong with YOU, Bill, not Samantha, that you think it's okay to have a double standard like that. Personally, I think that you have "mom" issues and should go to therapy 4 days a week like I do, and, oh yea, I brought along a short film to illustrate why I'm right and you're pathetic and blahblahblah!" -- FUCK, YOU WOMEN LIKE TO TALK!!!

Is that right, though? Is the double standard just a vestigial remnant of my religious upbringing? Is it a symptom of the Puritanical bedrock upon which our country was founded? Or is it just one of the many advantages to having an outie?

Which leads me to the paradox I really want to talk about.

Men suck in bed. In order for a sexual relationship to work, we need to rely on the ingenuity, creativity, perseverance, and skill of a woman. Let's face it, most guys only have three moves: the in-out-repeat-if-necessary move; the pinball flipper smack the shit out of the sides move; and the less impressive than we think "Hey baby, look at me, I'm doing circles like a Kitchen Aid mixer!" move.

We want a little bit of slut to keep things working. Shit, WE NEED IT, because we're lazy and uninventive dumbfucks. There isn't a straight man alive that doesn't love it when a woman he's with for the first or second time spontaneously squats on the cock and busts out the slow porn star strokes.

One problem though: a woman gets these skills, through, uh, "training," right?

The question then becomes how much training is too much training?

Where's the line between "wow, she's a sexual dynamo" and "fuck, do I have AIDS now!?"

I don't know, but I'm thinking it's somewhere comfortably below the 200 mark. Ladies, if your number is within a bowling throw of that high-water mark, do us a favor.

Lie.

And don't let us see the mouthwash in your purse

In the meantime, I have advice for anyone who receives a self-help book as a gift - particularly from John Gray -- from anybody other than their mom: smile, be polite, take the book... and then beat that person to death with it.

Don't read it! I'm not going to read it! Well, at least, not AGAIN.

I might, however, get a membership to Costco....

Posted by Bill Dawes at 10:27 AM