As 50.4% of you out there know, women are idiots. Take my wife for example. She peters along with such limited responsibility it’s nearly comical. All she has to do, really, this is it, is: make sure I’m happy; raise two children; have a career as an accountant; buy groceries; do the laundry; put away the clean laundry; pay the bills; clean the house; take the dog out; do the dishes; get the kids breakfasted and off to school; pick the kids up from school; buy clothes for the family; remember birthdays; tell my mom I said “hello”; and keep up with who is supposed to be where, when. That’s it. That’s the entire list. Easy, right?

And of course she finds ways to screw up. For example, I have socks in my sock drawer. They are always there, turned right-side out, folded, and organized by color and type. Some of these socks have a  little dude riding a little horse sewn on them. But, as any intelligent, well-put-together male could tell you, the dude and horsey are only sewn onto one sock per pair. So you can imagine my anger, my utter disgust, when I unfolded what I assumed was a normal pair of socks, and each of the two had the horsey! It’s hard to find good help these days.

Take, as another example, scales that tell you how much you weigh. For those of you with outdoor plumbing, you may not be familiar with these things. They way they work, apparently, is you stand on top of one and it tells you how many pounds, or, liters, you weigh. This is what women do shortly before any event of nominal importance. For instance, say a woman is going to get married. She will, while sitting on the sofa in a fuzzy robe eating ice cream out of the tub, willingly tell anyone who will listen that she bought a dress two sizes too small, because she is by god going to fit inside it by her wedding day. This of course is ludicrous, and is the sole reason women have fake smiles in their wedding photos.

It turns out, though, that there is a scale in our bathroom, which I didn’t know about, though to hear “some people” talk, it’s been there for years. Understand that I am 40-something years old, and I have weighed about 185 pounds for at least half my life. So you can imagine my irritation when I noticed the scale and stood on it yesterday, only to be informed I happen to weigh 195. Sure I do.

And while I was less than thrilled my wife would be so useless as to have a non-functioning scale in the bathroom, I was very nice when I called out, “Babe, the scale in the bathroom is off.” To which she replied, with a straight face, “It’s broken.” Once more, it’s hard to find good help these days.

sloppy guySo now I’m supposed to put on a suit and go to some silly event at my wife’s place of “work,” and my suit pants, who are in cohoots with the scale, seem a little snug. The only things I have going for me are, I didn’t intentionally buy the suit pants too small, and I have nine full days to lose 10 pounds. I am certain I wouldn’t be in this situation if my wife had gotten my socks right in the first place.

And speaking of ways this weight gain is obviously her fault, I never would have eaten all those doughnuts if she hadn’t been so thoughtless as to get up at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, drive to the doughnut store, buy them and bring them home. Sheesh.

Now, those few of you out there who happen to be both female and literate, may be asking, “Oh yeah? Well what, exactly, do you do mister?” And I’ll answer, even though I’m only speaking to about four percent of our reading audience out there – that’s just the kind of thoughtful, sensitive guy I am. My time is split fairly evenly into six categories:

  1. Thinking about or watching sports
  2. Making bodily noises
  3. Complaining
  4. Sleeping
  5. Sleeping while making bodily noises

Those few men who have mastered these tasks get to be in congress.

Don’t apologize. You couldn’t possibly have known how demanding my life is. In fact, a simple “thank you” will suffice. See, we men are willing to accept the enormous responsibilities we shoulder; we’re natural leaders, and we know it’s our purpose to keep the family ship pointed in the right direction. This is why, when something breaks on something – we’ll call it a “part” on a “thing”, our wives will walk directly into the bedroom, pausing only briefly to glance longingly in our direction, get the toolbox, and go fix the damn thing before it wakes us up. Because deep down, the wife knows she is the only one in the house who could locate the thing, let alone fix the part.

Perhaps now, ladies, after over eight hundred words of wisdom, you’ll appreciate the fact we guys don’t talk very much. And for that, you’re welcome.