Jocks, Monks, and Christian Slater:
The Birth of a Neurotic

by Wayne M.

(Editor's Note: Please do not take the following column seriously. It was written by the author in a fit of depression when he theorized a correlation between a man's height and the number of valentines he receives. His theory was verified when the only things he received on February 14 were two death threats, some Publishers' Clearinghouse Sweepstakes forms, and a telephone solicitation for cutlery.)

(Chuck's note: This was first published in Wayne's high school newspaper back when he was a wee lad. He has developed a far more mature understanding of the world in the long years since then.)

I have decided to become a misogynist.

I do not know what has caused me to make this decision. I have had no recent traumatic encounters with women that would cause me to so unilaterally despise them as a whole. I have never been actively discriminated against because I am male. I have not been abducted by a horde of wild Amazons and had my entire naked body immersed in a vat of Floam. I do not know what has brought about this change in attitude.

Maybe it is just that Valentine's Day, with its emphasis on true love, romance, monogamy, and other freakish aberrations of nature, has given me cause to reflect on the profound influence that women have had on my life. Maybe this introspection has led me to a thoughtful and meaningful conclusion that best explains my relationship with the opposite sex: Women suck.

Now, in all fairness, I must stress that I am not a male chauvinist. Quite to the contrary, I have long thought and still think that men suck. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about men; they are testosterone-driven, basketball-worshipping, beer-guzzling cretins who generally smell bad. Men are responsible for all the war, poverty, misery, and WWF wrestling in the world. Once again, I must stress that I think men suck, especially because, as you are reading this, there are women with pick axes trying to beat down my door.

However, I have decided to be not only a male-basher but also a misanthrope in general. It has taken me seventeen long years to reach this conclusion, but I think women are not as virtuous or as praiseworthy as I once believed. To be fair, they are, for the most part, much more polite, sincere, and mature than men, but, at the bottom, they are really nothing more than estrogen driven, basketball-worshipping, chocolate-inhaling pigs who watch insufferably melodramatic movies.

I used to think such an assessment was much too harsh. I mean, sure, I have never met a woman who could watch, oh, say, The Lion King without crying. And sure, every woman I know owns enough shoes to cover the feet of Ethiopia. And yeah, women will do anything for chocolate, including ripping the arms off any man who is foolish enough to stand between them and a Snickers bar. But I could overlook all those faults. The one thing that drives me crazy, however, the one thing that has driven me to be a bitter, cynical Woody Allen clone that wears black on Valentine's Day is this: Women, being the estrogen-driven, basketball-worshipping, chocolate-inhaling pigs that they are, only fall in love with testosterone-driven, basketball worshipping, beer-guzzling cretins.

Every woman I have ever talked to has claimed that she is attracted to men who are sensitive, caring, and intelligent. Every woman I have ever talked to is lying. Women have three criteria for the men they date. Women are only really interested in men who:

a) look like Christian Slater
b) look like Brad Pitt
c) look like Mel Gibson

I have frequently had conversations with women where they have lamented, "If only there were any men in this world who were sensitive, caring, and intelligent!" I have often felt it was my duty to reassure these women that such men do exist by dropping subtle hints such as yelling, "HELLO!! AM I IN THE ROOM??" My subtle hints usually go unnoticed, however, as these women are, more often than not, staring at the buttocks of a Christian Slater look-alike walking nearby.

Women, for some inexplicable reason, like to date jerks. Maybe they like to date caring men who will address them as "Yo, woman!" Maybe they like to be sensitively treated as sex objects. Maybe they enjoy stimulating intellegent conversation about why the Penn State men's basketball team isn't shooting well off the line.

This is, of course, a deplorable situation, especially because it means I either join a monastery or spend every Saturday night alone for the rest of my life. Having a strong aversion to religion, celibacy, and other frivolous pastimes, I am advocating a more powerful solution. Being the liberal that I am, I typically want the blood-sucking federal government to exert its tyrannical influence by taxing the obscenely rich to subsidize elitist, special-interest projects, such as public education and help for the poor and elderly, for example. In a similar fashion, I propose we make a federal law. Oh, hell, while I'm dreaming, let's make it a worldwide revolution.

The time has come for us acne-ridden, uncoordinated, fashion-challenged, Sartre-reading nerds to stand up! We are sensitive, we are caring, we are intelligent, and we can't make a lay-up to save our souls! We are what women need! Our love lives are in the best interests of humanity! In this spirit, I propose a three-part law that is the only hope for the world.

1. Women will not be allowed to date any man who is over 5'6''.
   Tall men can not be trusted. You never know when they are going to hawk a lugie over a head, or decide to make you into a hood ornament for their car.
2. Playing, watching, or even thinking about basketball will be illegal.
   Every basketball stadium will be converted into a coffeeshop, beginning with the Bryce Jordan Shrine.. I mean, Center.
3. Any man with even a remote resemblance to Christian Slater, Brad Pitt, or Mel Gibson will be shot.
   Out of sight, out of mind... heh heh.

If such laws were instituted, I think I would stop hating women. I think I would stop hating men too, because the only ones left would be smaller than me. And when this glorious day comes, I will once again stop wearing black on Valentine's Day, and I will stop building monuments to Woody Allen, and I will never again be alone on Saturday night. This day will come, won't it?

Right?

Won't it?

<Sigh>

I wonder if they make you play basketball in a monastery.