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Saturday, February 11, 2012
I Don't Know How You Women Do It
You women do this all the time. It doesn't itch or burn on your heads?
Recently, I've started using some cream on my face to prevent the onset of wrinkles. I understand it helps to start this kind of regimen before the crow's feet have met the turkey wattles. So I'm at the right stage in my life to begin slapping this stuff on.
The only thing is, it gets in my eyes; and it burns.
What is up with all this?
Are you women so different from men that your heads and your eyeballs are made special to withstand the irritants in these products? Is that it? Is there some gene that allows you, and only you, the right to retain soft, pliable skin and vividly-colored hair for the right price?
It's unnatural, if you ask me. Look at the rest of the animal kingdom. It's the male that parades the plumage.
This other way, it ain't God's way.
Look at Newt Gingrich and that woman he's with. (Being Catholic, we can't call her his wife—no matter what the Vatican might say. His real wife was his first woman, the one who had been his high school teacher. The second and third are just, as my sainted Sicilian mother would say, "his women.") She's got hair that couldn't flutter in a twister, and a face so tight she can barely move her lips to say, "Buy me that one, Daddy." Meanwhile, he's lolling around all gray and wrinkled with this stupid smile slapped on his face, looking for all the world like one of those clowns Shakespeare would have called a "natural fool."
Me, I'm beginning to think women are a lot like cockroaches.
And on that day when this old world finally blows itself to smithereens for the last time, and man's spirit rises up to meet his Maker, he'll find there won't be any women in heaven. No, sir, that last explosion will have hurled them all out wide across the universe to land on other planets with all their hair dyes and their face creams and all the left-over roaches to start the whole godforsaken rigmarole all over again.