Why Men Are Better, and Women Suck

Mel Maxwell knew he was supposed to be writing something, but he couldn't remember what it was. Forgetfulness at the age of 54, which is Mel's age, is not uncommon. But Mel's forgetfulness was not due to his age, per se, but because he was ripped out of his ever-loving mind. Pondering this sentence and his circumstance, Mel proceeded to think about the terms that people use for becoming intoxicated on marijaynyua. Fucked up was one. High was another one. Loaded, stoned, toasted, fried, ripped, blasted, blitzed. Mel counted nine terms. There weren't anymore. Mel had just rattled them off. He defied anyone to come up with another term for getting intoxicated on marijuana.

Mel could be defiant when he was alone. He could get himself so worked up that he would get up a big head of steam and go running out of his apartment and go from apartment to apartment, on every floor of a five-story building, and saying when the tenant opened the door, "I defy you." Almost two days were required for Mel to get to every door of every apartment in his building, knock on the door firmly, reservedly, but loudly, and say his "piece." The reactions by the tenants ranged broadly, from drugging him, tying him up, and giving him the spanking of his life to a philosophical discussion on obsessive behaviors which led to, you guessed it, more spankings, but with the benefit of being alert and conscious. This second round of spankings facilitated insights which had been lacking during the previous thrashing. And then he began to wonder why men were so special, but hated by nearly everybody. He would never say it in mixed company, or, in unmixed company, for fear that a man would run home and tell his wife, who might come looking for him, but men had a lot more going for them than people gave them credit for. But men were noble people, the deeper of the two genders, apparent by the fact that nearly all the great poets, the great musicians, the great artists, the best orators, the most revered novelists and writers of prose were men.

Exceptions, yes. But 99.9 percent of the time guys kicked girls' asses on being the more sensitive and the more expressive when it came to expressing his love for his lady through his art. When was the last time anyone ever heard of a girl beneath a man's balcony serenading him? Or writing sonnets till your back is killing you? Women aren't moved to pine over other women, to elevate women, to put them on a pedestal and admire them. But a man will make her pine. And will pine for her and pine more for her. Women do not have the same passion in their hearts, minds and souls to pine for the female body, the delicate folds of skin, the color of a nipple, the big V, because they have all of those things, Mel mused. And they're insensitive for having lost so much blood.

And then he threw it into high gear and asked himself just what good women were if they were always being abused by men and didn't have man's depth to write poetry for his love or be in a band. Girls aren't in bands. Guys don't show up and scream for female acts, unless, of course, it's Cher. Of course, the terms men and scream are relative terms: male and screaming to one can be virtual lightyears from what another man would consider male screaming. And then he took it a step further and asked himself why women, ladies, young ladies and girls had sometimes screamed hysterically, shaking, fainting, releasing bodily fluid, which is in abundance. What statement had been made when women screamed, for instance, at the Beatles, for the Beatles. Even the thought of the Beatles made some girls scream. What a tragedy, Mel thought, for the female fans who suffered from obsessive thoughts. A girl could find herself screaming day and night.

-- Randall Carter Gray