Why Don’t You Get Down From That Stage, Little Lady.
Here, I’ll give you a hand.
What? Stop looking at me like that.
Sure, it doesn’t fit with your convenient, PC narrative, but the truth of the matter is that growing up as a porcelain doll-handed, pile of cookie butter and petticoats doesn’t give a person the rough-hewn, life experience required to stand up on a stage and hate yourself.
I know it isn’t “cool” to say it, but I can’t afford to be concerned with “cool”. This is a bullet of truth. Bite it and drink it down with a shot of whisky served in a cowboy boot.
The bartender is named Bob, the bouncer is life and only the hairy are admitted.
Oh wait. You can’t bite down on any bullets. Because your teeth are dainty pearl nuggets engineered for nibbling at tarts and tittering behind fans, not making jokes about buttholes and beer.
You really have to give us this one thing. Men have so little in life. We make such a weak showing in so many industries. Give us the lights, the stage, the smell of stale puke, the hecklers, and the validation that comes from doing a full set about the peculiarities of our penises. No one ever talks about our penises.
We need this.
You get to spend your days in the cushioned comfort of the kitchen, where little birds wash dishes for you as you wipe the floor with a mop of eiderdown.
Meanwhile, just outside your front door, men are screaming in pits of mud, dying beneath the relentless millstones of commerce and war.
Jokes are our lifeline, a whisper-thin thread leading us through the darkness so we can fall at your feet, hands bleeding and heads pounding. Once there, we offer our feeble witticisms on an ancient platter made to bear the hearts of generations of men sacrificed at the alter of raw, life experience.
A kiss from you will temper the wounds that come with our gender.
Something more might give us material for our acts and bragging rights in the horror show popularly known as a “men’s locker room”.
Oh ladies, why can’t you be content with your life upon this gilded pedestal, perched on a silk cushion where we can paint each of your angles and praise your unique qualities? Let us sing of your elegance, fertility and silence.
(Unless you’re a fatty, because the pedestal was only built to support those who weigh 87pounds or less — the ideal weight for a female human.)
Don’t attempt to follow in the mannish footsteps of those comediennes who, through a misplaced need to put their hands around the neck of man’s ego, don pants and let out donkey laughs night after night, making a spectacle of themselves when they could live in ease, protected by one special man and experiencing the beauty of birth, the joy that comes from letting small, blessed creatures fall out of their bodies over and over again, their lady parts a holy slip-and-slide of miracles, like God intended.
Do these comediennes really think they’ve earned the laughter of the crowd?
No, any laughter comes from incredulity. The audience, unused to a woman trying to make jokes, reacts as if watching an elephant trying to play a harmonica with its hind feet.
Perhaps it is amusing in the moment, but who could desire such a bawdy creature?
There was a time men could go weeks, even months without hearing the tinny cacophony of a woman’s voice. In those days, secure within clouds of cigar smoke and parliamental chambers, we were the true masters of wit.
How we miss the past iterations of ourselves, the giants towering over the diminished shadows we’ve become.
Surely you see how it is. We trust you’ll be moved by your generous natures to step aside and cease these attempts to mimic the funnier sex. After all, you have always been purer than us.
However, while we’re having this conversation… we do have a show tonight and the cover is $15, so if you could come and bring all your lady friends, we’d be very grateful.