VAST DIFFERENCES BETWEEN MALES & FEMALES
Recently, I wrote that the worst disaster we have suffered in this country – worse than Nine Eleven, worse than the invasion of our country from Mexico, worse even than el presidente Jorge W. Boosh – is the horror of feminism. The other things we can recover from, however serious they are, but feminism strikes at the heart of what we are. Feminism changes the matrix, our civilization’s DNA.
Remember that we are talking about the version of feminism that erupted in the last half of the Twentieth Century, at about the same time as the latest extrusion of organized sodomy. The feminism before that was quite different. The basic principle of “modern” feminism appears to be that men and women are the same, that any observable differences are superficial and unimportant – women tend to have more prominent forecastles and afterdecks – and therefore that they should be treated alike. Some experts have even proposed “unisex” bathrooms. Der Arnold, the Governator, has signed legislation to that effect in Kahleeforneeya, where girls and boys will soon shower together. Such fun!
Of course anyone who knows anything at all about the subject knows that this is so preposterous it could be a joke, or maybe that the people who propose it are insane, because it is certainly calculated to produce a disaster. Indeed, so destructive is the idea that the question inevitably arises of whether that disaster is the purpose. But since people of putative normalcy propose it, let’s begin at the beginning and examine the idea.
First I shall make some general observations, then apply them to some examples; finally, I shall mention the science. As I go through all this, you will nod and tell yourself, “Yes, I know all this.” You will be able to supply your own examples, and this will underline my point. What I am talking about is not some recondite body of knowledge, but something everyone knows, something that is obvious, the kind of truth Tom Jefferson called “self-evident” in the Declaration of Independence.
Everyone who has ever been anywhere near children knows that you cannot get girls out of the bathroom. My dear friend, the late, great historian Gary Allen warned me during one of my visits to his home not to try to enter one of the bathrooms. Gary explained that he had not been able to gain access himself for months because one of his daughters, then a teenager, lived there. On the contrary, everyone knows that the normal boy will not bathe until he is physically threatened by an adult female armed with a stick.
Everyone knows that the normal boy will wear the same clothes until they either rot off his legs or walk off by themselves, or he is physically threatened by an adult female armed with a stick. The normal girl will change clothes a few times a day. Why? Because she does. Again, everyone with even a modicum of experience knows this. You don’t need to teach a girl to do it.
For a long time, my daughter would change clothes three or four times a day. No one told her to do that. Indeed, it was somewhat troublesome because she wasn’t old enough yet to dress herself, which typically required unbuttoning, unzipping and then the reverse, so every hour or two she would appear solemnly in my office with a new ensemble, and, equally solemn, I would have to get her out of the old outfit and into the new. The ritual became so routine, neither of us needed to say anything. More about the Princess Royal later.
When girls are hurt, they run to their mothers bawling to have their bruised knees bound up. Boys boast about their injuries. One of our sons entered the living room smiling broadly. “Mom, Dad, look at this! Cool, huh?” Another son, at play, had broken one of his fingers, which now flopped crazily askew, and because we unfortunately are not illegal aliens the incident cost me about $800.
The son who broke the finger later broke another playmate’s arm and still another boy’s nose. Girls don’t do this. Why not? Because they don’t. Because he is extremely dangerous, this son became a mathematician at a monster defense contractor. His job is to figure out where to aim the missiles, so it’s best not to get crossways with him. I can’t tell you any more because that is all I know, which is just as well because, if I did, you would be killed by geheimstadt security or at least imprisoned at Gitmo.
On another occasion, we came home and found the son whose finger he broke sitting on the couch, not on the cushions, needless to say – boys do not actually employ furniture as it is designed – but on the back of the couch. I patted him on the head and came away with a handful of blood, because a couple of hours earlier, at play with still another son while perched up there, he had fallen off backward and hit his head on one of the decorative stones in the entry. Such fun!
How long he would have sat there with his hair full of blood had we left for the weekend we have no way of knowing. To this day, he still has a neat scar on the spot, easy to see because he now shaves his head, another thing girls don’t do. (After World War II, the French shaved the heads of the women who had collaborated with the invading Germans.)
Boys are uncomplicated and very easy to raise. Girls are the opposite. In fact, four boys equal one girl. I know this from personal experience because, coincidentally, I have four boys and one girl. Boys are physically dangerous – they will jump off the balcony into the swimming pool – but girls are an emotional bloodbath, which paradoxically is much more physically wearing.
Along these lines, a naïve beginner thinks that two girls are twice as much trouble as one, and so on, arithmetically. On the contrary, my wife, the Love Priestess, a true expert, explains that if you have two or more girls they will drive each other crazy; but if you have just one girl, she will drive you crazy. So, when, after four boys, I finally got a girl, I mistakenly assumed that because I now finally had the hang of it, we would get at least another, but the Love Priestess announced that I was now officially retired. So I continued parenting as a hobby.
Girl conversation is infinitely convoluted and often impossible to follow, which is just as well, because most of the time you don’t want to follow it. Boys discuss only a few wholesome subjects: killing, maiming, amputations and intestines hanging out of gaping tum-tums on kitchen tables. Because girls live in an emotional bloodbath, always in a state of terror about who likes and dislikes whom, they have no funny bones.
On the contrary, the boy has a well-developed sense of humor. Probably the funniest thing that happens in the life of a boy is the accidental emission by one of them of certain sounds, especially when accompanied by corresponding odors. I shall not amplify because genteel ladies could be reading this, but the sounds trigger the automatic eruption of peals of raucous laughter; they can be halted only by outpatient surgery or an adult female armed with a stick.
If you have a house full of girls, there will be uncontrollable giggling. When you look in upon them approvingly, they will be sedately having tea and psychoanalyzing each other. A houseful of boys will be much louder, inspired by boasting about individual exploits that cannot be corroborated. Often a tremor will shake the house. That is perfectly normal, not a problem.
But sometimes, with boys in the house, experienced parents become aware of an awful silence slowly creeping through the house, a silence so robust, so corporeal, that it is not the absence of something but the presence of something else. Because it is so unnatural, they will rush through the house from room to room, perfectly aware that Something Awful is about to happen, hoping they can head it off.
For instance, dipping into my vast experience, I recall a time when some colleagues and I were sitting at the elegant table in a formal dining room. One of them announced his recent discovery of the ancient Chinese formula for gunpowder, which he was able to prove because the unfortunate parents had made the fatal mistake of not being present. It was deathly silent in the moment before the explosion, which caused an intense ringing in the ears and covered us with fine, black dust.
But the biggest victim was the spotless, cream-colored ceiling, which now was even blacker than we were. Needless to say, we evacuated the crime scene instantly and never went back. Had I been asked, I would have denied ever being there, denied even knowing the colleague whose family ceiling had been violated, which was just as well because I never saw him again and did not make the mistake of asking whether he had been executed. For all I know the perpetrator has been dead all these years since, a martyr to true boyhood.
Remember, I was not at fault in the affair, and had no hint of what would happen when I sat down at the table, but there was the unfortunate contretemps occasioned by the fact that at school I sat behind a girl named Maxine. Maxine had very long, gorgeous pigtails, and, believe it or not, the educators of the time were stupid enough to equip us scholars with desks in which there were live ink wells. This was long before ball point pens, but after the American War for Independence.
There is no need to bore you with what happened when these discrete elements were juxtaposed, except to say that I was henceforth forbidden to associate with Maxine or even to get within a few feet of her, which was a genuine deprivation because she had many other endearing qualities beside those luscious, inky blue pigtails, which I still think were quite attractive.
The male of the species is a live and let live individual. Do you want to sit around all day in a dirty undershirt and not shave? No problem! Of course, such preferences are adult manifestations of the aforementioned boyhood affinity for certain odors and sounds. Do you want to wear certain garments that do not coordinate? The male of the species could not care less. Live and let live.
Not so the female. The female is awash with contradiction. The experts tell us she loves stability. But she also loves change. She will not rest until she has remolded you to suit her preference, which raises the question of why she did not choose someone with the qualities she wanted from the beginning. Here are some examples all husbands will easily recognize.
A son calls to report that three pairs of good slacks have disappeared. Needless to say, at first his wife claimed to know nothing. Later, he discovered the slacks on the rack at Goodwill. Because he is a new husband, he made the mistake of trying to insert logic into the affair. “But she bought the slacks herself!”
Some of my favorite garments disappeared. Women develop hostility toward certain favorite ensembles. The Love Priestess claimed to know nothing about them and that the animus she had often expressed for them was irrelevant. Apparently they had walked off by themselves. Other garments appeared in their place. Needless to say she knew nothing.
So profound are some of these animi that from time to time Mrs. Stang interposes her body to prevent egress from our bedroom, in protest of some disfavored garment or ensemble she has not yet thrown out. “Over my dead body!” she announces. Of course I do not accept the challenge. I could not afford the considerable time and expense of recruiting and training a new wife. Now, when I prepare to do something important, she lays out my clothes.
We were leaving the house on the way to the car, headed for church, when suddenly my daughter, the Princess Royal, now an all-knowing teenaged seer perfectly capable of dressing herself, screamed and pointed. “Dad!”
Needless to say, I looked around wildly, prepared to do battle, perhaps with a ‘gator that had crawled from the nearby bayou and was advancing toward us, jaws wide, violating the peaceful Sabbath. I saw nothing. I looked at her, confused.
“Dad!” she screamed again. “Your shoes!” I looked at my shoes, preparing to laugh, assuming that I had stupidly chosen one from one pair and the other from another. What else could elicit so alarming an outcry? No, they belonged together, a favorite pair. They were even well shined. What was wrong? Had my daughter detected a virus from deep space crawling up the instep?
Argumentation erupted between the Princess Royal and the Queen Mother about the shoes. They did not match the rest of my “ensemble.” They were utterly uncoordinated. Whose fault was it that I had managed to leave the house wearing them? Obviously someone had seriously erred. My “ensemble” was fine, it had been approved, but the miscreant, whoever she was, had not checked the shoes.
Needless to say, they did not include me in the conversation. It is a waste of time to ask anything important of a man who is too stupid to dress himself. Need I say that I did not intervene, which could have been dangerous? You will be happy to know that during the confrontation your obedient servant leaned on the fender, calm, urbane, philosophical, patiently waiting until the recriminations ran down.
When they did, I returned to the house to change shoes. The Princess Royal accompanied me, of course. A man who is too stupid to don the right pair of shoes in the first place is too stupid to change them without female supervision. Often, while delivering a lecture, watching the audience elbow each other in celebration of the brilliance of my arguments, I wonder what they would say could they know that they are listening openmouthed to a man who is too dumb to dress himself.
It is important to note that the female, however brilliant, does not “grow out” of all this. Every experienced husband knows that, once in a while, a wife will stand in the living room, clench her fists and start screaming. The inexperienced husband, like my son, will stroke his chin and foolishly try to apply logic. What did I do? What did somebody else do? The experienced practitioner knows that such reflections are an utterly useless waste of precious time – no one did anything; once in a while, a girl needs to scream – and that he needs to get her out of the house and into her favorite restaurant before the cops show up.
The experts do not understand all this themselves, but they say it involves hormones and the moon, and that the ancestors of today’s females may even have been a different species that originated on a heavenly body in our solar system but not of this earth. Among those experts is certainly Louann Brizendine, M.D., a female. Beguiled by feminism, she tried to raise her son to be “gender neutral,” if I may call it that, but, because she is so smart, she took official, clinical note when, despite her best efforts, her gender neutral son emerged as a little boy. To nail all this down, next time we’ll look at her book, The Female Brain (New York, Morgan Road Books, 2006). That’s right. The doctor says there is one.
you could come up with your own examples, which amply proves the point.
We are talking about something everyone knows. In view of all this,
it becomes obvious that to believe the sexes are the same is more
than just stupid; it is suspicious. Because it so blatantly defies
simple observation, no one who is not a moron could believe it. It
would be tantamount to a refusal to believe that things fall down,
not up. But the people who push this belief on us obviously are not
at all stupid; on the contrary, in their own way they are maniacally
brilliant. So, there must be something they are trying to conceal.
What is it?
© 2007 - Alan Stang - All Rights Reserved
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Alan Stang was one of Mike Wallace’s original writers at Channel 13 in New York, where he wrote some of the scripts that sent Mike to CBS. Stang has been a radio talk show host himself. In Los Angeles, he went head to head nightly with Larry King, and, according to Arbitron, had almost twice as many listeners. He has been a foreign correspondent. He has written hundreds of feature magazine articles in national magazines and some fifteen books, for which he has won many awards, including a citation from the Pennsylvania House of Representatives for journalistic excellence. One of Stang’s exposés stopped a criminal attempt to seize control of New Mexico, where a gang seized a court house, held a judge hostage and killed a deputy. The scheme was close to success before Stang intervened. Another Stang exposé inspired major reforms in federal labor legislation.
His first book, It’s Very Simple: The True Story of Civil Rights, was an instant best-seller. His first novel, The Highest Virtue, set in the Russian Revolution, won smashing reviews and five stars, top rating, from the West Coast Review of Books, which gave five stars in only one per cent of its reviews.
Stang has lectured in every American state and around the world and has guested on many top shows, including CNN’s Cross Fire. Because he and his wife had the most kids in Santo Domingo, the Dominican Republic, where they lived at the time, the entire family was chosen to be actors in “Havana,” directed by Sydney Pollack and starring Robert Redford, the most expensive movie ever made (at the time). Alan Stang is the man in the ridiculous Harry Truman shirt with the pasted-down hair. He says they made him do it.
Remember that we are talking about the version of feminism that erupted in the last half of the Twentieth Century, at about the same time as the latest extrusion of organized sodomy.