WOMEN: AMERICA'S LITTLE MEAT BALLS

It has been five years since I was still in a relationship, and, like many bachelors, my ideas about women have become a little peculiar. I've had plenty of time to think about them. No man in a committed relationship thinks much about women, because doing so is dangerous. Either the woman in his life will deduce that something is wrong, or the man in his life if he's gay will wonder at his craziness. And yes, thoughts about the opposite gender pave the road to the asylum.

Naturally, as a single man, I cannot get them off my mind.

The one crucial characteristic which makes a woman stand out is the intelligence reflected in her face. Sure, like a typical fratboy you could concentrate on blonde hair and breasts. But imagine that she was bombelicious yet dumb as a brick. As indeed many cheerleaders are.
You would be stuck with Madeline Moo-cow, who is conversationally impaired, while other men have an editor or henchperson. If you ever got arrested (for 'Grand Theft Auto' or jaywalking), Madeline Moo-cow would never know and could not bail you out of the hoosegow.

She'd waggle her pendulous breasts in despair.

Like many men I have strong ideas about feminine physical attributes, facial types, hairstyles, and footwear. And hands and feet. And nipples.
But without a brain, it's all just window dressing.

The active mind is an absolute prerequisite.


Judging by the orthopaedicly irresponsible footwear which is so common nowadays, many women are idiots.


This is confirmed by their piercings and tattoos.


IN WHICH SUNNY BOY IS OFF HIS NUT

Sensible women, whom one would like to know, often wear flats, have no tattoos, and other than in the earlobes have no artificial holes. For some reason I'm also convinced that they are between four foot nine inches and five foot four in height, sometimes wear skirts, and hardly ever employ nail polish. They might have glasses.

Please assume the usual compliment of hands and feet. And nipples.

Most of them are meat eaters, and none adhere to queer cults.

One does NOT bring a pierced chained sex-gargoyle goth vegan religious nut home to meet the family. Irrespective of whether one actually has a family, or lives by oneself.

"This is Sunchild Moonkarma; she uses creativity and tarot cards to judge what type of high-colonic her customers require, before their 'chastisement' may begin."

"Oh, and she doesn't eat meat or gluten."

After that intro, one's relatives, whether real or imagined, will sagely nod and silently agree: "of course she doesn't eat meat or gluten". Then they'll conclude that she's entirely unsuitable, what with being batshit crazy and all that, and that sunny boy needs some rigorous therapy himself.
They are tempted to pay the high-colonic bondage queen.
But they suspect that she's already been there.
And that that is what this is all about.
Sadomasochistic healing.
Very Protestant.

How on earth did they end up with a single male relative who has such horrendously weird preferences? Maybe he's desperate. Yeah, that's it, the poor bastard hasn't been getting any in years, probably not since the death of his favourite teaching assistent, the one who introduced him to the Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd. Dang but she was bad for him!
Say, do we still have that straightjacket lying around?
The one with the appliqué bunny rabbits?
I think we're gonna need it.

All of this is stuff you do not want to happen.

Best stick with the statistician who secretly reads Gothic novels set in Victorian era girls reformatories, and collects British cook books. At least she looks and acts like a lady, always, and speaks in polysyllabic words of which she knows the meaning. Yes, the one with delicious handwriting.

Whatever you do, don't date someone from elsewhere in the country.
Their unique individuality forced them to come to SF.
They're nuts, that's why they're here.


*      *      *      *      *


After re-reading the text above, I conclude that I may still be suffering from an excess of caffeine. I started the day with two strong cups, then had a third one before leaving the house. Lunch was a Vietnamese grilled pork sandwich (烤豬肉麵包 'haau chü-yiuk min baau') and two ice coffees (越南咖啡，都倆杯凍嘅，唔該 'yuetnaam gaafei, dou leung pui tung ge, m-koi').

Followed by a most enjoyable pipe. Aged dark Virginia tobacco.

Then I fixed myself some strong tea upon returning home.
The text does seem a little insane, upon reflection.
But in the main it is almost entirely correct.
A woman has to have a brain.

There must be meat there.



NOTE: The title of this essay is a paraphrasing of what President Ronald Reagan said about women in the comic strip Bloom County. It was meant affectionately then, as it is now. A phrase of praise.
Mmmm, juicy little meatballs!



PS: Real women are like charsiu.


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