women are crazy and men are idiots

Introduction

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™

women are crazy.

And if women are crazy, then men are idiots.

Why are men idiots? Because they marry women who are crazy.

Since all women are crazy, it’s kind of unfair to say that men are idiots because we really have no other choice.

Unless you are a sheep hearder, into monastic solitude and going gay, women is all men get to shake from the relationship tree.

Shake this tree and I guarantee you, crazy is bound to hit you in the head.

Don’t believe me. Go ahead and ask any woman if they’re crazy. If they’re honest, they’ll tell you it’s true. They might say just a little, or they might say just a lot, but either way the answer is always Yes I am crazy, how nice of you to ask.

If a woman ever tells you she isn’t crazy, then run. Run like you’re in a Friday the 13th movie down by the lake, late at night, and you think you saw a hockey mask in the darkness.

Run like hell. Run for the border. Run Forest Run.

If a woman tells you she is not crazy, chances are you are in the presence of the craziest woman in your city. If a woman tells you she isn’t crazy, she’s also going to tell you that she doesn’t mind when you leave the toilet seat up.

Conversely, if a man tells you he doesn’t care about how crazy a woman is, then he’s either coming out of electro-shock therapy or he’s lying.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all about the Crazy! Crazy is the threshold where relationships implode, self destruct, or weather the test of time.

It’s all about the crazy.

How crazy is she? How much crazy can you tolerate?

The question is how much crazy is too much crazy?

That’s a personal question that each man has to ask himself. Some men walk a razor wire in bare feet and ride motorcycles through rings of fire. To these thrill seekers, crazy is a warm blanket they wrap themselves up with at night. Conventional wisdom says; the crazier the woman, the hotter the relationship. The sex is hotter. The fights are hotter. The make ups and break ups are searing. The visceral level of crazy in a relationship like this is fun for a while, but ultimatly, like a rock and roll front man for the Sex Pistols, this relationship has a pre-ordained crash and burn manifesto.

Women with a propensity for high octane crazy is like an open wheel Indy Car getting into the marbles in turn four and sliding into the wall.

BOOM.

You can count on a high emotional impact coupled with a volatile fender bender of bad feelings.
And this is why men are idiots, because we often go after high intensity crazy. We see women who are on the ledge waiting to jump, but we can’t extricate ourself from their clutches.

A little crazy tingles, tickles, might even be pleasurable. A lot of Crazy is like caterpillars made of fire crawling under your skin.

And that is what I am going to explore. How crazy is too much crazy. When is it time to say enough, cash in your chips and walk away.

Why are men so idiotic and women so blasted crazy!

CHAPTER 1
An idea is born

I’m sitting at the bar inside an establishment named the Flying Saucer in Nashville, Tennessee. It’s a large smoky beer hall with a lot of stuff on the walls but none of it extraterrestrial or planetary.

The bar is wood and scratched from a thousand souls sitting in this very spot, hashing out the nuances of life.

The initials J.T. are carved into the bar before me. The letters are worn smooth and someone has used an ink pen to fill in the wood.

I wonder who J.T. is. Is J.T. a man or a woman? I laugh that it doesn’t really matter, because J.T. was either crazy or an idiot for falling in love with crazy.

I’m explaining my women are crazy philosophy to a friend of mine, who like 50-percent of all Americans is in the throws of an ugly divorce.

He is agreeing with me and telling me that I am describing his crazy soon to be ex-wife to a t.

Just then a cocktail waitress behind the bar looks at me and smiles. It is obvious she is listening to the conversation, and I can see by the twinkle in her hazel eyes that she has something to say.

“All women are crazy,” I say over the clatter of plates and the murmor of the crowd.

The watiress smiles. She’s cute, but has a wild eyed crazy gleem in her eye.

“OK girl. You’ve been listening, what do you think?”

The young woman with the strategically placed facial piercing says profoundly.

“You’re right. All women are crazy.”

I feel a sense of vindication.

“See,” I say raising my hand to high five the guy next to me like we’re at a football game.

“But!” the pierced hottie interjects.

I turn my attention to the curvaceous drink professor behind the bar.

“Every woman is crazy, but every man wants some crazy. The question is how much crazy do they want? How much crazy can they tolerate?”

She says this with a twinkle in her eye and a sly smile.

It’s a profound statement that hits me between the eyes much the way “TO BE OR NOT TO BE” hit William Shakespeare right in the medula oblingota.

“How much crazy are you sporting girl?” the guy beside me asks suggestively.

“Just enough.” the young woman says with a smile, hoisting a tray full of adult beverages. “Just enough.”

I laugh out loud.

I feel like an archaeologist who is slowly excavating dinosaur bones with a tooth brush. There is so much more to reveal, but this is a major discovery.

“Just enough crazy”

And there it is, the onion of relationship peeled away to its basic esoteric chunk of reality.

It’s that Dr. Livingston I presume moment.

“Women are Crazy!”

Of course they are Livingston, Of course they are.

And if women are crazy, then men are idiots for tolerating it.

Chapter 2
Till Death Do Us Part:

 Relationship Crazy is not something to take lightly. It’s like a lightning storm on a golf course and you are a swinging a 9-iron.

The course marshal would strongly urge you to take cover.

Relationship crazy is a hot dish in the oven. Grab it without oven mits and you’ll get burned. The thing about a crazy burn is it’s hard to make it stop.

My advice: Stop, drop and roll. Extinguish the flames of crazy that are turning your stomach like a bad case of Mexican Dog Tacos.

For centuries, man and woman have stood at the alter of matrimony and listened to the clergy say “Till Death do you Part.”

Well I say that’s too extreme. That’s like saying bon voyage and hitting the hull of your new ship with a hand grenade. It’s bound to sink the matrimonial vessel.

What the priest should really say is, Till the Crazy is so Crazy you can’t stand it anymore.”

Why wait till death to part? Why wait for the crazy to hurt?

50% of America is divorced. The other 50% is in a matrimonial row boat with a hole.

“Till Death Do You Part” is crazy.

Till Crazy Do You Part, makes more sense.

Chapter 3
In The Begining

The Bible says God took 6 days to create the heavens and Earth. On the 7th day he rested. Based on the humans I know, God should have taken the extra day to get it right.

Humans are not perfect. The species tends to gravitate toward misery. We are complicated bags of flesh full of hopes and desires and demands. From the moment we scratch our way out of the womb, we need, we expect, we want.

As the black suited, darked sunglassed Mr. Smith once said in the Matrix, “it’s inevitable”

Why is it inevitable? Because it is part of the DNA building blocks of man, and more importantly, woman.

The bible says women were created from one of Adam’s ribs. I think women were created from cayenne pepper and a kaleidoscope of crazy.

I subscribe to the theorm of evolution.

In the beginning the world was a dark and wicked place. It was a swirling nebula cloud with no beginning or end.

Creation is never calm. Somewhere, somehow, the fabric of time imploded upon itself, under such a gravitational force, molecules were crushed. The release of energy from this cosmic belch was so gargantuan life began.

The sun ignited and planets got trapped in it’s gravitational tug. The third rock from the sun became the elixir for life.

From the DNA stew, a heart beat began to pulse.

Millions of years later, things with tails and gills swam to the beach and crawled onto the land.

I have no documentable evidence, but I guarantee you, the female slithering creature was crazier than the male. As I said, It’s evolutionary inevitability.

CHAPTER 4
Gender differences.

We all have one head and two arms and one appendix. We all bleed and need to eat and drink. We love and breathe and desire comfort.From amphibious slime bags to hairy tree swingers, men and women evolved. Though the same species, we might as well be from different universes.

But the differences between the species is so wide, so
unexplainable, it’s crazy.

Men are bigger and stronger. Women smaller and quick to criticize for changing the television too much.

Men are are prone to body odor and scratching themselves without conscious. Women are sweet smelling and pretend that they have no bodilly functions that one might find offensive.

Men are hunter gatherers. Their physique and need to play fantasy football make them perfectly suited for chasing antelope and starting fire. Women are nuturers, keepers of the birth. Their physiques are perfectly suited for continuing the species and looking good in a thong.

Men lack eloquence, often grunting barbaric thoughts. Women are loquacious and confident, letting the male species know that they indeed are keepers of the sacred squeeze box.

Men are pranksters and will pass gas to enhance a good story.
Women are usually more reserved and conduct themselves with the detante of a White House party planner.

Men are hairy like skinned possum. Women are soft and interesting to look at naked.

Why can a woman detect a butterfly flapping its wing on the other side of a field while a man can’t remember his own anniversary date.
Why is that men spend a lifetime dreaming of sex and women think of sex as a means to getting a new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

The only time men don’t think about sex is when a defensive back snatches a pass out of the sky and runs it back for a touchdown. Women don’t know the difference between the Mike Linebacker and a nickle defensive package.

The differences between the sexes is crazy and it all dates back to the begining of time.

Women are Crazy and Men are idiots is an examination of these undeniable differences forged by the sands of time.

These are the external difference, but Crazy doesn’t live externally. Crazy lives inside, lurking at the molecular level. It lives in every woman’s soul, churning her heart, fanning the flames of insanity in her frontal lobe.

No matter how calm a woman is, she’s still crazy.

And it is with this cosmic understanding that the sexes inexplicably separated in philosophy in chemcial composition in genetic building blocks, only to evolve on another plane of existence.

I maintain it is at the dawn of time, that women became crazy. It can’t be taught. It isn’t a socialized behavior.

It is what it is.


Women are crazy, because they were forged in a frenetic furnace of creation millions of years ago. Back in the begining of time, when the molecular broth of crazy was swirling with life, and high intensity insanity. The elements were ferocious and the universe a roll of the dice. It is from this bubbling stew pot of life that women were forged.

From the begining, women were destined to be complicated like the electrified pulse that sparked their unique DNA strand.

If women came with packaging it would undoubtedly have a manufacturers warning that reads: Unpredictability, volatility and emotional instability a possibility.

Men on the other hand come from the same primordial stew pot, but somehow our DNA strand is less complicated. Unlike women who were forged with tobasco sauce, men are little more than dirt, bacteria and hair. We are less complicated, and probably less aware of minute changes in our universe.

Women are so much more than men. Women incubate life, their bodies sheltering, nuturing, continuing the human race. A woman’s body becomes a habitat for humanity incubator. Women are care givers and lovers and protectors of life. The mixing bowl of emotions and chemicals that rages through their bodies when sperm meets egg is like a milk shake blended without the top secured.

CHAPTER 5
sex.

What more is there to say. Men want it. Now. Yesterday. In our sleep. Right after we just had it. We want it from the girl at work and from the perfume girl at Macy’s. We want to have sex with the girl selling Tide on TV and the woman pulling it off the shelf in the Kroger. Studies suggest men think about sex every 52 seconds. I would suggest that is too long a gap. I would contend that men think about sex every five seconds. And for four of those five seconds, are spent thinking about how to start thinking about having sex again.

Why do men think about sex even when they are asleep having root canal? It’s a part of our genetic blue print. Men were created in the universal DNA tide pool to procreate. We are animals on the serenghetti walking up to the nearest female, sticking our manhood inside and humping till we are finished. We yawn, grab and beer and move on. We are predetermined by the forces of existence to plant our seed to further the species and move on to the next assignment. There is no emotional attachment to this act, it is simply an act that feels good, but let’s be clear, we are doing our duty to humanity. I mean for Christ’s sake, if we don’t do it, who the hell is going to right?

Sex and women is the primary ingredient in the crazy mixing bowl.

Women like sex. Women want sex. But sex and women is so complicated, no man will ever be able to fully understand it.

Women and sex and the social dynamic that it represents is like a jig saw puzzle with no picture and all the wrong pieces.

In prehistoric times, I am sure that humans were like animals. The male cave creature walked up to the female cave creature, mounted her and deposited his seed. It was neither pleasurable or planned or mired in social stigma.

Sex was necessary to promote the growth of the species. When cave sperm met cave egg a cave fetus was born and the cycle continued.

Do you think the cave woman told the cave man, “you just got yours, now buy me something shiny?”

But somewhere along the historical time line of crazy, sex became something dirty, something less than a mandatory human function.

Was it in puritanical times when sex became littered with the ornate decorations of guilt?

When I say men are simple and have changed little, I mean Cavemen to modern man think about sex. Sex at night. Sex in the morning. Sex at work. Sex in the Starbucks. It doesn’t matter. Our primordial mixing board has us wired to plant our seed without guilt without thought without concern.

But women have evolved into such a crazy elixir that sex is the fire cracker of relationships. Men now have to court a woman to get sex. Men have to entertain, to smile, to make them laugh. Men have to buy them dinners and be witty and drive nice cars. Men have to dance a societal polka of unwritten rules that only women secretly enforce. If we pass muster then perhaps we may engage in something that is biologically mandatory for us.

Women are also on a biological clock where the ticking is ferocious in their own ears.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

The clock strikes midnight and the chances of procreation diminish. It is this cosmological tug that creates the crazy. Men want to have sex. Women want to have sex. Men want sex without guilt. Women cannot have sex without guilt. Men don’t care if they know a woman’s name while having sex. Women want to scream out a man’s name during the act. Women want to cuddle after sex. Men want a ham sandwich and the tv remote. Women want to know that you love them. Men want to know if you’ll lock the door when you leave. Women want to know if you respect them. Men don’t care about respect as long as they get to deposit their seed. If a man deposits his seed without passing muster, the crazy intensifies and the cycle cycles again.

CHAPTER 6.
BIRTH

Nothing ignites the fuse of crazy faster than conception. It is a time bomb that changes a relationship between a man and a woman forever.

Like the center of an exploding bottle rocket, fertilization unlocks ions of predestined crazy. Like a key in a biological lock, the physiological alterations of a woman’s chemistry begins to ferment.

It is the universal plan for a woman to protect and nurture the life force now growing inside her. This doesn’t happen by accident, it happens by design. The blue print was forged in the soup of creation. It has worked this way for a million years, starting in  caves at the dawn of time and it is the way it works today.

While this is one of the happiest times for a couple, it can also be a mile marker for trouble.

This is when trouble begins, when a woman’s attention turns toward her baby.

This is when a couple becomes a family. This is when 2 lovers become parents.

A baby is a wonderful addition to a family, but a baby is also a third wheel in the relationship of love.

When a woman has a baby, she becomes more tired, and often less interested in romance after a day of spit up and wiping tiny rectums.

A man needs to have sex, and his wife might initially provide it, but something is missing.

After a 6 pound child claws its way out of a woman’s vagina, after a possible episiotomy, after stretch marks and estrogen over loads, the last thing a woman, a new mother, a wife wants is to be touched by a man.

And this is when the crazy grows exponentially. The man resents the woman for subordinanting his needs. The woman feels angry that the man is so insensitive as to not understand that birthing a child and rearing it is hard, exasperating work.

“Why doesn’t he understand that I’m tired,” she thinks.

“Why won’t she give me any?” he mutters tossing and turning in his bed.

Birth is the straw that stirs the crazy cocktail. It is often the begining of the end of a relationship that began with two people attracted by

(alternate) As soon as a woman becomes pregnant, everything changes. Suddenly the man who was number one, becomes number 2.

A man can snuggle, but he can’t climb into the womb, as much as he might try. The biological stew of DNA is a primordial spice rack.  (what the hell does this mean)

CHAPTER 7
SLEEPING

You know what’s crazy? How men and women sleep. Men snore like lumberjacks. Women snore like field mice, though deny they would make such an abhorent noise.

Men sleep large, legs spread, like we are swan diving off a Mexican cliff. Women sleep quiet, narrow, in a reserved predestined space like a field mouse hatching a crumb.

Men toss and and turn and pull the covers like a game of nocturnal tug of war. Women need to be cacooned, feet protected, wrapped in a taco of warmth.

Men lumber and slumber and sleep like a typhoon blowing through a polynesian village. Women are tranquil pools of restful bliss.

Men like to rub the cold bottoms of their feet on a woman’s calf. A woman wants to lay her head on a man’s bare chest to hear the rythm of his beating heart.

Women like to cuddle and spoon and hold on to their man. Men like to roll over for a quickie and then roll off before sleep encompasses them.

If there is crazy in the bedroom, it is a function of too much blanket or not enough blanket. Crazy can manifest in a tv left on while one partner wants to sleep. Crazy can be a smell that permeates a comforter like a stagnating stench of disgust.

To combat night time crazy, you can either fight, grin and bear it, or get some ear plugs and eye shades and isolate yourself from what bothers you.

It is a variation of tv left on whillimited to the blankets, the lights,

CHAPTER 8
DRIVING

If you think men and women drive the same, just ask All State Insurance.

Why do you think teenage boys have a higher rate than a Charlie Sheen Call girl.

It’s because men drive hard and fast. Men are inherent risk takers. Men don’t multi task as well as women. A man could never drive to work while applying mascara and putting together a real estate deal.

Women can do this in their sleep. Women drive cautiously and with reserve. Driving is a lot like sex. Men are hard and fast and get to where they are going quickly, usually spent and out of gas.

Women get to their destination, with plenty left in the tank, the car just warming up ready for another lap around the neighborhood.

men like their cars like they like their women. Fast and loose and sleek and sexy.

Women like their cars like they like their men. Safe and predictable and always ready to carry the load.

CHAPTER
SNORING
This one cracks me up. Men snore. Women don’t. Yeah right.
men are reportedly chortling lumber jacks of pghlem. Women of course are dainty, pure breathers of quiet inhalation. The crazy woman I lived with for years use to tell me that I snored incessantly. And of course, it’s hard to say “I don’t snore,” because I wasn’t really sure. I mean there’s no youtube video of me cutting logs. But I can tell you one thing, that crazy woman snored. She inhaled like bacon frying in a pan. I wanted to take cell phone footage of her and email it to her family and say listen to your crazy princess who professes to breathe clean air, but really she pollutes with slobbering sucking sounds of grossness.

4. cleaning

This is a tough one.  While I would suggest that most women are cleaner than most men, this is a tough one to break down.

I lived with a crazy woman who didn’t care how long dirt remained on a counter top. Magazines piled up next to the kid’s school papers next to the coupons next to the advertising circulars.

Cat hair on the carpet was something you ignored, sneezed up, walked over.

Dishes in the sink were a constant. Food caked on plates, turning colors under a black light.

Food cycled through the refrigerator slowly. The newest food always in the front, pushing the oldest food to the back. Plastic bags of salad slowly evolving into a foreign alien of decomposition. Goo sliding out of the hot dog pack, to congeal like soiled honey in the crisper drawer, never to be wiped clean.

Most women are sanitary by nature. It dates back to the times of the hunter gatherers. Men left the cave, the cabin, the fortress for days and weeks at a time. Men slayed and killed and dragged food back to the home.

Meanwhile, women prepared the living space for that kill. They arranged and stacked and made sure that the food would be placed in a sterile clean place that would ensure the family a safe food source.

5. showering

Cleansing crazy is a hard thing to do.

cleansers and soaps and loufas and moisturizers. Shampoo and conditioners and exfoliating creams.

Women are crazy. They need an arsenal of products in this wet universe. Can it all really be necessary? Do they do it for men? do they do it for themselves? Is it genetic? Is it learned? Is it a compilation of constant advertising targeting women making them think they need things they don’t?

Men are werewolves of stink. They are hairy and have dirt under their nails. Men will change the oil on their car and then eat a ham sandwich.

The problem begins when men and women use the same shower.

“don’t touch my shampoo”

“You left hair in my soap”

“You blew your nose on the wall, that’s so gross.”

“Did you pee on my razor?”

The questions are rank and rude and lead to crazy.

It’s a wonder that men and women can co-habitate, share a shower, and god forbid showering together at the same time…

6. bathroom
Nothing demonstrates the differences in the sexes quicker than a bathroom.

Men are hairy and ring around the drain. Women are perfumes and scented

7. driving
8. eating
9. hygiene
10. the opposite sex
11. entertainment

CHAPTER
sports

Sports is the ying and yang of crazy.

From an early age, sports segregates the sexes. Little boys play little boy sports while little girls play little girl sports.

The differences are obvious. Men are stronger and faster and more physical.

Little boys play on one team while little girls play on another team.

This division of the sexes is in effect today because of what happened in the stew pot of time ions ago.

That’s when humans rose from the bubbling crude when the Earth was a blender of fluids and churning anger. Somehow men and women crawled out of the primordial filth and began a process of evolution.
Playing sports is healthy. It builds good people and it builds team spirit.

Watching sports? Well that is where crazy can manifest itself. The way men and women watch sports can lead to divisiveness and friction.

Men love to watch sports. Women, not so much. But if women love men, they will try and love watch sports, because men love sports. If men love women, they will try and love sports only to a point, and then no more, because to exceed the threshold is to invite the wrath of crazy.

As you know, men will watch football games all day long. They will watch boring games and college games and pro games and even Australian Rules Football.

Women might watch a game, but they are quick to pick up a book if the game goes badly. A woman won’t sit through games in the morning and the afternoon, then sit down and watch Sunday Night Football to boot.

That’s where women draw the line. This line can be the difference between a relationship that floats and a relationship that sinks like an anvil.

Men are going to watch sports. And if their woman can’t stomach it then men will go to a place where that game can be watched. A sports bar, a buddy’s house, a bus station, whatever.

Maybe this will promote togetherness later, but I would say, probably not. You see if you go to a sports bar and party with the boys, you end up having relationships outside the marriage and that might lead to trouble.

Why do men like football? Why do women like ice skating?

Again this goes back to the begining of time, when men ran across frozen tundra and hot prairies to chase down water buffalo for the tribe.

Women are grace and elegance and the brutality of sports like football is savagry personified. Perhaps it is the make up of men versus the make up the sexes.

13. television

14. movies

CHAPTER: THE BAR SCENE

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!™

The bar scene is crazy.

Picture a Saturday night with the NFL playoffs blaring on every flat screen. The room is filled with neon beer signs and non descript music wafting down from the ceiling. There is a hum of energy in the room that is accompanied by the fragrance of searing beef.

Wait staff and bar personnel are flying back and forth making an honest night’s wage. The bar is long and there are 3 dozen keg taps with names like Killian’s and Heineken and Blue Moon to choose from. The staff looks tired, sweat dancing on their brows. There are 50 people staring at them, hoping to make eye contact. Somehow the bar staff delivers a drink, rings up a check, and starts a new tab with a smile. I am watching a concert of drunken efficiency.

On the other side of the bar are the customers. They are an assorted, kaleidoscope of humanity. White and black and fat and tall. Dumpy and well dressed and brooding problems simmering under the surface.

At the bar a group of men lean forward. They are animated and drinking Budweiser. They demand to have one of the flat screens changed from the NFL to watch the hockey game. They cheer randomly in between plays. The rest of the establishment glances over to see why they are cavorting and climbing on each other and wrestling like frat boys almost on top of their drinks.

At the other end of the bar, there are two women who are portly and dressed in black. They order domestic beers and punch buttons on their smart phones hoping Mr. Right is lurking inside the illuminated screen. The women neither watch the TV monitors nor do they look at the bevy of men circling like sharks.

At a long table just beyond the bar are the cute girls. Perky and sassy and full of pepsodent teeth. They are so shimmering and stunning you are waiting for one of them to stand up and star in their own shampoo commercial. They talk close and laugh incessantly as if their stories are the most important stories ever told. These young women have the world at their fingertips and they know that their sultry physical God given talents afford them the luxury to dictate terms to all suitors.

Beyond the bar are clumps of families eating ribs and burgers and enjoying a night out. The parents talk about phone bills unpaid and how the Nelsons down the block are getting divorced. The couple whisper to one another without emotion. They avoid eye contact like Medusa is lurking nearby with a bucket of cement.

Occasionally the couple reprimands their children who are furtively throwing french fries at one another. The mother implores the father to help discipline, but the man is not interested, his frozen gaze locked on the game beyond and just over his life partner’s head.

There is the lone coyote who walks slowly by the bar, one hand in pocket, the other clutching a Coors Light. He is a serial killer of determination as he stares into the masses, past the families, into the table of shampoo commercial girls. His mind is tick tock ticking with a dark plan to hook up, to pick up, to meet up. So far he is a nefarious ghost man who walks the gang plank of solitude in a sea of women. He eyes the opposite sex, quietly licking his chops like a coyote sizing up the herd. Who is plump? Who is petite? Who is stuck up and who might put out? Which girl is drunkest and might be pried away from the pack to be divided, conquered, devoured? The Coyote man walks coolly, slowly, eyeing the room with impure thoughts that only a coyote man knows.

One trip to the restroom provides an interesting shot gun blast of chatter. It comes between football announcers and music and shouts of “Order Up”

At one table older divorcees are comparing tales of woe and finalized settlement agreements.

Over there, frat boys are arguing about some random play that neither matters nor anyone cares about.

Over by Shampoo Island, the “It” girls are still talking

“La-La stupid” It’s a language of young women who have done nothing, experienced nothing, have lived nothing. They speak in a fatuous Pig Latin of limited concepts that will seem archaic in ten years to them. Their concept of life is a series of non-sensical banter that only 26 year old girls understand. Words like House Wives and Orange County float above the din. Words like Mercedes and new home float out of their gleaming pepsodent smile pile holes. The lexicon is giddy and full of life possibilities.

In the corner there is a doctor. His face is ruddish and he has had one too many. His hair has gone Albert Einstein and I wouldn’t trust him with a soup spoon, no less a scalpel. He is loaded with money which he hopes will make up for his lack of good looks. The shampoo girls don’t even know he’s alive as his laser beam stare targets them from across the bar. He wants them to look at his check book and see his Mercedes in the parking lot, but he cannot communicate his needs from the other side of the jungle. It’s good to be a doctor in the day, but here, at the watering hole of desire, his frenzied, maniacal look only serves to keep him on the outside looking in.

Over there is the drunkest guy in the establishment. He is bouncing off bar stools. His drink is swaying in his mug, which is rocking like a pirate ship in a storm. His eyes are glassy and he has that vacuous look like a house on Halloween with all the lights off. He stops to talk to girls. Words exit his face, but the girls look at each other perplexed, scared, quick to dismiss this walking cocktail. The man’s brain is a sieve with sand harmlessly falling back onto the beach. He is barely conscious and he meanders slowly ahead in search of, I know not what.

The families are all gone now. It is a waste land of prowlers and meat merchants searching for something; physical, sexual, emotional.

This is a room full of needs and desires. This bar is a test tube for social scientists to put under their microscopes to analyze.

Somewhere Darwin is peering into this lab experiment and taking it all in. He is wondering who will survive? Who is the fittest. Is young and attractive the quality that will emerge? Is older and mature the character traits that are most desirable? Is money the grand equalizer that changes the game completely?

Suddenly it’s last call for alcohol and the bar lights grow bright.

The Shampoo girls get up and wobble out, joined by the lone wolf and Albert Einstein.

Suddenly the cold January night inhales the lot of them as the Mexican bar backs begin sweeping away another night of dreams gone unfulfilled.

And that is crazy.

CHAPTER
CONTROL

Women may be crazy, but they control the world. They may be physically weaker, but they are tactically more powerful.

Women are powerful because they are the keepers of the pussy. I know this sounds crass, and perhaps it is, but as many men will attest to, pussy rules the world.

Once again, it all dates back to the begining of the time. Men were ingrained with a desire to procreate, frequently.

A million years ago, a cave man would walk behind a cave woman, mount her, and do what biology mandates.

But today that is criminal behavior.

To complete this fundamental need, a man has to play the game.
That might mean date night, buying a woman a drink, returning a phone call. It’s a see saw of interaction…

PANDA
Women are the ying to our yang. To procreate often in moderMen are Powerful men want i

DNA

CHAPTER IN THE BEGINNING
TOILET

I lived with a woman for 20 years. I never heard her fart one time. I never heard a squeak, a woosh, an accidental peep.

Men and women are so different when it comes to the toilet. Women are delicate and demure. They like the lid down and the door shut. They use a modicum of toilet paper and do their business like an anal retentive tax accountant.
 
Men treat the toilet like a vanquished land of conquest. We like the lid up and the seat down. We like the feeling of warm plastic on the backs of our thighs. We like to read and talk on the phone and do all of it with the door open. If we could cut a hole in the ceiling and put in a convertible toilet to maximize sunshine and air flow, men would opt for this. I don’t know what it is about the confines of the leu, but I love reading here. It’s not like the lighting is good and the comfort is that of a stockade in 17th century boston square, but still this is where the morning sports page can be found.

Has your significant other ever gone into the john in the dark and fallen in.

“God damn it!”

If you have ever been hit in your sleep by angry woman, you learn to never again leave the seat up when you are done.

And is the fan strong enough to excavate the smell of a man stink..

CHAPTER: MEMORY

Women can remember a speck of dust on a gnat’s ass in a windstorm a decade ago. Men can’t remember to take out the trash or close the toilet seat.
There is a fundamental difference in how we remember things.
Women are emotional and visceral and ca pin point every detail of a moment in time.
A man can’t even remember if he was at his own bachelor party.

It is a simple difference, but a crazy difference that can begin arguments and end marriages.
I can’t believe you don’t remember

I just had an old acquaintance accuse me of cheating on her.

I laughed and said we weren’t even dating. How can I cheat on you if I wasn’t dating you?

She remembers a million microscopic moments of the relationship. I just remember that she liked to do it doggy style and made a lot of noise, forcing me to close the windows so as not to upset the neighbors.

See this is a fundamental difference. Men have a selective or non existent memory. Women remember everything, whether it happened or not.

CHAPTER THE CALL BACK

When do you call back? Do you have to call back? Can you text her? Can you email her?

Men and women are polar opposites when it comes to this.

I didn’t email a woman fast enough. I didn’t respond to her phone call with enough alacrity. It was doomsday for me.

Men don’t care. We don’t check our watch and see how many hours pass between the time you write us and the time we write you back.

It’s a time stamp that means nothing, unless you wear a skirt. Then It might matter a lot.

CHAPTER THE COVERS

She likes to be wrapped head to foot like a mummy. He likes to stick his leg out the side of the comforter to allow for a little cooling.

She wakes up in the morning and he has somehow rolled over and taken an unfair proportion of cloth.

She is mad and not well rested. He is famously enriched but starting the day in the matrimonial or relationship dog house.

Men and women should only sleep together for purposes of populating the planet. After that, the puritans had the right idea. A board between them, to separate and segregate and keep all that is holy. I actually am endorsing a bunk bed for married couples. He can be on top and can lean over and say good night honey. It can be like the Brady Bunch with a his and hers pajamas.

CHAPTER SMELLS
What is it with women and their distinct sense of smell. Men could smell like a hot dog wrapper from a Yankees game from 1985 and not give a damn. Women spray the air in front of the vanity and walk into it, allowing the appropriate amount of molecules to contact their skin.

Men are visual animals. Women are like blind men relying on other senses to guide them through the narrow passages of dating and relationships.
I had a crazy woman who would routinely stick her nose in my neck
and inhale deeply.

Where have you been she would ask?

It was intimidating. It was like she had a crystal ball that could see all.

If I had been to a bar, she could tell who was smoking filtered camels. If I had been to a department store, she could tell if I had walked through the cosmetic aisle. God Forbid if another woman had accidentally brushed up against me or given me a hug.

“Whose that I smell on your skin?” she might ask.

Huh? I would respond like a caveman whose oxygen supply had been cut off suddenly.

Millions of years of development and a woman’s sense of smell is an important part of her arsenal when it comes to dating and

If a woman had big breasts and a shapely ass, it’s doubtful whether we would even care if she smelled like pickle juice.

BATHROOM 12-30-10

Few places showcase the difference between men and women like the bathroom.

Men are foul and women dainty. Men smell and women not so much. It’s the difference between lilac and ransid meat. Men are gross, a sack of fungus growing in the shower.

Women are sunshine warming a room.

I was married for 20 years and I don’t think

I once heard my wife fart. I mean nothing. No toot. no accidental push of wind. No wet stanky thunder roller. Nothing. It just didn’t happen. Me on the other hand, well let’s just say

I’ve got no problem letting it go. It’s just natural, the boiler is on and the juices and flowing and BAM. Say

excuse me and move on.

I just don’t see how you can never pass gas. You would think after 20 years of holding it in,

my wife would have exploded, blown

up like the Good Year Blimp. Isn’t it dangerous to never expel internal gas? It never happened. At least it never happened around me.

Maybe she was always to able to excuse herself quietly, politely to the confines of the bathroom to let one loose.

To this day I can’t even imagine what that would sound like. Psssst. Like a slow hiss in a new york city radiator. Poooof. Like someone stepping on a poodle.

never once did I see her raise a leg like a baboon in the zoo and pry her ass cheeks apart to allow wind to violently exit her anus. No, that never happened.

But how many times have you seen a guy do this. I man will get up and announce it. He will bend over and expell the noxious
odor like a howitzer. Men will light their farts on fire and try and shove their buddy’s faces into the funk. Men are pigs in a stye while women are somehow better than this.

The question is why? Why do women have higher standards? Why are they naturally cleaner and more polite? Why are women better smelling

and more conscious of how they look? Do men smell like road kill because they have hairy backs and underarms? Do men stink because their cave dwelling forefathers stunk like the back end of a stagosaurus.

As I’ve stated, women can’t help the fact they are crazy. It’s the way the universe created them. I mean think about what goes on inside a woman as she matures and ultimately becomes pregnant.

Only God and Japanese robot desingers could imagine so much change. CHAPTER

Men became hunter gathers and women keepers of the birth. The differences were so pronounced, that it is no wonder that men and women would view sports with an eye forged in the furnace of evolution.

CHAPTER: IMPRESSING WOMEN

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.

And that is Crazy.
CHAPTER: WINDOW INTO THE SOUL
You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!

Deciphering crazy in your fellow man.
Everyone has crazy haunting their attic.

Everyone has an 8th Century Ghost that floats through their soul, scaring the bah-jeezus out of Tricker Treaters 24/7.
My crazy looks like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. He is Scottish and he is prepared to do battle with no underpants under his kilt. He is certifiable and constantly daring me to jump off the roof into an abyss filled with whatever. The battle is omnipresent and one I must wage.
And so it goes. Each of us has a crazy fragmented ghoul who torments us with differing degrees of crazy. How we cope with our crazy is what sets us apart from the animals. And you thought it was an opposable thumb?
The arena of humanity is a wide brush stroke. Some of us hide our crazy remarkably well. Others let crazy troll across the surface of their lives like a fishing lure being jerked by an angler.
Since crazy is all around us, lurking behind every corner and within every soul, my question is, how can you tell whose crazy is haunting them like a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart? How do you know when pea soup is frothing inside a person? What is the sign that heads are spinning and the devil is screaming “your mother sucks XXXX in Hell!”

How do you know when crazy is as a common place as a Justin Beber song at a tweens birthday party?
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Like a light house, they reveal the inner workings of the human machine. The mouth will lie, but the eyes tell the truth.
Men are stupid and Women are Crazy.

A stupid man I know recently pulled back the curtains of a crazy woman’s psyche. What he saw was a bloody crime scene from a mafia hit in Chicago.

The woman was decorated like a pretty jewel box. Hair perfect. Eye make up dark as if done by Cleopatra. The woman left two top buttons on her blouse undone, creating a sense of mystery and desire. Her figure was finely proportioned and her legs athletically trim. Could she be a dancer or just a runner? One thing for certain, she was a jungle cat sitting on her perch taking in the vista that is the stupidity of man.
From the moment he entered her domain, the the man was in trouble. You see the man is stupid, and crazy will take stupid down every time. It’s like a stand off in the Mexican Desert where the rattle snake strikes the ferret. Before the ferret can even figure out how to keep his nuts warm, the snake has struck him in the head and injected venom into his little stupid ferret body.
Too bad ferret. Too bad man. You are stupid and women are crazy.
But unlike the death match described above, man is killed slowly, over hours, sadly over years. In this analogy, sadly, it is good to be the ferret. At least he dies a quick and painless death.
Man is not so lucky.
So the man stares at the siren on the stool and he lumbers in like a rhinoceros in an antique store. Somewhere, all around him, other crazy women watch this stupid fool and laugh. Like predators on a tree limb, they size up the stupid man and laugh their crazy laugh. They all ready know whether they will kill him.

So the stupid man begins a long and arduous conversation. It is full of stammering blather and staccato sentences that come straight from a Bud Light Commercial.
“Yo ladies – Here we go!”
The woman’s crazy is concealed behind a wall of make up and lady like decorum. But inside this brooding carnivore is a vortex of crazy. It is swirling like the fires of hell and it is bubbling near the surface. You can’t smell the crazy masked by her sweet perfume. You can’t hear her crazy masked by a southern drawl of femininity. But look into her eyes, and you can see lava bubbling down the mountainside and flowing into the Pacific. It is a violent confluence of extremes, meeting in a moment of truth. Inside this crazy woman there is steam and violence and the crush of super heated life and brutally cold existence.
Bam. There it is. The Crazy has emerged. It is subtle, but like a flame, it can be seen burning inside this demure woman.

Which brings me to a little something I like to call:

YOU KNOW YOU’RE CRAZY WHEN…

You know you’re crazy when your face twitches every time you say the word uhm.

You know you’re crazy if your boss asks you to feel his bicep and you touch it.

You know you’re crazy if you speed dial someone five times in five minutes hanging up twice and leaving 3 crazy messages to call as soon as you get this.

You know you’re crazy when the other guy’s groceries on the check out belt so disgusts you that you want to throw a can of Dole Pineapples at his skull.
You know you’re crazy when the guy driving on your bumper reminds you of your mother in law and engaging your emergency brake suddenly is the only thing in your mind.

You know you’re crazy when the words coming out of your date’s mouth make you want to sign up for the military.
You know you’re crazy when the home shopping channel is your only friend.

You know you’re crazy when you floss your teeth and let the dog lick it afterwards.
You know you’re crazy when you watch NASCAR at home holding up three fingers for Dale Earnhardt.
You know you’re crazy when you burp up something you ate and you secretly enjoy it a 2nd time.
You know you’re crazy when the woman whose top two buttons are undone is so crazy you ignore the crazy in her eyes and buy her a shot.
That’s crazy.