C.H. Dalton here, fresh off my whirlwind speaking tour of the Rhineland. It was a lovely holiday, but now I’m back amidst the proles, and life must go on. So this week, I’d like to talk a little bit about nature’s negative space: women.
The old song says, “there is nothing like a dame.” And thank God for that. Women are nature’s third-most disgusting phenomena, after sea anemones and “Two Girls, One Cup.”
I was betrothed once, as a young man. My parents engaged me to the daughter of a rival family, in an attempt to broker peace between our clans. She was six years old at the time, and it is my great good fortune that she did not live to reach the marrying age of 13. (Picnic, lightning, equine encephalitis.)
The little creature cared nothing for science or opera, and was barely conversant in classical Greek. It would have been a terrible match. I consider it a fitting epilogue that my father’s Masonic brethren burned her family’s cannery to the ground and had her parents deported to Lebanon. (They were Irish.)
It was an instructive experience, though. My brief courtship with that pre-pubescent succubus taught me a great deal about the Female race. (It is one of several “sexual ethnicities,” defined by sexual preference and genital configuration.) For starters, that they are weak, irrational, and small.
When I say that I prefer the company of men, as I often do, I do not mean that in the Greek sense. I don’t know where people get that idea. I am just saying that I would much rather have a conversation with a good-natured, robust gentleman about the beaux arts or male grooming, than be lectured about the latest vegan frozen foods product or suffrage movement. And God, to think of the messy interchange of bodily fluids…
I don’t like doing laundry, and I don’t like having to talk about princesses or brassieres. It’s just that simple. Of course, as with all the other races, I say, “live and let live.” (I personally disagree with Paul McCartney’s interpretation of that doctrine.)
Of course, I still find women sexually attractive, with their nipples and their labias and whatnot. I just think they’re physically repulsive and unnecessarily gooey. But that doesn’t mean anything—I mean, just look at the magazines on my coffee table: Men’s Health, Muscle & Fitness, Details, Boy’s Life. I mean, come on, where do these rumors get started?
Anyway, everyone knows that the only way that one can get gay is if it’s passed down patrilineally, and my father was a true man’s man. Always spending nights and weekends personally supervising the workers at his steel mill or down by the docks he owned.
Ahem. Well, that’s all for this week. Come back next week for another one of my extremely manly, virile missives.
