I think men have forgotten (or never learned) what a Privilege it actually is, to have a woman in their lives. Without one, most men would be wandering around in the metal sheets of the buildings they’ve invented and built, looking like rapid unshaven apes –and smelling worse. They would conduct their meetings in bare boardrooms with toothpicks in their mouths, spending the three first hours sharing stories of last night’s ‘conquest’, throwing back beers and scratching their balls for emphasis.
Disputes on topics as insignificant as the size of one’s penis, the genetic connection between girth and brain-size, the largesse of one’s collection of guns, the excellence of one’s cellar, the superiority of one’s football team or golf swing, and the exact amount of praise begotten in the press (undoubtedly for inventions as useful as the ‘Give-it-me-NOW’ house robot, and the ‘Pleasure-me-NOW’ robotesse [TV announcer: “Fold her up and you can ‘have her’ anywhere!”]) would be fought in the boardroom with actual, lethal Darth Vader swords, and internationally via the angry, repeated pressing of large red knobs set-up at the tip of one’s armchair, designed to detonate nuclear bombs, accompanied by the short range of male oaths and grunts that hold the exact same meaning in any language.
Homophobia would be dead, because of the basic need for strip joints and porn; whereas slavery would be alive, well, and a thriving international business, basically consisting in the traffic, use and abuse of any male that wasn’t at least a strong Beta male. Actual work would never be properly recorded or filed, nor would it be performed in any special order, but rather carried out as impulsive acts dictated all day long, from an armchair, to a crew of harried lesser beta and theta male slaves, via superphones permanently attached to their ears. While dictating such things as “Send an email to Sam and say yes to the new nightclub,” then “Call Big Mike and tell him I can’t make the hunting party this weekend in Texas,” men would be online, playing virtual reality games to boost their fragile egos, in which their names were ‘King Cock’ or ‘Lord of All’. Without any sense of organisation, whichever slave was next in line would have to feed, clothe, transport, shop, as well as fetch and carry for their bosses. Any displeasure derived from their services would necessitate public hangings, also brought back, and carried out as Live Weekend Entertainment.
There would be no dustbins, so that men could chuck garbage out from the windows of their ‘Superrari’ cars at 300 miles an hour, and no signs, because they would want to be able to race, even just down to the grocery store, smoke, spit and pee anywhere in between, indoors, and especially in hospitals, banks, supermarkets and any other public place where waiting might be required. The same set of bars, strip clubs, motels, gyms, roman baths, ATMs, fast-food restaurants, shops, travel agencies, gadget stores and car, airplane and boat lots would pop up all over the globe, because, since they never ask for directions, men would frequently be getting lost, yet, no matter where they were, they would need access to these basic necessities.
Finally, the life expectancy for these unwashed, doctor-shunning, cigar-loving, violent, alcoholic control freaks (with overgrown toe nails) would be about 40 years, at best, since they would have lived at the pace of a tantrum-riven demon two-year old, every day of those years… And that death would be final, since there would be cloning, but no means of reproduction. Now does that sound good, anyone?
Do me a favour. Pick up the phone, Right Now, call a woman in your life, and thank her for being alive!