Atomic Women

Sometimes I think it’d be nice to have a woman around. But then I think of the times a woman has been around, and that makes me think of how much toilet paper, Q-tips, and other essentials they consume.

So are women worth what they cost in toilet paper and Q-tips? (Two vital toiletries that I steal from my weekend job by the cartload?) No, not really.

Speaking of stealing from jobs, I was doing my taxes the other day, and sorting out my woeful finances, and little things struck me. I haven’t bought printer paper in about 13 years. I’ve never bought toilet paper. My weekend job is at a big mansion that they rent out to weddings, and there’s a room in the basement full of toilet paper and paper towels that I’ve been pilfering from since 1991, when I was first hired. I always have around 50 rolls on hand.

When it comes to stealing from work, I’m not one of these Post-it notes and paperclip people. I believe in seizing the day. If there’s something to steal, then you should steal all of it. Tomorrow, there may be a lock on the door. Or maybe a co-worker will beat you to the punch. Or maybe there’s a hidden camera in the ceiling. It’d be pretty stupid to get fired over a packet of Post-its. But to get fired over a lifetime supply? A vanload? No problem.

The other day, I finally stole a fire extinguisher. That was all thanks to a friend of mine, who saved his house and beautiful wife with one a while back. There have been times when I’ve debated stealing a car from my weekend job, but I think that would be tough to hide. If I were a savvy criminal, I’m sure stealing a 1990 Ford pickup would be a breeze. But I’m not savvy, and the pickup is probably worth about 30 bucks, so I don’t know what to do. Every time I close up the house after an event, though, I stare at the keys in the main office and dream of greater theft.

So back to women. Toilet paper and Q-tips cost me nothing, but it’s an issue of having other people consume things that, regardless, belong to me. I like to think I’m in touch with my monkey brain. This is my pool of stagnant water and, yes, I will defend it with my life. Mainly because I like owning this pool of stagnant water, but also because I’m bored and angry.

The other problem I encounter when living with a woman is that they’re needy. More so than pets. I don’t keep pets, even though I enjoy dogs and think cats are cute. It’s kind of like kids… I’m quite attached to my friend’s three kids but, fuck, they can go out the window if they start to step out of line. Dogs are fun, except I hate it when they bark uselessly and I despise having to walk them. If I ever have dogs, it’ll be because I have a big wooded lot out in the country where they’ll be outside all the time. And they’ll be trained to only bark when people are approaching suspiciously.

And to kill the meter man, which is something my grandfather did with one of his dogs. Pepco had to make an appointment to read the meter at his house – adhering to my grandfather’s bizarre schedule. They’d call, say they were sending out a meter reader, and my grandfather would always say, well, won’t be free till after 10pm!

Why did Pepco give in to that insanity? Because my grandfather, up until 1995, raised champion Newfoundlands. When a 200 pound black dog comes bearing down on you, you pay attention. One meter reader found himself perched on the roof of my grandfather’s Buick for two hours while the Newfoundland – front paws flat up on the hood – made damn sure he didn’t move.

Oddly enough, the lawsuit, after a meter reader was bit, went in my grandfather’s favor. Our family has good lawyers. Which is a bad thing.

Newfoundlands, by the way, are impossibly kind and loving dogs. It just happens that, when my grandfather wasn’t breeding and showing them, he’d take in the weird-ass ones. Mutants, cripples, and one – Sheba – who was a wolf mix. Yes, a fucking wolf. A wolf in a 200 pound frame with black shaggy hair.

I’ve always found Newfoundlands to be disturbingly agile. My grandfather’s house sat on an acre and a half, so you’d be on the porch looking all the way up at this black dog hugging the property line, then you’d look away for a second and, when next you looked up, the goddamn dog would be sitting there at the edge of the porch. Woof. I’m the devil.

I’m talking about needy pets. Forgive me, I’ve been drinking for several hours, because that’s what pre-middle-age men do on Saturdays. Cats annoy me even more. I find them fuzzy and cute, but they’re about as goddamn needy as a retard tied to your shin. Plus cats make people stupid, stink the place up, and eat the corpse of their master. Dogs won’t eat their masters. They’ll raise up a fuss until a neighbor calls the cops. Cats, they just chow down. Meat is meat, bitch!

The atheist’s amoung us may agree, but, still, eating a Human body is nasty. We eat cows and chickens because they have it coming.

In general, pets are useless. I like plants. You don’t really need to take care of them. Water, food, whatever. That’s easy. If you’re going to binge on gin for three days and crawl around naked in pools of vomit, plants don’t get in your way. They don’t care. And they certainly don’t start lapping at your gin vomit.

How many times have I lain out naked on the floor, painfully whispering to a dog: “Stop…eating…my…vomit…”? More than you’d care to know.

Women. At least they’re people, too. This means that they can comprehend when you’re screaming at them not to lap up your vomit. Many folks say that women are wired differently. I have a different theory: I think they use more of their brains.

Oh, that’s good, eh? Smarter and better, eh? No. Doesn’t work that way. See, our brains are crazy.

By the way, the whole “we use 10% of our brains” thing is a myth perpetrated by the entertainment spoon-benders, which is basic street magic that anyone can learn. We use all of our brains, it’s just that the male mind knows what’s important – sex, food, booze, fire hot – and the female mind is hopelessly distracted – tree pretty, shiny pretty, smell pretty, blue, purple, pretty, accumulate wealth, I’m really in control of the kingdom…

It’s a hard thing to trust someone who has the perfect storm combination of an opposable thumb, an ambitious mind, and a violently destructive world-view.

I am long of the opinion that every weapon invented started with a woman. Like when they blew up the first bomb at Trinity, what Oppenheimer said, instead of quoting the Gita, was probably, “My wife was right.”

Or lover. He was married to a radical anarchist, and kept a crazed communist psych student from Stanford on the side. Tell me, with the two insane women in Oppenheimer’s life, that it’s not one of them who really pioneered the atomic bomb. A man isn’t capable of that destruction.

Back to my grandfather. After the war, he was a leading research chemist for the first nuclear powered sub, which launched in the ‘50’s. Here’s how men do it – they used to play with the uranium. They’d put radioactive rods in each other’s lunchboxes, lockers, and shoes. Ha, ha, Bill, got you!

About 80% of the staff who worked on that first sub were dead within 25 years. My grandfather suffers from skin cancer, which they take care of each year with lasers and surgery, though he blames that on a road trip to Disneyland in the ‘60’s.

Now imagine if this were a woman’s world. First off, we would have had a nuclear sub around 1900. Because women would have been all: “I’m gonna go split this atom, okay.” And men, living a life of leisure, would have been all: “Yep, okay. Don’t wake me when you come back.”

Then the women would have gone out, split the atom, quoted the Gita, then had a Tupperware party, then probably smack together a bomb before midnight. Then they’d go home and, of course, wake the man by being all cooing and horny. Sister, it’s the goddamned AM. There’d better be anal in this offer because, otherwise, sshh. Sleepytime.

Nuclear subs would be patrolling the waters before World War I, because women wouldn’t spend a decade fucking around. They’d get it done as quickly as possible, and with extreme safety because they have to protect their hair and nails and teeth. Give a man a radioactive control rod and he’ll put it in on his forehead and run around saying he’s a unicorn.

Steve, that there’s burning through your flesh I think!

HAHAHA! GET ME A BEER!

Okay, Steve, but…I don’t know…

Luckily for us, women have been relegated to second class status. They had a few brief moments where they fought back but, in the enlightened 21st C., they’re on par with particularly tame zoo animals. Thank god they’ve turned their backs on what their parents (in their youth), and their great grenadparents, tried to do. Though whenever I talk to a woman, I can hear thousands of suffragettes murdered by torture and force-feeding turning in their unmarked graves.

Perhaps that’s why I have trouble with women. Like our parents, they’ve given up. They’ve embraced the sick culture of modern society. They’ve failed. Our parents were defeated by Nixon. Women have simply defeated themselves.


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