The battle of the sexes rages on. According to the American Family Institute of Matrimonial Togetherness, sustainable marriages have dropped in frequency by nearly 34% since the brief upswing last seen after the late '90s one-two punch of My Best Friend's Wedding and Runaway Bride. The problem? Women have changed drastically, leaving perfectly marriageable men behind to pick up the pieces.
In my years of work as a researcher, I can verify the claims of men upset by feminized women who, thanks to years of indoctrination from dangerous television programs like Murphy Brown, now view anyone with a Y chromosome as the enemy. In my nationwide lectures, the constant complaints of men who approach me afterwards ring familiar: "She's stopped wearing heels and dresses and has taken to the denim." "She no longer shrugs off my constant verbal abuse and instead questions my authority on everything from pie baking to vaginal maintenance." "Every full moon, she wanders out to the back garden, strips naked, and gurgles to the sky in an ancient tongue for hours on end." In return, they receive my sympathy, as well as a signed copy of my newest book, Suffering Under Universal Suffrage.
But 87 pages of thoroughly researched end notes cannot possibly pacify these poor souls, as the activities of their nearest and dearest loved ones no longer cater exclusively to them. Decades ago, a woman would always have supper ready for her provider, the perfect reward for a long day of toil in the realm of the working stiff; today, a man can expect to come home to her staring vacantly and errantly stroking the throbbing, leathery pods that have now become a fixture in most female-inhabited homes. And what happens when your average man so much as questions the sticky, sulfurous growths quickly taking over his den? A terse dismissal paired with the baring of a second razor-sharp set of teeth women were apparently hiding until just after that comet passed so close to our earth's atmosphere. Pretty clever, ladies.
As women grow more autonomous and pod-focused, it's the men that suffer. The age of chivalry has given way to a nightmarish world where women are now capable of opening doors, pulling out their own chairs, and ingesting the dozens of pounds of raw chicken needed to spin the "feminist webs" now littering our streets and schoolhouses. And sadly, the old methods to pacify women -- passed down through generations of American culture -- no longer seem to work. Before, a few highballs and some Valium could melt away just about any female troubles; today, women refuse to drink nothing but a viscous, green liquid with a name unpronounceable in any human language. Once, the strong, unimpeachable touch of a man could silence any female qualms; now, the hundreds of poisonous barbs growing out of most female torsos prevent women worldwide from executing one of their most important duties: giving us men a warm, moist refuge as we close our eyes and mentally undress our more attractive co-workers.
It's about time we men fought back, recapture our basements, and let loose the neighborhood children entangled in their fibrous encasements. When our significant others sit down to watch one of the many transmissions from this General Guhth'aal character, we need to make it clear that football games don't just go away whenever this so-called "Global Imperative" suddenly turns a quiet Sunday afternoon into yet another exercise in spraying venom. When we wake up with our throats full of mysterious, mucus-coated eggs, we can't allow political correctness to stop us from questioning this explicitly feminist attack on our masculinity. More importantly, we need to stop facilitating the kidnapping of hitchhikers and refuse to cooperate in their pod placement, regardless of whether or not this act arouses us more than any physical contact ever could.
Fortunately, there is some good news. If women want to turn everything around, they simply need to drop this "assimilation" nonsense, disassemble their pod clusters, and surrender to their wildest dreams of being the sidekick to the male hero in this comic book we call life. If they do, marriageable men will come out of the woodwork -- if they haven't been sprayed with deadly, face-melting venom first.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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