Lets get this out of the way. I am not being super sexist in this thing…not trying to anyway. I’m simply playing the percentages of a particular view of reality to set up the premise for a half-decent comparison that leads to another tangential, sci-fi tale of irrelevance.
There. We’ll revisit this I’m sure…probably immediately.
From time to time — perhaps — even the most empowered female types may find themselves in a position, a predicament that they would certainly be able to overcome with time and the proper effort, but to which they would potentially benefit from a man more quickly completing the task. These are small, non-power-struggle things: jar opening…heavy lifting…shelf hanging…penis.
Very clearly, there certainly exist relationships where the woman would provide these things better than the man. But this careful dancing of gender grammar turns the post an even more horrible, sluggish piece of non-committal shit. However, since that has already happened, lets wade through it some more before we get to where I had originally hoped this awkward vehicle would take me.
I additionally realize that there are things that the fairer sex of a relationship, whether that is man or woman, can provide with better quality and efficiency than the other. For instance: empathy…sewing…dildo pot cleaning.
These are all obvious, silly things to get riled up about and are forever floating through the collective mind of the organic internets, proving each quark’s superior uniqueness for latching on to the one, true cause.
But this isn’t about any of that. This is simply about this: I am fully capable of 1) Opening jars; 2) Heavy lifting; 3) Shelf hanging; 4) Penis. Yet, from time to time, there appear things more absurdly difficult than these, but along the same trajectory, raising the question: If “woman” needs “man”, to what new gender or creature can “man” turn to solve this daunting, mutated task. For the sake of conversation lets say its something along the lines of holding in stasis the unsteadied particles of reality…or traversing the surreal subjectivity of the tax code.
We are clearly looking towards the skies on this one…unless the true aliens are merely waiting to attack when our heads are like turkeys to the raining sky and our backs are turned to their aquatic lairs…as I have suspected for some time, now.
Wasn’t this generally what was promised by The X-Files? From one of the weird, indistinguishable, conspiratorial piles of aliens that convoluted and destroyed the series? Out of all of that, were we not to be injected with the truth of their DNA, turned into the perfect hybrid capable of all things physical and mental, every one of us forcibly employed by the FBI as accountants, heralding in an era of not only financial responsibility, but unimaginable prosperity, each person stripped of their sex, creating a single moderately satisfied race of fiscally conservative genetic material?
Or perhaps it can be better than that?
Oh, great aliens…come and enlighten us, pouring like light into our minds the one true objective truth that must, must exist in this universe. That which will remove at least jar lids as an obstacle in our desperately struggling lives and guide us in all things, especially the tax code. Also, please reveal to us what it is that you have that is along the same trajectory of use, but levels ahead of a penis. We are interested in this as well. Ideally…these two things would be one.
But this has now too much turned into an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Does that seem too weird a comparison? When was the last time you watched an episode? You are out of touch, brother.
Should have known better than to have done anything.
I’m Thomas K…and I’m not.