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It's an unusual preface which argues against the work it introduces. But
there are some things in life better not faced head-on, and this book contains
all of them. Mind you, you hold in your hands and excellent compendium of
strategy and tactics. Mr. Boyles and his colleagues are the Carl von
Clausewitzes of battles between the sexes. But, in a war where every victory
is Pyrrhic, what use is the concentration of superior force, flanking
maneuver, diversionary thrust, or even a pincher movement on a crowded bus?
And that's as if we had any victories. In those rare engagements of gender
where the man comes out, so to speak, on top, the first thing that man does is
surrender. On another front, have you ever won an argument with your mother?
She has bested you in every debate and disputation from "Resolved: We Shall
Be Weaned" to "The Case Against Asking Your First Wife to Leave Her Drunk
Second Husband in the Car and Attend Your Daughter's Wedding." If you
can't prevail
over and aged woman whose every weakness and foible you know and with whom you
have been contending your entire life, how do you expect to do against a team
from out of town? And then there is the question of whether publishing this book endangers mankind. The wisdom herein contained is normally a part of masculine oral tradition. These sagacious observations are wrung from the wet towel of interpersonal relationships by hands grown horned with the writing of child support checks. The droplets of hard-won perspicacity are then passed confidently from man to man in smoky bars, muddy duck blinds, and country western song lyrics. Perhaps your own dad, when you were of a suitable age, took you into his den, loaded up his pipe, looked over the top of his reading glasses, and said, "If it flies, floats or fucks -- rent it." All over the world pudgy, blading, experienced fellows are telling callow youths: "Cookin' lasts, kissin' don't." "They all look the same if you turn 'em upside-down." "When the groom farts in front of the bride, the honeymoon is over." But now we have made the grave error of committing these dicta to print. They are not the sorts of things men should ever put in writing. Our mothers, sisters, wives, and girlfriends (the last two, we hope, not at the same time) are going to see this book, pick it up, start reading it, and ... laugh. Because we don't know what we're talking about. Men don't know anything about women. We never have. We never will. Oh, each of us knows a few specific things. I, for instance, know why most societies don't allow women in combat. Combat is just a battle to the death. You don't want to turn it into something really ugly like a marriage. But we don't know what makes women tick. Let alone shop. We can pool our knowledge and that is what this book sets out to do. Even then we are like the blind men trying to describe the elephant -- after the elephant has moved to Boulder with its aerobics instructor. On the subject of women I'm afriand there's nothing to say. And I, for one, don't want to be caught saying it. This business of males and females trying to understand each other is an odd phenomenon anyway, and a recent one. Maybe we would all -- men and women alike -- be better off admitting our bewilderment and returning to the ignorant ways of the past. In my father's day a man married the first woman who allowed him to unclasp her brassiere. And a woman married the first man she met who had a job and didn't wipe his nose on his suit coat sleeve. Then they settled down, had children, stayed together no matter what, and were miserable the same as us. But at least it was a peaceful, stable, unworried misery and never needed any self-help books written about it, just an occassional Madame Bovary. The difficulty men have with women is really much worse a clash of the sexes. The problem is not that 50 percent of people are females. The problem is that 100 percent of females are humans. Take a human of any kind or type, whisper nonsense to it, rub its private parts, flirt with its best friend, expect it to cook for you, and see what you get. We don't know anything about women because we don't know anything about Homo sapiens. Anyone who has studied psychology, sociology, anthropology, or any of the other wacko-and-wog disciplines knows the three great rules of the social sciences: Folks do lots of things. We don't know why. Test on Friday. We known nothing about women. We know nothing about men. We don't even know anything about our own fool selves. (Although, if you want to find out some things about yourself -- and in vivid detail, too -- just try calling your wife "fat".) There is no cure for the ill this book addresses. The authors can only make a few small practical suggestions. I have one myself. Girls should be given more realistic dolls -- Betsy Wesys that spit up, stink, and howl for hours, Barbies that sag and Kens that lose their jobs, and hair. This would result, I posit, in less distaff whining later on. But all such recommendations are trifliing -- a mere cleaning of the storm drains on the continent Atlantis. The basic conundrum remains. We are in love with members of a trouble species. Why don't we fall for dogs? They have ten tits. Small ones, true, but think of it -- ten! Dogs are friendly, loyal, a little jealous sometimes but not possessed of any abstract ideas about monogamy (or anything else). They don't spend hours on the phone or put fuzzy covers on the toilet seat lid so that while you're standing there taking a leak the seat comes right back down aimed square at the principal organ of male thought. Dog jewelry is pretty much limited to a rabies vacination tag. Dogs never want you to spend Christmas at their mother's house and can't insist on going to fancy retaurants because they aren't allowed inside. (Don't forget to bring home a wifey bag.) Dogs don't care if you shave and they actually like it when you leave dirty socks in the middle of the bedroom floor. Dogs do chase cars but that's better than asking you to buy them one. And dogs never own cats. Dogs are good-lookings. Their hair is beautiful. Albeit they have a little too much of it. But the typical dog probably has less hair in its armpits than the typical coed if the coed is a Nirvana fan. And that tail thing could probably be put to some interesting uses during... I admit the dog idea of cuisine is disgusting. But many's the human bride who ought to have buried her dinner in the yard. Dogs smell, but so do we men. And, one more thing, the kids are going to be ugly. But when we're out in the muddy duck blind, telling our son the solemn truths about how it is between men and women, we will, if we marry a dog, be able to give the boy on truly important word of instruction: "Fetch!" |