The truth men dare not utter

By Stephen B. Bagley

I’ve been thinking recently about my failures with relationships with women, and I think it boils down to this: Women are universally insane.

Yes, now you know the truth that no man dares utter. At least he doesn’t dare if he intends on having a date any time soon, but since I’m traveling through the Desert of Romance riding my camel Clarence and leading a train of surly Republican mules right now, I feel fairly safe in my utterance, although, of course, I will deny ever having said it should my dream girl appear in real life.

Women are bonkers. Do you understand? They’re loony tunes. Nuts. Several bricks shy of a load. A bunch of bananas from the crazy tree. Mad as hatters. Batty as bats. Steeples without bells. Bells without clappers. Clappers without hands. Hands without fingers. Fingers without prints. Prints without ink. Ink without cartridges. Cartridges without guns. Guns without triggers. Trigger without Roy. Roy without Dale. Dale without a valley. Valleys without a river. Rivers without water. Water without wet. Wet without a suit. Suits without a tie. Ties without a knot. Knots without a rope. You get the point, right?

What? You need evidence? Just a few days ago after church, I was talking to a married couple I know, and the wife asked why I wasn’t the lesser half of a twosome. I told it was because women were crazy.

“If women are crazy, men drive us there,” the wife said. She proceeded to tell me all things that her husband said and did to drive her around the nutty bend in the road.

He suffered silently, but gave me a look that said I was going to get a beating first chance he got.

And I gave him a look that said he wasn’t big enough, but I was sorry I had said anything.

And he gave me a look that said it was okay, and he was looking forward to fall when football season started again.

And I gave him a look that said I missed football, too, but I hated cold weather and wouldn’t it be awesome if they played football year round.

And he gave me a look back that said yeah, that would be grand particularly if they also played baseball.

And my look said that baseball was okay, but I had never really enjoyed it the way I did football.

And he gave me a look that said one of us should be paying attention to what she was saying in case she wanted a response.

And my look told him that I had tuned in briefly and she was still going on and on about having to pick up his underwear even though the clothes hamper was only two steps away from anywhere in the tiny apartment that she was trapped in.

And his look said that she was the one who chose that tiny apartment when he had been content for them to keep living with his mother who had always taken good care of him and didn’t burn dinner the way his wife did.

Then his wife gave him a look that said that he’d be lucky to EVER see her in the kitchen again if that’s how he felt about it! Then she burst into tears.

They both moved off with her giving me an angry just-wait-until-you're-married-and-I-talk-to-your wife look and him giving me a trapped kill-me-now look and me giving them a you-should-see-a-marriage-counselor look.

But you’ve not heard the craziest thing about women, and to paraphrase a country sage, it’s this: I like ’em. I love ’em. I want some more of ’em.

It’s obvious that I’m perfect for them because I’m as bonkers — or even more — than they are. So what I’m really looking for, what I need, is a woman to be crazy along with me.

We could wear our clown suits as we skip happily through life, throwing pies, spraying seltzer water, tripping people with our huge shoes. We could have lots of kids and get one of those tiny cars and travel around the country spreading happy insanity as we go.

There are worse lives, you know.

Copyright 2011 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission from the author and publisher. Excerpted from Return of the Floozy.

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