It’s time for me to take a big step and out the most powerful organization in the world. I know that I’m not the first to take it on but it’s important for me to throw my voice into the fray. Otherwise, I run the risk of being permanently silenced.
Now, I’m not a ladies man. Don’t get me wrong. I like-a the ladies. Women are beautiful people. But I suffer from Nice Guy Syndrome. Dreadful, dreadful affliction that it is. You know the type, I’m sure. They’re the thoughtful, gentle, somewhat shy guys – just one notch up from being thoroughly wussy – who make great friends. Attractive women often have nice guys as friends.
Nice guys may have a nervous tic that is the result of being secretly or not-so secretly forlorn from being so close and yet so far from a desired mate. In chronic cases of NGS he may also be acutely ulcerated subsequent to his role as confidant. Hearing of his female friends’ romantic and sexual exploits may cause his appendix or other internal organs to burst on the spot.
Of course, since he suffers from Martyr’s Complex as well, he’ll stoichally tough it out, pretend the loud report came from a backfiring delivery truck and then politely excuse himself from a social situation so that he can find a quiet, discrete venue from which to dial 911 before passing out. Or more often, he’ll return to his domicile, climb under the covers, assume a fetal position and weep himself to sleep.
So I’m turning my own personal frustration and angst to the one organization that, aside from myself, bears the weight of responsibility: W.O.O. A.W.E. – The Worldwide Organization of All Women Everywhere.
It explains so much. When women go to the restroom in groups it’s because they have an urgent message from Lady Central HQ. Those petite mirror compacts and bullet-sleek lipstick applicators are actually miniaturized communications and surveillance hardware. Women don’t really drive and put on makeup at the same time. C’mon guys, don’t be gullible. That may be what it looks like but what they’re really doing is calibrating GPS and spy satellites that can count the change in your jeans pockets.
Each male of the species has already been scanned, analyzed and graded on innumerable criteria. The abilities to procreate, contribute income, kill spiders, chase off rodentia, change oil, cook breakfast that’s more involved than a bowl of cereal, talk about so-called “feelings” while maintaining eye contact and unclog toilets are just a few factors that I’ve seen in official WOOAWE documents that were leaked to me from an unnamed source.
That’s right. I’ve figured it out. But they’re not alone. Homosexual men are complicit in the conspiracy. Curse you, gay men! You are the familiars of female overlords. Gay men provide all the true friendship, support and thoughtfulness of nice guys with one small but important difference. As a desireable … I mean, good female friend of mine eloquently stated, “It feels like they really like you for you since they would rather have a penis you know.”
These gay lackeys, turncoats to the completely unorganized and inept male counter-organization, provide support and unentangled social relationships. But in the process they’re also upsetting the delicate ecosystem of poorly concealed, lopsided-ly infatuation-driven, platonic friendships. Have they no shame? No. None. Which is why they’re so entertaining to watch on the telly.
So I’m making my stand. “Mission: Paranoid Conspiracy Nut” is well under way. The goal is to infiltrate the archives, pinch my own file and learn what the other gender has in store for me.
The truth is out there. Somewhere. Over there somewhere, maybe. No, to your left. No … your other left. You’re getting warmer.