My ex used to say to me all the time, women can’t be funny. They’re supposed to be cute, the nice accessory that goes along with a car or a spaceship, depending on what kind of man she’s matched with, but their role pretty much stops there. And if the girl doesn’t look good, well, maybe she can be funny because she’s fat, or has an interesting set of facial features, yet again, her impact on society as a funny person will be extremely limited.
Logical question: why can’t women be as funny as men?
According to a writer I’ve just discovered (and I’m officially a fan of since 5 pm today), Dave Wong, Editor on Cracked.com, and author of two bestsellers, men’s physical appearance doesn’t play the same role as for women. His example being that men are driven by other attributes, and if they compensate for their lack of good looks with a strong sense of humor, or a fat wallet, they can go away with pretty much anything. Women, on the other hand, are bound to their physical qualities. Boobs, legs, hair, face, eyes, you name it, every part of a woman’s body is scrutinized by men on a regular basis (should I say 90% of the time, if not 99%) because men’s brain is not located inside their skull. Contrary to women, who don’t think about sex all the time, men are doomed to fail. And yes, I understand women look like juicy pieces of meat ready to be devoured any time of the day. I guess Mother Nature made it that way so that we could all have babies in the end. But Mother Nature didn’t think things through, and prevented women from actually developing their other attributes to counter-balance their lack of good looks (for the ones who weren’t lucky at birth) by being funny (the big wallet not really playing a huge difference in how men treat women anyway since they’re constantly blinded by the looks).
Shame. Honestly, I feel deprived of something great. I’d love to be funny, and even if I already make men laugh, a little bird tells me they laugh not because I’m hilarious, but because they want to get in my pants. Which again, makes me feel like a useless piece of equipment.
Writing a blog as a woman and trying to be funny is therefore one of the hardest thing to do. I can’t even guarantee to be funny without sounding like a bitter condescending bitch half the time, or the chick who thinks she’s so smart she can beat men at their own game, because after all, men have owned that turf for centuries, like they own baseball, football, hockey, Jackass, six packs, secret handshakes, writing their name with pee in the snow, nice pats on the back and cozy talks by the fire about how sometimes hair gets stuck between their ass cheeks after a shower and it takes them three days to realize it was hair and not something else because seriously, that stuff itched like a motherfucker, and it prevented them from concentrating properly on other important stuff… like boobs and new vaginas and such. Maybe that sense of humor thing is also written in the Bible, I haven’t checked, but it wouldn’t surprise me.
Is it totally hopeless for women to be funny?
I can’t make dick jokes without sounding vulgar. I can’t talk about how I’m craving hot pockets and I want to hump my next door hot female neighbor every time I hear her turn on her TV on the other side of my living room wall. I can’t relate to the hair stuck between the ass cheeks because it doesn’t take me three days to realize it was hair and not a zombie alien stuck down there. I can’t cry with my bros about not scoring chicks on Saturday nights because the competition has become too tough, and women in general have become too picky. I can’t get a boner just by thinking of a double quarter pounder with extra bacon. I can’t spend ten hours drinking forty Bud Lights and play beer pong on my kitchen table. I can’t look at another girl and think how much I’d like to bury my face between her boobs.
None of that applies to me. So I have to be the smart funny chick, who jokes about… hot guys? Meh. Food? Um. Shopping? Boring. Life? Sigh. Yep, I guess men really own that privilege after all. To my disappointment, but why should I worry about being funny anyway? I’m convinced I don’t need to even say a single word and I’ll still be viewed as the juicy piece of meat on the rack.
There’s sincerely nothing more perplexing than feeling so dehumanized. Then again, men hold the answer to how their brain functions only because Mother Nature programmed them to think like stray dogs. Does any good come out of this blatant injustice?
I’ll keep trying on my quest to be funny no matter what Mother Nature tells the rest of mankind, because it’s utterly sexy to make a man laugh, and yes, I agree once again that I’m probably not funny and he only wants to get in my pants, so what!
There must be someone out there who will appreciate my twisted sense of humor. I should launch a bunch of date nights with my readers just for the sake of it. If I can get a nice dinner out of it, why not, right?
In any event, I’d be serving my purpose. 😉