The Unassailable Secret to Sexual Fulfillment - A Bit of Fun
Last night my wife and I were at a club, watching this stand-up comic. He was pretty good, and soon had the crowd giggling and laughing at his slightly sexual jokes. Then he held up both hands, commanded silence, and announced in a booming voice—to the men only, he said—that he was now going to reveal three little words that would lead to absolute marital harmony and mind-numbing sexual ecstasy. Well, yes, yes, yes, I had the usual self-enlightened interest in the former of these benefits, but I was really keen on the latter—so I was paying attention, let me tell you.
After he’d generated some guffaws and elbow-nudges from the men, the comic was ready for the moment. He paused for dramatic effect, held his hands high, palms towards the crowd in a quasi-evangelical salute. His eyes were closed reverentially as he boomed out: “Men ! If you want to really LIVE with your woman and get everything she has to give (wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say-no-more, say-no-more), never forget these three critical words--Women are RIGHT !”
Well, you can imagine the reaction. Women shrieked, turned from their men to high-five other women at nearby tables, and whistled their approval to the comic. Men laughed out loud, sort of nervously, and looked over their shoulders to see how other men were reacting. A lot of guys headed for the bar to get drinks, like all of a sudden they needed to be in motion. After the initial explosion of laughter at the joke, I noticed that most of the women in the crowd were sitting cross-armed (women do not normally sit cross-armed) with straight-lipped unsmiling smiles on their faces, like they’d just been reminded of a self-evident Cosmic Truth that they’d momentarily (just momentarily) forgotten..
I had laughed at the joke too, right? And you’re at least smiling now, right?. All this ho-ho, hee-hee springs from the fact that the proposition is absurd, right? We laugh at absurdity, at incongruity, at things placed in weird juxtapositions to other things . . . . right? Then there’s another possibility, the frightening possibility that the proposition is CORRECT!
I immediately shook my head to dismiss this idiotic conclusion, as though ideas were loose change that would fly off into the night if I shook hard enough. I glared at my wife’s rather nice profile. She was driving us home after the show, ‘cause I’d gulped down four daiquiris after The Joke and could barely see the dashboard, never mind the road. “Good joke, eh?” I slurred cunningly.
“Which one, darling?” she replied serenely, that infuriating straight-lipped unsmiling smile back on her face (all women learn that smile in the womb. They practice while they gurgle around in the goop). Damn! My ploy hadn’t smoked her out!
“Y’know perfectly swell which joke, ”I retorted, “the one about women being right.” She threw me the kind of glance she might have thrown to a mentally challenged five year-old who had just said something quite clever. “Well, it was silly enough for a laugh,” --looks coyly over her slightly raised right shoulder—“but it is an excellent observation.”
“Aha! I’m on to you! You pretend it isn't true but you think it IS true so if you can convince me that you think its untrue you’ll be able to truly protect the truth for the True Sisterhood!” I was rigid with indignation; only my seatbelt and the fact that my wife had accelerated to 130 km on the freeway, restrained me from rushing into the street to cry out a warning to All Men of the plot that surrounded them.
I got home, slept, ate a hangover breakfast (which just made me more hungry), and began my research. If I was correct—if women were truly always right—that huge insight could be harnessed for the betterment of Mankind! More to the point, it could bring me fame. . .and lots of money. The True Sisterhood would pay a small fortune to keep me quiet, and men would pay more for the means to use the secret to their marital advantage. I began quietly: “Sweetheart, remember when you forgot to get milk yesterday?” “Oh,” she replied absently, paying little attention, “you mean when you distracted me in the dairy section with the question about the screwdriver?” Point: my fault, not hers. Later, in a conversation, she said that the Wilsons lived on Larch Street. I corrected that they lived on 33rd Avenue (get out of this one, I cackled inwardly). “Ah yes,” she said, gazing on me fondly, “it was you who lived on Larch as a child. I’m always thinking of you, Dear.” Point: my fault for being the object of her affections. Watching the news that evening, I declared, “that damn war in Afghanistan is unwinnable.” My wife looked over her glasses at me and admonished, “Well Dear, if we all had more faith in our foreign policy and more confidence in our armed forces, you wouldn't have to show that kind of frustration.” Point: my criticism was losing the war for us. It went on and on. I caught her red-handed in every kind of error imaginable, but it did not matter—she was always blameless. I was always at fault.
I abandoned my former thoughts of fame and fortune. Inevitably, my research was going to be anecdotal, so I concluded that I had to share my theory with my male friends and get their input. I met with six of them at the local watering hole; over beer I asked questions and kept notes. My buddies recited incident after incident with their wives—same results, without exception. Jim told about a major essay his wife failed at college. She convinced her prof that the essay question was off-topic, unfair, and beyond her level of ability. He ended up apologizing to her. I pleaded with them to come up with just one little instance where their wives had admitted they were wrong, in anything, anything at all. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. Zilch.
“So what do we do”? wailed Jim, six beers into sloppy despair. George, the real thinker in the group (and only three beers into it) chimed in, “remember King Canute, who was supremely pissed at Poseidon, god of the sea, for drowning his son?” We all blearily admitted some vague memory of the story. “Well, to punish Poseidon, the good king took a bullwhip and whipped the waves.” One of the other guys sagely ventured, ”ahh, I don’t think that would do a whole lot of good, would it now?” George looked at this intellectual giant and replied, “about as much good as us trying to do something about being the only guys on the planet who have actually figured out that women really are right. Every time.”
We lamented our way through a few more beers and orders of monster burgers. . .and then it hit me. “Of course! George, you are indeed the resident genius!” I quickly explained: we were agreed that women learn their strategies in the womb, hone them with their mothers, practice on their brothers and male teachers, and bring them into full-blown implementation with their husbands. In Judo, you learn to use your opponent’s weight and momentum to your advantage—it’s the flow from him (her!) to you that helps you win.
The key to victory, I positively crowed, lies in giving up! My buddies (including George) were sitting around the table, mouths agape, some with unsightly strands of drool hanging from their doltish maws, not getting it at all. “Look, dumbheads,” I yelled at them: “they know that theyr’e right even when they’re wrong because we keep telling them they’re wrong when they’re right so they have to right that wrong by arguing that they’re right, right?” More agaping. More drool. Some cunning squints added. I spoke to the squints: “Because our women are programmed from the womb to insist on being right, the more we argue with them, the tenser they get. Now, think hard, are tense women interested in sex?”
George—God bless George—suddenly cried, “Argh! You mean my depleted sex life is my fault!” I looked at him smugly, “100%, Baby, 100%. Chant the mantra, “Women are Right”, live it, believe it, her stress will disappear, and she’ll open like a flower.”
We all then went home to practice. When we met at the watering hole three days later, there were nothing but smiles—very big smiles—around the table. And the women will never know we’re on to the secret. Damn ! Are we smart or what?
