Turns out that the girly embrace-your-emotions-through-therapy claptrap that liberals have been shoving down our throats since the 60s is bad for you:
... girls who talk very extensively about their problems with friends are likely to become more anxious and depressed. ...
“When girls co-ruminate, they’re spending such a high percentage of their time dwelling on problems and concerns that it probably makes them feel sad and more hopeless about the problems because those problems are in the forefront of their minds. Those are symptoms of depression,” Rose said. “In terms of anxiety, co-ruminating likely makes them feel more worried about the problems, including about their consequences. Co-rumination also may lead to depression and anxiety because it takes so much time – time that could be used to engage in other, more positive activities that could help distract youth from their problems. This is especially true for problems that girls can’t control, such as whether a particular boy likes them, or whether they get invited to a party that all of the popular kids are attending.”
Talk about your problems, get depressed. Be a man and repress your emotions, push them deep down inside where they can't hurt anybody, and you get on with your life.
This is supported by the findings that boys who talked to friends about their problems did not exhibit anxiety or depression. Why? I suspect that it's because boys don't get on the phone for hours and obsess about their problems. We'd rather go play football.
Liberals. Bah!
A study indicates that women really don't talk more than men; in the course of a day members of both sexes utter an average of 16,000 words per day.
Of course, the study only included college students (not those in the work force, moms with small children, and so on).
Moreover, it doesn't reflect the undisputable fact that women's words are, on the average, a whole lot more irritating than men's.*
* Kidding, honey. Don't make me sleep on the couch again.
With three Democrat presidential candidate promising to eliminate the gender pay gap in America's workplace, one has to ask what, exactly, is the problem? Steve Chapman reports:
Buried in the report is a startling admission: "After accounting for all factors known to affect wages, about one-quarter of the gap remains unexplained and may be attributed to discrimination" (my emphasis). Another way to put it is that three-quarters of the gap clearly has innocent causes -- and that we actually don't know whether discrimination accounts for the rest. ...
June O'Neill, an economist at Baruch College and former director of the Congressional Budget Office, has uncovered something that debunks the discrimination thesis. Take out the effects of marriage and child-rearing, and the difference between the genders suddenly vanishes. "For men and women who never marry and never have children, there is no earnings gap," she said in an interview.
This information is not new — every time the subject of male vs. female salary comes up we trot out the studies that show that the pay gap is non-existent in this day and age. But using facts to argue with a liberal is like trying to drive nails into a fog bank.
One of every seven Brazilian legislators are being investigated on charges ranging from corruption, embezzlement and bodily harm to manslaughter -- and that's only taking the federal courts into account.
Claudio Abramo, of the non-governmental organization Transparencia Brazil, said the numbers also were a worrying indication of corruption at local and regional levels of government.
Gee, ya think?
Villagers are puzzled by the Chinese government's decision to paint a mountain green. Theories range from improving the area's feng shui to the government wishing to appear more "green" -- the barren mountain used to be a rock quarry.
Another Hollywood myth explodes: the recent discovery of an ancient coin reveals that Cleopatra wasn't all that good looking.
Hey ladies, we just can't help it:
When a man fails to help out around the house, his poor performance might be related to a subconscious tendency to resist doing anything his wife wants, a new study suggests.
We've known for a while that our desks and computer keyboards are little germ factories. But now we find that women's work spaces have four times the bacteria than their male counterparts. My childhood best friend was right -- women are gross!
Microsoft released the first security fix for Vista on patch Tuesday. This one is especially ironic for the OS billed as the "most secure ever": the hole allows someone to take complete control of your computer.
November 21, 2006
- San Jose - Apple Computer Company
Apple Computer announced today that it has developed computer chips that can store and play music inside women's breasts.
This is considered to be a major breakthrough because women are always complaining about men staring at their breasts and not listening to them.
Shopping for a woman is even worse. But shopping for a Valentines gift is the worst of all. Shopping for a woman on a day dedicated to something guys only pretend to really understand (romance) brings on a state very similar to the feelings that you would have if you had to sit through a friend's child's dance recital while preoccupied with the dread of having your first colonoscopy the very next day.
This is why chocolate sales soar; it's easy to pick up a box of chocolates and stick a name on it — and it's socially acceptable. There's no work and women get to coo over how "thoughtful" their man has been.
But my wife is a most unusual female: she hates chocolate. Which, mind you, has made Valentine's Day shopping quite a challenge year after year for the last two and a half decades.
But I try. Really, I do. I usually ask women at the office what would be a good gift. And usually their suggestions suck (it's amazing how unimaginative most women are when it comes to this), but occasionally one comes up with some good suggestions so I try to be open to new things.
So when Kathy talked about how great a store I will refer to as "Z" was, I figured what the heck, it's worth a look. So I and two of my big burly buddies made a lunch time trip to a place where men fear to tread: a shop dedicated to catering to the whimsical inclinations of that which is truly inscrutable: a woman's mind.
As soon as we walked in I knew we were as out of place as a shotgun in the hands of John Kerry. The shop was long and narrow and crammed with more brushes than a Sherwin-Williams. There were other things, most of which I could only guess at their function.
I was, admittedly, quite lost. Not as lost as when I walk into the woman's aisle at the grocery store. A guy accidentally walks into the wrong aisle at Krogers and suddenly there's no safe place to look, and it's hard to walk in a straight line when the only thing you can see is the ceiling. A man can spend a very traumatic few hours in the wrong grocery store aisle in just a few minutes.
But back to Z. I walk in, my two buds in tow, and am immediately overwhelmed by tidal wave of olfactory stimulation. It was as if every item in the store had its own unique, and overpowering, odor. There were smells that I never knew existed and when combined new, even more nauseating odors were created. How, I wondered, could this ever be considered pleasurable? I'd sooner walk into a working stable with attached dairy barn that is downwind from a slaughterhouse in which a severly frightened skunk was recently trapped.
Manfully, I soldiered on. I marched about four steps into the shop and started looking at things on a shelf. Interestingly enough, it was the kid's section. There were small transparent zippered bags with what appeared to be cosmetic products inside with child-sized brushes and pretty colors and funky fonts. I thought, "How cute!" and considered getting something for AlphaGranddaughter as long as I was there. Looking at the price tag I saw "$39.95".
Mmmm, must be mis-marked. I looked at another. Same price. Suddenly I realized that I was really in the wrong store. I also realized that my granddaughter is far too young to be playing with makeup so she would be getting no small transparent zippered bags today.
Still, it is Valentine's day and I have to get something. To come home empty handed is to suggest that I am an unfeeling brute massively undeserving of the love and devotion of a woman who is far, far too good for me. While this is undoubtedly true, it is not wise to declare so openly. To do so is to invite weeks of scalding hot potatoes nestled next to not-quite-frozen green beans on a plate with undercooked chicken, all served in a stoney yet accusatory silence. After a time of such treatment that whole recital/colonoscopy thing starts to sound like a day at the carnival.
I look around for some moral support. The guys are staring at a display of some undefinable substances with a glassy stare that clearly tells me that they will be of no real help. So I take point and advance even further into the store. Thankfully, the olfactory sense is the quickest to become fatigued so I am no longer feeling nasally assaulted. Still nauseous, though.
Ah, here's something I can understand: a bin marked "Clearance". Great! Unfortunately I can't identify anything in it. One bottle is marked "hair salad". What, I wonder, can that possibly be? I immediately reject the image of pouring Good Seasons over a bowl filled with a mix of long strands of red, blonde and brunette hair. The phrase "hair salad" reverberates through my mind as it gropes for another explanation but repeatedly returns to the image of a bowl of hair with a big fork in it. Unfortunately, my mind has added a garnish of pubic hair from a fat man's shower. (Sometimes I really wish that I could put my mind in the dishwasher for a quick cycle.)
Befuddled and bewildered I woodenly recon even deeper into the store — I don't even have the sense to beat a retreat towards the door. The absurdly high prices on the clearance items made all semblance of reason flee like French soldiers in front of a Blitzkrieg.
I arrive at the back of the store and am confronted by actual people. Ah, human interaction! This I can handle. I can ask for help! I'm not too proud to admit that I am out of my element, a fact that should have been evident to even the most self-absorbed of 90120 residents.
An impossibly thin woman stands before me, her long black hair faintly reminiscent of Morticia Adams.
I smile hopefully. She looks down her nose as if from a vast height and, in a tone that suggests that she is annoyed by my presence and regrets being forced to talk to me, asks if she can be of service.
I tell her that I'm looking for a gift for my wife (big surprise — I doubt that many men walk into that particular store looking to buy something for themselves, even if it is located in Midtown). But she is as helpful as the surrounding displays and just about as interactive. After a few exchanges that are as pleasant as a trip to build a synagogue in Fallujah, I cast my eyes about randomly, seeking an inspiration.
Aha! I find a basket of small tubes that look like they are airplane glue but are labeled "hand cream". Now even I know that women like hand cream. I briefly wonder if I can get a jar of the stuff and beat a hasty retreat, thus putting an end to this foray into hell. A glance at a the price (it's "on sale"!) quickly disabuses me of that notion. $12 for a tiny tube. My mind whirls as I guess at the number of tubes it would take to fill up one of the jars my wife has at home and I calculate the price in the hundreds . . . plural, even with a "bulk" discount.
Suddenly I notice that I am clenching the tube in my hand like a drowning man clutches a life preserver; it is the single familiar commodity in a sea of alien and bizarre products. I mumble that I will take this but need something else.
Morticia sniffs and busies herself with something at the furthest end of the counter. The other sales girl (I can call her that 'cause I'm old enough to get away with it) sees my desperate state and something maternal deep inside must have stirred her young yet already desiccated soul; she took pity and actually tried to help.
Sales Girl suggests a concoction (for what purpose, I cannot remember) of such exotic ingredients as kiwi and papaya and coconut and some kind of seaweed that only grows in the shallows of a sea formed by a coral reef containing only the skeletons of the rarest of ocean dwelling creatures. A necessity for every woman that can be mine for only a trifle over $200. Stunned, I wonder why anyone would mix food with weeds to plaster their face. Somehow I murmur a strangled response that I don't believe that I would be spending quite that much today. (This is just Valentine's Day, for goodness sakes, a day twisted by commercial entities that was originally intended to honor a Roman who was beaten and beheaded in 269 CE for refusing to give up Christianity!)
Helpfully, Sales Girl asks if my love would appreciate a jar of wrinkle remover (how old does this chick think my wife is?). She assures me that an absolutely miraculous potion is available for only $120. I say that no, crows feet and laugh lines have not yet etched their mark into the character of my wife's lovely face.
Perhaps my wife requires a brush for applying blush and other cosmetics? They have a wonderful selection starting at only $65. I admit that I am unaware of any needs in this particular area while silently wondering if the brushes are made with something rare like albino kitten ass hair.
Seeing my penchant for small tubes, she must have guessed that I wanted a variety of small items. (OK, she probably sussed that I am a niggard and the only way I would spend money was to nickel and dime me — or, in this case, Hamilton and Jackson me.)
She directs my attention to another basket on the counter containing small tins. I pick one up. It holds mints and is labeled "Oral Fixations". Heh. Without thinking my mouth opens up and I hear myself say, "This is not what I want my wife orally fixated on."
My helpful sales person says nothing while assuming a fixed smile that is exactly like that which Laura Bush puts on when she can't get out of talking to a particularly unpleasant liberal. At the other end of the counter Morticia sniffs disdainfully, turns and retreats behind a curtain. My mind still on autopilot, I think to myself that she has a nicely rounded rear for a skinny broad and she'd probably have a really sexy walk if she'd just take that humungous pole out of her ass.
I look around for moral support and find none. Not only had my wingmen not heard my joke, they were hunched over the most innocuous display they could find while trying to appear as if this wasn't an experience that was massively less pleasant than having to buy Kotex and hemorrhoid cream from a 16-year-old checkout girl who happened to be the neighbor's daughter.
O.K. Now I realize that humor has no place in this store. I look back to Sales Girl and sees that she is now staring through me, smile still pasted to her face as if painted on. Yet her professional persona takes over and she makes one last courageous attempt. Perhaps a gift certificate would be best, allowing the light of my life to choose that which would be most pleasing to her.
Hallelujah! My mind is doing cartwheels and backflips as I recognize a way out of the shopping abyss. Outwardly I maintain my composure and calmly assure her that yes, I believe that might be best.
A pen and pad are produced and "the question" is asked as my ever-helpful mind played a dirge for musical effect. For what amount should the certificate be made?
Immediately I am plunged back into mental perdition. While I am quite certain that many men walk into this den of preposterous extravagance and shell out dollars in the hundreds, I am not to be counted among them. In fact, I am as similar to them as June Cleaver is to Ann Coulter.
And yet, my manly ego was not totally beaten down by my surroundings. I have to appear as if I love my wife, even if I am talking to complete strangers. And here, in this place, love is manifested through liberal trips to the wallet. Yet this is only Valentine's Day, a day traditionally given over to cards and maybe some flowers. Bill Gates I'm not — Dad grew up in the Depression and he made some serious impressions on me.
Somehow I instinctively knew that if I said anything less than $50 I would be unceremoniously thrown out of the shop (figuratively, at least, as there wasn't anyone working in the store capable of doing such a thing). Looking down, I finally noticed that I was still gripping the tube of cream and two of those silly mint tins. So I said I would take those and a $60 gift certificate.
The gods of shopping were appeased by my sacrifice. Sales girl disappeared behind the curtain, words were murmured, and out popped Morticia to gather the relevant information. To whom would the certificate be made out? Would I like it gift wrapped for (*gasp*) no extra charge?
A flurry of activity, a credit card is produced, I release my items like a dog giving up a favorite bone, they are bagged and soon I realize that my penance is over. I retreat back through the store towards the portal of light at the other end. Without a second thought I abandon my compatriots (after all, they had been absolutely no help to me) and step into glorious normality: cars honking, people arguing, kids screaming, and the magnificent odor of carbon monoxide and people, the smell of a busy city shopping center.
It was done. I was done. All in all the experience was slightly less enjoyable than having a glass shard enema.
And I get to do something very similar in just another 365 days.
The things we do for love.
Note: although I have taken some literary license in recording my experience, most of the elements of the above are absolutely true. And I assure you, the essence of both experience and feelings are completely accurate.
Technorati Tags: Shopping, Valentine's Day.
"It is...astonishing that...marriage is still legally allowed. If nearly half of anything ended so disastrously, the government would surely ban it immediately. If half the tacos served in restaurants caused dysentery, if half the people learning karate broke their palms, if only 6% of people who went on roller coasters damaged their middle ears, the public would be clamoring for action."
— Lionel Tiger
In the study the brains of 16 men and 16 women were monitored while they played a game with someone they thought was another volunteer, but who were actually actors. Some of the actors played fair while others obviously cheated. The volunteers then watched as the hands of the actor received a mild electrical shock.
The brain scans showed that both men and women volunteers empathized when the fair player was shocked. But women emphathized even when the cheater was shocked, while men did not.
More importantly, when the cheater was shocked men actually enjoyed it while women did not. In fact, the more that a male volunteer desired revenge, the more they enjoyed watching the cheater get shocked.
Which is why I'm beginning to reevaluate my position supporting a woman for president.
Nah, I take that back. I don't care whether she enjoys administering a good ass-whooping, but I remain certain Condi will see the importance of delivering it and — like Bush — will do so.
Hat tip to Les Jones.
Technorati Tags: Men, Women, Battle Between the Sexes.
A full 61 percent of women surveyed said they would rather see a man's hands rough and working hard than well-manicured, a slap in the face to the extreme-makeover, suave-guy crowd.Hey, I'm sexy again! You should see the callouses I get from typing on this keyboard 18 hours a day.
90 percent of women said they prefer low-maintenance, easygoing guys.Meanwhile, men know that the low-maintenance gal is a mythical creature.
If American women are interested in manly men, then why does Hollywood celebrate men who are in touch with their feelings and fashion?Duh."Peoples' values that are reflected on TV often don't translate into how people view the world," Mrs. Lukas says. "Despite MTV and the New York City culture being hyped in mainstream media, it's not how most American women view life and the opposite sex."
Not all observers agree with the survey results.No doubt Wygant's interview was conducted over a large latte while he was waiting for his manicurist."Women are looking for confident men, not manly men," says David Wygant, relationship consultant and co-author of "Always Talk to Strangers." "These manly men are arrogant. Women don't want arrogant men."
Personally, I blame this man:
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One woman in five in Britain is likely to be unfaithful to her partner, and we now know what to blame: her genes.This totally ignores the fact that twins were raised in the same moral environment and thus nurture rather than nature could be at work.In one of the largest ever sexual surveys, involving 1,600 pairs of twins, scientists discovered that 40% of female infidelity can be explained by heredity....
Tim Spector, who directs twin research at the hospital, said that if genetics had a role in behaviour, then identical twins would always be more likely to share a trait than non-identical twins.
"Twins are the perfect natural experiment, because they do what you cannot do in families, that is, separate out nature and nurture."
More than 90% admitted to having thought about infidelity at some point.Thought about it? Thought about it? Only 90%? Come on, I think 10% are lying!
This is the control panel for the Sinulator, a device that controls the sex toys connected to your "partner's" computer.
From Wired magazine:
Here's how it works. Your Sinulator package includes the transmitter, a vibrator and a receiver. You download the client application from Sinulator.com. During installation, you connect the transmitter to a USB port....Read the whole thing -- it's halarious. And you learn that "teledildonics" is the name for this remote interaction technology.When you're all installed and have the client running, you attach your toy to the wireless receiver and switch it on. Finally, you go to Sinulator.com and choose a name for your toy. After that, anyone who knows your toy's name can set your toy a-buzzin' using the Sinulator control panel. Neither of you has to register or divulge any personal information -- not even an e-mail address.
Another gender gap has appeared, this time on a poll testing men's and women's knowledge of issues in the presidential campaign. On the eight-question quiz administered to 1,845 adults, men were more likely on every question to give the right answer.No wonder they vote for they guy with the best hair. Who gave them the vote anyway? [Just kidding, Honey!]The biggest gender gap was on the question asking which candidate supported moving American troops from Europe and South Korea to other places. Sixty percent of the men correctly identified President Bush, versus 43 percent of the women. There were also double-digit gaps on questions about Social Security and taxes.
The smallest gap, 54 percent versus 49 percent, was on a question asking which candidate wants to allow drugs to be imported from Canada (Senator John Kerry).
Backless and strapless, these babies sell for $43 (the bikinis, not the girls):The new bikinis are designed for sunbathing avoiding the marks caused by straps. They and are held in place with a gel compound at the sides.
Large-breasted, narrow-waisted women have the highest reproductive potential, according to a new study, suggesting western men's penchant for women with an hourglass shape may have some biological justification. ...Ye gods! Yet another reason to hate the 60's generation: they gave us Twiggy and birth rates are now declining in all western civilized countries."In Western societies, the cultural icon of Barbie as a symbol of female beauty seems to have some biological grounding," concludes the team. "I would be the last person to propagate Barbie," Jasienska notes wryly. "But when you think about the hourglass shape, Barbie is sort of the symbol."
Damn hippies.
Reading the story you learn that the basis of the headline is that female chimps learn to "fish termites" at a much younger age than their male counterparts. You also learn that
Adult females spend more time termite fishing than adult males, which means that the young of both sexes seem to pursue activities at a very early age that are related to their different roles in later life . . .As there was no comparison to young chimps learning a "male" trait, the headline is misleading -- if not an outright lie.
Of course, it could be argued that adult male chimps don't really do anything other than scratch themselves and be waited on hand and foot by females, thus there is nothing to learn. But that would be a speciest stereotype and I'm sure no one of intelligence would put forth such a theory.
Now where did I put that remote control? Honey, can you get me a Dew from the fridge?
As you can imagine, I've rather hated reading Rousseau. But I think that chapter five of "Emile" should be required reading for every little girl in every grade from first through twelfth. An example:
Thus the whole education of women ought to relate to men. To please men, to be useful to them, to make herself loved and honored by them, to raise them when young, to care for them when grown, to counsel them, to console them, to make their lives agreeable and sweet -- these are the duties of women at all times, and they ought to be taught from childhood. So long as one does not return to this principle, one will deviate from the goal, and all the precepts taught to women will be of no use for their happiness or for ours.Preach on, brother! Heh!
Not shown in the study are the obvious facts that married men don't go to psychiatrists because (1) the greatest portion of their income is going towards keeping a wife happy and (2) their wives tell them they don't need to go see a professional.
Men did better if they just shacked up while women needed the official marriage prison commitment to feel good.
The researchers also found that serial sexual relationships were good for men, but not women.
Obviously women really are from another planet.
"No pain, no gain" goes the saying, and two scientists now say that "shop 'till you drop" is one of the reasons that women live longer. Shopping involves physical activity (all that reaching for the credit card, no doubt), challenges the brain ("Now, where am I going to put this totally useless item and how am I going to convince my husband that we can't live without it?"), and maintaining a positive self-image ("Oh yeah, these pants make me look hot!"):
"Women go to the mall, and they have to walk around a lot, oftentimes carrying heavy bags. Secondly, they have to make a lot of decisions: 'I have to compare this price with that . . . will this particular piece fit in my home?' When they're all done, they really feel good about themselves, like they've accomplished something," said Dr McKhann, 70, professor of neurology and director of the Zanvyl Krieger Mind/Brain Institute at Johns Hopkins University.
"Men, on the other hand, are at home sitting in front of the TV trying to help [their football team] along, and that doesn't do any of the three."
