Women. What are you good for?
The obvious answer, you sick, negative, pessimistic saps, is everything. You suckers are so easy to goad. I knew you’d all be in here because of the ambiguous headline. Well, now you’re stuck. So read it and weep. Or don’t. Either way, you’ve been fooled by another dodgy header.
More to the point. Women are fucking great. And not just their boobs, as I’ve so often mentioned in the past (though if we were really the modern society we crave to be, no one would get offended by men loving women’s boobs... in a caring, caressing way, of course).
Why the sudden outpouring of women love, you ask? Truth be told, it was on my list of topics to cover (ja, I make lists. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t just wake up and write this stuff while sitting on the toilet - though, honestly, sometimes it does appear that way. And I can’t deny that I haven’t actually done that in the past). Then I noticed that this Thursday was International Women’s Day. A fine day indeed. Almost as commendable as International Ewok Week.
I jest, naturally.
Who rules the world?
The International Women’s Day website describes the date as a “global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future”. I know what you’re thinking. How the hell did they make something so inspired sound so wrist-slittingly boring?
Why don’t they just call it what it really is, “admiring, respecting and coming to the realisation that women are fucking rad. And without them, men would be sitting in their (un-tailored) loin clothes, still trying to figure out how the hell the Super Rugby conference system actually works and why their beer was warm”. That sounds better.
People misunderstand me. I’ve been called many things on this website, ranging from misogynistic to pig to women-hater to words I can’t repeat because my gran reads this. She can handle the above-mentioned cuss-words, she’s from Scotland, she skins a live haggis every morning for breakfast and eats fried pigs blood and oats for lunch. She’s that hard. But I won’t repeat the uncouth four-letter words hurled in my direction, purely because they’re wrong.
My gran is the most important person in my life. Not the most important woman. Person. And then my wife to be. Even though I’m sitting here fuming because she ate the whole chocolate Easter bunny (okay, I had the bum), I still love her.
I feel for her when she has to deal with her dickish, no doubt women-hating, Masters supervisor at X University (yeah, that’s right. She’s an engineer, is doing her Masters while she works, she carries my mountain bike up hills for me and she makes my dinner. Superstar is the only word that describes her – even though the bunny’s gone). And when I leave the house at 5am to run or cycle without her, I feel strange pangs of longing. (I also worry that someone will come in and steal her while I’m gone, but I’d never admit that to anyone).
Thanks, ladies. For everything
I’ve had fantastic ex-girlfriends who’ve shaped who I am today, female friends who’ve taught me more than any online encyclopaedia could, a great gran who was beyond great, a soon to be mother-in-law who makes my favourite meals (this should guarantee even more chicken pie, Irene), first loves, lost loves, and a mother and an aunt who I don’t see often enough (they both live overseas), and who I wish spent more time in South Africa (although my mom in small doses. I can’t keep up with the amount of champagne she drinks).
Maybe it’s because I’m about to get married. Or maybe I’m just growing up, but... women, what are they good for? Every goddam important moment in your life. That’s what.
So cheers to you girls. Cheers to you, every day.
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