If women could be worst at anything (and they can’t because each new thing they do or repeat doing they are the new worst at) it would be measuring. Women are so bad at it, they couldn’t measure a ruler. That’s why if you ask a woman how big some random size is, she’ll either present her forearm or point to a football field. It makes absolutely no fucking difference what you asked.

I mean, six inches is huge, but not that huge.

That’s why Jesus was a man. Because he was a carpenter first and needed to know how to measure shit. He was also a man because eventually he had to know his ass from a petite size 8 hole in the ground. Only a man would know that and also that a size 8 is in no way “petite”. Dumbo was not a petite elephant. He was a lard ass.

I meant what I said earlier about women not being able to measure a ruler. It’s funny, sure, but so is everything about women. Big fucking surprise. They’re a walking, talking joke. When women look down at a ruler, they don’t see what you and I see: a series of numbers in sequential order indicating a distance of measure. They actually just see a bunch of gobbledygook that frightens and arouses them. What it doesn’t do, however, is remind them specifically of why they’re supposed to be looking at the ruler — to figure something the fuck out.

That’s how it is with women. If you’re not over their shoulder at all times “figuratively” smacking them on the back of the head when they’re about to careen wildly into philandery, you’ll end up with nothing to measure anyway.

Who gives a shit about measuring though? How long has it been since I’ve measured anything? I’ll tell you how long it’s been. About three seconds.

Everything in life takes a metered output. The gas pedal, opening a door, a pinch of salt. Women are so atrocious at everything they do because they can’t measure themselves subconsciously like men do.

Remember that table of obnoxious women at the restaurant chowing down on a five course appetizer meal and saying “Eureka! It’s a diet!” That was a probably of volume measuring. The woman that cut you off in traffic or who slammed on the brakes and almost hit the postman? That was so many different kinds of measuring problems that I don’t even know where to start.

The point is, it’s not the specifics of the doings and the dealings that drive women indoors and away from the big scary civilized world. It’s that they’re operating on two of ten cylinders. They’ve got no motor or critical thinking skills. They can’t weigh.

Imagine living your life permanently drunk on a quart of whiskey. Now take about how hilarious you’d be. That’s what it’s like to be a woman.

This entry was posted under The MANifesto.