Pets Are Not Children
Men are a lot like dogs. That’s right, that’s what I said. Talk to any woman about anything and eventually she’ll tell you exactly the same thing.
Men are dogs.
Of course, just like any other time a woman opens her mouth, she doesn’t have any fucking clue what she’s talking about. She’s right only because women vomit words from their mouths with such a frequency that eventually she has to be right, even though she’s probably contradicting something she’s just said, or possibly jibbering in a language she doesn’t know.
If men are dogs, then women are drunken parrots with The Home Shopping Network and a credit card on speed dial. That’s why men are better pet owners than women; because the only things women know how to do are squawk and peck.
Dogs are loyal, resourceful, and they have positive attitudes. They also don’t give a shit about being too clean because that is really neurotic and ruins the fuck out of the feel of an otherwise livable home.
What could be more man-like than that? Those kinds of man-traits, that men share with dogs as well as with all the other animals in the wild that have to make their own way instead of goldbricking on the couch day-in, day-out and conjuring up reasons why weddings are important enough to spend more than dick on — make men better pet owners than women. Hands down.
Let’s take a pet’s impact on others into account first. Because that’s how men behave. Rocking the boat is inappropriate unless it’s necessary to get the job done, and when owning a guinea pig or a Chihuahua it is fucking not.
How many times have you seen a dog in a sweater or in a purse? Probably not a lot, but when you did, you can bet your ass that a man didn’t do that. A man also has never had a bunch of pictures of his pets in his wallet or his Man Bag that he’s ready to whip out on the unsuspecting at a moment’s notice. Nor will a man tell stories about his pets that are not extremely humorous; because that’s a huge waste of everyone’s time.
That’s strike one for women, who will begin a show-and-tell tale at any random point over their pet’s lifeline and finish no one knows the fuck where because there’s no point to any of it anyway. No one gives a shit if the cat turns purple in the winter time or the hamster likes the raisins more than the sunflower seeds. Leave that kind of life sucking bullshit in the diary or the equally horseshit LiveJournal.
Here’s strike two. Pets are not babies. No matter how much women want everyone to think the pug in their lap has been brewing inside of them for nine months, it fucking hasn’t. It was a few hundred bucks and there’s like a billion of them. That means no one wants to see pictures of the ugly thing, no one wants to hear about baby’s first poop, and no agency is going to come haul anyone away if the fucker misses a few meals. It’s not a big deal.
I’m not even going to make the third point that men are better than women at being pet owners because men are better than women at taking care of things. Let me just say this. Men never complain about raising a baby do they? The midnight feedings, the constant crying; I’ve only ever heard those complaints come from women. Women who all complain about taking care of babies as often and as grandly as they can, like they’re all the Virgin fucking Mary — even if they don’t have any of their own! I don’t even know how that works.
It’s because taking care of babies or pets or classic cars comes naturally to us men. It’s our sixth sense. Our man sense. Our mighty man-empathy. The only thing women can empathize with is a cactus.
