One of my recent favorite local writers - BCPires. This article as the title suggest is based on the inequity and women empowerment in society. Naturally it is an article that deserve to have a space on my blog and read by all females to have some sense of security or upliftment.
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FOLDING BED SHEETS; there's another thing that separates men and women like oil and water or PNM and People's P: how, in God's name - no, wait, the Devil's - do women make folding bed linen seem so effortless? For me, grappling with a king-sized sheet is like rigging the sails of a 17th Century galleon: I need a 180-man crew; and pulleys; and several rations of rum; and, even so, I'm never far away from saying, "Frigate" and tossing everything to fo'c's'le away.
Indeed, if I even manage to hang a king-sized bed sheet to dry on the clothes line without dragging it through doggie-do or strangling myself, I feel like I've pulled off a stunt straight out of Salt; which makes me think of Angelina Jolie; which makes me think of how the sheets got dirty in the first place; which, naturally, leads to (perhaps unnatural) thoughtsof my wife, who's superior to Angelina in three ways: 1. She doesn't have tattoos; 2. But does have everything else (except Brad Pitt - she had to settle for his initials); and 3. She's actually here, right next to me - except she's not. She's away; which is the principal reason I'm struggling with the sheets on my one, as it were, and my thoughts are folding in on themselves and all this firetrucking cloth.
What the hell could be in the Y chromosome that renders men incapable of tucking, gathering and pleating? You might as well ask a FIFA executive to pay footballers what they're contractually owed or a politician to keep a promise; and the footballers are likely to get their money before the sheets are folded; and God help the footballers if they have to face FIFA plus politician; they might as well start pronouncing their bonus as ‘bone-ass'.
Even when we help our women with the sheets, we men are liable to cock up our bit. And they can do it by themselves! I've seen my wife, all 150cm-odd of her, pull down a fitted king-sized sheet from the line like she was pulling a tissue from a box and, three seconds later, it's folded in a neat square in the basket, like a cowboy lassoing a steer and roping its feet at a rodeo; except quicker. Flat sheets she dispatches faster than the speed of light. Women can probably fold pillow cases with their tongues, such is their superiority in the game.
In fact, women often do a better job with the sheets - and thank God that "with" is not a "within" - if men are not involved at all; and there's a line of firetrucking thinking that should be nipped in the bud, lest it lead to performance anxiety above, beyond and upon said sheets. There are, I know, real men who'd rather go down in flames than simply go down. Women plus bed sheets minus men equals greater satisfaction is not a happy equation for our sex; which is why the creation and sustenance of the myth of feminine inferiority was, from earliest times, so high on my own gender's agenda.
Women get pregnant - which they can do entirely without men, now that sperm can be banked like blood or cash. Women carry babies from microbe to maturity. Women give birth. Women nurse. The bond between father and child is tenuous, the one between mother and child unbreakable (excepting only cases of genuine freaks of nature, those mentally ill women who can disown their own). Women nurture, love and give succour all their days. Mother's milk can even cure eye infections; and what do men have?
We can pee standing up.
How in the name of God - no, wait, the Devil - did we manage to fool women into thinking we're superior? Thank God for priests! It's not by accident that religions cast women as being subject to men. We couldn't have pulled off our supposed supremacy without God. We had to trick women into believing that ours is the superior sex the same way we trick children into believing in Santa Claus: by telling them over-and-over again, from the time they were born until they just stopped questioning and accepted.
And nowhere in the world is the subjection of women made more plain than in those parts - which, thankfully, will not include Paris in three months - where civilized people have remained silent while women were put, by men, under cloth and thumb. There is no greater threat to freedom than the veil which supposedly protects women from but really subjugates them to brutish men.
It's no defence to say only a small portion of women wear the full body suit. The least version of the veil gives me more grief than an un-ironed queen-size; I could quicker come to terms with a super-king fitted sheet blowing on the line in a hurricane than a handkerchief covering a woman's hair. The only point of the veil is to bring women into line; and anyone who has escaped a penal or slave colony (or its mental trappings) should want their people free.
But perhaps I speak from a position of inadequacy.
Perhaps I might have made a good imam myself, and upheld the idea of downtrodden women, if I could have made bed sheets do my bidding. I might have mastered the art of Arab woman-seduction and married a conservative Middle Eastern chick; maybe up to five, once I could have paid for all. Mind you, I wouldn't know what they looked like until I unwrapped them on their respective wedding nights. I might have uncovered one cupcake, one paradise plum and three tin sam or dumplings. I might do better by folding from the deal. I don't know. Maybe I'm just not religious enough. Maybe I don't have the proper god-fearing attitude to the female sex. Maybe I should do like the priests and imams and stop wrestling with the veil.
And just prey on it.
BC Pires will get a holy dressing down
