Men, so I’ve heard, are from Mars. And Women, for good measure, are from Venus.
Hmmm. Why so? Why not the other way around? Why not, just for the heck of it – Mercury? Or Pluto? Umm – actually, on second thought, discount Pluto. Women have to be from the hotter planet – for reasons obvious, hence closer to the sun, which means Men would have to be, by default, from Pluto. Now, considering that Pluto is (or used to be, till some less than humorous astronomers decided otherwise) the smallest member of our solar family – and I being a Man – I’d rather not prefer that very ego-dissatisfying analogy. So, drop Pluto. But, Saturn would do. Oh yes – those rings of fire are just what I would want to hail from! Or Jupiter – the strong and silent type. That’ll do famously as well!
But, no! Gray (not Black, nor White, but Gray) – Dr. John Gray, to be precise – tells us that Mars and Venus it’ll have to be.
To being just another dollar-thirty-nine bar from the production facility of a specific brand of chocolate. Or a green goblin left behind in the marsh, running on solar power and yearning for a chance to ride a bicycle across the moon.
No, I am an earthling. And a Man at that! Do you know what that means? That means I can go standing up. And have a perfectly formal conversation while at it. I can burp, and dig, and blame it on my WHY chromosome.
WHY must I be polite? Or well-groomed? Why can I not be a caveman and get paid for it? Why can I not rant, and still hope to win applause? And, of course, why 'Y'?
Y. The penultimate letter of the alphabet. The operative word here is “penultimate”. Just before the ultimate. Why not the ultimate? See, here’s the tragedy. And my problem with scientists, and their thoughtless ways. Did anyone bar the good scientist who discovered it from choosing the ultimate letter for naming the male-defining chromosome? Why could Y not be Z, or A? A would be nice – A for Alpha-Male! Or, Z – the last word (look here and no further etc. etc.). But, no, Y it is. Forever dooming 50% of all humanity to being the penultimate. The runners-up. The also-rans. The race of the Almost.
Women always have it good. Look at their defining chromosome. X. Perfect. Exquisite shape (complete with the tiny waist), well-balanced, with a certain mystery about it. Mesmerising, if you look closely and for long enough. You can turn them upside down, but they’ll always land on their feet. Feline-like, if you know what I mean. Quite unlike our Y – imagine how silly we look when charmed upside down – ugh, I don’t even want to go there!
It’s quite depressing, really. Doesn’t make sense. My head’s hurting. I’m feeling drained.
Think I’ll go sit in the sun now.
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