Two very important things have recently come to my attention:
The first is that, for a blogger I am radically behind the times, and will be writing about something that was news back in January. This is in addition, of course, to the fact that I am severely behind on writing anything, at all. Of course, neither of these things actually just came to my attention. That was a teeny white lie. However, it’s convenient to pretend that they did, to save myself the embarrassment of not being cultishly addicted to my anonymous internet identity.
The second thing that has come to my attention is that women are, as a whole, not really very funny. I’m somewhat relieved to have this pointed out to me, not because it lowers the bar to an inch off the ground, but because I can finally drop this exhausting charade. I’m really an introvert, and being the wit at a party is f**ing exhausting, and I’m ready for a break. And now, no one can blame me for not trying. (For more information on this scientifically proven fact about women’s lack of humor, I will refer you to this article, written by Christopher Hitchens in Vanity Fair: http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701?currentPage=1).
I’m pretty excited about this news, as it will finally free me up to pursue some other hobbies I’ve been meaning to try, like becoming a cat manicurist.
Let’s ignore, for the time being, the distinct possibility that Mr. Hitchens’s wrote this article simply because he was bored and unable to find any suitable distractions on the internet (like porn, or videos of men getting hit in the groin, or LOL Cats). Let’s also just assume for the sake of simplicity, that the single study he cites as evidence can be taken at face value, and that anything regarding the entirety of the human race can be proven by observing the behavior of 10 men and 10 women, and one journalist’s anectdotes about dating.
Let’s also take it on faith that Mr. Hitchens, a renowned journalist and rabble rouser, is also an authority on humor (which for the sake of my women readers who I now know are handicapped in this department, can be summed up as anything involving penises, sex, poop, pee, boogers, or vomit, in that order).
Actually, I’m pretty comfortable making these assumptions. After all, I’ve made much more important decisions based on much less. Like the time I had to decide whether to pee in the pool and hope no one would notice, or go through all the hassle of walking across a crowded public place with all my flab hanging out, wrestling with a wet swimsuit, and risking a humiliating slide off the toilet onto my bare ass in the lady’s room. That was a much harder decision, and all the evidence I had to go on at the time was the fact that pee is yellow and might show up in the water.
So, making this leap of faith, as I am suggesting we do, I am hugely relieved. No seriously. I mean it. It’s not like Mr. Hitchens is suggesting that women are not smart, or capable, or equal players in the game of life. He is merely positing that we aren’t FUNNY. Or more precisely, we just aren’t really good at making fart jokes, or talking about how gross our bodies are. Not to imply that our bodies aren’t just as gross as men’s bodies, but as South Park has already pointed out so elegantly, queefs are no laughing matter. And we won’t even get into the kinds of ridiculous situations that can arise as part of owning a woman’s body. The last time I tried to pass off a joke about tampons the only people who laughed were women, and they don’t know better.
But anyway, women aren’t funny. And I’m inclined to agree. As Mr. Hitchens points out, most women are too worried about having and raising babies, and this renders us more serious and preoccupied with issues of life and death than men. I’m honestly surprised that our gender can even remember to turn off the stove at night, with all the terribly important “preserving the species” that we accomplish every day.
Even those of us women who fail to preserve our own species usually have a cat or twelve to make up for it. We’re just hard-wired that way. And I’ll be the first to admit that cat ladies are even unfunnier than mothers. You think listening to a mother spout on about her adorable toddler is mind numbing, try hanging on for your life for five minutes while a single woman talks about how her Mr. Flubbermuffin did the cutest thing the other day. So, in summary: women make babies and have to keep them alive, and therefor we’re too IMPORTANT to be funny. (In my case, the main reason I neglect this blog and fail to be funny on a regular basis is because I’m too busy knitting sweaters for my cats).
In other words, women aren’t funny because we make babies. And we all know that parenthood and humor (let alone, parenthood and grotesque bodily functions) are complete anathema. Like oil and water. Well, when it comes to women anyway. It’s funny when a man throws up from a particularly nasty baby poop because that’s what humor is made of (penises, poop, and vomit). But unless a woman swoops in to the rescue, and takes the whole thing very seriously, well, we’d have nothing but diaper rash and dead babies on our hands.
And if you think live babies are unfunny, you should try dead babies. Have you ever, in all your life heard a dead baby joke? No? Because they just don’t exist. Dead babies are not funny, and no one ever made a lot of money turning them into trading cards. No one laughs at that, so don’t go there. OK?
But anyway, I’ve lost track. What was I saying?
Oh right: This has all come as a pretty big relief for me. Because this whole time I’ve been operating under the weight of misinformation. I think if it’s all the same with you guys, I’ll just give in to my desire to post nothing but pictures of my cats and write about how cute they are. Well, until I get around to having kids anyway.