Women Are Grossbuckets

30 Aug

The picture of femininity is a floral-smelling, powdered twit (that’s “twit”) twirling her parasol and, with a lilting giggle, snorting morphine to abate the painful rib bruises caused by her whalebone corset. However the reality of women isn’t that divine, and in fact, once held to scrutiny, the fairer sex comes off looking pretty gross. This is not a relative statement, I’m not saying that women are grosser than men; indeed, both genders are fucking disgusting when you come to ponder it. However, women are grosser than, say, hedgehogs. And frankly, they shouldn’t be.


Most Women Have An Operating Rotation of One to Three Bras

Whenever you spot a busty woman wobbling down the street, consider the strong possibility that her underthings have a day or two of boob funk on them. Bras are goddamned expensive and they fight a losing battle against gravity every time they’re worn. By the time a lady has squirreled away enough cash for a new bra, an old one will have gone useless (except in making catapults), so she never gets above some pitiful quantity for her entire adult life. Even the lesser-bosomed walking among us, while they may have five or even seven bras, they likely cling to two or three “comfy bras” that get worn out like irregular socks. Wearing the same bra may be better than wearing the same genital undies two days in a row, but the bra is essentially skin tight, it’s snug against the pores, and no woman can claim her bra hasn’t gotten a bit whiffy after too many wears. I feel for you, big titted women of the world, but if I wear my comfortable t-shirt with the ripped collar and stain of unknown origin down the front for more than a six-hour stretch you act like I’ve farted in an elevator, so don’t start.


Women Discuss Their Poop. A Lot.

A fellow on the internet suggested that the recent movie Bridesmaids was, contrary to popular belief, geared towards men. He disregarded the fact that the plot is about a maid of honor’s jealousy at her best friend’s impending marriage and instead focused on one scene where Maya Rudolph is forced, due to a sequence of hilarious circumstance, to poop in the middle of the road while wearing a potential wedding dress. “It’s a shit joke!” he opined, “No woman would enjoy a joke about shit.” I wondered if he had met any actual women or if he was merely hypothesizing based on episodes of The Brady Bunch, because anyone who has spent a reasonable amount of time with a lady knows that, once she’s comfortable, she won’t shut up about her endocrine system for a fucking second. And it’s not just a bathroom itinerary, mind you, but a detailed description of the size, shape, consistency, and odor of the particular waste in question. Get two or more ladies in a room with cocktails and they’ll start spinning copy for a laxative commercial. On the other hand, I have a friend that I’ve known since nursery school, and we never talk about poop. That’s real camaraderie, women, a friendship that has existed thirty-plus years without either of us delving into anything more meaningful than what’s happening in sports at the moment. My friend could be dying from an obstructed bowel and I wouldn’t know until he was in the casket. And I love him for it.


Those Cute Little Toes Are Encrusted in Crap

Next time you see some fine honey wearing open-toed shoes or outright flip-flops on hot city streets, consider the fact that when she gets home and kicks off those strappy numbers to cool her tootsies, the soles of her feet and any part that was exposed to the sooty air are smeared with the filth of ten-thousand public urination scofflaws. It amazes me, really, that so many women stroll around with their naked feet centimeters above dried vomit and rat droppings, yet they have the nerve to paint their toenails. That’s like hanging a Rembrandt oil painting on a garbage can. What you need to do is wrap those dogs in latex or at least a pair of fucking socks. Because if you come around me with those tire treads looking for a foot rub or your blackened raisin toes suckled, you might wind up losing your hooves at the ankle.

An old joke I heard sums up this diatribe pretty well: why do women wear makeup and perfume? Because they’re ugly and they smell bad. ‘Nuff said.

One Response to “Women Are Grossbuckets”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. I’d Just Like to Buy a Bottle of Asprin Without the Child Safety Cap « Defending Regicide - October 10, 2011

    […] magazine in the gutter when I was ten years old. That smutty rag taught me more about life and the human condition than the years I spent deriding people that volunteered for the Peace Corps. So don’t tell me […]

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