My friend is often labeled a sexist...
Her: "My EYES are UP HERE!"
Him: "You've spent the last 30 minutes going on and on about your fucking cat despite everyone here trying to change the subject, apparently being rude, self absorbed and inconsiderate is our theme tonight, I'm gonna run with it."

He continued to stare at her tits for the next half hour, determinedly, like they were bombs that'd go off if he looked away.

She decided to call it an early night.
----

Him: "Man, I hooked up with an older woman last night."
Me: "Yeah? How was it?"
Him: "I couldn't stop looking at her hair."
Me: "what about it?"
Him: "she was riding me and all I could think was "Hi ho Silver, away!""

-----

Her: "My boyfriend is an immature sexist asshole."
Him: "What's he do?"
Her: "Whenever we argue he's all "Oh what do you know, you're a woman" and when he's wrong about something he won't admit it - he'll say "Woman, get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich!", it's just so wrong it drives me up the wall - it doesn't even make sense - what can you come back with when someone says that shit?"
Him : "Well, you should 'come back' with a sandwich - if you know what's good for you."

I was eating a sandwich when they had this conversation in front of me (probably what sparked it off), the look on her face when he said that made me snort lettuce and mustard through my nostrils. It hurt.
---

Him to his gf:
"Why do I always drive? Cause it's my fucking car.
Why don't I want to go shopping? Cause it's my fucking money.
Why do I want to have sex all the time? Cause you're my fucking woman, unless you're not my fucking woman - in which case, I'll get me another woman - who'll do some fucking."
Her: "I hate you."

He's often single. Equally interesting - he's often not single...
---

The line that lost him his job:
"Yes, I called you "hon", you know what I call him? Fuckhead. He's not complaining, you know why? Cause he's not a fucking twat."

HR heads are so often women... so, you know, the logic was lost on her.
----

Him: (pointing to two women on the side of the road by a broken down car) "I think they're whores!"
Me: (wtf?) "Yeah man, highway whores in suburbia, it's a whole new thing. I bet they make a fortune."
Him: "Fuck you - Road head is awesome. Let's go back."

The thing is, it *would* make the work commute a lot nicer, and you could use the high occupancy vehicle lanes... stress would go down as soon as they did...
----

One of his stories:
(warning: contains explicit sluttiness (of both genders) and I can't vouch for anything but the first part)

"So I'm dancing up this girl and she reaches back and she grabs my crotch while lookin over her shoulder at me. It's kinda hot sure, but all I can think of at that moment (other than I'm gonna score tonight) is - she doesn't even know my name yet. So I go along, but since I've had this thought - I never introduce myself. Not like she's really bringing it up you know? Instead I keep using these little pet names, baby, honey, darlin, and she's doing the same. And at the end of the night after we've both had a fine fuck - she's cuddling up next to me and telling me she thinks we have something really special.

And I'm thinking "with WHO?"

So, I told her I thought she was special too, and that I'd been looking for a long time, and that I was happy she felt the same way, and we started talking about how good we work and all this positive lovey shit and I started having sex with her again and I was pouring on the lovey talk and she's all sensitive from the first time and I'm really fucking her silly and she was cummin really easy and going out of her head and barely able to think and I started saying over and over to her "Say my name! Say my name! Baybee I LOVEEEE you! SAY MY NAME!"

It took a while to get through her sex haze but she finally heard me and I got to watch her face while she tried to say it and realized she couldn't remember it... she was trying so hard to remember my name, but she was under me and I kept pumping away at her and she could barely think, her eyes are rolling back up in her head but I keep laying it on her "baybee I gotta hear you say my name, lover, please just say it for me and.." and I'm doing everything I could to keep her going towards a really big O and she's falling apart trying to think and she making these weird noises and scrunching up her face and I finally figure out she's starting to cry while she's cumming but both at the same time so her eyes are crinkled and tearing but her mouth is wide open and gasping "oh my god" from the sex so it's coming out all "Oh my god!" when she breathes out but then she's sobbing and hiccuping when she breathes in and it's "(oh my god) (sob) (hiccup) (oh my god) (sob) (snort) (OH MY GODohmygodohmygod) (aaaaaah!)" and finally she cums really hard and her whole faces scrunches up and she kinda sits up and I pull out and as she sucks in this really long ragged breath with these little crying hiccups I put her hand on my cock and she starts jerking me off onto her stomach and she bawls out this tortured wail "Baybee I don't know your naaaammmeeeee!!" and I cum all over her.

Best. Fucking. Sex. Of. My. Life."

---

I'm surprised they're not married.

And I think having some length is grand.
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Tue 5 Jan 2010, 20:30, 8 replies)

The Taboo of Paddling the Pink Canoe
Having sex with a girl while you’re being watched by every fucking Disney character from the past forty-odd years in stuffed toy form can be really fucking off-putting. You’re busy reaching the inevitable vinegar strokes, you look up, and Micky-fucking-Mouse himself is staring at you with a fucked-up smile on his chops like some dirty fucking rodent perv, discussing the benefits of your reach-round tit grab technique with a down syndrome, fuzzy mong version of Donald Duck. What the fuck is it with girls and those collections of cuddly toys they fill their fucking bedrooms with?

One of my old girlfriends, Jen, had a shitload of stuffed toy animals in her room in Halls. This is the tale of how a certain stuffed animal, Kipper*, and a brush with abject fucking sexism led to Jen, my five foot nothing girlfriend, punching me out cold in a packed pub in Manchester.

Jen and I were fucking about playing hide the salami in her room, when, after a while and considering we were a couple of weeks into our relationship, I decided to let slip a little of the facade that I was a nice boy and let the real inner perv out. I asked her if she’d do one of my top-five things I like to do with a woman. I asked if I could see her have a wank, just sort of watch. And Jen went absolutely apeshit: “I’m a girl! I don’t DO THAT!” I laughed. She didn’t laugh. She was being serious. Fuck. Now, I’d seen other girls paddle the pink canoe, flick the bean, twist the slimy button to maximum overdrive, but, alas, some of these had been wank deniers too.

Apparently girls don’t wank... If a bloke claimed the same thing he’d be tarred and feathered and laughed out of town. Sexism. Fucking sexism... What sort of a world do we live in where a girl can claim never to have done the monkey-rub with herself, FFS?

Anyway, after a little more of my limited charm and an awful lot of neat vodka Jen decided to let me into her wanking world. Lounging on the bed, she reached over for her favourite and oldest stuffed toy, Kipper*, and – OH FUCKIN SWEET JESUS, NOOOOOOOOOO!!! She mounted the little raggedy fella – a manky old toy rabbit – and drove her sopping cunt down onto his prone little form, moaning like she’d been hit by a fucking train. I was astounded, I was aghast, I was incredibly turned on. Afterwards, Jen, wiping hair out of her eyes, turned and looked a little ashamed.

“I’ve been using Kipper* like this since I was eight. He’s my oldest childhood toy,” she said. I thought: EIGHT!!! FUCKING EIGHT-FUCKING-YEARS-OLD?!? I was still pretending to be Luke Skywalker and playing with Lego when I was EIGHT!!!

And then Jen swore me to secrecy. Apparently the fact she liked to wank was an unspeakable evil. Terrible sexism. Men can take pride in pulling the pud, women apparently cannot. Of course I said I’d never tell another living soul.

Fastforward a few weeks, Jen and I and a few of our mates are doing a pub quiz in a busy Manchester pub. Our team, Norfolk N Chance, surprisingly win a third place prize. And out of nowhere the landlord brings out a little teddy bear and plonks it on our table in front of my girlfriend.

One of my mates turns to Jen and says: “Be gentle on him, sweetheart.”

Another: “Now that’s one lucky fucking bear.”

And another: “Can you get Durex to fit that little fucker?”

This was closely followed by Jen’s clenched little fist making obscene contact with my face, me doing a very lifelike impression of a soft twat being knocked out by a tiny woman, and Jen fucking off never to be seen again...

Why can’t we just accept that everyone wanks, regardless of sex? Sexism is bad... especially when it leads to me being hit in the fucking face and being called a soft little fairy for the following few months...

And the really terrible thing was that Kipper* gave Jen the type of earth-shattering orgasms I could only dream of giving a woman.

* Name changed to protect the toy stuffed animal concerned, he doesn’t need this shit and shame in his fuzzy little life anymore.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 29 Dec 2009, 18:44, 11 replies)

When at a restaurant with my wife
My wife can't order from a restaurant menu without knowing what i'm going to have first. This is despite me always informing her that i will not be sharing what i order so what i am having bears no relevance to what she's going to order. Regardless of this, no food will be ordered, waiting staff will be sent away with a blank notepad until such time as i reveal what i intend to eat.
Even when i do reveal what i'm planning to have she will then have to read through the entire menu and will choose 3 or 4 possibles. Then the narrowing down process will begin and (against my will or better judgement) I will be asked to comment on these choices as she 'talks them through'.
I have in the past suggested that she use my approach which is to read down the menu until she comes to something she likes and then stop and order it. This suggestion has met with incredulation and shock. 'But what if there's something i might like more FURTHER DOWN the menu???', she asked. 'Well you won't know it's there love, will you?', I reasonably reply. I may has well have told her i plan to urinate publicly in all 4 corners of the restaurant for the horror with which she looked at me.
On one occasion, I ordered while she was finishing a call on her mobile. I didn't order what I'd told her i was going to. Once she placed her order and the waiter headed off, i confessed to my henious crime. At this point she called the waiter back, a menu was requested and a full review of her original order took place. She still ordered the same thing but would never have been happy without being given the chance to check through the menu again following my shocking revelation.

I wonder what happens when a women eats alone? Do they ring someone? Force the waiter to have a conversation about their choices? Just sit there not eating before leaving?

Anyway, sexist or not, it's something only women do.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 13:07, 19 replies)

apologies for not having anything of my own to say, but...

(and now for someone completely different, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 21:09, 3 replies)

Bad moods
I'm not sure why, but for some reason it's forbidden for a man to be in a bad mood without having a damn good reason. Sometimes you just had a normal day at the office, you didn't get harassed on the tube, the supermarket had everything you wanted and it's a beautiful sunny day, but you just are in a shit mood. There isn't anything to explain or a hidden meaning. It just is what it is.

So you come home, you're grumpy and you just want some me time. She senses something is wrong by the monotone drawl in your voice so with obvious concern she asks what it is:

'Nothing', I reply.
'Nothing?', she asks with an incredulous look upon her face.
'Yes, nothing. I'm just in a shit mood'.

Now I should point out at this point that it's socially acceptable in every females eyes to be in a downright disgustingly heathen and abusive mood with the 'love of their life' at least once a month. So why can't I have the same privileges? Why can't I just have my moment in the burning cauldren of Satan's front room while I stew in foul thought.

But, NOOOOO....there must be a reason and armed with her amateur psychology degree from the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine she presses on, and on, and on ....ad nauseum.

And so a few hours later you emerge from your personal hell with just enough emotional strength to muster an actual physical hug and a 'I'm sorry babe'. Not because you want to apologise mind, but sometimes it's easier to let the lawnmower run out of fuel than it is to keep listening to it whine away on the couch next to you.

But you know what the clincher is, and they don't write about this in Cosmo, it's so simple avoid all this crap. All she'd have to do is walk up to me, put her arms around me, look into my eyes and give me a big hug. Then slowly get down on her knees, unzip my pants and start sucking my cock. Bad mood gone, I'm happy and you've had a lovely starter before I happily toddle off to the kitchen to cook the main course.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 21:33, 10 replies)

(groans, head in hands.)
I largely have faith in b3tans as a more-than-averagely enlightened bunch, so this probably isn’t directed at you lot. Certainly not all of you lot. But a lot of what I’ve heard on this subject of in my still relatively-few years on this planet has been variations on the following:

You're a woman. Some women like babies. Therefore, you like babies.
You're a woman. Some women are gold-diggers. Therefore, you are a gold-digger.
You're a woman. Some women are over-emotional and irrational. Therefore, you are over-emotional and irrational.

This is what’s known in the trade as fuzzy logic.

I try and take people as individuals. I don’t (and nor, probably, do you) judge folk on their skin colour, their religion, their nationality or who they prefer to shag.

I don’t think or say things like ‘all X (gays, Spanish, Sikhs, black people) are like Y and Z.’ It would, I hope, very quickly be pointed out that this was both stupid and unfair, for you can’t possibly make a blanket statement about an enormous and massively diverse set of people with any semblance of accuracy. That, my friends, is bad science.

Yet somehow, it’s seems it OK to do this when it comes to gender. Why assume I have anything in common with another human being because we have matching genitalia? It’s boring, it’s offensive, and it doesn’t make sense.

I’m not saying men don’t get equally idiotic and patronising comments thrown back at them. They do. But it feels like women suffer much more from this kind of collective-designationing than the chaps. Those women on hen nights, doing that ‘here come the girls’ crap? Yep, they're a fucking embarrassment, but I know that for every moronic female wearing a pink plastic cowboy hat and screaming about penises, there’s another in a white coat patching someone up in a hospital, defending people in court, flying a plane, teaching in a university, bringing up a family or hell, just sitting on the sofa having a biscuit and minding their own business. Some people, though, even people I love, will point at that as a clear-cut and concrete example of standard universal female behaviour. Well, I’ve got a first-class degree from Oxford, and my best friend is a cardiothoracic surgeon. We didn’t get there by flashing our knickers, so don’t tell me I’m stupid, bitchy, incompetent, shallow, mercenary or irrational on the basis that I’m a woman. (You can do that when you meet me; it’s immediately obvious that I’m an idiot quite independently of anything else.)

I don’t evaluate folk on anything other than your thoughts and opinions and what you’ve done with yourself in this world, and that’s all I ask in return.

Oh, and I can reverse-park just fine.

The End.
(jennymnemonic, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 15:59, 27 replies)

I'm with Morgan Freeman on this one
When he was asked on an American talkshow how he, as a black man, thought racism should be fought, he responded that as long as his opinion was sought because he was black, there would never be an end to racism. He said that his opinion could be asked as a man: not as a black man. The same is true in the case of sexism.

Judge people on pure merit. Nothing else.
( MatJ LOOK, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 1:16, 2 replies)

i don't like sexist men
but there is a breed of sexist women who are far worse. these women will fight tooth and nail to be allowed to do anything a man can do, whether she wants to do it or not. however, she still fully expects a man to hold doors for her, carry her shopping, buy her drinks and treat her like the spoiled little princess she is. she will call a man sexist if he comments on her looks, yet feel she is entitled to say what she likes about him. some of these women, if accused of sexism, will state that they can't possibly be sexist because they're women. am i the only woman here who wants to scratch their stupid eyes out and run them into a lamppost?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 17:41, 17 replies)

If you vote, please Click too,
The more people who see this and vote makes the poll all the more accurate. Anyone clicking option 3 will be hunted down and gender verified.

B3tans or B3tanettes - Are you




You can see a better representation of the results here
www.b3ta.com/board/9852717
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 12:57, Reply)

New way
I told my missus that ive discovered a new way to be condescending to women. She said 'whats that then?'. I told her its when you talk down to people.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Sat 2 Jan 2010, 10:50, 4 replies)

15 years old in Geography class,
and Mr Hankins is telling us all about Marula, who lives in some godforsaken village in Forrinland. Marula is merely a girl, so she has to fetch water from the well, clean the hut, make the fire, cook the food, clean up stuff etc. The men lie around smoking pipes and doing fuck all. Well, this was my interpretation of the text book anyway, so I made a huge, teenage-style fuss about the sexist nature of the story and outlined my probable reaction to receiving such instruction from men in the body of the essay I submitted for homework.
Twelve years later, my cousin came round to see me after her first day at the school and handed me a note, saying, 'I've been told to give you this.'
It said, 'Fetch some water Marula, there's a good girl.'
( thealternativefact, Sun 3 Jan 2010, 15:37, 2 replies)

I like holding doors open for both men and women...
...particularly when they're just a little too far behind you and have to do that comedy little jog as they feel bad about holding you up.

With women you get the added bonus of a jubbly jiggle
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Thu 31 Dec 2009, 18:25, 8 replies)

Think this just about covers it.


Sorry for the embedding. I'll edit it out if anyone feels it offends them enough.

Credit obviously goes to xkcd.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 18:17, 2 replies)

My son
My 14 yr old son opened the door for a woman at the local shop a few days ago, he always does - very considerate lad. When she glared at him whilst barging past him without a word of thanks, almost knocking him into the newspaper display, I very loudly thanked him on behalf of the "miserable old bitch who has the manners of a pig and the backside to match"
(Freakmandu, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 15:03, 9 replies)

Family Advice
I am a girl-person [*gasp!* On the internets! The horror!] in her early-mid-twenties and, appropriately for the Christmas season, have recently had to endure my elderly [and not-so-elderly]female relatives nagging on at me to move out of Singletown and settle down with a man [not even a ‘nice young man’, just any man] and pump out a few kids before I dry up entirely.

They then went on to analyse my many problems which make me unattractive to men:

- I am too highly educated [I'm not, I went to a decent uni and got a not-terrible degree]; no man will want a woman who has higher qualifications than he has. I pointed out that there are plenty of men with equal or higher qualifications than me, but was reminded that they will all be undoubtedly too good for me and I should aim lower.

- I have too many friends; which is apparently intimidating to men, and also means I have too little time to find a man

- I don’t know enough people [yes, this was said right after they moaned I have too many friends]

- I’m too fat. Well, yes, admittedly they have a point here. I am fat. But in the last half of 2009 I lost 4 stone, and even managed to lose a pound over Christmas week. I am under no illusions that I’m attractive, but I’m trying my goddamn hardest to get healthier. It seems though, that trying to achieve a goal isn’t good enough, and my female relatives believe I’ll be worthless until I reach said goal. Lovely.

- My standards are too high. One of my aunts pointed out that fat chav girls have no problems finding men to stick it in them, as proved by the high numbers of fat chav girls that have produced crotchfruits. I pointed out that I wouldn’t want any man that only wanted a cheap fuck. Apparently, this is an unacceptable viewpoint to my female relatives.

- I am apparently too masculine, in that I don’t like soaps, Heat magazine, designer fashion, X-Factor, high-heeled shoes, cocktail bars, Cheryl Cole etc. And I DO like sci-fi movies, Led Zeppelin, watching stand-up, jeans and trainers, rock bars and jack and coke etc. This makes me very unattractive to men as they won’t like me being so ‘ungirly’.


All in all, it was a hideous time for me, with my self-confidence torn to shreds at the hands of the women in my family. I escaped to the kitchen, where the men were on their second round of the buffet lunch. They asked why I was upset so I explained that I was too fat, ugly, intelligent and unfeminine to ever get a man and I should just give up now.

From the men in my family came words of encouragement and support. They congratulated me on losing weight, I got genuine support on my efforts to further my education through the OU. They told me to enjoy my friends and not to hurry or worry over such unimportant things as marriage and kids when I’m only 24.


What I’m clumsily trying to illustrate here is that quite often the gender roles and pressures are applied more strongly by our own gender, than any ‘sexism’ from the opposite. And, rightly or wrongly, I’ll follow the male advice and enjoy myself, rather than fretting and trying to be something I’m not, just to tie myself into an unsatisfying relationship with a man who wants a pretty, stupid, girly girl, instead of ME.
( Seventh is somewhat subdued, Thu 31 Dec 2009, 17:47, 31 replies)

Equality my arse
Equality, right, is a pointless ideal.

Men and women should not be equal. Simple reasoning - men and women are not equal. We are genetically different. It is naive to believe that all these differences are skin deep. Men and women are not capable of the same things. Men are, as a general rule, physically stronger than women and are therefore suited to more physical tasks. It is absurd to think that physical professions will ever have the same proportion of women as men, for that reason.

Similarly, it is also absurd to think that men should have as much paternity leave as women have maternity leave. Yes, equal rights and all that but the fact remains that women are the ones giving their own body to a parasite for nine months and then ripping themselves apart to get rid of it. They need more rest than men do in this case.

It is also naive to think that these differences are confined to physical differences. As a previous poster has stated, science and maths are dominated by men. There are a number of societal reasons why this is the case, but it is not being stupid to suppose that it is possible that male brains are more suited to mathematical reasoning. I hasten to add that I have no proof of this. I am not even advocating the position in the absence of evidence. I do, however, believe that the question is legitimate and important and that intellectual differences between the male and female brain would still be apparent in individuals brought up under the same circumstances in a society that is not historically patriarchal as ours is. I do not know what those differences would be, or whether they would match up with our prejudices as to what they should be. But I have no doubt they would be there.

So in a society that truly judges employees on merit, it is an impossibility to believe that all professions will eventually have equal proportions of men and women involved. It may turn out that certain male-dominated professions should in fact be dominated by women or vice versa, but it is highly unlikely that in all cases, men and women are equal.

Therefore, equality is a pointless ideal. The important part is not equality, but equal opportunity. Any woman should be able to apply for a job (or perform any particular activity) without prejudice despite any possible genetic bias towards either sex, because any genetic bias only works on a level above the individual. It is impossible to say whether any one woman would be better at a job than any one particular man without looking at their individual characteristics, which do not necessarily reflect any gender bias. We all know women who can drive better than certain men or ones who are better at maths or who are stronger, or ones that defy any convention that I have not addressed.

I am not a sexist. I am absolutely not a sexist and I believe passionately in the equal opportunity in any circumstance of men and women.

But I do not believe that men and women are equal. That does not mean one is better and one is worse - just that they are different.

PS: I also believe these differences apply to race. Races are not equal, but good god that does not mean one is better than the other, that you can apply a particular racial characteristic to any individual and particularly not that you should be prejudiced against any individual of any race because of a characteristic that may or may not apply to them - and I passionately hate any person that does.

PPS: I still find racist/sexist jokes funny - because they're making fun of a stereotype, and I'm not stupid enough to assume stereotypes apply to individuals OR that the person making the joke believes it either. When it's patently obvious they're serious, it's not funny any more.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 0:56, 5 replies)

The ousgg gender-domestic animal binary metaphor
Men are dogs. Women are cats.

Men are idiotically faithful, adoring, well-intentioned and enthusiastic. OK, they're sometimes a bit smelly, dribble while they sleep and make a godawful mess while eating, but you'd always be happy to introduce one to your best friend or parents in the knowledge that you could take one away again.

Women are dainty, fastidious, picky and stubborn. They will do whatever pleases them and not an ounce more. You wouldn't trust one out of your sight for more than ten minutes. They will come and cuddle you when it suits them, and happily ignore you if there's something more interesting elsewhere.

Men are dogs. Women are cats.

A man who has indulged in Jackass-style tomfoolery or slept with a string of women is referred to as a 'sly dog' with affection by his friends. A woman who has delivered a tongue-lashing to a man will, in shrieking tones and laughter, be called 'catty'.

The opposite applies. A woman described as a 'bitch' clearly deserves all she's getting. A man described as a 'pussy' generally isn't worthy of the masculine race.

Men are dogs. Women are cats.

Men go out in packs to enjoy shooting, fishing, swimming and sports in general. They are happy to express themselves with shouting and tussling that may look vicious or violent to others, but in actuality is only a playing ritual. They will unquestioningly drink any beer that is put under their nose and happily piss in the high street afterwards.

Women prefer to curl up in comfort and while away time. They treat new challenges and experiences with suspicion and distrust and are not hesitant to hiss and lash out when outside of their comfort zone. They treat any food or drink put in front of them with a critical eye and are not afraid to leave it. They do NOT piss in the high street.

Men are dogs. Women are cats.

A smaller man, confronting a bigger one, will make no issue of size. In their minds, every man is equal - we have all seen ferocious little five-foot men take a bottle to the face without wincing as much as we have seen a great jessie of a bloke get kicked in the knee and claim a war wound while retiring to the smoking garden. At the end of the day, they will accept their differences and happily lick over each others wounds.

All women, when confronting others, are automatically jealous and will assume the other is better. They will circle each other, often for hours on end, trading verbals and killer glares. Even when allegedly 'friends', there will be frequent spats and arguments over mates, food and space.

Men are dogs. Women are cats. I am sexist, presumably.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 12:56, 6 replies)

Beardy pain.
Here's one area of Western society in which women generally have it much easier then men; women have it utterly made where shaving is concerned.

Shaving my face is rubbish. Why would any just society dictate that I have to scrape a razor-sharp razor all over the most visible and vital to social interaction part of my body, first thing in the damned morning whilst my brain is still half-asleep and my dexterity is suffering a -2D6 penalty with possible additional modifiers depending on how the previous night went?

In response to this, women might wish to bring up having to shave their legs, underarms, or whatever else to comply with prevailing societal standards of beauty, but the things ladies generally shave can easily be covered with clothing if one is just not feeling up to it. If I could skip shaving my face and just go to work with a trouser leg over my head instead, I would be so happy.
( Rob T Firefly talked, like, William Shatner, on, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 6:05, 8 replies)

Cars through to cocks...
Being the owner of a fully functioning cock leads to a few common misconceptions among those without the meat and two veg swinging about between their legs. Yep, I’m talking about the ladies (and possibly eunuchs, though you don’t meet many of them on a day-to-day basis in the squalid little part of North London I call home).

So it’s time to set the record straight.

Firstly, because I have testicles this does not, in any way shape or form, mean I have a fucking clue how to get your car to start if its knackered. Occasionally in the past I’ve been asked by various people of the tit-and-cunt persuasion to have a fiddle about under the bonnet of their clapped out old Ford or Fiat in the vein hope that my innate manliness – possibly coupled with the fact that I piss standing up – will somehow magic the fucking motor into starting. But, like a prize fucking tit, I will somehow find myself stooped down in the early morning freezing fucking cold prodding at a shitload of rubber-coated wires, some metal bits and bobs, and something that looks like an oversized metal liquorice allsort in the vein attempt not to let my sex down. Ladies, I don’t even fucking drive. As far as I’m concerned cars run on ‘voodoo’ or perhaps ‘the force’. Please, don’t ask me to fix your fucking cars in future.

Secondly, if we’re settling down to do a bit of satellite TV surfing, please, please, FUCKING PLEASE!!!, don’t assume that as the man it is written in fucking law that I’ll be in charge of the remote control. I really don’t need that responsibility. I’ll only end up settling on some dodgy episode of Sexcetera where some scantily clad Eastern European babe will bang on in broken English about how many ping pong balls she can fit up her flute. You won’t like this. You’ll start a row. So, in future, take the awesome fucking responsibility of what we’re going to watch away from me. We’ll sit and watch the knitting channel – I really don’t give a shit. The chances are I’ll be so traumatized from spending an afternoon sat in a pub with you and your mate while you discuss your periods in the style of Hostel, that I’ll probably welcome a spot of light and insightful speed crocheting.

Thirdly, if my footie team gets hammered 5 – 0 in the Cup, don’t see this as something petty. Don’t view this as a mere trifle you can rip the piss out of me over. I need time to mourn and mope in the style of someone who’s lost a sibling in a terrible boating accident. Remember, I’ve had a relationship with my footie team for thirty-four long, torturous years. We’ve been through the bad times, and we’ve been through the even worse times. You – on the other hand - have only been on the scene for a couple of years. And – unlike footie teams – I can switch allegiances and change to a new girlfriend without leaving a terrible, indelible stain on my conscience that would keep me awake at night (that’s if I could ever be arsed).

Finally, let’s talk about cock size… Why? Because ever girlfriend I’ve ever EVER had has always, at some point or another, talked about the size of their previous boyfriends cocks because, apparently, this is a topic of conversation that might actually interest me. I really don’t need to know if your previous boe was hung like a T-Rex or a baby new potato. I don’t need to know if his shaft veered off to the right or left. I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck and telling me about it doesn’t make us an enlightened modern couple of the 21st Century… it’s just a little creepy. I mean, would you like it if we turned round to you and said: “Hmm, you’ve got a tight flange… but I’ve had tighter…” Or: “I used to go out with a girl who’s clit bizarrely always tasted like Worcester sauce.” Or even: “You’ve got the nicest labia I’ve ever seen in my life. It looks like a meat cauliflower down there and I fucking like it!” No. This will not do. This will not do at all…

Sexism… Bollocks to it… Time for a new question, shirley???
( SpankyHanky, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 13:39, 3 replies)

survey
Click if you think your girlfriend/wife could be ruder in the sack.

Edit: Nearly all men are far more rude than women.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Sun 3 Jan 2010, 19:25, 8 replies)

Are these related?
1.There's a subset of woman who claim they don't fart, and moan about how men fart all the time.

2. There's loads of adverts on the telly with woman complaining they feel bloated?

Does this mean woman are too fucking dumb to fart?
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Wed 30 Dec 2009, 21:54, 3 replies)

Blended pearoast from CP
I have found in my many years on this planet that women are great. No, really, I think women are wonderful with all their inny and outy bits but they have some habits which drive me to incoherent throat-ripping fury.
Firstly - Referrals to others once you've answered their question. WTF!? I once had my ex-wife ask her father if I was "doing the right thing" when I serviced the brakes on her car.
Her father is a carpenter. He has never driven. He has never owned a car. He gets service personnel to replace knobs (the push-on types) on cookers and washing machines so he's the OBVIOUS choice to ask about my knowledge and skills.
On the other hand I'm only a qualified engineer with eleven years international experience in building, testing and rectifying gas turbine prime movers for warships and power stations. I have built five kit cars and been a backup mechanic for a semi-pro racing team. I was a registered firearms dealer for some years, working on some really expensive and complicated weaponry (servicing telescopic sights in a home-built clean room glovebox with a dry nitrogen atmosphere anyone?). But, better to ask daddy than me, because daddy knows best.
Secondly, I have found that ALL the women I have spent time with CANNOT WAIT FOR INFORMATION.
If a situation arises that necessitates waiting for information they won't shut up about it. For instance, when I was married, my ex-wife's car went wrong. I booked it into a garage (warranty claim) for the next day.
As soon as I got home she started.
"What do you think is wrong"?
"I have no idea, that's why the garage is doing the work"
"What will they do to the car"?
"I don't know, that's why the garage is doing the work, utilising their specific knowledge of the marque".
"How long will they take"?
"I don't know, that's why you've got a courtesy car all day".
"What do you think is wrong"?
FOR FUCK'S SAKE WOMAN, I'VE ANSWERED EVERY INANE FUCKING QUESTION YOU'VE ASKED WITH "I DON'T KNOW" GET THE HINT!!!!!!
And while I'm at it, how do women think men get information? I mean, I've been sitting in front of you all the time so why ask the same question? I had no idea 5 minutes ago, I've not seen another human being or used any communication device in those 5 minutes so where do you think I've got the information from, fucking telepathy?
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 18:24, 11 replies)

Tits
Women. When wearing a revealing upper-garment, please refrain from taking offence should you find us gentlemen gazing upon the majesty of your generous bosom. If you want men to talk directly to your face, kindly consider wearing a polar-neck, bubble-jacket, or perhaps some 19th century diving equipment.

Nice one.
(Chairman Lmao Something something your mum, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 16:05, 5 replies)

No matter how good looking the woman
Someone somewhere is sick of putting up with their shit.
(Yellow Car is now red, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 15:46, 1 reply)

OK, so let the flaming begin - I don't think women should work.
Let me justify that statement.
First of all I am a woman and I do work, but I still don't think it's right, and here's why:

Think back to when my folks first got married in the 70s. In those days it was not so common for a woman, especially a married woman to work. Many women did work - and I'm sure I'll get people telling me they did but I'm just speaking about what I know.
When they bought their house it cost £13,000 - today it is worth £350,000.
As it was uncommon for women to work a woman wage was not counted in the mortgage. Therefore the cost of houses were low as they had to be bought with just one wage.

As the years went by more and more labour saving devices came into the home. The introduction of the automatic washing machine meant that washing didn't take all day like it did with a twin tub (I used to have one, it really did take all day). Fridges and freezers meant that food could be bought ready made days in advance so removed need for a daily shop. Dishwashers and microwaves also cut down on kitchen tasks.

Then women decided that they should work. This meant that more children were becoming what a generation earlier had been looked down on as latch key children, coming home to an empty house.
Dinners were ready meals rather than home cooked, mums were not there during the day if a child needed to come home from school.
But the most important change was that the price of houses went up. In the late 80s it was decided to take account of the womans wage when lending money for a mortgage. As couples could now afford bigger houses the cost of them went up accordingly. Take my folks house for example.

The up shot of all this is that for most families to live in a decent house both partners have to work. They have no choice. I work, I'd like to have children, but I just don't see a way we could afford for me to take time off work.

This means that now most women work just to make ends meet. This means that many children spend more time with child minders than their family. when children come home from work mothers are to stressed from work to spend 'quality time' with their children.


*sits back and awaits flaming*
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Wed 30 Dec 2009, 10:02, 25 replies)

A woman gets pissed at a party and starts masturbating in full view of everyone, that's sexy...
I do the same thing and I'm looking at a court appearance, an entry on the sex offenders register and a community service order.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 28 Dec 2009, 12:31, 4 replies)

House rules
Women. Once married, they have House Rules. House Rules which must be obeyed at all costs, or it is ze cooler and no nookie for a month.

So, here are a few of the house rules that I am forced to live under, forced upon me by the tyrannical, yet fragrant Mrs Scaryduck regime.

Every now and then, my charming wife comes up with some new regulation to ensure the smooth running of our household. A new regulation that I have already unwittingly broken since it was passed by a secret house committee ten minutes previously.

For example:

* There are no rules, except for the ones I make up, arbitrarily and on the spot

* No pissing in the shower

* All beetroot must be crinkle cut

* Obey all the rules

* Don't wipe your arse on the hamster

* Gazpacho Soup must be thoroughly warmed through

* For God's sake, use your own socks as fake bosoms

And now, Rule 387 of This House:

* Don't fart while you're asleep

I'm still trying to come to terms with this particular addition to the regulations, and have given up arguing that this is like telling a zombie to stop eating spicy brains.

"You did two last night," she said after a sprout-heavy Christmas dinner, implying that my body's inability to break down certain organic compounds is somehow my fault, "and they were FOUL."

Luckily, we still had the cork from the day's celebratory bottle of I-can't-believe-it's-not-Champagne, and I have vowed - under Rule 387 (a) (as amended) to use that.

What, I ask, could possibly go wrong?
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Sun 27 Dec 2009, 12:37, 8 replies)

As we're near the end.....
I'll throw my two cents in.

You know how women, when they break up with someone or can't find a "decent" man, they complain and whine about how all men are the same and are shits and stuff?

And then when a man breaks up with a woman he says all women are illogical cheating slappers and they're all the same?

I took a good long look at this situation and I came to a conclusion.

A lot of people are twats. Regardless of their sex, many, if not most, people are utter twats to the people they go out with.

Being a twat isn't dependant on your sex. If you're a twat, you're a twat, regardless whether you have a todger or a spampurse. It's not like reverse parking. I have many male friends who are twats to the ladies they frequently dump, and also have an ex-wife who is a major league twat that lives in a world of her own.

If you look at the world less in the sense of men/women, and more in the sense of twat/nice person, it starts to look a lot less confusing. Or is it more? I dunno, I forget.

I wish I was a twat, mind. They have all the fun.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 4:39, 12 replies)

Having a grown up discussion with my other half one time
I spent a good twenty minutes pointing out that men can run further, jump higher, lift more, swim faster, and generally do everything a gazillion times better than a woman could. (Obviously not talking about myself, I’m a lazy bastard. But on the whole as a gender the male is by far the bestest when it comes to running about and doing any type of physical activity).

My girlfriend, who had been patiently reading and paying very little attention while I delivered my passionate rant set out her counter argument. It was two words long. Two words that made me shut up and go off in a huff to do some man-stuff. I stalked off to do the washing up and polishing, only in the rugged, manly style of Matt Damon out of those Bourne films.

My girlfriend simply said: “Multiple orgasms…”
( SpankyHanky, Tue 5 Jan 2010, 13:40, 12 replies)

This goes through my head a lot:
(in my mind)

Me: Hello there, can I stare at your tits?
Girl: No.
Me: Put them away then you dizzy tart.
( Extinct Jesus Dossier "...I think it counteracts Hitler's magic...", Mon 28 Dec 2009, 0:37, Reply)