OK, I’ve had enough. This stupid video on Facebook titled “Simulated Childbirth Labor on Guys” has gone viral, and it has elicited a lot of smug comments from female users who’ve watched it. I, for one, am not going to stand for it.
If you haven’t seen it, it’s basically just some asshole scientists wiring a couple guys up and making them have the sensation of labor pains. The guys, naturally, freak out from the agony, and women across the InterWeb laugh hysterically at these dudes’ misery as they watch these two pussies make us all look bad.
You know, women crow about this child-bearing thing like it’s some sort of super power. You think men don’t have difficult roles to play, too? You think men don’t have to face pain in our lives? Well, we do. And I’m speaking up about it, in defense of my brothers.
For one, we are expected to stand up when we pee. Women get to take a rest when they do it. What, men don’t get tired? But if we sit down to pee, ohhhhh, that’s just soooo un-manly, isn’t it? Two words, ladies: Double. Standard.
And we can’t wear your clothes, but you can wear ours? The hell is that about? You put a fedora, a pin-stripe blazer and a tie on a girl, and that’s considered “sexy.” But if I wear a skirt and pumps, I get pointed at and laughed at. Doesn’t matter if my legs are smooth and fantastic, someone is going to discriminate against me. Bullshit.
It’s the same thing with crying. I once knew a girl that got pulled over for speeding, like, 1,000 times, and every time it happened she cried and was able to avoid getting a ticket. I tried that once, and the stupid cop laughed at me. Laughed at me! And then gave me a ticket anyway. That doesn’t happen if you have a vagina, you know? And even you will think we’re weak if, say, our dog gets hit by a car or our favorite NFL team loses in the NCF Championship game, and you see us cry. Yet later you’ll also be the ones complaining that we can’t share our feelings. Bull. Shit.
Also, let me ask you this: When’s the last time someone threatened to kick you in your junk? Never, you say? Yeah, that’s because it wouldn’t hurt you like it does us. You think it’s easy to walk around with the most vulnerable part of your body hanging there like a goddamn flesh pinata? Worse, nature placed them at the perfect level for another person to jam their knee up into them super easily. Not to mention they are at the perfect height for a hyper 5-year-old to punch you without warning.
Seriously, a dude punches me in a bar because I ogled his girlfriend, and he’s going to hit me in the jaw. Fine, I probably deserved getting punched for licking my lips and winking at her. I can even see that punch coming and have a chance to duck. But he leaves my nuts alone out of respect. There’s a reason for this, you dig? And let me ask you this: You ever tried to make your penis and balls duck a hyper 5-year-old’s fist? It doesn’t work. And you’re laughing at us over simulated labor pains? SO not cool.
Also, what about this monthly ritual you women have? What a pain in the ass. You basically have an organic, built-in excuse to be a dick one week a month, and we’re supposed to just deal with it. If at any time of the month we pulled some of the shit you pull when you’re on the rag, we’d be branded as degenerate ass-tards, but as soon as you feel that first cramp you’re up in our grill, telling us we don’t have feelings and that we never liked your mother. Yeah, well, here’s a news alert: Once a month, she’s a dick too.
And you don’t know what it’s like dealing with testosterone. That stuff should be banned, and I’m not kidding – it’s a freaking nightmare. We do our best to be true to ourselves and to you, and then the hot brunette walks in wearing the low cut top and the tight skirt, and testosterone suddenly decides it’s time for us to be pigs. This is not our fault. Do you understand this? We can’t help it if we drool over that chick, and we can’t help it that we desperately want to bang your hot friends, and we can’t help it that even thinking about that chick from “Big Bang Theory” makes us walk with a slight limp. We didn’t ask for this, OK? It’s our version of “The Curse.” And it’s no walk in the park.
OK, yeah, I admit that if men could have babies and women couldn’t, the species would have gone extinct a long time ago. But that’s not a badge of honor for you to wear, OK? That just makes us the smart ones. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit by while some parasite feeds off me for … how long? Nine months? Ten? Screw that. That would totally ruin football season, and I’m not going to have it. And I guaran-goddamn-tee you’d be on my ass every time I cracked open a beer when I was pregnant. At least then I’d have an excuse for being gassy and having hemorrhoids, though, right?
And don’t even get me started on all the talking. Goddamn it, really? The game is on, and you want to tell me about your sister’s friend Janet’s cheating boyfriend? Listen up: I know that guy. He owns a freaking bar, he drives a ‘Vette and he’s a 10-handicap golfer. What did you sister’s friend Janet freaking expect?
OK, my rant is over. Stop sharing that stupid-ass video, please, stop laughing at those two guys’ misery, and stop it with all the sweeping generalizations and feminine condescension. We have our crosses to bear just like you do, and we resent that you assume otherwise. Only difference is, we don’t freaking post videos about those feelings on Facebook – we talk about them over beer with our buddies when you’re out shopping.
(Just kidding. When you’re out shopping, we talk about football and boobs, not feelings. Talking about feelings would be stupid.)