Men Are Brainwashed

I wonder…Do men wash their hair with battery acid?

I suspect it soaks through and eats up the brain.

Recently I parked my semi-truck at a Walmart shopping center somewhere in New Mexico and bee bopped inside to stock up on groceries. My lucky day. I didn’t know Walmart had a theater. Yep. Right there in the beef jerky aisle.

Drama, and I mean drama.

It was like deeper than deep. Deeper than the Marianas Trench. Deeper dregs than Shakespeare ever thought to think up. I watched a satirical drama of typical American protocol take place before my very eyeballs.

Seems there was this man and his wife. Wait. I think it was a broad and her man. Well…um…whatever the relationship was, it brought to mind the old adage “familiarity breeds contempt.”

Well, anyway, there were these two individuals, roughly in their mid thirties, who were apparently doing some shopping.

The woman…well, I think that’s what it was. The female portion of the pair was leading the way down the aisle.  There was something about the manner in which she walked that caught my eye. Well, I can’t really say she was walking. It was more like strutting. Clad in flamboyant colors and prancing along with a slow, deliberate air, she brought to mind the image of a peacock. That was a little confusing. I thought the flashy side of that species is supposed to be male.

But anyhow, as I was saying, there was this big gorgeous bird strutting down the aisle.

Directly following her was the husband. Or at least, he appeared to be. Well, I didn’t say he was a man, but in the absence of any other, he might be called one, perhaps.

Whew!  It’s difficult to tell this story because I struggle for appropriate words to describe a “yes man”. Despite the fact that said man was most definitely taller and broader than the woman, somehow, he looked…well…small.

Okay, well anyway, the little fellow was pushing a shopping cart piled high with his companion’s intended purchases. Planning his steps carefully, he meekly followed his militant wife as she paused here and there considering the various commodities found upon the shelves.

Occasionally, the unoffensive little husband paused and glanced at his voluptuous partner to see if he was detected. If not, he ventured forth timidly to place his hand upon an item to examine it. When his commanding officer glanced up to discover his interest in the illegal contraband, he quickly snatched his hand away and returned it to his pocket.

I suppose I am guilty of stalking. But can you blame me? It was the most interesting thing I had seen all week. I guess I was a bit starved for entertainment. With nonchalant observation of modern art, I followed the couple at a discreet distance. We finally made it past the fabric department and sallied forth to electronics.

Wifey paused to study the latest iPhone covers and Hubby strayed a few feet. With great interest, I watched his expression as he wistfully stroked an electronics gadget. With a look of intense desire and a sigh of resolute determination–well, as much gump as could be expected of an individual of his caliber–he made a decision.

I made a sincere effort to control my amusement. Honest, cross my heart I did. It took concentration for the poor man looked like a panting terrier begging for a bone.

With deep humility and remarkable submission, the big strapping scrawny mite of a fellow approached his cherished counterpart and asked in a whining, nasal tone,

“Pleeeease, Yvonne, can I have this?”

By now I was emotionally involved. I stood motionless and wide-eyed as I observed the saga unfolding. Naturally, I could not offer the poor jack my respect since he appeared to be a pasta puppet with spaghetti for backbone. But I sincerely hoped for his sake he could obtain the desire of his heart.

The face of the woman was indeed a study. Clearly she was completely annoyed with her large smaller half. I held my breath and gritted my teeth as the storm clouds rapidly gathered.

As lightening flashed and thunder crashed, the woman advanced and the man retreated.

I stood transfixed in horror as Mount Un-Saint Helena erupted for the second time this century.


Hell hath no fury like a woman’s wrath…DID, in fact, come to mind. Am I exaggerating? Not much.

With fallen countenance, and was that actually a bottom lip protruding? Surely not. Ah me, yes, indeed, it was. I could have wept in shame for the downfall of modern man if it wasn’t so dang hilarious.

With typical 21st Century male meekness, the downtrodden little mountain of a man rushed to fulfill the explosive demand of she who was master.

With permission denied and the desired item safely returned to the shelf, the poor little large man resumed his appointment behind the basket.

At her “Forward, MARCH!” command, big little Jarvis meekly followed his virago to the next aisle.

And you think I’m weird?

 Face palm.   
What hath MAN