Loretta Reveals the Female ‘Deep State’ Conspiracy Behind Man Caves and Man Points
Men—when will they learn? They are such simple creatures. Flash some cleavage, cook a few meals, authorize a round of golf or two, and they are ours. Women, not men, are masters of the universe. If you don’t believe me, men, there’s bar soap in the shower. Knock yourselves out.
The battle for gender dominance often starts with the turf war over space in the master bedroom closet. What men don’t realize is the entire closet is ours. All closets, for that matter. It’s a female birthright. You get penises. We get closets. I am not going to apologize for women. We got the better end of the deal, OK? Deal with it!
We may grant you a temporary license to use a portion, perhaps a 3′ × 3′ cubby in the corner. Don’t confuse our grant, however, with philanthropy or ownership. At best, you have a “for the life of the marriage” leasehold interest. And don’t get too comfy with the idea—your cubby is revocable at will when we run out of space for shoes. Be grateful while it lasts and re-read the gender “Bill of Rights” fine print: “What’s ours is ours, what’s yours is ours,” proof yet again that God is female.
Negotiations for man caves may appear more promising. Don’t be deceived. I would recommend that you carefully study the gender point system, but you can’t study what isn’t in print. Just capitulate to the higher power, the female “deep state,” and put your “boys” in the hands of the women who stilled the waters. During our secret society meetings, we refer to this specific negotiation as “man-milking.” For maximum leverage, the negotiations start simply enough by removing the bar soap from the shower, and from there we transform into faux NIMBYs. The milking process has officially begun.
Men, here’s some unsolicited advice—never want a man cave so badly that you negotiate from your knees. We understand weakness. There’s a reason why there’s no such expression as “Are you happy to see me or is that a closet in your pocket?” Banana equals female power. In fact, women have a term for this phase of negotiations, too, ironically called a man cave, but as in “did your man cave?” Angels, we are not. We play for keeps.
We may roll our eyes, grit our teeth, and say a man cave is a blight on the family home. But we are lying, manipulative closet owners. We actually want you to have your scratch-and-spit space. Just when you think you have us by the closets, however, be most careful. If we help you decorate and Bullwinkle finds his way onto one of your man cave walls, you need to ask yourself “Why?”
The answer—control. You’ve just been out-negotiated; the rest of the house is now ours, forever. If we want a padded toilet seat, we own you. We own the house. Let that be a painful lesson for you men. Penises have consequences. The “tail wagging the dog” analogy comes immediately to mind. And done right, man-milking is worth more than just the house. It is worth thousands of women points for future use, or as the female “deep state” calls it, “man math.”
Thankfully, “man math” was poorly understood by men—until now. Let me explain. For example, lease payments for the cubby and man cave are to be paid in “man points” originally awarded, again at our discretion, for doing “man things” around the house, or sometimes simply for our humor and your embarrassment. For example, if we ask you to “bark like a dog, monkey woman,” that’s worth one “man point,” but only if you sell it like Bill Murray in “Caddyshack.” Or if we send you to Haggen for feminine hygiene products, that’s worth three “man points.” (BTW, the six-pack of beer that you buy doesn’t fool anyone. Everyone knows you were sent for feminine hygiene products.)
I suggest that you spend them quickly and wisely, men, because unlike woman points, which never expire, man points expire after thirty minutes. And don’t expect one man point to equal one woman point. It doesn’t. “Woman points” are like the U.S. dollar; “man points” are like the Canadian loonie. There’s a conversion rate that floats to our advantage, and you guessed it—at our discretion. And there’s an inflation rate, too, similar to the male predilection for over-stating the size of their manhood. The inflation rate is typically 2 to 1 on Friday evenings, and upon full disclosure, 4 to 1 on weekends.
All of which brings me to my Valentine’s Day present from my new man friend. It’s a “she shed” for the backyard, where I can keep my gardening tools. How did that happen, you ask? Because I played the “man card.” “Man caves are sexist and discriminatory,” I said, while breaking all cleavage etiquette protocols. “Why don’t women get women caves?”
Ah, the female “deep state” is alive and well.
To read February’s Final Word, click here.