Part 22
This next subchapter is called "Liar Liar"
"Every man in a bar is a stockbroker or a brain surgeon," women bitch. "Men just lie to
you. You can't trust them." It would only be fair to admit that men sometimes sculpture
the truth to get women into bed. But then they have to, because they know what women
want. Men are conscripted players in a game whose rules have been engineered by the
female mind, and the playbook decrees that honesty will guarantee sure rejection. Thus, if
a potential lover confesses to the object of his interest that he repairs copiers, instead of
generalizing that he works for the Xerox Corporation, she will without hesitation
disqualify him as not worthy of consideration. He has learned through bitter experience
that he must misrepresent his status if he even wants to begin a conversation. If women
weren't so intent on selling their sexuality, men would not be pressured into
hyperbolizing the truth. This is a program which females themselves have created and
which they continue to promote. Then, with their usual circular thinking, they blame men
for their obedience. This is like allowing a cat to roam free, and then hating it when it
kills a bird. When women, the master con artists, have been conned, they stamp their feet
in rage.
But these are the same women who spackle their wrinkles with make-up, Clairol the gray
out of their hair, and shore up their meager bustlines with Wonderbras. Aren't liposuction,
eye tucks, and silicone breasts every bit as deceptive as a garbage collector fibbing to a
woman that he works for a large trucking company? The hypocrisy is self-evident. As is
typical with females, they brutally censure men but disregard the rather large motes in
their own eyes. When a woman reinvents her looks, her excuse is, "That's what men
want", as if a slathering of cosmetics or a plastic surgeon could really make a silk purse
out of a sow's face. She is projecting her own shallowness into the minds of men. Women
are invincible narcissists, rabidly obsessed with their personal appearance. It is how they
ultimately define themselves. As exploiters, they have sufficient time and money to buy
the products specifically marketed to them to concoct their fraudulent attractiveness.
They merchandise themselves. Even a cursory glance inside any department store is
alone proof of this assertion: most of the floor space is taken up by cosmetics, jewelry,
perfume, and female clothing. Men don't wear makeup or oil their bodies or agonize for
hours over what clothes to wear. This is because women have made men the buyers, not
the sellers, and they're too busy working to replace the funds lost on the "fairer" sex to
worry about whether their pants make their asses look big. They are nowhere near as
superficial or self-absorbed as women, who can shop for recreation because they take
such delight in focusing on themselves. The psychology of store displays is hardly
arbitrary-a business keeps its doors open by providing the goods its customers demand.
It has often been observed that women dress for other women (if they dressed for men,
they'd be wearing nothing at all, or something slinky and revealing, which their two-faced
sisters would disparage as sleazy-too candidly for sale, implying a low-priced vagina).
Females are in fierce competition with each other for men (with money), recruits in a
vicious intragender war, an intricate battle of one-upmanship. But they are also sadly
warring with nature itself. A woman knows that her appearance is her trade-even if she
has to stucco herself from head to toe, she does so to impersonate youth and beauty. Love
is marketing. A woman is an imposter, like a scratched piece of gold which exhumes the
tarnished brass underneath. She is, as in all her affairs, dishonest with herself, dishonest
with men, a liar.
If a university offered a course entitled "How To Marry A Rich Man", women would be
scratching each other's eyes out to be the first in line to ante up the tuition; but if there
were a class aimed at men, called "How To Get Laid For Free", these same coeds would
be screaming sexism and marching with protest signs outside the dean's office. For
women-even so-called "liberated" women-marriage is a socially convenient means to
make a living: they can get their hands on wealth and prestige simply by vowing "I do"
and occasionally spreading their legs. Manipulating a man-especially a rich man-to make
a commitment is the Holy Grail of a woman's life, the consummation of all her efforts
during her sick charade of "romance". The only truly important act in any woman's life is
the selection of the right spouse. It rescues her from any personal responsibility for the
future. She may work, but it's often a "no-brainer" job while she's marking time waiting
for her future provider to happen along. It will be her husband who's saddled with the
mortgage payment while she chips in for the cable bill and considers this "equality". Her
motto reads, "My money is mine, his money is ours", the philosophy of an overindulged
child. No mother ever taught her daughter that she should grow up to support her husband.
The greater a man's salary, the more likely a woman is to eschew any sort of labor, and
the more likely she is to sit at home and whine about boredom. The more her husband
gives her, the lazier and more demanding she becomes. When she isn't manipulating men,
she simply has nothing else to do.
A woman uses marriage to gain power, and once she attains it, her husband is fated to a
life of abuse. This is very expensive pussy. When a naturally polygamous male commits
to his bride-to-be, not only does he forfeit control of his finances, but he is constrained to
forsake all opportunities to mate with other females. Of course, this is in her best interestshe
calls it "security"-but it is really a blasphemy against nature. As long as she can
coerce him into spending more, more, more on her whims, and as long as he realizes that
if he divorces her he will lose half of his assets, she has effectively padlocked him into a
chastity belt. No one knows better than she that a woman has no use for an impoverished
man. A husband enters into matrimony assuming that the wedding vows have granted his
new wife societal approbation to revel in uninhibited sex, but in his naiveté he has not
noticed the gleaming pair of castration shears hidden in her bridal bouquet. She has no
real interest in him sexually-a workhorse should be out in the fields laboring, not wasting
his energies on intercourse. He has dreamed of years of wild passion and pleasurable
company; what he gets is a lifetime of mood swings and an infrequent and indifferent lay.
A wedding is an orgy of female narcissism. This is her day, her starring role in her
personal soap opera, the glorious denouement of all her childhood and cultural fantasies.
It is "me" with a capital M. Dating has been a specious and unbridled quest for a man of
means and courtship meant keeping her boyfriend hypnotized by the lure of her sexuality,
numbing his senses to the trapdoor swinging wide open in front of him.
Long before her wedding day she is avidly planning, binging on brides' magazines and
being fawned over in dress shops, spending hours picking out the right invitations,
wallowing in the presumption that the whole world is focusing on how special she is. She
certainly won't forget to arrange for the novel-length lists of gift suggestions at various
bridal registries (expensive stores only, of course), and she'll yelp like a pampered child
when she rips open presents at her shower. It goes without saying that she is oblivious to
the reality that someone must actually pay for her egoism-she is too busy daydreaming
about herself, the virtuous, trembling bride, two-stepping down the aisle in a nave like a
movie set, all eyes upon her. The wedding guests gasp, awestruck by her beauty and
elegance, as if the cold marble of a perfect statue had suddenly come to life.
Her husband-to-be, his mind unclouded by such reveries (there are no grooms' magazines
for him), has pacted an uneasy truce with her self-worship. His participation in the nuptial
preparations has been to log in more hours at work to pay for the first-class tropical
honeymoon she has ordered, which is making him wince even at his salary. It's not for
nothing that she forced him down on his knees in front of her to propose. He's not
fantasizing about storybook castles or how handsome he'll look in his tuxedo
(appropriately enough, a funereal black); instead, he's sweating out the credit-card bill on
the two carat diamond' his "Fiancée" has pressured him into buying by skillfully rationing
sex. While her mind is awash with abstractions of dizzying "love", he's still cringing from
her recent assaults on his manhood-pouting that his house just isn't going to be big
enough for her.
A bride doesn't really love her husband-what she is actually in love with is the persona
she has created for herself: the blushing newlywed who's fallen head over heels for a
good man who will take care of her until death do us part, as if life were really a Doris
Day movie. She has succeeded in mythologizing herself. But what she ignores is the
reality that she has spurned and demoralized decent suitors who lacked sufficient capital
to indulge her tastes; that all along she has used her body as a tool and a weapon; that she
is bringing nothing to the marital bargaining table except greed and a vagina; and she has
addicted her husband to a sexual fix, so that when she restricts her availability, he will
pay any price to get it, thus turning marriage into legalized crime. She is a venal whore
and human enough to be at least on some level aware of her inner fraudulence, but the
very act of mythologizing her role in this masquerade will guarantee the perpetuation of
her self-delusions. Marriage is a cultural gloss on a lifetime of prostitution.
'The custom of the betrothal ring has an ancient origin. The Roman term for the concept was arrha ("earnest
money").
