R.E.S. Pia C. Tunataka

Fred Wambugu Maina ©. All rights reserved

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I begin with somewhat of a semantic incongruity; no one woman is a b*tch. It is a loathsome word that is in most ways really unbecoming, a little like the stereotypical tenure that all men are dogs. In that respect, no woman should be called as such, much less so treated.

Of course, when it comes to men, at some point in this argument we have to wake up to the reality that not everyone around us is crazy. Just maybe, we could be the wacky ones. Sure some of the subscribers to the popular men-are-dogs complex belong in some special facility the likes of which has yet to be conceptualized, but if everyone around you thinks you’re a dog, you may quite well have missed the ape train, evolving from any one of an assortment of animalia families à la dental structure: 42. Prognosis – time you consulted your dentist.

In the same frame of mind, women do have the propensity to make friends – more oft than we might prefer – with that little b*tch called Drama. Certainly not all the time, and undoubtedly, some women are more acquainted with her than others. But do trust that this is one imaginary friend every clutch purse comes with as an accessory. For the most part it’s just a protozoan endoparasite, a fixed medium of harm cooped up harmlessly under her skin. Much like pepper spray, this bloodsucker’s call-to-action has its situational applications, and every ego-blooded male that has crawled under any lady’s skin has come head-to-ugly-head with her; and in the words of Terminator Schwarzenegger, she is one ugly m@*herf!ck$r.

Am sure we’ve all had a run-in with her...Dramaticus Queenopithecus or simply DQ by scientific nomenclature; that innate little Miss Boss-lady who coerces a woman’s hand to snap in a circle three times, or in any one of its multiples she deems fit for the brute in sight. The said brute in this case being under indictment over one of the many trumped-up charges she has constrained in her annals: from his simple negligence of the fact that she sat hours on end trying to hack a layered French pleat or some other new hairdo, to his asking an indelicate question, or worse still, his breaking her mirror.

The disconsolate look on one particular lady’s face – we’ll call her Sasha Vicious – when her then boyfriend unwittingly dropped her little ^∂∂mirror mirror on the wall^∂∂ would have led any competent consultant to come up with the conclusion that her image had forever been lost! Needless to say, her visible dejection was like moonlight, metamorphosing her into a she-wolverine in mere moments. Am sure you could do with a few more details on that one but am afraid it’d be a pointless endeavour; my stress on ‘then’ should suffice – her then boyfriend.

It's All About Me...Me, Me, Me!!

Mama-dramas have been a constant pain to the burdens of many a man’s minds, and to put it in greater context, consider the number of break-ups just before the ‘festive’ lovers' season.Valentine's Sorry Excuse of a Day. Of course the festivities all occur behind hermetically closed doors; whether the kitchen, bathroom, or more conventionally, zee boudoir. Audacious campus orgies may even transcend closed doors and end up in corridoors. But getting back to my point, lucid research results presented by my local bartender point to a time-honoured percentage increase in fatal relationship crashes this past month, and, he posits, they are projected to hit high point this coming not-so-Sunny day.

What’s wrong with this picture? Am sure the loud preceding words may incline many to feel a slight slant against the fairer sex. However, respect is two-way traffic. While women have their fair share of soap opera mini-productions – and many may be the reason their gentlemen are taking drives and flights away from them – we have to distinguish between cause and effect. And here I turn to the boys: fight a man over spilt beer if you must; discipline the unusually stupid bloke who slights your Missus – that is your prerogative; but clench your fists if you have to, to stop yourself from raising them in her direction as you tremor in fury. That, am sorry, is no prerogative of any man.

When a woman begins to feel like she’s safe behind a mosquito net, yet trapped with a single vampire hanger-on that may swoop at any moment of madness, then no one can fault her for exiting the system. Unfortunately, few actually do leave, and many will rationalize cases of such assault and battery with their mates’ intoxication, mitigating it with their calm nature in sobriety. Call me cynical, but romantic gests handed in as exhibits after a battering only materialize with plea bargain a forethought.

Seated at the local last night, I gave four different women the same scenario: that only two kinds of men existed in the world post-I Am Legend, the assumption being that they had to choose one. On the one hand, Don Quixote is the fairy tale romantic, treating his woman like a princess and making her feel wanted; but he has an alter ego, and thus his Don Juan tendencies, dogging on her behind the scenes. On the other we have Mono, Mr. One-Woman. By default he has no cheating bone in his body, but what he lacks in that bone he makes up for in bruising his one and only.

All four chose |Don Qui/Juan.

Disclaimer | This is neither my opinion nor is it my Editor's, that cheating should fly under the radar of vice; just the simple findings to a simplistic hypothesis weighing two evils to stumble upon the lesser one, and possibly the preferred one.

So this should be every serious commitment’s creed. R.E.S. Pia C. Tunataka. No man should have to live with earmuffs or plugs just to drown the drone of his mate’s racket; and no woman should have to cry or buy a crash-helmet to evade the swellings of a relationship. Same Sh*t Different Day? How’s about we just try No Sh*t Any Day?