An Immodest Proposal

I don't know what compels a man to kill, but it might involve the sound of women laughing. I don't know what cultural segregation, what devilish evolutionary trick, or what creator-based ironic twist has made women the way that they are: unable to appreciate humor. I don't know how many times I've told a Mitch Hedberg joke to a girl that's gotten a blank stare in return, how many brilliant TV shows a doe-eyed waterheaded female has said they "don't get," or how many times a well-faceted yet crushingly hilarious observation I've uttered has sailed past the female listener's head like so much jism arced over her by a male far less clever than I.

So when women do laugh, when they do allow their throats to be used for more than singing top 40 radio hits, uttering stupid cliches, or swallowing penis, it is always at the most mundane, tittery, empty rhetoric available to them. "I went to the beach and got sunburned," should not be followed by "oh my god, hahahahahaha that's sooo saaaad." It should be followed by a quick slap to the area worst affected by the burn. That's humor, bitches. It was humor when you decided that moisturizer must double as sun-block. It was humor when you decided that you should go to the beach to lay on sand and sun-bathe, a practice that is so stupid it is beneath even you.

At the risk of sounding even more misogynistic, women should all be sent to concentration camps for funniness. Now, I'm not talking about holocaust-stuff. I wasn't ever at a holocaust site, so I can't speak to that with authority. I'm talking about a posh concentration camp. An internment camp, let's say, like those lucky Japanese-Americans got during WWII. They were only upset the Americans did that because most of them WERE spies. I know it's true, I've seen pictures. If they were innocent, they wouldn't have had such shifty eyes. Now that's exercising good judgment, President Roosevelt.

An internment camp for all the women who think that Sex in the City is a comedy. Inside it, instructing the females, will be all gay men. Because it's an internment camp. Not a rapeatorium. I will know them to be gay by their inability to immediately recall the female cast of Saved By the Bell in order of least to most attractive (the answer is Jessie, Lisa, and Kelly, and I'll accept no further argument). And these gay men, though perhaps a little more kitschy and snarky than ideal, will be able to teach these women the meaning of the punchline, and I don't mean the homosexual sex act.

They will watch during the daylight hours only reruns of the finest television shows, shows that will teach them to laugh when things are appropriately funny. Shows like Arrested Development will not qualify, because fuck them they don't deserve it. And they shall watch. They shall watch or they shall die.

And at night, there shall be pillow-fights. Because that's one of the good things girls do.

Those that survive will be stamped across the lower back. The stamp will be of a butterfly pooping. Because that's much funnier than anything currently on a girl's lower back, except for Steve Carell's semen.

And it is thus that I plan to metamorphose a woman's laughter from a thing of terrible destruction into an object d'arte, a marvel of pleasant social interaction. I, and you, my fellow men, shall now be able to jizz in a woman's eye without fear of reprisal, instead able to expect adulation and many high-fives for your self-control and hand-cock coordination.

And we, as a gender, shall rejoice and celebrate with a cold beer on a hot night, gathered around the TV, watching footage of the internment camp girls in the shower, because nobody ever said re-education can't be sexy.