Can’t forget those milk glands, can we, girls? Tits! Two tits, sticking

straight out of your chest; in some cases sticking straight out. Well, for a few years, anyway. Yes, girls, just by virtue of being female, you get to walk around all your life with two vulnerable milk glands hanging out in front of you like lanterns. And if, somehow, you should get the idea that men don’t approve of the size and shape of those milk glands, you’ll find plenty of social pressure to have them artificially “enhanced.” Such enhancement usually will be performed and supervised by men.

Here’s another physical treat for females: periods! Cramping, bloating and bleeding five days a month. Fifteen percent of the time. And you can add the time spent with premenstrual syndrome. PMS. Men gave it that name. If women had named it, it would be called My several days of shrieking and crying and depression, just before my several days of bleeding, cramping and bloating.” Men don’t quite see it from that angle. Men experience PMS as a problem for them. “What’s the matter, Joey? You don’t look so good.” “Ahhhh, my wife’s got the PMS.”

Here are some more special female advantages in case you haven’t had enough: pap smears, mammograms, hysterectomies, mastectomies, miscarriages, abortions, labor pains, childbirth pain, episiotomies, stretch marks and breast-feeding. And postpartum depression. Can’t imagine why she wouldn’t feel good. And just to top it all off, menopause. Menopause! More strange behavior and exciting physical sensations.

And in exchange for all this, in exchange for all this abuse from nature, what is the woman’s payoff? Why, she’s allowed to get into the lifeboat first. At least theoretically. How often do you think that really happens? Oh, and let’s not forget, many men are quite willing to hold the door open for her. In fact, some men are quite impressed with their willingness to do this; they brag about it: ‘Yeah, I beat the shit out of her a lot, but when she runs from one room to the other, I always hold the door open.”

I’ll tell you what a bad deal women got: They’re in the majority on this planet, and they still wound up with the shitty end of the stick. That’s how big a hosing they got.

Oh, and one other inequity I neglected to mention; very unequal. But this one works in women’s favor: They live longer than men. And remember this happens in spite of all the shit they have to put up with. So who do you think is tougher? Men or women? Why don’t you guess. And don’t forget, women have the huge added burden of having to put up with men.

FREE BREAST EXAMINATIONS

As a public service, the Hell’s Angels will be conducting free breast examinations this weekend at their clubhouse behind the Chrome Sprocket Bar. If you prefer privacy, the Bikers’ Mobile Breast Patrol will be happy to perform their services in the privacy of your bedroom. Pelvic examinations and pap tests are also available but usually take a little longer.

IT’S A FEMALE PROBLEM

Beside a dusty road, in the open air, a physically repulsive man dressed in filthy doctor clothes stands at a rusted out examination table wearing a coal miner’s hat and heavy work gloves. A woman lies in front of him on the examination table, her legs extending out from under a torn sheet, the ankles resting in stirrups. Nearby, an unattractive ‘nurse” sits at a desk picking her nose and wiping it on a lamp. Women squat nearby on tree stumps, reading magazines, waiting their turns. Just above this tableau is a large sign reading DISCOUNT ROADSIDE GYNECOLOGY.

SMOOTH FLIGHT

I really enjoyed my recent airplane trip to Africa; everything went just perfectly. I had no trouble at all making reservations a month in advance, and I had my tickets in hand, including seat selection, a week before the flight. I even ordered a special vegetarian meal. I left home early the day of the flight and arrived at the airport with several minutes to spare. My friend dropped me off at the curb and left immediately.

My one bag, which was a light one, was easy to carry and did not have to be checked. I was able to take it on board and save time at each end. I walked into the terminal. There was no line at the security area, my carry-on bag passed inspection, and I didn’t ring any bells walking through the metal detector. Looking for my gate number on the departures board and spotting it without breaking stride, I headed for Gate 1, the nearest gate. With just a few minutes left until takeoff, I walked the few steps to the gate and boarded the plane.

The seat I had reserved was right next to the window, and the seat next to me was unoccupied; plenty of room to spread out. I was in first class with only three other passengers. The two female flight attendants were pleasant. . . and very attractive. They said my special meal was on board. I had plenty of legroom, and all my seat controls worked perfectly; seat-back tilt, contour button, leg rest, light switch, even the stereo controls.

Everything continued flawlessly. The plane’s door was closed exactly on time, and we taxied immediately to the end of the runway. Pausing barely an instant, we began our takeoff roll, which sounded and felt extremely smooth. There was very little vibration; just a steady increase in power and speed as we became airborne and gently glided up. I felt no bumps or strain, and we quickly leveled off to a quiet cruise speed at our assigned altitude. Then the plane went into a steep dive and crashed into the ground, killing all but two of us.

Fortunately, my cosurvivor was a fantastic-looking woman; a registered nurse who had taken survival courses. After a quick check, we realized neither of us was hurt, and then I remembered I still had two joints tucked into my sock. We got high and made love several times. The sex was great for both of us and we promised to see each other often if we somehow managed to get out of there. The only condition on her part was that there be no commitment of any kind between us; she wanted to be independent. I agreed.

After a short time, we found some sandwiches and beer. We ate and drank and laughed for about an hour and then we noticed that a signal-flare gun had landed nearby. We fired off one flare, and, almost immediately, saw a small private plane flying overhead. They spotted us and began to circle. They made a low pass at us, waggling their wings, and then headed off, presumably to get help. Thank God, everything was still going smoothly.

That’s when the gorilla showed up.

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

I don’t think it’s right that ugly women should be allowed to get plastic surgery and get fixed up to look real nice. I think if you’re born ugly you ought to stay that way. That should be it. It’s not right to let people get fixed up. It’s creepy to think that you could possibly find yourself fucking some woman you picked up because you thought she was great-looking, but underneath she’s really ugly. She got her nose fixed, her lips, her eyes; she got nipped and tucked and liposuctioned, and the surgeon did a good jobhe didn’t overdo itand now she looks really great. But underneath it all, she’s horrible-looking and you’re actually fucking a pig; someone you wouldn’t even ask for change of a dollar if you could see her real face. It’s not right. Ugliness should be a permanent condition.

THE CONTINUING STORY OF MARY & JOSEPH: “IT’S A BOY”

MARY: Joe, we’re gonna have a baby.

JOE: What? That’s impossible. All I ever do is put it between your thighs.

MARY: Well, I don’t know. Something must’ve gone wrong.

JOE: Who says you’re pregnant?

MARY: An angel appeared to me in the backyard and said so.

JOE: An angel?

MARY: An angel of God. His name was Gabriel. He had a trumpet and he appeared to me in the backyard.

JOE: He what?

MARY: He appeared to me.

JOE: Was he naked?