MARY: No. I think he had on a raincoat. I don’t really know. He was glowing so brightly.

JOE: Mary, you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take a few days off from the shop. The accounts can wait.

MARY: I’m telling you, Joe. This Angel Gabriel said that God wanted me to have his baby.

JOE: Did you ask for some sort of sign?

MARY: Of course I did. He said tomorrow morning I’d start getting sick.

JOE: But why should God want a kid?

MARY: Well, Gabriel said that according to Luke it’s kind of an ego thing. Plus, he promised the Jews a long time ago, it’s just that he never got around to it. But now that he feels ready for children he doesn’t want to just make them out of clay or dust. He wants to get humans involved.

JOE: Well, is he going to help toward raising the kid? God knows we can’t do it alone. I could use a bigger shop, and maybe he could throw a couple of those nice crucifix contracts my way. The Romans are nailin’ up everything that walks.

MARY: Honey, Gabriel said not to worry. The kid would be a real winner. A public speaker and good with miracles.

JOE: Well, that’s a relief. Anyway, I guess now that you’re officially pregnant I can start puttin’ it inside you.

MARY: I’m sorry, honey. God wants it to be strictly a virgin birth. JOE: I don’t get it. MARY: That’s right, Joe. JOE: Don’t I get to do anything?

MARY: He wants you to come up with a name for the kid. JOE: Jesus Christ! MARY: Joe, you’re so heavy.

GUYS & DOLLS, PART 2

Man, Oh Man!

To my way of thinking, men have only one real problem: other men. That’s where all the trouble starts. A long time ago, men gave away their power. To other men: princes, kings, wizards, generals and high priests. They gave it away, because they believed what these other men told them. They bought the okeydoke. The bullshit. Men always buy the okeydoke when it comes from other men.

Some stranger probably stood up at a campfire and said, “All right, boys, from now on, I’m the king. The sun is my father, the moon is my mother and

they’re the ones who tell me when to throw the virgins into the volcano. Til be expecting all of you to bow deeply when you see me, and give me half your crops. Plus I’m allowed to fuck your wife. And don’t forget, if I want to I can concentrate real hard and make your head explode.’

And the other men around the campfire nodded their heads and said to one another, “This guy makes a lot of sense.” A man will always buy the bullshit, because a man is not too bright.

But I’m not suggesting a man doesn’t have a great deal to put up with. He does. First of all, a man has to make believe he knows what he’s doing at all times. And while he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, he has to make believe he doesn’t need any help.

He has to make believe he can fix anything. And if he can’t fix it now, he’ll fix it later. And if he can’t fix it later, he has a friend who can fix it, and if not, it was no good to start with, it’s not worth fixing, and besides, he knows where he can get something better, much cheaper, but they re all outta them right now, and besides, they’re closed. This is the male disease. It’s called being full of shit.

The male disease includes the need to be in charge at all times. In charge, in control, in command. A “real man” sees himself as king of the hill, leader of the pack, captain of the ship. But all the while, in order to fit in and belong, he has to act like all the other men and do what they do, so he 11 be accepted. And get a good job and a promotion and a raise and a Porsche, and a wife. A wife who will immediately trade in the Porsche on a nice, sensible Dodge van with folding seats so they can be like all the other boring families. The poor fuck. The poor stupid fuck.

His manliness also requires that he refuse to go to a doctor or a hospital unless it can be demonstrated to him that he has, in fact, been clinically dead for six months. aNo sense going’ to the hospital, honey, I don’t seem to be in a

coma.” Therefore, he must learn to ignore pain. “It doesn’t really hurt. Bleeding from six holes in the head doesn’t really hurt. Just gimme the remote and get me a beer. And get the fuck outta here.”

Most men learn this stupid shit from their fathers. Fathers teach their sons not to cry. “Don’t let me hear you cryin’ or I’ll come up there and give you something to cry about!’ Great stuff, hah? All the problems in the worldrepeat, all the problems in the worldcan be traced to what fathers do to their sons.

So, little boys learn to hide their feelings, and society likes that because, that way, when they get to be eighteen, they’ll able to go overseas and kill strangers without feeling anything. And of course, that bargain includes a certain reluctant willingness to have their balls shot off: “Honey, I have to go overseas and have my balls shot off, or else the rest of the guys will think I’m too afraid to go overseas and have my balls shot off.’ The poor fucks. The poor stupid fucks.

And so, as a result of all this repression of feelings, the extent of the average man his emotional expression is the high five. Or sometimes, when really deep feelings emerge, both hands. The high ten. This is raw emotion. And that’s about all they’re capable of. And they have Dad to thank. Thanks, Dad.

But wait! Don’t think dads can’t be fun at times, too. After all, dads introduce their sons to the Wonderful World of Menthe male subcultures. The really tough-guy, masculine, he-man stuff. No wimps, no pussies, no softies.

There are five deadly male subcultures and they all overlap: the car and machinery culture, the police and military culture, the outdoors and gun culture, the sports and competition culture and the drug and alcohol culture. And, as a bonus, I’m gonna throw in one more: the “Let’s go get some pussy and beat the shit outta queers” culture. As I say, they all overlap. Many men belong to all six.

This male universe is, of course, detectable by analyzing its combustible

chemical formula: gasoline, gunpowder, alcohol and adrenaline. A chemistry rendered even more lethal by that ever-present, ever-delightful accelerant: testosterone. Talk about substance abuse! If it’s chemical dependency you’re interested in, you might want to look into testosterone. TESSTAHSSTER-OWN!!the most lethal substance on earth. And it does not come from a laboratory, it comes from the scrotum; a scrotum located, interestingly enough, not far from the asshole. How fitting.

And, as it happens, all these male subcultures share a particular set of features: homophobia, coupled with an oddly ironic, complete, childlike trust in male authority. Men are attracted to powerful men. They also share a strong fear and dislike of women. This in spite of a pathological obsession with pussy. TESSTAHSSTEROWN!!

So why are men like this? I think the overriding problem for men is that in life’s main event, reproduction, they’re left out; women do all the work. What do men contribute? Generally, they’re just looking for a quick parking space for some sperm. A couple of hits of hot jism, and the volume on the TV goes right back up. It’s my belief that most of these flawed male chromosomes should not be allowed to go forward for even one more unfortunate generation. But such is biology.

And so, excluded as they are from reproduction, men must find other ways to feel useful and worthwhile. As a result, they measure themselves by the size of their guns, the size of their cars, the size of their dicks and the size of their wallets. All contests that no man can win consistently.

And let me tell you why all this happened. Because women are the source of all human life. The first human being came from the belly of a female. And all human fetuses begin as females. The brain itself is basically female until hormones act on it to make it structurally male.