K8 the GR8

Once again, K8’s faith in humanity is given a massive whack across the face with an iron crowbar. 

I have defended the travelling community before (being that I live amongst them and kind of feel I should give it a shot)… I think I said something about them deserving the right to fight for respect within an unforgiving settled community?

What complete bollocks this is.

Here’s the scene:

-0-

I’m parked up at a garage in Bray, looking for a lady who wants to go to Arklow as per instructions from the taxi base.  I’m scanning the area which is deserted apart from a young lad aged eleven or twelve who sits by himself on a window-sill with his head resting on his knees.  Being that I am a girl who tends to think outside her box, I approach the kid.

“Hey kid… you looking for a taxi?”

The kid looks up and seems somewhat relieved.  “Yeah, I want to go home to Arklow” he says.

I convey my successful pick up over the CB and am informed that the fare would be €65.  I turn around to the kid.  “Do you think you can handle €65?”

The kid looks panicky and says; “Oh no I have no money with me, my mammy said she’d pay for me when I get home.  She’ll give you the money then.”

Fishy, but still highly likely. 

“What’s the address?” I ask.

“I dunno” the kid says apologetically; “we only just moved in.  It’s near the main street”.

Something smelled funny, and I don’t mean metaphorically.  The child was scruffy, and smelled very faintly of urine (as many children do) but also had an unmistakeable accent.  He looked nervous, and was hugging a bottle of orange soda.  He had intelligent eyes, and looked me directly in the pupils when he spoke to me.

My instinct roared.  It warned me that I was about to be swindled, but I wondered if I had the right to refuse a child safe passage to his parent?  What if he was speaking the truth?  I’m a mother, I can’t do that to a kid!  Besides (more truthfully), €65 is a lot to turn down.

I take off.  The kid asks me how far it was to Arklow, but apart from that one question he is silent for the entire journey.  When we arrive at the town, he directs me into a small housing estate on the outskirts. 

“It’s that house on the corner, I’ll be back in a second”

I let him out, scolding my instinct for being such a cynical bitch.  Then I watch as the kid passes the house in question at high speed, and dissappears around the corner on to the main road.  I fire the ignition and fly after him in first gear.  The main road is deserted.  I crawl up and down for a few minutes knowing well that the little fucker is hiding somewhere.

I drive back to the housing estate and call the taxi base to see if there is any protocol for this type of thing.  Apparently the union doesn’t have an insurance policy against runners, because there is no union.  I ring the accidental terrorist who tells me to come home (seeing as I happily live near Arklow anyway) and informs me that he regrettably has no secret ninja techniques for dealing with this situation.  The Police are dreadfully under-funded and would probably appreciate my not informing them of this misdemeanour. 

I couldn’t go home.  I wanted to find him and run him over.

I drive very quietly until I get back to the road the kid would be walking.  I shift into neutral and slink along with my eyes peeled.

About 200m ahead of me, I spot an old man.  There’s someone else too, who briefly flashes a face, then hops over the 6ft wall beside him.  I toy with the idea of scaling the wall to chase the kid, but thought better being that my trousers cost a few bob.  Anyway, what use would there be in catching him?  Sure, I could beat him up a bit to calm the anger, but I’d still be broke.

I stop to speak to the old man who does indeed identify a young boy holding a bottle of orange soda.  He also tells me that the field over the wall beside us could be used as a shortcut to get to the traveller’s quarters ‘over the way’ as he puts it.

End of pathetic sodding scene.

-0-

I knew that kid was a knacker.  I still drove him ‘home’ because it was the end of my shift and I was heading that way anyway.  I was aware of the kid’s movements the whole time, but he gave me no cause for concern whatsoever.  He just sat back with his arms crossed and gazed out the window silently which is refreshing for someone with my job. 

I’m not angry about the money, I’m angry that I was so fucking naive to think that it’s possible that there is such a thing as an honest traveller. 

They are a crafty race who have plenty of scruples and plenty of cash, so do not take your eyes off a traveller for one fucking second if you find yourself near one, for they would have the eyes sold out of your head soon as look at you, no matter what age they are.  Kudos to them, they had me fooled… but not anymore. 

They’re in a great position… they don’t pay taxes, and it’s well known that they enjoy the fruits of ill-gotten gains, yet the gardaí won’t go anywhere near them.  They demand respect from the community and free land from the council, then fleece them as soon as their backs are turned!

Where’s the honour in that, though?!  Why is it that the only events warranting shop and pub shut-down around here are Christmas day, and a knacker’s funeral?  They live by skimming money off tax paying citizens… so why are we respecting that again?

If they’re so great, then why aren’t we all travellers?  I’m already halfway there, sure.  We’re scrounging a house off the council, but at least we’re trying to get back on this bastard of a housing ladder… we were almost on it too, once, but slipped off again when Laughingboy was born.  Circumstance kicked us in the nuts and now here we are, still trying to crawl out of the dependancy pit seven years later.  It sucks!  Yet, there the knackers smugly sit in their dingy halting sites, knowing that their head-men and women of the family are worth literally millions of euros.

Here’s an insane question: If you had millions of euros would you squat in a dingy piss-stinking commune in the clogged pores of the Irish countryside, or would you bugger off to Thailand? 

Answers on a postcard to:

One pissed off taxi driver
28 Shithole View
Dunfoundusaplacetohousethescumbags
Co. Wicklow
Ireland

(What?!  What do you mean this post is too long?  It’s not!  My blog is too narrow!)

I seriously love it when blokes go all taboo.  Nickhereandnow in his infinite excellent wisdom, wrote his view on hairiness (and prevention of) today.  I leaped with joy to read his post, as it’s a great excuse to have a go, especially seeing as I may just be the hairiest girl in the world.

You might have seen this face before:

This smug mug belongs to my father, who bestowed his wisdom, height, and Wookie genes upon me.  Now you perhaps will appreciate my point.

Freud would have it that I would prefer the bearded bloke when seeking a mate, but this for some reason went out the window when I chose a man with exactly two hairs on his chest.  Freud also said that a woman is either constantly running towards her father, or away from him.  If you saw my dad standing on top of his pile of tourist carcasses, you’d probably choose the latter, too.  With the exception of Gimme perhaps, bearded men are generally too ‘nice’ for me, being that I like just a pinch of bad-boy in my men.

Anyway, being that I am with a minimally hairy bloke, a lot of discussion has led me to understand that excess hair on my own self is not appreciated.  I have been asked to visit the beautician’s quarters for a ‘bald eagle’ of late  (TAT’s knowledge of the hairstyles in that region astounded me).  I refused point blank, as I have already experience pube waxing and found it not to my taste, especially when you’re being done by a vindictive cow who insists on ripping away at the same raw and bleeding patch 17 times.

Then, in my infinite female wisdom, I challenged TAT.  I told him I’d go the va-general whole hog on the day he went through with a back, crack, and sack wax.  We agreed to leave it at that, for that was good enough for this particular gander (’Bollox to that!’ he said.  ‘Exactly!’  I said).

The thing is though, you might be here expecting me to fully support this sort of image:

Not a chance, matey.  The gals at school were the first to point out what a freak I was.  Then when my best friend’s little brother began to call me ‘Dr. Zaius’, I knew it was time, and deforestation began against my mother’s wishes.

-x-

My de-fuzzing attempts are as follows:

-I tried Immac first (now Veet) which is a type of acid which, when applied to the skin, produces a very weird smell to let you know your skin is being poisoned.  Then after a while, one washes said acid off, along with scorched dead hairs.  Not so with us very hairy chicks!  We just end up with alien legs that still need to be shaved despite chemically raw conditions.  Binned.

-I tried those electric shavers twice.  The first time it was useless.  The second time came years later when I had forgotten how useless they were but they are still useless.  Binned.

-I tried waxing once when I decided for some unknown reason that the midwife in the hospital in which I was due to explode shortly at the time, might be offended by my… umm… genetic condition.  Bikini waxes hurt.  They really sodding hurt.  And, to make matters prettier, there were many craters, and much ingrown nastiness to follow.  I tried home kits a few times on my arms, but with crap results.  The pain was overtaken by the frustration of being totally unable to uproot the final 15% of the really stubborn hairs.  It was almost the death of me, so it was binned.

-I even tried one of those electrolysis machines, bought on Ebay for fifty quid.  The principle is that you hold this pen (which is wired to the mains) in your left hand.  Instead of a nib, the pen has a micro-thin wire which you insert into the root of your offending hair.  You then touch the silver part of the pen with your wet hand, and ‘BZZZZZZZT’ - you complete the circuit and get root electrocution.  It smells rotten, it feels rotten, and you’d have to do it a rotten further 15,000,000 times to kill all the hair on your body.  Binned.

My only man is your average disposable razor blade (especially the ‘new’ and ‘improved’ ones!), and a large bottle of Fruit of the Earth Crystal Clear Aloe Gel.

-x-

It takes me half an hour to shave everything (trying to shave one’s toe-knuckles with severe myopia is a serious challenge), much longer if I’m expecting a trip to the swimming pool or beach.  It sucks, but I don’t mind, because there is not a chance in hell you’d find me letting it grow.  It doesn’t feel natural, ironically, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the media talking.  If a bloke were to walk up to me and tell me that hairy women are his greatest turn on, I’d run away. 

Anthropologically, it doesn’t make sense for women to be hairy.  Sure… didn’t they get to stay in caves and nurture young?  Men of course needed hair to keep the warm and display their virility and that’s lovely… I’m a magnet to a scruffy stubble, as long as it’s only a few days old.  Men needhair, but I don’t really understand how evolution hasn’t phased it out yet for women… Mother Nature must have gotten the hint by now that it’s out-dated and un-wanted?!  In fact, this guy claims women are generally getting hairier, and yes, there is indeed a blog dedicated to the subject out there! Hairy Women Blog.

Is this one of natures oldest jokes?  I sure as hell ain’t laughing.

It’s been troubling me lately that one of my most popular posts is ‘Why do girls pee in pairs?‘.  The reason that it’s so popular is that people keep googling ‘How do girls pee?’ and finding me.  I have a feeling that this post isn’t what they were looking for, and I don’t want to let them down.

Who googles ‘How do girls pee?’ anyway?  Dodgy question, that.  You just never know these days.  It is, however, a frequently asked question apparently.  So, for the benefit of you curious young people out there who are genuinely wondering, I’ll explain it for you.

If you fall into the ‘just lookin’ for kicks’ category however, then I suggest you skip the biology lesson, and go to the end of this post.

So how do girls pee, then?

As you probably know, girls don’t have penises.  They sit down to pee because they don’t have this specialist aiming equipment, however there are several inventions out there that can help with this problem.  Very handy for long journeys and rock concerts.

The same process happens with males and females.  Food and water is put into the body, then processed by the stomach and liver.  All waste liquid then passes through the kidneys and ends up in the bladder.  When the bladder fills, a tube called a Urethra carries the pee to an external opening.  In men, the urethra runs through the penis and also carries ejaculate and pre-ejaculate during sex play. In women, the opening of the urethra is above the opening of the vagina. The opening of the urethra is very small and is not easy to see.  Here is a gratuitous drawing, which makes excellent use of the word ‘Sphincter’.

You’re probably wondering how girls handle the dripping problem, right?  The answer is toilet paper, and lots of it, after every function.  If you want to keep a female happy (apart from leaving the toilet seat down), always replace the toilet rolls when they run out.  We are lost without it.

You might also be wondering what girls do when there are no toilets around.  The answer is that they squat, usually getting a friend to provide cover. 

For the very very ultra modern girl, there is the SHENIS.  It is the ultimate equaliser.

There.  That was embarrassing.

So anyway… what were you saying?

‘Well Holy God’, as Miley would say… I can’t understand this brain of mine. 

The Accidental Terrorist and Pedro the invincible are downstairs on the xbox playing Assassin’s Creed, a game which is so good, I have managed to pull two whole all-nighters playing it.  This is no mean feat for a mother of two chisellers, but it was worth it.

I disconnected my laptop from the TV feed so that I could take it upstairs, away from the madness.  I knew full well that this was a rare opportunity to snatch an hour or two away to write on me blog, but I had a heavy heart.

“What the fuck am I going to write about?” I implored the likely lads.

“Write about not knowing what to write about” said TAT, his attention elsewhere.

“Fuck off” I said.

“Write about Assassin’s Creed” suggested Pedro.

“They don’t care” I said.

Pedro didn’t seem to care either, so I wandered away.  And now here I am with nothing interesting to say.  Even a faceful of vodka doesn’t seem to help.  I’ve emailed a whole lot of friends about that tag Brian snared me on, but nobody has replied yet, except me aul’ mate Lou.  Either I’m imaginary, or they’re stumped.

So… some random madness from my recent past will have to do;

~:~

Apparently a woman walking into a hardware store in Ireland and asking for chimney cleaning equipment is hilarious.  There must be a joke out there somewhere to this effect because the two blokes behind the counter went very red and giggly for some reason.  They kept asking me about length, and I kept replying with ‘two storeys’ which amused them further.  I don’t get it. 

~:~

When a young mother is walking through a supermarket with a toddler, and if the toddler is screaming and the mother is doing nothing about it, please don’t pass comment.  She is doing her best, for it is not her that is at fault.  It’s the supermarket’s fault.  They have a very clever way of placing Creme Eggs and Kinder Surprises beside vital groceries.  This is the devil’s work, and whoever came up with this idea should be dragged into the street and shot.  I paid for that half-eaten apple, but I shouldn’t have.  I should have left it in the centre of the Creme Egg stand.  When a child is denied chocolate all hell breaks loose, and this hell should have a live feed to the audio system in the general manager’s office.

~:~

I chanced my arm the other day and wandered into a newsagent to ask for tobacco with only 4 euros.  I thought I’d get laughed out of it, but no!  Apparently you can still buy half-packs of handrolling tobacco even though ten boxes are obsolete!  This means the government must be okay with kids smoking rollies.  If this is true, then they really should advertise how to roll a proper rollie, to get them off the dreaded Johnnie Blue’s.  If there are any children out there who would like me to post a list of numbered instructions as to how to roll a cigarette, please let me know.  I would be delighted to do my bit for the country!

~:~

What else is there?  Here is proof that everyone’s parents are mad, not just mine.  Jack McMad has some excellent suggestions for improving perambulating activities around Dublin City, Roy’s Taxi gossip continues to have me shitting bricks about starting this taxi business, Jefferson’s been to the zoo, Going Like Sixty is having another ‘holy shit!’ moment, Medbh’s being esoteric,  Baino’s doing her best to find a bug in her system, and Thriftcriminal’s bitchin’.

Me dad thinks he’s lost his sense of humour, but he’s just suffering from the same thing as the rest of us. 

I’m finding myself with spare time suddenly but with nothing much to say.  Then I decided that it is very rare for a blogger to post a post and use all of their tags at once (Bloggers such as Brian F and Stupid Irish Daddy are disqualified for lack of imagination of course).  This is my challenge,  and I’m giving myself an award for it.  You can have one too if you can do it.

What is both strange and unusual is that marijuana is illegal.  This subject is taboo, but it’s just something to think about.  Once one partakes in the activity of having a spliff, one is immediately part of the chain.  One is working hand in hand with the drug-lord and his artillery, and my philosophy is that this is unfair burden on us stoners.  It’s a little known fact that weed is quite benign, that it’s worst effects are the munchies and diminished brain capacity, but we accept this, and we take responsibility for it quietly and with a few giggles thrown in. 

Working the daily job is not easy.  Neither is dealing with the family and it’s shortcomings.  My weakness is that I would like to sit back and be able to put up with the tripe on the box and find it humourarse.  Sometimes it’s nice to listen to music or glance at the uncategorised pleasures of this life and be inspired to write new poems and things.  Contrary to public rantings, weed does not generally make us want to take up smack or turn bi-polar.

That’s all I’m saying because this is supposed to be a quickie.

Here’s my award.

Do you want it?  I’d offer it up for general grabs but seeing as memememe is one of my tags, I have to name names.

Me aul’ f’la

Irish Flirty Something

Scribbles by Hanulf

(You know you want it)

So there we were, me and TAT, roasting marshmallows and supping wine from plastic cups.  The river babbled loudly beside us and time became obsolete.  Conversation turned to those topics that we normally would never have room for in usual life.  A lot of shite was talked, and it was good.

We began to talk about the world, about disaster and miracle, ying and yang, religion and sacrifice.  We spoke at length about whether or not it would be hypocrital of us to christen our children and marry in a church, when neither of us would hold any belief in the questions the priest might ask us in the process of the ceremonies.  We both know and love our God, but found that ironically, it was the religion we had no faith in.

The conversation ended in mid-air, on one question. 

Let’s take it as a given that the Catholic Church is probably the most affluent entity that ever existed. 

“The Vatican has large investments with the Rothschilds of Britain, France and America, with the Hambros Bank, with the Credit Suisse in London and Zurich. In the United States it has large investments with the Morgan Bank, the Chase-Manhattan Bank, the First National Bank of New York, the Bankers Trust Company, and others. The Vatican has billions of shares in the most powerful international corporations such as Gulf Oil, Shell, General Motors, Bethlehem Steel, General Electric, International Business Machines, T.W.A., etc. At a conservative estimate, these amount to more than 500 million dollars in the U.S.A. alone.” (THE VATICAN BILLIONS by Avro Manhattan.)

Every nun or priest that gives up their life to the church, must also give up their wealth and worldly goods.  Yet, if this poor servant of God decides to retire, they don’t get a pension, all they get is a bus fare and a handshake with which to start their new chapter. 

I was educated in a convent, and found it hilarious to see 78 year old sister Consumpta walking laps of the hockey pitch in her brand-new state of the art Nike Air-Macs.  She’d stop now and then to pump herself up, then carry on.  Her peers drove in the latest models of zippy cars, and the priest himself lived in a mansion, alone.

In fact, in almost every diocese I’ve ever lived in, the priest lived alone in a huge mansion.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to house this man in basic housing to suit his basic needs, and donate the mansion to charity… say turn it into a clinic, or a home for orphaned kids?

Think of all the little old ladies around the world who, every day, decide to leave their fortunes to their local parish! 

Think of the collection plates that are passed around in mass every day… a congregation of 70 people on average, say… all feeling obliged to throw their silver and gold into this basket of cash.  If you should turn up with empty pockets, the people in the pews around you will glare, and you might even find yourself scorned publicly in the local paper for such a sin.  Being stingy in church is not the done thing.

Think of the gold and expensive jewels which adorn the chalices and religious icons.  Think of the expensive cloths used in the ceremonies, the stocks, the gold, the paintings, the sculptures, the helicopters, the cars, the priceless artifacts…  worldwide, these individual cells are generating cash at an alarming rate, all feeding Vatican City, and the entity that is the religion itself. 

Wouldn’t it be safe to say that the net worth of the Catholic Church must run into billions? 

Wouldn’t it, therefore, be quite rational to say that the Catholic Church could make - if they chose to - an enormous dent in the national debt of Africa?

So could Bill Gates, probably.  But then again, he would have no reason to.  The church, however, and it’s literary works, tell us that the meek will inherit the earth.  They tell us to include charity into our lives wherever possible, and to love our neighbours.  Every page of the bible provides a good reason for the church to donate this cash, but instead, it is apparently being stashed somewhere for a rainy day.  It is being sat on, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how this is logical.

I must be missing something here… some vital piece of information, that will explain the answer to this question. 

I also have to stress that I don’t wish to insult anybody with these words.  I have the greatest respect for those who keep the faith without question.  I can see the wonderful things that the Church has done for developing countries through their missionaries, I just can’t see why local parishes with crumbling roofs are begging for money, when the mothership holds all the dubloons.  I have a deep respect for God, and I can see that God would have a sense of humour.  This is why films like ‘Dogma‘, and ‘The Life of Brian‘ came to be, perhaps.  Why so, does it feel like God has absolutely nothing to do with this mess?  Why does it feel entirely man-made?

If a prophet were to appear, and declare him or herself to be the second coming… would they be locked up in an insane asylum for disturbing the flow?

The conversation, as I say, ended here.  We then began to try to define the word ‘Epic.’  This is not easy in the dark in the woods with no dictionary.

Robert’s on the ball!

My question to him (see last post) was answered with a very good question in turn.

He said that if he was a woman, he’d hang around in the jacks to find out why us girlies tend to pee in pairs.  Well, dude, there’s no need. 

Here are a few of the many good reasons why ladies double up in the bog department;

1. Leaving the table in pairs gives us a chance to bitch/laugh/gossip/gush about the poor sod that’s left minding the drinks.

2. Standing in the ladie’s queues alone and watching other women preen is quite boring.

3. Standing in front of a mirror re-applying our war-paint is much more fun if there’s someone else there you can scab stuff from.

4. It’s nice to have someone applaud you for not getting the seat wet.

5. It’s handy if you suddenly find there’s no bogroll and you need some fast.

6. Sanitary towel packaging is not subtle.  Sometimes it’s handy to have a girlfriend cough during the ripping stages.

7. The locks on ladie’s cubicle doors can let you down - if there are any at all - and a guard can come in handy.

8. Being with a fellow lady while she pees can be quite bonding.  Think of a piss-partner on a camping trip, you know, someone to stand spread-eagled in front of you for the benefit of hikers.  Conversation is quite often at its best in these moments.  Some ladies even hover over the seat in pub toilets which can be quare’n entertaining after a few beers.  It’d remind you of a dog trying to have a dump on the deck of a ship on rough seas!

9. It’s good to have someone you trust walk behind you on your way back from the jax, to look out for labels showing/v.p.l./toilet paper stuck to shoe etc…

10. Crossing a large room can make a girl self conscious sometimes.  It helps to have someone walk with you and give you a good excuse to smile.

What do you reckon, girls… have I forgotten any more good reasons, or am I divulging a major secret here for which I should be hanged?

I’m giving some serious consideration to the incorporation of two new things in my life.

The problem is, they’re both very much taboo, so I don’t want to say what they actually are.

Instead, here are some pretty obvious clues: 

(Before you ask, no I’m not thinking of changing sexes.)
 

New thing #1:

-Men have been doing this since we arrived on the planet, yet women are rarely seen doing it.
-If you were to see a woman doing this on the street, you would stop and stare, giggle, and nudge your friends.
-It has nothing to do with having a penis, or having strength.
-It involves the ingestion of a drug.
-It is a far healthier method of ingesting this drug than the method I’m currently using.
-There is absolutely no reason why men should do this but women shouldn’t.
-If my father should find out that I’m doing this, he would be pretty proud!
-You can’t do this in places of work.
-There are famous women who proudly do this, including Shari Belafonte, Janet Jones, Andie MacDowell, and Sadie B. Hawkins (who I’ve had absolutely no luck googling, but I have a picture of her doing this thing topless which I may or may not show you later, depending on how nice you are to me).
-Men seem to harbour a secret fantasy that more women should do this.

(Dad, keep schtum.  I know you know what I’m on about!)

New thing #2:

-I bought a book on this subject a few years back.  When it was spotted by various people, their reaction was usually negative, along the lines of ‘Don’t go near this shit; my (fill in the blank) did this and she changed for the worse!’
-It was very popular in older cultures, yet people were severely punished for it.
-It is an absolutely fascinating subject to me and to others, though they might not admit it.
-For the most part, it involves a group of people all doing this together.
-If you put this on your C.V., most companies would kick you out before the interview even got started.
-It’s not a religion, though there are parts of it that involve simialar practices.
-Several films have been made on this subject, the ones that I know of are mostly chick-flicks, though gender doesn’t really have that much to do with it.
-You have probably met a handful of people who do this, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it.
-The general consensus is that people don’t believe in this, though they are still afraid/respectful of it.
-It is heavily stereotyped.

-o-

So whatcha think?  Are you disgusted or confused? Enthralled or indifferent?

-o-

If you’re completely mind-boggled and feel like staring into space for a bit to think it over, then I have just the thing for you:

This.

Alternatively, if you really couldn’t be bothered, here’s some random comedy:

And a super special cartoon just for me aul’ pair:

-o-

(A very short while later….)

Congratulations to Robert (get well soon :) and Deborah!!! 

New thing #1 is, indeed, smoking a pipe.  And, as promised, here is that picture of topless Sadie B. Hawkins thus proving that pipe smoking can be a very sexy affair altogether!

Don’t believe me?  Consult Better Living through Chemistry!

Deborah, you got it, by bingo.  New thing #2 which I’m considering having a serious look into is Wicca.

What’s the worst thing that can happen… right? 

(Try to think outside the boxymoron before you answer that.)

I and my bestest girly friend Louise were wandering through Dalkey yesterday on our way to a Christening party.  We were talking about kids and genetics, trying to decide who my son looked more like, me or his dad. 

 ”OH!  That reminds me..” she suddenly exclaimed, “I read that there’s serious research being done into female fertilisation, for lesbian couples mostly.  What they do is create a sperm cell from the bone marrow of a female donor, and fertilise a female egg!  Amazing, huh?”
 
 ”What?! But if you became pregnant with your own baby, you’d be cloning yourself surely?”
 
 ”No, you can’t do that… and don’t call me Shirley.  The egg can only be fertilised with the marrow from a different person.  Like a lesbian partner.”
 
 ”I see.. but then what do you do about the Y chromosome you get in men’s sperm?  You’d have double amounts of the X chromosome, so therefore you’d get a girl every time?”
 
 ”Yyyeahhh…” She said, trailing off.

We walked in silence for a bit, lost in thought.

 ”So in theory, it’s possible that men could be obsolete?  The future could be run by women, in a predominantly female world?”
 
 ”Yep!!! No war, just bitching sessions”  (Much laughter)

We talked for a while about such a world with no men.  I’ve been thinking about it pretty much ever since.

I can’t imagine a world with no men.  You’d have the ying without the yang.  It gives me the willies, so to speak.  I love men, and prefer male company to female, with the exception of my wonderfully eclectic girlfriends.  Yes, the face of war would change.  Our roads would be safer, and crime rates would drop,  but our heads would be wrecked with flowery paraphernalia and constant clashing PMT.  We would have to force ourselves into lesbianism.  I would consider myself to have a healthy balance of male to female hormones.  It’s what makes me a reasonable driver.  I have the female patience, with a touch of male aggression.  I play shoot-em-up games on the playstation.  I hate shopping.  I like painting my nails,  I love cute kittens and heavy metal music.  Balance. 

If there were no men, could we still produce testosterone ourselves?  If not, it would have to be artificially injected.  So, all women would have equal amounts of testosterone.  Would this work?

I would strongly petition for the production of men, if it came to this sort of scenario.  They would be very handy for amusement and slavery purposes.  You could keep a bloke in a household like a pet.. let him sleep in the kitchen on a blanket and feed him regularly.  You’d play with him when you’d feel like it, and train him to obey simple commands.  Hmmm…

What do you reckon?