The year of the Snake...

The year of the snake. So far, so bad. It's turning out to be anything but snake-like. What I wouldn't give for that late 1990's soda stream of dodgy men with their questionable morals and fashion sense.

Gone are the days when a man was a man and - controversial I know - I blame us women. We've pushed the men into the uniformity of metrosexuality and now I'm starting to wonder if we've pushed them too far. Sometimes it seems that their genitals have been tucked so far between their legs under the pretense of forming the infamous, banterous "mangina" that we may have caused them to evolve into men with inverted ball bag/ vaginas. It may even be a pandemic.

The last thing that I want to be doing when waiting to be fed dinner-date style is to be hanging around for the one - supposedly with the balls in the relationship - to preen themselves to within an inch of their life as my life is slowly passing me by.

If I ever see another male metrosexual sobbing into his popcorn at the latest chick-flick I think I might have to start crying myself. That would obviously be if I had the option given that I had my tear ducts removed years ago. They're now safely stowed in a jam jar on a shelf next to my ice-cold heart and apparently all of the testicles of all of the men in the land (or at least the men in my locale)!

I am actually contemplating a loan service whereby I loan out my big balls. I'm going to pass them around and allow one male at a time to strap them on. I'm then going to individually invite all of these boys to "man up!" Maybe this will be the start of something beautiful... It would certainly be a public service. I wonder if there's Government funding available for this.

***Note to self: work on Dragons Den pitch ASAP***

This little rant all came about for various reasons. One of which being my self-inflicted single self being surrounded by the usual litter of love-sick puppies come Valentine's Day (occupational hazard). All of which were clambering last minute all over each other for something that sparkles so their respective other halves didn't send them to the doghouse later that evening. That and possibly the vain attempt that they would be dry humping more than their bitches' legs if she had enough to drink with the slap up commercial meal or the M&S two can dine in. Who says romance is dead? I DO!

I guess that all of this cynicism wasn't helped by my poorer than usual luck with men at the time. Obviously I'm using the term 'men' in the biological sense and as that was what was registered on their birth certificates as their specified genders. However, I prefer to use this term very loosely or disregard it altogether in the favour of a slightly more accurate replacement...

"Total F-ing pansies!"