By Robert Adam Kasozi
Dec 13 - 19, 2003
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BRUSSELS - If human beings were animals, I would wager you men would be dogs and women ... well they would be cats. Oh and that’s not because men, like dogs, are full of sh*t. It just has to do with our Pavlov instincts. So we may not always be happy to see you home after ten years, but face it, after ten years your slim waist is gone, the twin towers have headed south, and quite frankly ten years is a long time to stare at the same lips every night. After a while you simply cease to see the face altogether. But that’s not why we are such dogs. Just for a minute think about your dog. You throw him a stick and he promptly chases after it, retrieving it like his life depended on it. You tell him to chew it ... no most times you don’t tell him, he just chews it anyway, all lichens and mites notwithstanding. I mean this poor guy runs when you run and sits when you tell him to sit. Ever noticed that he rolls over at the slightest rub of his tummy? Now, try telling your cat to sit down. If he simply ignores you, he is a great cat. Because what he is most likely to do is stare at you blankly, yawn then lie down as if to say “I really have no time for an idiot like you.” Or sometimes he may even scratch your curtain, just to rile you. Men, like dogs are creatures of habit (now you know why we like to do it the same way all the time). And I noticed the resemblance years ago when we bought a puppy who despite our affection quickly turned into a scoundrel. Anyway we had our private routine with this guy that went something like this. Each time I came home, he happily bounced up to me and to return his affection, I rubbed his tummy for a while. I never really tired of this routine until I started working. And that’s when this rascal who had never chewed a thief’s leg in his life chewed mine. You see one day I came home pretty famished and I really wasn’t in the mood for this tummy rubbing and having to put up with the beast’s bad breath and I thought for once I could skip it. Wapi! I wouldn’t give him a rub and pronto the rascal grabbed my trousers and wouldn’t let go. So I gave him a sharp kick in the ribs and that’s when he bit me. The cheek of it. All those rubs over the years counted for nothing? Well when I recovered I thought about it... hey, we men are like that too. Say your bloke comes home every night from work, have you ever noticed his motions? I will tell you we are pre-programmed to work in simple methodical ways that don’t really confuse our brains too much. If your man is like most blokes, usually he should head for the fridge first, grab a drink and slump into the sofa. In between reaching for the remote and taking a swig at his beer, he should remove his smelly socks and grumble about something at work. Then he will adjust his crotch, plop his feet on that nice coffee set you just dusted and inquire about what’s cooking in the kitchen. Routine number two should include heading straight to the bedroom, plonking off his shoes and asking urgently that he needs his ebyaffe, right here, right now. It doesn’t matter that you are all covered in cassava starch from the peeling. It doesn’t matter that you’ve just cleaned the baby who just made a mess of the floor. Oh no, when it comes to that department, men don’t want to hear such stories. The pheromones are raging and God have mercy on you if you just had a long day in the garden. But observing the damsels always reminded me of cats. I once owned a cat, but the bastard chewed my chairs to bits and I kicked his sorry ass right out of the door in full view of the neighbours. If you haven’t felt like doing the same to some daughter of Eve at one time or another you don’t really know any women. You see women are great with their dexterity. I mean I have often admired them for being able to cook four dishes all at once and not burn any of them. Me? I cook the sauce and put it aside. Then I cook the posho and put that aside too. Just please don’t ask me to make the salad and juice while listening to the radio as well. And please just don’t talk. I am busy and all that prattle will rattle me. And like their feminine majesties, women can find fun in anything and everything. I loved watching my cat play with my socks for hours on end and I never quite understood where he found the inspiration to play with a dirty sock. Now think of mademoiselle. She finds joy in the most mundane of activities. Like? Like washing. Have you ever found a bloke whistling a happy tune while doing the laundry? Oh no. We are always on the rack doing that. It’s as if somebody asked us to walk on a plank with nails pointing up. And the women folk? They don’t even break a sweat. |
© 2003 The Monitor Publications
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