It transpires that Chinese leader Mao Zedong once proposed to export 10 million Chinese women to the United States:
In a long conversation that stretched way past midnight at Mao’s residence on February 17, 1973, the cigar-chomping Chinese leader referred to the dismal trade between the two countries, saying China was a “very poor country” and “what we have in excess is women.
Smart man. I think that’s one idea we ought to adopt. Think about it.
Or take a trip around Costco. You’ll see what I’m speaking about. I’ve become an expert at racing my cart through that fabulous store, weaving between walls of stupid female flesh. Only women can cause traffic jams with supermarket trolleys. It’s something to behold.
Give it some thought. If we exported women, politics would begin to move to the right again. Oprah would go out of business slowly. You’d hear less of that staccato tart tone:
“And he was like, ‘come here’; and I was like, ‘No’; and he was like, ‘You’re amazing’; and I was like, ‘I know.’”
What would you do to hear less of that voice and mannerisms?
Greg Gutfeld described the sound emitted from Lauren Caitlin Upton, of the Miss Teen USA fame, as having “that profoundly irritating voice that combines the worst of Southern California with South Carolina—a hybrid that squeezes out anything smart from both places, leaving only a ditz-filled diaper.”
Yes, sans so many dames, it would become possible to rehabilitate English as our official language. Think less small-minded pettiness and jealousy (how I’ve suffered personally from that aspect of the female character). The possibilities are endless.
Women who come to this site are excluded, of course. Ilana’s ladies are fabulous.
I said once that I’d give up my vote if that would guarantee that all women were denied the vote.
Are there any other benefits, incidental to the export of women, that you can think of?
If the Idiocracy should stumble upon this post, then chill, please; it’s called satire, humor, reductio ad absurdum (and a bit of wishful thinking).
Update # I (Feb. 14): To the perplexed: Good satire is always based on a kernel of truth; ask Ali G., or Borat. Just because Ann Coulter would agree with this post, doesn’t mean it’s wrong. That’s woman logic.
Ann Coulter is right about very many things; it’s a shame she rarely writes about the things she’s right about. That’s the secret to success: keep the masses euphoric and moronic. (This last and the tart talk have gone to our “Quotables.” Check them out sometime.)
Update # II: See my related bimbos-instead-of-bombs suggestion in the next post, “Ayaan Hirsi Ali: America’s Shame.”
Update # III: Fewer females means there will be fewer “Skanks in the Sky,” and not as many men weighed down by “cranky kids” and a “papoose strapped to a sunken chest.”
Update # IV: Barbara, who has just started her own blog (I’m allowing it, provided she doesn’t neglect us), comments on the shrews that sully my favorite store, Costco.
On approaching a display, let’s say the tomatoes, and out of courtesy to other shoppers—not wanting to impede access—I’ll park the cart out of the way, and then approach the produce. Not the CCs (Costco Cows). They straddle the length of the counter with their carts and creepy kids and block anyone from approaching. Because brain size is inversely proportional to sense of importance, they might make time for a quick call on the cell as other more demure ladies wait to take tomatoes.
Trader Joe bitches are way worse; they imagine they’re the crème de la crème (of what? Provincial America?) Pity the patron who wants only to grab some zucchini and flee, but must circumnavigate a Trader Joe Mom mid-lesson—in other words laboring to make the zucchini purchase a “learning experience” for her malevolent little mutants. The only thing these beasts manage to teach their brats is that they, like their ugly moms, are the center of the universe. Screw the rest.
When I used to take my now grown-up baby shopping, I always found time to teach her courtesy. You don’t run through the place; you give way to older people—when you’re 3, that’s practically everyone—apologize if you bump into someone, pick up what you made them drop; don’t scream. Tantrums never occurred.
My saving grace at Costco: I shop only on the outskirts of the store. I go there for the best produce, poultry and fish you can get. The behemoths of Costco do not buy produce, or fresh fish and meat. How do I know? Standing in the queue to pay, I’ve noticed that the women have nothing but boxes in their carts. Piles of boxes packed with, it would seem, synthetic, preservative-laden, ready made food (frozen pizza, etc.) Women are poisoning America with more than just stupidity. Not one item of fresh food stuff for the brood and the bread winner.
I was once asked by a sullen, if rather pretty, slim lady—a rarity there—what I do with all the berries I buy. I said: “eat them.” She asked: “how.” I was going to say, “With my mouth,” and point, but had a change of heart. It looked like I might be able to do some good. And she was interested.
“Every morning,” I told her, “I go through the time-consuming exercise of making a mega fruit salad for me and the Ungrateful Other (who also gets his morning coffee in bed and his clothes laid out for the day; he’s a hopeless dresser). Like teens, we are both bad in the mornings—completely non compus mentis until late mornings. Fruit is the best antidote to our fragile morning state.
Costco is the kind of shop that allows one to eat the best for the least. Every single day, irrespective of the season, you can enjoy a fruit bowl packed with kiwi, berries—straw, black, blue and raspberries—orange, grapefruit, banana, pear. I may have left out something. You name it. A five-star hotel would not serve such produce.
Ladies, if you lose the boxes, you’ll easily afford fresh food. Keep your Costco fruit purchase in the fridge, and apportion daily. You’ll find it goes a long way.
My interlocutor nodded. And then asked where in the store she could find berries; she had never been into the enormous cold storage, which is the culinary equivalent of Ali Baba’s cave.
