Men Of Action, Women Not So Much

Men are creatures of action, women, not so much. It’s genetic. Science proves it. If one ever wants to really know, one looks at the science. Science views things in cold, hard indisputable numbers and facts. Science bears it out. Women are lazy, men, right or wrong get things done. It’s hardwired.

Look back at the traditional roles. Men diligently fabricated complex tools for hunting then set out on long arduous journeys fraught with peril to combat dangerous animals it order to slay bacon. Then they had to trundle it back home. Try tying a large swine, some weigh upwards of a thousand pounds, like hogzilla, upside down to a pole, and the shouldering it for the long march back to camp. And what were the women doing back at the cave? Oh, lounging about on soft furry tiger skins, won at great cost by the men on a previous hunt when Ig, not quick enough to avoid the tiger’s paw had his left buttock torn off and died from the subsequent infection giving his bedmate, Oola the chance to trade up to Og, who was a better hunter, oh yes, a much much better hunter.

While the men were out tramping the wilds, pulling nasty burrs from the soles of their feet, the women loafed about camp, adorning themselves with daisies, grinding a bit of red clay for rouge, ignoring the children as they played merrily nearby. They chattered about whose spouse was the best tracker, though they were unclear as to just what a tracker was. They braided each other’s hair and anointed each other with slick coconut oil, sometimes getting a little carried away and going too far, oh yes much much too far. Then it was nap time and if one of the children fell off a cliff, well, at least the little one had learned their lesson.

The men, meanwhile, may have cornered an angry hairy mammoth, maddened beyond bloodshot rage by the several sharp tasselled spears stuck into and swinging from his shoulders and rump, tossing his tusks to and fro, and almost Og, the handsome hunter. Back in the glade the women have awakened from their rest and scatter a few palm fronds about for decor. Then they are off to cavort in the cool waters of the river and pick a few ripe berries from the bushes growing along the banks, maybe saving a few in a leaf for the men’s return. They only save those berries for the men they are less sure of.

Finally having slain the mammoth beast the men knuckle down to draw and quarter its immense carcass. The hide is as tough as, well, it’s tough, like really, really tough and their stone tools make the grisly task of rendering the corpse into manageable chunks an all out chore, messy, greasy, gritty, foul, smelly, loathsome and odious on top of not being as much fun and exciting as hucking spears at and dodging rampaging charges by the elephantine beast had been.

After a cool dip in the river the women return to the camp with the children, having not lost even the smallest of them. The children are now all proficient swimmers, solely due to survival of the fittest. The afternoon is turning to evening and they begin to feel the chill, wondering where the men are and if they have done well in the hunt. They persuade Biff, the man who stayed behind in camp, having broken his leg the day before when he’d tripped running from a great bear, to start a fire. Biff was still a bit feverish, it was a nasty break, but he chooses some sticks carefully and begins vigorously rubbing them together to kindle a spark. It’s a chore, rubbing sticks to start a fire. Try it sometime. The women sit nearby, watching in awe, or so it appears, they have seen fires started before, and complement Biff on his firemaking abilities. Biff blushes with pride and works the sticks faster. A little wisp of smoke appears, The lessons are not lost on the children sitting nearby. The little boys watch Biff and the way he rubs the sticks carefully, the girls, their mothers.

Men are harder workers than women. It has been so since the dawn of time and is so today. Men are also more capable than women.