Ladies, Christmas Is No Time To Hang Out In A Men's Lockeroom

If that title sounds a little kinky, I hasten to add that I am a man, so I automatically get a free card to get in. ‘In’ in this case is that steamy, tiled location crowded with naked bodies, dirty towels, and smarmy jokes about their scores, their stomachs and the various women they know or would like to know.

For any curious female, let me assure you it’s not a pretty thing.

Still, the chatter inside a men’s locker-room can be likened to a group therapy session whose smart-ass blathering can reveal one of humanity’s greatest psychoses. I’m not sure of the correct medical term, but I call it: Pride-Gone-Wrong.

The pride part is obvious enough. The male of the species, especially the farther east you travel in the world, takes for granted this is a man’s world. After all, we built it, right? Its cites and factories and financial markets and football franchises. If we eliminate all the goddess-dominated cultures before recorded history, it’s easy for the boys to keep using such demeaning words like: the little woman, the girls at the office, the one with the 40-inch teats, the dumb blond.

What’s not so easy is for these would be John Waynes and Clint Eastwoods to study some of the latest Princeton research into the grinding lonliness of this protoypical male.. Stubbornly substituting silence for communication, and true grit for true friendship has left thid part of the population the most lonely, vulnerable and needy-without-knowing-it.

Put it this way, fellas, neither your buddies nor your horse will have a place on their shoulder you can lean on during the dark nights of the soul…

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