Why Men Aren’t “Romantic”

Men aren’t romantic for the same reason we didn’t invent a sport called “Drop Rocks in a Hole.”

What’s going to happen next? Is the rock going to fall in the hole? Holy shit! Who wins?

No one. It’s just like listening to a woman. Everyone loses.

To women, “romance” is a heavily regulated choreograph of candles and shiny trinkets. Romance is flowers on Valentine’s Day. It’s remembering her favorite song after she’s told you twenty times and also put it as her ringtone. Romance is serving her a half-assed birthday breakfast in bed, or otherwise walking, not running, through a gauntlet of figurative cones like a dog for no discernible purpose other than to say you did it — and that you did it for her.

Romance means giving a woman things of no worth just so she’ll put out. Diamonds aren’t worth shit. Neither are flowers. An explanation of how Anti-lock Brake Systems work is worth something. A lesson on how maps work, no matter how condescending it is, is worth something. No woman on Earth will put out for either of those.

Men devised algebra and calculus to explain where we are in the cosmos. We discovered fire and nuclear power. We put a man on the moon. Putting fifty dollars on the charge card and running a bath does not rank in the universe of interesting things to do with our time.

If it’s so easy, why aren’t men more romantic? Like usual, the problem lies with women.

Women are simple creatures. To them, flowers showing up on the same day every year is a complicated fucking marvel like a comet would be to a primitive monkey-man. Put yourself in the place of a woman for a moment. None of them know how to call a plumber or a Pizza Hut, so they have no idea where the flowers came from. And fuck getting a job or having any money. Women have two settings when it comes to doing anything in their lives. Either it’s impossible, or it’s something she’s doing already.

That’s why women bitch instead of educating themselves or getting job skills for when their nagged-to-death husband dumps their fat ass. If she’s not already doing it, then it’s impossible.

Men aren’t “romantic” because being romantic means insulting the women we love. I wouldn’t feed my dog the same treat at the same time every day of it’s life. At best, that’s insulting to my dog’s intelligence, and at worst that’s a sick kind of emotional manipulation akin to Chinese water torture. That’s what women want though: flowers, candy, and attention in ways that are so predictable and contrived, they belong in a psychology experiment.

Our ladies deserve better than that. And since they can’t muster up any self-respect on their own, we men have to do it for them.

I’m a man. I’ll slay a dragon to get laid. But if the next dragon doesn’t have a Rubik’s cube for a face or something to assemble on it’s back, it can go fuck itself. Doing the same shit over and over again is tedious. Romance is coloring between the lines with invisible crayons.

And don’t tell me that laundry, cooking, and cleaning are tedious, like a she-octopus shooting mouth-ink all over the place in desperation. Women love all three of those things. Haven’t you seen how happy they look in the commercials?

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