Women Hater Club

Just as Alfalfa and Spanky of Our Gang, The Little Rascals, were when Darla scorned their advances, I am a proud member in good standing of the Women Hater Club. If you could see me, I would show you my card, which has my photo, identification number, and the date when I joined the club. Okay, I've only been a member since yesterday but I plan on staying a member for the rest of my life. I am so done with women.

"Men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men."

Our senior members are the ones who receive the highest classification because they were never married and/or never dated and still live at home with their Moms. Moms are okay but, because they are women, they are not allowed access to our clubhouse for fear that they will take offense at our secret handshake. Don't tell anyone but our secret handshake is the jerk me off motion that we make when we are pissed at women.

"Nice, huh?"

Members who are divorced and who have no plans on remarrying are termed our intermediate members. We figure, even though they are presently stressed out with alimony, child support, and restraining orders, they still can reconcile or fall for that blonde, busty bimbo making goo-goo eyes at them in the frozen freezer section, the only section we frequent at the supermarket.

Lastly, those members who are still in a bad marriage and who are not cheating on their spouse with a woman are our junior members. They could go either way to being a woman hater or a woman lover. We don't want any women lovers in this organization. No, siree, Bob. We watch our junior members like a hawk.

"Hey, Phil, get away from that meter maid. She's poison. What's that? You were just swearing at her for giving you that ticket. Oh, okay. Way to go, Phil. You're the man."

We have monthly meetings to discuss the emotional, physical, and spiritual pain and suffering we endured during our bad relationships with women. Almost like group therapy, talking with men and sharing similar experiences about bad relationships with women is cleansing. I leave our monthly meetings with a feeling of tranquility reinforcing my conviction that I will never have anything to do with another woman, again, so long as I live. Okay, I haven't been to a meeting, yet. I only joined yesterday but the other members tell me that this monthly meeting shit is good.

We have outings, picnics, softball games, and arrange trips to sporting events, museums, and movies. We are not gay men but, rather, men of conviction who are free to pursue life to its fullest without the constant nagging and interference of women. Without the financial obligation to women who suck us dry of every dollar, we are able to buy the important necessities in life, the 60" big screen TV, that decked out F150, a Mustang Cobra 500, and that pool table that fits perfectly in the dining room, along with a pinball machine.

"Yeah, baby, it doesn't get any better than this."

Without having to share our income for stupid stuff, we have the money to buy whatever we want. There is no more:

"Honey, I need money to buy food or pay the rent or the electricity or the gas."

"WTF!"

Geez, if it is not one thing, then, it is another thing with them. Hey, we men could live in a smaller house in a poorer neighborhood. But, no, the women want to live in a safe place with multiple bathrooms, granite countertops, and where our children go to a better school. Better school my ass. If they are gonna learn it doesn't matter where they go to school. Look at Abe Lincoln. He studied at home.

"Yeah! Give me five!"

Now, without women up our ass, when we drink beer, we don't use a coaster.

"Yeah, baby, that's what it's all about. Slap me five down low."

Hell, we don't even need end tables. We can just place our beer on the floor beside our chair. And now, without women taking all of our money, we have more money to buy, you guessed it, more beer. Now, that her precious little Honda is out of my garage, I can fit 50 cases of beer stacked high. And I'm thinking about getting a freezer for all the TV dinners that I plan to buy, that is, whenever I feel in the mood to go food shopping. There's no rush for that because take out delivery is just a telephone call away.

"Gimme another five up high."

We don't change our underwear every day. Nope, we don't even have to take a damn shower if we don't want to. We only did that for you women. And when we watch football, we move the recliner to the middle of the room, set the surround sound speakers on high, and make believe we are at the 50 yard line.

"Hey, did ya see that? He grabbed his face mask!"

"Ah, life is good."

I love my life now that I am unencumbered, unattached, and positively unavailable to the wicked charms of women. They are the devil. They are Satan in disguise. Since God created Eve, she has wormed her way to Adam's soul by seducing him to take a bite from the apple of evil. Adam would have been better off without Eve. Okay, maybe, that thinking is a little extreme because, then, without Eve, we'd have no human race. Yet, you have to admit, it went downhill from there.

Look at Helen of Troy and all the shit that she stirred up with her face launching 1,000 ships and what about Cleopatra. Yeah, she twirled not only Caesar but Marc Antony around her finger. And talk about history repeating itself, you only have to look at Debbie Reynolds, Liz Taylor, and Zsa Zsa Gabor and, more recently, J'Lo, Britney Spears, and Paris Hilton to realize that women have been having a feeding frenzy on men for thousands of years.

"We, the members of the Women Hater Club say enough is enough!"

Actually, even though I joined yesterday, I have always been an unofficial member of the Women Hater Club. I hate women. They are vile. They are evil. They disgust me.

It began when, at fourteen, the girls in class made fun of me. Sure, I was gawky, tall and thin with pimples and lacked confidence. Then, I was afraid to ask a girl to a dance.

As I grew older, filled out, lost the acne, and gained confidence, women sexually advanced towards me and took advantage of me. It was not the sex that they wanted and so freely offered; it was the lifetime commitment of matrimony that they wanted. It was a slow death trap and their bait was perfectly coiffed hair, makeup, sexy clothes, sexual innuendoes, and the promise of a better life than what I could give myself alone without a female partner. And we guys all fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Sure, I fell for the trap and married not once but twice. I tell you here and now, though, it will never happen, again. I will never take another savings account busting trip down the aisle. From here on now, I am alone and on my own with my own bad self and just my male buddies.

"Are you ready for some football? Who's buying the beer? I bought it last time."

The first seducer was Susan with her long mahogany hair, slim firm body, big tits, round ass, and full lips that promised me heaven but delivered a dead end. She blew me a dozen times when we were dating and swallowed my load and fucked me like the Eveready Bunny on horny steroids, but once I married her, she became a holier than thou nun. Man, once she married me, she had cobwebs in her pussy it was so dry. Sister Susan would have sex with me, no more, that is, until she decided we needed to have another little Susan to cement our relationship with her and entwine me forever to her through the responsibility of my child with child support. Then, she turned into a fuck machine, again, fucking me multiple times a day when she was ovulating. She'd be walking around with a thermometer up her ass and I'd be taking off my pants.

"Quick, Honey, make love to me. Fuck me, baby! The time is right. Give me all you got. Yes, squirt your seed of life deep inside me. Make me pregnant. Give me your child. I want to have a baby. I love you."

You love me, my ass. You love me like a lazy, no good for nothing loves workers compensation.

"Geez, I hurt my back bending over to pick up that paper towel and now I cannot work for you anymore. I'm going to have to file a worker's compensation claim."

I was not her husband or lover at that point, I was a personal guarantee that I would not only take care of her the remainder of my days on earth but take care of the image of her that emerged between her legs. I was doomed. Now, every time I hear that "Here Comes the Bride" song, I want to vomit.

Then, there is the miserable mother-in-law. She is the one who has morphed to the Queen of Bitch, Butch, and Nasty. Fuck with her and she will deliver you your balls on a platter. She is the tenth degree black belt of how to keep a man, how to save a marriage, and how to drain him of everything he has until you do not need him anymore. She is the author of the book, You Will Marry My Daughter.

They are pleasant enough women when you first meet them but beware, they are the Matron of Evil should you falter in your love of their daughter. That is when Mommy will spend hours on the telephone coaching her daughter on the lessons of her second book, Winning the Big Divorce Jackpot.

Yep, that's it for me. I'm done. I am, indeed, a proud member of the Women Hater Club, forever. Women will never again darken my...

"Holy shit! Look who just moved in next door, foxy lady, hello, Baby! And she is wearing a Brady Patriots shirt and a Red Sox cap. And what is this? She works for Budweiser as a driver. Oh, my God. It doesn't' get any better than that. I'm in love."

"Hi, Sweetie, my name is Freddie. What's your name? Ashleigh? That's a pretty name. Do you need a hand carrying those kegs inside?"

Oh, my God. When she bent over, she has a tattoo that reads I love girl man girl threesomes. I just found my perfect woman.

"Here Comes the Bride, All Dressed in White..."