Drop some ammonia into a Petri dish teeming with disease and the cells will be eradicated, save a finite few. Set out the most deadly poison known to insects and one cockroach will always walk away, even after ingesting enough of the stuff to kill a hundred thousand of his comrades. A tornado will wipe clean a trailer park and destroy dozens of lives in Kansas or Oklahoma, except for one infant who’s been gently blown into a tree somewhere and is nested safely until retrieved.
This is the essence of evolution. All herds are being constantly culled by Nature, Man, Fate, or whatever, and the one who lives past the culling carries the genes and chromosomes of survival and the ultimate fate of the species. If this creature has a glimmer of a conscious thought, it may wonder to the Heavens why it carries this heavy burden of the future.
Unless the lucky soul is a man. Then you can pretty much guess he will lie to himself about said circumstances and go fetch himself another beer.
Men live in a state of constant falsehood and are happiest when living a lie. This inbred instinct for self-stupidity started when a dude single-handedly hunted the neighborhood saber-toothed tiger or mastodon to prove that he were brave and virile enough to win the heart of the local cave-dwelling hottie. Naturally, the tiger or mastodon killed that dude and the next twenty idiots to single-handedly hunt them, but one guy eventually got through the tusks and claws and brought home one mighty fine pelt. To him went the spoils of victory, including said hottie, and together they produced the next generation of lucky idiots who eventually took on more predators. And thus was born a man’s ill-informed habit of believing in himself, which was a confidence born of lies and rationalizations. If you have troubles swallowing all that, just ask those twenty-one dead idiots.
And we men do lie to ourselves constantly and (no surprise) it usually has something to do with women. We’re born thinking those milk-laden boobs belong to us alone and we’re none too pleased to find out that we’re going to be bottle-fed. The first time that cutie in our fifth-grade class smiles at us, we truly believe beyond all doubt that she thinks of us every night and nothing else. And when we’re pushing AARP-age, we still think we’re attractive to girls twenty years younger because of our maturity, silver BMW, and/or great skill in bed, and that she would know this if she would only take the time to talk to us or even just look at us without pity in her eyes.
Along those lines, we’ll really love you more if you join us in our rationalizations. Tell us that our guts don’t stick our when we drop ten pounds (and should lose fifty more). Tell us that we don’t have a comb over, but that we’ve rediscovered a haircut that was cool when we were younger. When we do something that causes us a minor thrill like changing a light bulb, be proud of us and don’t ask about our bad back. And for the love of God, sneak the Viagra into the pill box along with the other medications we might be taking for stress, blood pressure, and low self-esteem.
We know deep down inside we're pathetic. Duh. What I’m trying to say is try, or pretend to try, to be happy for us every once in a while, and know that we men really are simple creatures and we're doing our best when living a lie. You want our species to survive, don’t you?
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