Wow, thank God I'm not a woman!

Editor's note: This article is a humor column. It is meant as entertainment ONLY and should NOT be taken seriously.

Ah, the biggest party of the year is just days away, and you can't wait! Everyone you know will be there, including the strapping young lad who's caught your eye for quite some time now. But instead of making this the night you fight your fears and ask him to dance with you, you'll be alone at home, fighting off the old period bug. Yes indeed, it seems that nature has thrown you yet another curve ball in the game of life.

While we males are able to coast through society's minimal expectations of ourselves, our female counterparts are hindered by the need to touch-up, brush, pluck and do whatever else they do when heading off two at a time to the bathroom. Girls' weird fetish for grooming, coupled with such genetic mutations as vaginas and breasts, make this writer thankful for his hunter-gatherer label.

Where girls are overly obsessed with their appearance, guys have been blessed with the gift of indifference. For instance, a typical cruise down Blair Blvd finds girls festooned in designer-washed jeans fitting snug at the hips, their feet hidden in high pumps (everyone knows that pumps make your legs look better), shirts of some uncomfortably tight cut designed by a person with literacy problems (either Bebe or Xoxo) and, how can one forget, the dental-floss underwear worn so that the loathed panty line doesn't make an appearance. But that's just the tip of the iceberg; this list fails to mention the layers upon layers of makeup, the lip gloss (applied sparingly so as not to look trashy) and the never-out-of-place highlighted hair. In comparison, if you ask the first 100 males you see to close their eyes and recite what they are wearing, at least 80 will have no clue.

Guys are not concerned with the fact that our underwear lines show through our khakis, or that someone we know is wearing white shoes after Labor Day, God forbid. You see, we're too busy having fun. We're the ones outside throwing the football around during Thanksgiving while the females are inside talking about futons, fearful that the perspiration exuded from catching a ball will cause their makeup foundation to moisten. We're the ones who invented s'mores, while females' anxieties about bloating have led to diet soda. We're the ones who used to eat worms, pretend we were cowboys and scab our knees in preparation for a future of fun and adventure, while girls were the ones who played dress up and house in preparation for a future of cat-sitting and watching the Rosie O'Donell Show.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no chauvinist. In fact, there are many perks to having tested positive for "girl." For instance, you can wear pink. Yet as perky as this perk is, it is quickly nullified when the next factor comes into play.

While bikini waxes sting (I mean, so I've heard), nothing can compare to the pain and effort it takes to birth a child. For nine months women peruse our towns filled with little packaged gifts in their tummies. But these little packaged gifts are no joy to open. For hours upon hours, our ladies, once polished so neatly, transform into mad beasts cursing and groaning as they draw a watermelon-sized baby from a tablespoon-sized orifice. While we hold their hands and scream college fight songs to motivate them as best we know how, only they can perform this miracle.

Though I am still mystified in regard to this creature called woman, I am suddenly thankful and sympathetic for all that she does. Sure she comes with her faults, but don't we all? Besides, as long as someone's giving birth it means that I don't have to.

Silver Chips encourages furious femmes to respond to the above article. Post angry letters below.