Men need help keeping it all together. We can be disorganized, forgetful, and self-centered, and the women in our lives often serve as a welcome counter to those tendencies. There’s no question that we appreciate our girlfriends and wives for providing a helpful hand, but what we hate is when that hand’s graceful nudge transforms into a fist that beats us swollen until we throw up our arms, spit out the blood pooling in our toothless mouths, and quietly mumble, “No más.” Telling us something twice should be enough. Three times is pushing it. If you tell us more than three times, then you better have early onset Alzheimer’s. If not, you deserve to be ignored more than Mitt Romney ignores the working class ‘cause you’re violating a basic principle: THOU SHALL NOT NAG. Now, before your neck starts working overtime, gimme a chance to explain.
Your home is not in imminent danger of a category seven biohazard just because there’s been a full bag of trash waiting at the door for two hours. As surprising as it may be to you, the theory of spontaneous generation was disproved in the 19th century: no mutant roaches or rats will suddenly emerge from that Hefty bag to recreate the biome of the New York City subway system in your kitchen. The shit can wait 30 minutes until AFTER I finish watching “Wild Things”…for the 33rd time. (I never get tired of Denise Richards in that movie. Never.)
Still, at least there’s an identifiable reason for the nagging in that context. There’s a task that needs to be accomplished, the gender gods have assigned said task to men (I’m not even going there now), and you, dear lady, are ensuring that the necessary occurs. Got it. But there’s a whole class of nagging that consists solely of behaviors firmly rooted in tomfuckery.
For example, what exactly do you think will be accomplished by calling me four times in rapid succession when I don’t pick up the first time? Will I suddenly have a change of heart somewhere between calls three and four, throw Saccharin off my lap at Shakealot’s, leave my boys sitting in the VIP, and run outside to pick up your call? Sorry to break it to you, babygirl, but the answer is no. In fact, the more you keep callin’, the more I’m likely to ignore you.
See, unless a dude is seriously whipped, he has an innate aversion to feeling like a little punk ass bitch and will instinctively react to threats of this nature. This reaction is known as Sudden Scrotal Enlargement Response. And when you nag the holy hell out of us by calling incessantly, scrotal enlargement seriously kicks the fuck in. Now, instead of coming right home at 1:30 AM, we’re staying out until 3 AM, drinking way more than we planned, and we MAY even sneak a little tongue onto a wayward nipple as it passes our face. Yep. The worst part of this is that it’s all your fault.
If you hadn’t been hammering away at his testicles all night, he probably wouldn’t have been getting them messaged in the Rozay Room, diverting good money away from your red bottom fund. So, ladies, my question for you is a simple one. Now that you know the true impact of your actions, will you become the dependable right hand that your man needs by his side, or will you continue allowing your nurturing instincts to overrun their boundaries, turning you into a cackling harpy in t? Consider your answer carefully: your relationship and the fate of millions of balls hang in the balance.