|Friday, November 6, 1998||
Volume 64, Issue 54
|Ah, the simplistic
joys of manhood
Why hasn't anybody informed me of my fate? How come the proper entities didn't spell out what I should expect on any given day? How come you can't understand what I am getting at? How come I am out of clean underwear, yet I don't care?
Ask yourself these questions about 50 times a day, and you'll know what it is like to be a man.
It's difficult being male in today's society. (Understatement of the year? I think so!) Everybody always expects greatness out of us, being the dominant gender and all. There are an infinite number of issues males have to consider that females will never encounter. These issues include, but are not limited to, the role of men in society.
Take the process of running for president, for example. When was the last time women had to run for president? Do they know how hard it is to run for president? Do I know?
See, I told you it was hard being male.
You, the loyal reader, may be saying, "Now wait just a damn second, Brandon. You shouldn't generalize your thoughts about the battle of the sexes in your little space every two weeks in The Daily Cougar."
Well, loyal reader, I agree. But for the sake of arguing, I have to, and if you don't want to read this then you don't have to. Go ahead. Put the paper down. I dare you. I double-dog dare you. What? You're still reading? Sucka!
Is today's male role that of the dominant sex and master of all living things? Are we only here to manipulate others? Or were we put on this planet to rule our corporate world, eliminating any opportunities for the weaker sex, which is just in it to kick our ass?
Does every man have what it takes to achieve all of the aforementioned feats? Is every man fated to be president of a large company, president of a small company or president of the free world? Or would every man rather just sit at home all day, watching bad TV, drinking bad beer and scratching bad, unmentionable areas?
Whether they know it or not, men are confronted with such perplexing questions and worrisome fears on a daily basis. Do you hate rhetorical questions more than I do? Do you really think I haven't washed my underwear?
Let us randomly take a look at everyone's source of inspiration, Bob. By the way, Bob just turned 21, therefore making him the epitome of a male college student in his prime. Why does being 21 have anything to do with Bob's alleged prime? I dunno, but today he is thinking about finishing his degree and starting a successful career in cosmetology.
Tomorrow, he's wondering how he'll find time to re-live his college years and drink fohtays with friends. Oh yeah, and find that angel of a woman whom he will marry just because she can clean house.
By now, I have gone too far. I don't mean any of this. Sorry for the confusion. The author regrets these errors.
What I am is male -- and a poor white male, at that. Life is no barrel of monkeys, let me tell you.
Where should I begin? The day of my birth? Or should I start the day after, when my parents realized I was male and contemplated selling me on the black market due to my highly superior gender? Please don't feel sorry for me. I am not a victim. I am a survivor.
Should I start yesterday, when someone mistook me for a white guy who was out of place at the on-campus rally for Pedro Oregon? Well, actually, that was a lie. No one thought I was out of place, because I was there for a purpose that is bigger than racism: justice, civil rights and the American way.
And just as the Oregon protests will stop if the courts will jail those blatantly power-abusive cops, so can gender roles be reversed in a society. So in truth, hope does spring eternal -- hope that we all can get along and strive for a better tomorrow instead of only pointlessly whining about the misfortunes of today.
Or maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Call me a sophist. Call
me whatever you want. But I have some underwear to wash.
Moeller, a fohtay-drinkin', I-tried-to-stop-smokin'-but couldn't
communication major, can be reached at email@example.com.