Leezer

     Many of you are laboring under the misimpression that we no longer need you.  We make our own money, we know how an internal combustion engine works, and we can order sperm out of catalogues and become impregnated during lunch.  Many of you – especially if you’re white – believe that you have become the iconic schlemiel for the modern age.  One must look no farther than television commercials in which male-female pairs discuss any manner of things from cutlery to diarrhea to steroid use.  Consistently, it is the female who must inform her male counterpart that he is, indeed, an imbecile. 

     Please forgive us the We Are Superior! call to arms.  I am weary of it, so I assume it must be tiresome to you.  And while I do not speak for all women, I am one, and I am a keen observer of the strengths, weaknesses, and desires of the same.  The following is offered – not as a peace offering; this implies there is a war, and there is not – as another perspective on our relationship.  Take note of that which will make our future together more harmonious:

     1.  Not all of us get the whole Brad Pitt-thing.  Sure, we like to look at good-looking men, but we also like to look at good-looking women.  Further, some of us don’t think Brad Pitt is even all that good-looking.  His eyes are sort of squinty, and he has chipmunk cheeks.  Conversely, consider the manliness of Mike Rowe from the Discovery Channel’s “Dirty Jobs.”  He’s a lot more appealing than Brad Pitt:

On this topic, we don’t care if you don’t have six pack abs (they look like the underside of a turtle), and we don’t care if you’re not six feet tall.  (However, tall is always good, too). We don’t care if you’re bald and we don’t care if you need glasses.  We do care if you’ve never visited a dentist.  Otherwise, you need not exert energy trying to meet a standard on which we did not weigh-in.

     2.  If you make a lot of money, it doesn’t mean we’ll like you more.  Any woman who loves a man because he makes a lot of money isn’t worth getting to know.  Tell her to make her own damn money.  If you fall in love with such a woman and she breaks your heart (and takes your money), well, don’t do it a second time.

     3.  Being naked except for the black socks you wore to work doesn’t do a whole lot for us, sexually speaking.  After you kick off the shoes, bend over and remove socks.  Invest in the effort.

     4.  The reason we bitch at you because you can’t multi-task is because we secretly wish that we, too, had no ability in this regard.  It would make life a lot simpler to finish one task before starting another.  Better yet would be the ability, like you, to feel o.k. about your powerlessness to wash a pan while talking on the phone while eating a sandwich while emptying the cat box.

     5.  There will never be a replacement for the way it feels to be treated like a lady, by a man.  No level of sexual equality will change this.

     6.  Please give us the remote control once and awhile.  The remote control is not an appendage like an arm or a penis.  It is made of plastic.  Giving it to us does not mean you will have to watch the Lifetime Channel.  We may even turn it to ESPN or the Speed Channel.  We like this stuff too, not just a steady diet of it.

     7.  Just as men are visual creatures and can there fore become – ahem – excited by what you see, women are auditory creatures.  It’s a function of our well-developed language centers.  This means that although you paid a compliment to your wife/girlfriend in 1983, it is useful for her to hear it again.  The bargain men and women struck is quite simple: we agreed to present ourselves in such a manner that is pleasing to the eye – your eye – in exchange for you saying within earshot something nice to us about said manner.

     There will never be a replacement for the way a man looks in a well-tailored suit or a baseball uniform, or the way he smells when just a little (but not a lot) sweaty.  These things are mysterious and magical, and they defy analysis.  God or (insert the name of your own monotheistic Creator here) made the world this way, and no amount of equality on our behalf will diminish the attraction.  We’re sorry if you have ever doubted this.

I don’t think we have met, but I assume you are very proud of your son right now for winning the Superbowl and all.  I imagine you might be wondering why your son wasn’t named MVP, but don’t fret too much about that, it’s pretty traditional to give that award to the QB.

The real reason I’m writing this is to ask you how you came up with the name “Plaxico.”  I went to Wikipedia thinking that it might shed some unscientific light on the name-origin, but only your son is listed under “Plaxico”  rather than any explanation of the meaning of the word.  Did you make it up?  Also, Wikipedia states that the name is pronounced, “PLEX-ICO.”  Is that right?

I’m wondering if you went into labor without a name and started to panic when you were about 10 cm dialated.  I see you lying in the hospital bed, chewing on your ice cubes, your sister and mother by your side.  You look out the window. It’s a storm window manufactured by “Plaxico” in Ft. Lauderdale, FL.  “That’s it!” you exclaim.  Or maybe Plaxico was the anti-nausea prescription you took during your first tri-mester.  Hair relaxer? Cheap brand of tupperware?  Maybe you suffered an awful case of plaque and gingivitus while vacationing in Mexico and sought to commemorate the event by naming your first-born after your affliction?

Did you eliminate other names like soldering iron, microchip, petroleum biproducts, or Candyland?  Gwyneth Paltrow named her baby Apple, which is almost as perplexing as Plaxico, but at least she chose a noun that conjures up something organic, something one can eat.  I’ve never tried to eat a Plaxico or a lug nut or a blender.

I am sure you’re celebrating today.  I’m sorry to say I didn’t see the last quarter of the game, as I was fully loaded with gin.  After I made several unsuccesful passes at my girlfriends’ husbands, I passed out in the backyard under an azaela bush.  I woke up wearing nothing but my socks and a mailbox on my head.

Please get back to me as soon as possible with answers to my queries. Of course, if anything I’ve asked is unclear, don’t hesitate to contact my assistant, Paxil.