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Man Drought Doubt


I’ve seen that annual ‘man glut’ article pop up through mainstream news again recently. The one that has 25 year old women desperately fielding old flings so they don’t end up sleeping on a bed of cats and having to have their eggs frozen and stored next to their lean cuisine meals.
 Firstly, I’m pretty sure these studies are conducted by a 24  year old professor that’s still can’t tell the difference between a rocket ship launch and a porno, and secondly,  I’m surprised that you, as modern ladies, are so susceptible to daily d-grade news that you can’t call social bluff on the concurrent Man Drought myth. A fable that sounds more like an antiquated communist con than a contemporary epidemic.
What’s going on?
You’re shaking in your ever-widening panty hose. You’re breathing in the scent of your ex-boyfriends favourite t-shirt you never gave back and is clearly now moulding. Pathetic. You’re crying over the scarce resources of quality men that society says is being sucked from our grasps. Yuck. The sheer smell of your gullibility is enough to make me vom slightly in my mouth. Of course, all this woeful weakness is a scene set by a half eaten tub of Neopolitan ice-cream, some badly worn in ugg-boots and played out to the full string of over priced Katy Perry albums. Yet you still blame the supply rather than the pitiful excuse for demand.
If you are really the power suited women you uphold yourselves to be, you would laugh in the face of such a challenge and slightly kick it to the curb with your black patent heel when you’re done with it. You would aptly notice that there are gorgeous men all over this sexy city. Just like the tall, sinewy brunette that reads Tolstoy down at the corner cafe, or the league of handsome gentleman that frequent your local lap pool before donning their grey pinstripes for office adornment, and even the comely, bronzed bartender with his shaggy hair, air of evanescence and penchant for menthol cigarettes.  Wait… that’s Gossip Girl, but hey what about the sort of descent looking guy at your Post Office that always carries around the Kathmandu backpack?
Stop saying No!
To you, the man drought should merely be a kiddy pool that’s leaked, a pond you always knew you were to big to swim in and one you only common for sashimi. You would be decisive, you would hunt and pursue, all the while discarding the ones that don’t fit the bill along the way. You would be the furthest thing from desperate and if it wasn’t for this man drought nonsense, you’d swear it was raining babes because you’re practically up to your slender neck in them.

But you’re not. You’ve let a few pie charts and a man in a badly dressed suit that wrote some sort of book dictate your destinies. By the way, have you seen that guy? Bernard Salt, who wrote Man Drought. Apparently he is a social demographer, which is really just a fancy name for online predator. He sits at home and spies on people from behind the comfort of his mum’s computer and looks like Bert and Ernie finally found that surrogate to have their baby and now he’s 50 and modelling casual corporate wear for Big W.
Because of him, you’ve resigned yourselves to the couch on a continual basis because you’re insistent on watering holes being landscaped by competing oestrogen. Coincidentally, this has also led to mediocre looking men believing they are ‘one tall drink of H20′, which is largely a farce, even when one’s slightly parched. If you picked your jaws up off the bitchumen for a second and quit watching Friends re-runs, you’d realise you have a choice here. You can promptly stick your flag in ‘no mans land’ and start digging your way to water, or sit around with the rest of the schmucks and wait for it to fall.

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