Posted 3/10/2008

ON THE BEACH WITH TWO FEMINAZIS

One afternoon, Joan and Bobbi arrived on Vanderbilt Beach with beach chairs, sun visors and portable coolers filled with ice and their favorite libations: scotch for Joan and margaritas for Bobbi.

The scene was peaceful, with rippling blue Gulf waters barely nudging the end of the sandy beach and sky dotted with white cumulus clouds. In the distance, several white sails moved lazily North and South. Knowing Joan the way I do, I am sure that she gets even more pleasure from the schooner on the Cutty Sark label than she does gazing at sailboats on the Gulf of Mexico. A few men and women were walking and jogging down at the water's edge.

With the temperature at 77 balmy degrees, what could have been more idyllic for two refugees from the snow, sleet and ice of New York and Connecticut? Ten feet away from the two ladies, I tipped my sun hat over my eyes and settled down for a peaceful snooze, enveloped in the soothing aroma of my coconut scented Coppertone.

But suddenly I was jerked out of my contentment by the following conversation, which carried over to me quite distinctly despite my slowly declining hearing.

"Will you look at that guy?" Joan said disgustedly.

"Which guy?" Bobbi asked, peering about.

"The big fat one, jogging." Joan pointed.

"The one without the shirt on?"

"Yes, that one. Isn't he disgusting?" Joan wrinkled up her beautiful smooth skin.

"Terrible," Bobbi agreed. "He should have to wear a shirt."

"It just ruins the whole atmosphere of the beach. Big fat ugly men running around with their boobs flapping up and down," Joan grimaced.

"I don't know why men do that! Don't their wives realize how disgusting they look?" Bobbi agreed.

"Look, here comes another one!" Joan yelped.

"And that guy walking there. Look at those fat floppy boobs."

"Hey, here's a young guy with gorgeous pecs."

"Yeah, he's gorgeous, all right. Now he's gorgeous. But I don't want my daughter marrying some guy who has a buffed body and gorgeous pecs at 20, because sure as shooting he's going to have fat flappy boobs by 40."

By this time, the two ladies were waving their arms for emphasis, sending more than a few drops of alcohol swirling around their encampment. If this kept up, the sand crabs were probably going to be loaded by sunset.

As the conversation went on a long time, with both women taking turns running down men's boobs, I began to get more and more irritated. What right did these women have to invade a purely male preserve? Men talk about boobs. Women's boobs. It's a guy thing. Women have no right to start talking about men's boobs.

Why aren't they at home ironing? Things started to go to hell when we gave them the vote and allowed them to drink in public. And it's so one-sided. Women are invading our territory, but raise a big fit when we attempt to enter their heavily fortified pavilions.

Take fashion. Women are running around everywhere wearing pants, but just let a man show up at a party in a dress and he's dead meat. Hillary Clinton traipsed up and down New York State campaigning for the senate wearing black pantsuits. She never even wore a dress once. And did it create any fuss or furor? Even the Republican party kept its mouth shut over her outfits.

But what happened to poor Mayor Rudolph Giuliani when he declared a cross-dressing day in New York and showed up at city hall wearing an elegant frock? One photograph ... and he lost the whole conservative wing of the Republican Party forever. If he had become the Republican nominee in 2008, the swift boats group would have promptly doctored up some photos showing him wearing a bra and panties.

Things really got bad in New York when Rudy got into marriage troubles with his wife, the actress Donna Hanover. The whole marriage blew up when Rudy was living in Gracie Mansion, which is provided by the taxpayers for the Mayor (note: not the Mayor's wife). So when the marriage ended, we all naturally expected that Donna Hanover would move out, leaving the mayor in residence at the mansion. Instead, she has the gall to kick him out and she, a third-rate actress, stays in the place.

The poor guy was probably tearing his hair out over the humiliation (at least he seemed to get a lot balder after he moved out). At least he took up later with Judy Nathan, a nice, quiet Jewish girl, who seems to know how to provide the kind of support a wife is supposed to.

The feminine invasion wouldn't be so disgusting if women would share some of their rights with the men. For example, when we go to a nice restaurant, we often see a man help a woman get seated by holding her chair and sliding it back in under the table. But I have never seen a woman help a man get seated by holding his chair for him.

This error is glaringly obvious in the elderly set, where the man is generally older and substantially more frail than his wife. But all she does is read the menu while the poor old guy is struggling with his chair, whose legs are ensnared in jungle of tough carpet fiber. At the door, he will gallantly push through the pain of his bursitis and arthritis to help her on with her coat. What does she do in return? She stands there impatiently, tapping her foot, waiting for him to open the door while he struggles to get his coat on.

I must have dropped off while thinking about the restaurant. Joan and Bobbi were gone and the beach was quiet when I came to. A fat guy with droopy boobs walked right by me, but at least he didn't kick sand in my face.

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