To Answer Your Question In Advance, Ladies: Yes, I Will Sleep With You
I've never been a sports guy. I don’t know what RBI stands for, and I've always assumed Fantasy Football was a cycle of Tolkein novels. Even so, I've done my best to avoid missing out on a very important aspect of male bonding: the statistic.
My methods are simple. I just took something sweaty and unsavory—sports—and replaced it with something with which I’m far more comfortable—video games. So when I'm at a Sunday barbecue and people start arguing about A-Rod's error matrix or "Shoeless”" Joe Jackson’s free throw percentage, I just fire back with the latest Snood worldwide leaderboard scores and Mario Bros. 3 speed run times.
This has the added bonus that I'm no longer invited to lame Sunday barbecues, and can devote most of my time to following the sales reports of all the next-gen systems. I was doing just that when I came across this shocking survey
that has revealed a full forty percent of gamers to be women. Not just Wii gamers either; the manly systems too.
Forty percent?! I don’t know about you, but frankly I would have been less surprised to hear that forty percent of gamers were currently on fire. It’s long been popular gaming dogma that the closest two X chromosomes ever got to a PS3 was when you and your buddy leaned in real close during the final lap of a heated Mario Kart race.
But when you think about it, there were signs. Ecco the Dolphin for one. Then there’s E3, the world’s biggest gaming conference, which recently shut its doors to the public. In retrospect, we can only assume it was because the influx of female gamers caused so much flop sweat that their cleaning bills became untenable. That and the fact that they had to install a women’s restroom.
And of course there’s The Sims
. Come on. A game where you raise a family, hold down a decent job, and sex only lasts fifteen seconds? A woman’s world if ever there was one. The only concession they made to the male perspective was the fact that your wife speaks in unintelligible gibberish.
But for better or worse, the times they are a-changing. The lady gamers of the world have kicked in the bedroom door and demand to be heard. No more Samus Aran masturbatory aides at the end of Metroid games unless there’s an equally arousing shot of Sonic at the ends of his games (which I’m sure Tails would be totally fine with).
And from now on, expect every booth babe you encounter to be accompanied by at least one oiled-up Chippendale’s dancer dressed as Wakka from FFX. I blame Barbie and the Magic Pegasus.
But, hey, more power to you, ladies. I don’t understand you or your mysterious nurturing instinct, but welcome aboard. Grab a Halo-branded can of Mountain Dew, a Yoshi Fruit Roll-Up, and a Dreamcast controller. It’s on.
And in the meantime, I’ve decided that it might be worthwhile for the Cracked Blog to stop neglecting the penis-disabled portion of its audience as well. After all, for all we know, forty percent of our
readers could be women, and here we are, five handsome guys and their rough-and-tumble editor spending every day together doing squat thrusts and revving motorcycles (we used to ride them too, but Jack said we couldn’t after Dan’s “accident” with the fuel intake).
Let it never be said that Michael Swaim doesn’t embrace change, nor that he lacks an insightful understanding of the female of the species. From here on out, consider this post your own personal Ladies’ Room.
Hey gals! Welcome back; missed you since last time! To all the sisters out there on their periods…ugh! Right? I know! So, let’s scope out the news of the day. First off, I’ve got a little item here about…ummm…I don’t know…UNICORNS?!
That’s right, they’re real! All of the doodles in our school notebooks, stickers on our backpacks, and modified party hats on our ponies are finally justified! Of course, it’s only an Italian deer, but think what wonders you could do with a little pink spraypaint and body glitter!
Which reminds me…GLITTER BREAK!
The whole thing’s got me wetter than my eyes were after that jerk Clint stood me up at the food court (see last week’s post, “Why are guys such jerks? Sigh.”). Oh well; he
can’t have multiple orgasms or know the joy of bearing a child, then suckling it from your own breast.
Am I right grrls?! That’s all for now. Kisses!
X<3X<3X<3X<3X<3X<3
There you go. That’s what you can expect from this blog at least forty percent of the time from now on, and if you don’t like it, well, you can just share your emotions with me in a passive-aggressive, but ultimately loving way that strengthens our bond of friendship and highlights our inner sameness.
When not masterfully analyzing the opposite sex, Michael is rocking out for girl power as head writer and co-founder for Those Aren't Muskets!
I've never been a sports guy. I don’t know what RBI stands for, and I've always assumed Fantasy Football was a cycle of Tolkein novels. Even so, I've done my best to avoid missing out on a very important aspect of male bonding: the statistic.
My methods are simple. I just took something sweaty and unsavory—sports—and replaced it with something with which I’m far more comfortable—video games. So when I'm at a Sunday barbecue and people start arguing about A-Rod's error matrix or "Shoeless”" Joe Jackson’s free throw percentage, I just fire back with the latest Snood worldwide leaderboard scores and Mario Bros. 3 speed run times.
This has the added bonus that I'm no longer invited to lame Sunday barbecues, and can devote most of my time to following the sales reports of all the next-gen systems. I was doing just that when I came across this shocking survey
But when you think about it, there were signs. Ecco the Dolphin for one. Then there’s E3, the world’s biggest gaming conference, which recently shut its doors to the public. In retrospect, we can only assume it was because the influx of female gamers caused so much flop sweat that their cleaning bills became untenable. That and the fact that they had to install a women’s restroom.
And of course there’s The Sims
And from now on, expect every booth babe you encounter to be accompanied by at least one oiled-up Chippendale’s dancer dressed as Wakka from FFX. I blame Barbie and the Magic Pegasus.
But, hey, more power to you, ladies. I don’t understand you or your mysterious nurturing instinct, but welcome aboard. Grab a Halo-branded can of Mountain Dew, a Yoshi Fruit Roll-Up, and a Dreamcast controller. It’s on.
And in the meantime, I’ve decided that it might be worthwhile for the Cracked Blog to stop neglecting the penis-disabled portion of its audience as well. After all, for all we know, forty percent of our
