[dropcap]A[/dropcap]s most of y’all recall, there was a big women’s march last month in both Washington D.C. and up in Austin. Oops, I’m sorry. I did not mean to infer there were marches by heavy-set women, but that there were a mess of women attending the function. Some of y’all might’ve wondered what my view on these marches is. The fact of the matter is that I have no problem with women marching around, hollerin’ and fussin’ about something some fella did. For most of my life I’ve had women fussin’ at me when I did something wrong or plumb forgot to do something.
My mother was fond of marching. She used the term “march” quite frequently, as in “Boys, you march up to your room and clean up that pig sty,” and “Boys, you march right back outside and hose each other off. You aren’t bringing that mud into my clean house.” The marching order I dreaded to hear was “Clint, you march to your room and think about what you just did. We’ll discuss it further once your father gets home.”
The women’s march to our state capitol might be construed by some folks as some kind of protest or demonstration, but I think about 50,000 ladies just got fed up with seeing football on their TV for the past five months and had to get out of the house. And fellas, back me up here, when women go out in public, whether it’s a restaurant, a store or the gym, they get all dolled up. Women like to be noticed, which might be another reason so many went marching to the capitol.
Awright, guys, how familiar is this scenario? The wife comes back home from her appointment at the beauty salon as you’re sitting in your recliner, in your underwear, drinking a beer and watching a John Wayne movie. After several minutes of silence, you hear this: “I’ve just spent two hours and a lot of money getting my hair and nails done, and you don’t even notice me.”
“But, Hon, this is ‘Rio Lobo’, and I haven’t seen it in 7 or 8 months.”
“At least you could’ve looked at me and take notice!”
And then that faulty filter that lies between a man’s brain and his mouth allows this to slip out: “If you had been carrying a 12-pack of beer in your arms, then I would’ve noticed you.”
Now, here is where there will be a woman’s march, followed by a man’s march right out to the yard to gather a bunch of clothes and your pillow. I believe over these past few decades I might’ve done some marching out to the tractor shed to seek asylum and to think about what I just did.
So, you ask me why I think all these women felt like they had to go marching and vent their frustrations at stupid stuff some man, any man has said or done. Whether it’s the president of the United States or some poor numbskull sitting in a La-Z-Boy, sipping cold beer and watching John Wayne and Dean Martin, men are the most likely origin of any women’s march.
What’s that, you ask? What is the catalyst for a men’s march? Well, I pondered over this query for some time and did a little research and discovered this alternative fact: The major cause of a men’s march is a big sale at Twin Liquors. What else would get 50,000 men out of their recliners during the NFL playoffs?
God Bless Clint Younts’ wife. What more can you say? While he holes up in the Crow’s Nest at Mountain City, she probably ponders anything but his comments.
