I imagine that the first woman would have the intelligence level of a five year old and the patience of of one as well, and we all know what happens when you give a girl a beautifully decorated tupperware and tell her to wait till Christmas...
Bitched opened it. She opened it, and suddenly we have to deal with blisters, malaria, potato famines, and crab hats.
Pure evil.
Eventually, women wised up and evolved. We learned that opening fair-warned jars and evil cat boxes shouldn't be on the shoulders of women. No, it should be on the men that made such ridiculous contraptions such as bottle tops, corks, lids, and child proof locks.
Women, collectively, got together and did a big "F-that" and each found a man who would believe their calls for "Oh, dear, I cant get this bottle open... whatever shall I doooo?!" And men, being made out of the same fibers that made Zeus such a dickwad, continually opened that jar for the sake of looking strong and masculine. And women stood back just in case it released something like a new wave of anthrax or republican Voldemorts.
Of course, women continued to evolve while men continued to invent things to make life so much more difficult on their extra ribbed counterpart (i.e. dog and child safety gates). And as women depended less and less on their brute own strength, the jars became more and more of a challenge.
So much so, we have headlines like this, so we can point out the freaky women arms!
That leads me to my cooking fiasco. Excited that I am getting in the workout track, I searched sparkpeople for some recipes to try. I'm not much of a cook, to be honest (an apparent sign of the fast food evolution), so I figured I'd try something easy for my first go at it... chicken marsala. After a great gym session, I sped off to the grocery store to find a bottle of marsala cooking wine. After frantically searching for it for about a good half hour, I left, bottle in hand.
... not knowing what was to come.
It started off great. Chicken was spiced up, sauce pan was full with extra light olive oil, and I had a bottle opener at hand.
... Then the theory of the pitfalls of man's need to show off and create unnecessarily hard items became ever more true. That damn bottle cap of marsala would not budge. I tried putting the top in boiling water, hitting it gently (and then more violently) on the counter, using a knife to pop the sides, utilizing a towel/blanket/shirt end/brillo pad to aid in hand friction, googled solutions, and I of course screamed every profanity I knew.
Nothing. An hour of just staring at it, cursing the women of my family for giving me genetically lacking arm strength, and pleading with Zeus or whatever God may be up there for some relief got me nowhere.
And I gave up like the pussy I was. Today, I will reluctantly hand it over to my boyfriend who will undoubtedly open it on the first try, and then will spend the rest of the night making fun of my sex's inability to open things.
You win this time marsala/Zeus/men. But when B opens that bottle and we get cursed with a world full of Justin Bieber hair-related communicable diseases, don't come looking at me. This time, I didn't open it.
Women, collectively, got together and did a big "F-that" and each found a man who would believe their calls for "Oh, dear, I cant get this bottle open... whatever shall I doooo?!" And men, being made out of the same fibers that made Zeus such a dickwad, continually opened that jar for the sake of looking strong and masculine. And women stood back just in case it released something like a new wave of anthrax or republican Voldemorts.
Of course, women continued to evolve while men continued to invent things to make life so much more difficult on their extra ribbed counterpart (i.e. dog and child safety gates). And as women depended less and less on their brute own strength, the jars became more and more of a challenge.
So much so, we have headlines like this, so we can point out the freaky women arms!
... not knowing what was to come.
It started off great. Chicken was spiced up, sauce pan was full with extra light olive oil, and I had a bottle opener at hand.
... Then the theory of the pitfalls of man's need to show off and create unnecessarily hard items became ever more true. That damn bottle cap of marsala would not budge. I tried putting the top in boiling water, hitting it gently (and then more violently) on the counter, using a knife to pop the sides, utilizing a towel/blanket/shirt end/brillo pad to aid in hand friction, googled solutions, and I of course screamed every profanity I knew.
Nothing. An hour of just staring at it, cursing the women of my family for giving me genetically lacking arm strength, and pleading with Zeus or whatever God may be up there for some relief got me nowhere.
And I gave up like the pussy I was. Today, I will reluctantly hand it over to my boyfriend who will undoubtedly open it on the first try, and then will spend the rest of the night making fun of my sex's inability to open things.
You win this time marsala/Zeus/men. But when B opens that bottle and we get cursed with a world full of Justin Bieber hair-related communicable diseases, don't come looking at me. This time, I didn't open it.
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