Female Code – February 2013 Edition (Superbowl Halftimes)

Today in my weekly Toastmasters club meeting, one of our lady members wanted to know why the super bowl isn’t spiced up for the ladies?  That’s valid question I thought, until she gave a little more background into what she thought.  She wanted Chippendales or the Thunder Down Under male strippers to entertain the ladies.  You might recall I wrote a post on the Tight End Quiz for man club members.  I was sure that with 22 men on the field at any given time would be enough tight ends for the ladies.  I was wrong.  Another lady suggested that the players were all covered up.  Each time a lady speaks up, I learn more and more about their unspoken code.  So I say, let’s give it a try.

Imagine if you can, all the stories that would be told about the field being stormed by 30-40 thousand inebriated women with fist fulls of dollars, it almost sounds like a spaghetti western.  Let’s face it, women are WILD!  They play all hard to get with the husband’s of their choice, but at a club with other inebriated women and gyrating young half nude men, they lose their brains, and they only have one.

I submit the photograph above as scientific evidence to my claim. And this was just halftime at our Pop Warner little league last week.  Geez mon!  The guy who I think was named Hans Swashbuckenegger, just inadvertently bent down to pick up a penalty flag when the women just rushed him, like lioness’s waiting for a kill in the short grass of the plains for a gazelle to dip and take a drink. Then they pounce with utter ruthlessness.  Well Ruth was home with a horrible cold, or she would have lead the charge. Hans, unknowingly, went from Pop Warner referee to male stripper in a nanosecond. Soon his back side was stuffed with more currency than a federal reserve depository.  He walked away, quite awkwardly though, as the newest billionaire in Oklahoma.  And this again was just the Pop Warner little league spenders.  Can you imagine all the billionaires to be created at the Superbowl?

There would be so many dollars flying around the other fans might think it was confetti.  Women would be piggybacking the dancers Gangnum style, whatever that means.  Gangnum, with over 1 billion views on YouTube, mostly female, is the reason I will never, ever, understand women.  There wouldn’t be costume malfunctions, just costume extermination as the field chaos progressed.  We men, whether it be boyfriends or husbands, would just be sitting there, horrified at our lady’s lack of sensual self control.  As soon as the dollars were gone, our little ladies were whipping out the plastic, and I won’t tell you how they swiped it, or entered their security pin number for the sake of any innocent minors reading this post.  The Chippendales come prepared for any and all financial transactions to take place, with advisers by their side taking assignments of investments, 401(k)’s, and real estate.  It’s an ugly affair, but quite profitable, which has me thinking.

As halftime ended, our little lady’s would come back to the stands and sit next to us, all tired, glassy eyed, tattered clothes and your favorite jersey, biting their quivering lips, with a huge grin of satisfaction.  This is where we men, if you have ever observed us, act like little weenies.  We pretend to be all hurt that our women actually look at other men.  We pout and trap our feelings inside, pretending we are the incredible Hulk inside.  We are in fact – jealous.  Not of the male strippers physique, but because we are now over-drafted on our bank account, the family credit card is maxed out, and we are homeless before the game even ended.  A football apocalypse. Remember Hans? That Pop Warner little league referee, he was there, now president of a men’s G-string manufacturer and is now a ubber-billionaire thunder down under thanks to our little ladies.

This is why this writer gave up pro football.  Women were invading our space, pretending to be interested in plays, formations and rules.  When in fact all they are doing is visualizing those 330 pound lineman running around in G-Strings, drooling on our 60″ HDTV. They don’t need to do that, that’s what we husbands are for! So next month I am forming the newest international male stripping sensation – Hubba Bubba Thigh Slappin Thunda. Place your order for calendars today.  I’m the June centerfold. Here’s just a little peek and taste of the Thunda waiting for you lucky ladies.  But if you order today, I’ll throw in a Thigh Slappin Thunda Nutcracker.

Men, that should cure all our ladies wanton football halftime desires. Someone has to be the female code enforcer, otherwise we’d have a Superbowl apocalypse.