HOW TO WIN BACK HER RESPECT

Women will turn you into their child.

If you let them.

It is instinct, God ordained, the maternal fire burning in them since Eden.

Hand her the reins and she will take them, hating you more with every mile she has to drive.

Submit and watch every ounce of respect she had for you dry up.

Another snide comment in front of your friends.

Nag.

Nag.

A correction mid story, said with a smile people give a child holding a plastic hammer.

“You can go get that drink yourself.”

You feel the rage burn and grab at air, because the power left years ago and deep down you know.

I sat at a beer garden with the boys. One of their fiancées, mid conversation with me, asked her man to move to the chair at the end of the table because she felt crowded.

She pointed as if to a dog.

And he stood up. And he moved.

We live in a world of women walking men on leashes.

You have it backwards dummy. She is the one who aches to be tied up and fettered.

This is torture for her ya know.

She watched her mom boss her dad around for twenty years, swore a blood oath against becoming her, and here she is running your days, diet, drink count.

She hates it. And the hate squirts out like blood from a knifed vessel.

The feminized masses prescribe cOMmUnIcAtIng YouR fEelInGs.

Request respect in your clearest squeaky high pitched indoor voice.

A billion dollar industry of soft handed therapists and podcast husbands in matching pajamas, shoveling the same steaming donkey shit,

and then everyone acts shocked when another wife tucks a forty year old man into bed like a toddler.

She is wet dreaming of men she respects.

Are you a man or a mouse?

Look at me. I can make her crane her neck at you the way tourists crane under David.

Overdo them and you will siphon the fun out of your own house. An old chick I ran these on called me sir once. Unprompted. Sober and serious. I laughed for a week. So pour with a steady hand.

She stopped respecting you in installments.

A broken promise here. A line crossed there. Respect leaves the way hair falls, one strand at a time, until a man wakes up bald and blames the pillow.

Free sheep, this is where I lose you.

Wolves, into the den. Spark something up and pour the mezcaaaal.

Because tonight, somewhere, she is telling her friends a story about you. And she is doing your voice.

And the voice she does is higher than yours.