Heterosexual ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our annual open meeting at this chain restaurant, which has generously provided buffalo wings and beer for the guys, salad and vodka sodas for the gals, and thirty-two big-screen TVs featuring football and five different seasons of “Real Housewives.”
That reminds me, first on the agenda: movies, always a central plank in our mission, since they’re where we go for our dates. Specifically those movies that depict a woman who works at a fashion magazine and dates a guy with slicked-back hair in finance, but he’s kind of a cad, and then she meets another guy who does pro-bono law but still makes a lot of money and is really nice, and eventually she realizes that the second guy is much better for her after she catches the first guy cheating on her with his secretary. Let’s see if we can’t up our monthly production to more than fourteen.
Speaking of fashion, great job on high heels for women and, for men, the whole chinos thing. Nothing will consolidate our power better than radically uncomfortable footwear and nondescript, relaxed-fit, business-casual pants. Related question: Can we produce a few million more dress shirts this year that billow out like parachutes when you tuck them in? Super.
Male political leaders, you’ve been terrific about having affairs and somehow getting your wives to stand by your side at podiums while you issue apologies that no one believes before you transition into some other high-paying profession and “spending time with your family.” Love it—as well as the severely parted, seventies-newscaster hair.
Advertising industry: no qualms here. Keep up the fantastic work.
Lastly, regarding marriage between a man and a woman—let’s keep that trend going where people complain about how passionless and difficult marriage inevitably becomes and write lots of splashy think pieces about it, because, by discussing it so much, it keeps everyone interested, and women who haven’t married by a certain age get that panicky feeling, like, “Uh-oh, is this gonna happen for me or not?” And then they have to feign excitement when they comment on their friend’s annoying closeup of her engagement ring on Facebook, while what they’re really thinking about is how much money they’re going to have to shell out for the shower present and a hideous brown bridesmaid’s dress and a flight to Tulsa and a hotel room and a fourteen-piece bakeware set even though they know for a fact that Melissa never cooks, plus they haven’t really been all that close with her since college, and Melissa’s so the type who’ll get even more obnoxious now that she’s finally engaged.
And, for the fellas, stick with that tradition of how it’s not just culturally accepted but basically mandated that you go to a strip club for your bachelor party. Don’t forget to bring the poker chips, too.
O.K., that about covers it—no need to shake anything up, you’re all doing perfect. Thank you for listening to my speech and for holding hands, cuddling, and making out openly during it in a manner that no observer thinks twice about. What do you say we get some romantic, heterosexual music going to set the mood? I’ll ask the d.j. to play any song ever recorded.
Then let’s all take a road trip to the Grand Canyon.
Teddy Wayne is the author of the novel “The Love Song of Jonny Valentine,” now out in paperback.
Photograph by Sebastian Lang/Corbis.
