The process by which the female of any animal species selects the male with whom she will cohabit and let him pass his genes to her progeny is called sexual selection. And while feminists are often prone to confuse Homo sapiens males with canines, the fact is that even the female Homo sapiens is essentially an animal. Consequently the rules of sexual selection apply to her as well.
This process of sexual selection is not merely a biological abstraction. The reality of its existence hits you like a Tysonian punch on the nose, when impelled by your hormonal storm and confident in your belief in being a youthful Adonis, you approach the most beautiful girl in your college and receive a summary rejection – without so much as a backward glance to check if the thud behind her was just a falling log or your head hitting the ground. After you’ve endured the amusement of your dear friends and well-wishers and finished contemplating the various non-painful means to end your life and your shame, you begin to think : What went wrong? Why did she reject you, when according to you, you were the most suitable play…err….life-mate for her. The answer, my dear fellow, is sexual selection.
According to the principles of sexual selection, a female is always on the lookout for the best possible man to father her future children. And her criteria are often entirely different from what you think they are or should be. For instance, you may be the sort of person who jumps to rigid attention every time the National Anthem plays, even on your radio while you are seated in the 2nd class compartment of a train, and thereby lose your hard-earned seat. You may attend your local Nationalist organization meetings regularly and do the daily exercises, giving the stick in your hand an extra twirl whenever you spot the object of your desire at a distance, nearly poking yourself in the eye with which you are lechering at her. You may think that your patriotic fervor makes you the finest fellow on earth. But, believe me, your patriotic acrobatics have as much chance of making her sway as the Eastern wind has of toppling Mount Kilimanjaro.
Or you may be the nice guy, a man with a heart as tender and soft as Katrina’s cheeks (the ones on the face), who picks up stray kittens from the streets, feeds them Parle-G biscuits dipped in milk and put them up for adoption on Facebook. While everyone is flying kites on Makar Sankranti and focused on the sky, your eyes remain focused on the ground, to look for pigeons that’ve been hurt by the kite-strings, to take them to the vet. And every day, you go to the girls’ hostel to meet the girl of your dreams and enquire dutifully after her health, take the list of her day’s shopping and fetch all the items in a jiffy, like an especially well-trained and intelligent dog. You keep to your task with the persistence of the above-mentioned canine, until one fine day she introduces you to the love of her life who has come to pick her up on his Yamaha Superbike. And later in the year, to put some Burnol on your wound, she parcels a loving Rakhi for you on Rakshabandhan. Of course the Burnol feels like Kissan chilli sauce.
Or you may be one of those souls who go to the gym and punish the machines, until the weights start having vertigo, and the owner starts complaining that the steady stream of your sweat is spoiling his carpet. Soon you start resembling Hercules. As she passes you, she steals many glances at your bulges and cuts. And when you both turn around to check each others’ asses out, the thing happens, which Karan Johar calls love, but more discerning philosophers call lust. You go out, you shop together, you watch movies together, you eat together and finally you sleep together. You’re happy that you’ve found the princess of your dreams and you suggest that she fix an appointment for you with her dad, the king, so that you can formally apply for her hand. She calmly tells you to not be silly and that marriage is the last thing on her mind at the moment. She actually means that marriage WITH YOU is the last thing on her mind, at ANY moment. And despite your Schwarzeneggeresque physique, her dainty cold shoulder crashes into you with the power of 11,000 volts of pure electricity and you’re knocked out cold.
By now, I can visualize you screaming at the top of your voice, the age old question:
“WHAT DOES A WOMAN WANT????”
See, it’s not the question of what a woman wants. That’s the wrong question. A woman wants pretty much the same things that a man wants – a comfortable easy life, moderate life challenges that pleasantly exercise the faculties without taxing them too much, the latest iPhone, pizzas on weekends, new clothes and shoes, and a bit of love to make it all seem grand and fulfilling. The real question is not what a woman wants. The real question is, what nature wants.
Remember that eccentric old Irish-English dramatist GB Shaw? He wrote a lot of atrocious things and also a lot of sensible things, and among the latter was this: that a woman is nature’s vehicle through which she determines the sort of genes that will be passed onto future generations.
Look at most of the animals and their mating patterns. Who does the female select to mate with? The strongest or the smartest male she can find, right? Someone she can trust to provide and protect herself and her kids. Because that’s the sensible thing to do from an evolutionary point of view. Because only the fittest will survive in the future.
And strength in the human society is determined not by muscle or brain, but by money. The wealthier a man, the stronger he is in the society. Too obvious to state, isn’t it?
But hey, hold on, you say. What about smartness, you protest. What about intelligence? Isn’t intelligence the motive force of the human civilization? Shouldn’t human intelligence then hold the highest esteem in a woman’s eyes, and the intelligent man have the best chance of entering into her…uh…affections?
Not really. Because the most important consideration for a female is that her male should be a good provider and protector – and what provides and protects better than money? Besides, intelligent men are too often eccentric and dreamy and impractical. And most women believe that the richer man is also the smarter man. So if they have to choose between say Sid Mallya and Vincent Van Gogh, 99 out of 100 women would tell Vincent to be practical, earn some money, and go for some other girl who will make him happy.
And what about men with a sense of humor? Women’s magazines are full of articles about women practically soaking wet for the man who can make her laugh. I tell you, that’s the biggest joke of the century. Women enjoy talking to men with a sense of humor – hell, everyone does. But that’s all. Strictly platonic bro. And she may be wet because his jokes made her laugh so hard that she leaked a bit, that’s all.
So my friend, you can have any girl in the world you want – the most beautiful, the sexiest, the smartest or the one with the biggest, you know, heart – provided you have the dough. It doesn’t matter if you’re as bald as Tibet or as ugly as a toad, or as dense as the Gurgaon winter air. What matters is not the bulge on your arms, your forehead, or even the one between your legs – what actually matters is the bulge in your pocket. So don’t build those muscles, but exercise the little grey cells in your head and build your bank account. She doesn’t want the man of steel – she wants the man of gold.
NB: And dear feminists please don’t call me misogynist. Blame mother nature
Credit: Written by The Bad Doctor ( Doctor At Large )
This process of sexual selection is not merely a biological abstraction. The reality of its existence hits you like a Tysonian punch on the nose, when impelled by your hormonal storm and confident in your belief in being a youthful Adonis, you approach the most beautiful girl in your college and receive a summary rejection – without so much as a backward glance to check if the thud behind her was just a falling log or your head hitting the ground. After you’ve endured the amusement of your dear friends and well-wishers and finished contemplating the various non-painful means to end your life and your shame, you begin to think : What went wrong? Why did she reject you, when according to you, you were the most suitable play…err….life-mate for her. The answer, my dear fellow, is sexual selection.
According to the principles of sexual selection, a female is always on the lookout for the best possible man to father her future children. And her criteria are often entirely different from what you think they are or should be. For instance, you may be the sort of person who jumps to rigid attention every time the National Anthem plays, even on your radio while you are seated in the 2nd class compartment of a train, and thereby lose your hard-earned seat. You may attend your local Nationalist organization meetings regularly and do the daily exercises, giving the stick in your hand an extra twirl whenever you spot the object of your desire at a distance, nearly poking yourself in the eye with which you are lechering at her. You may think that your patriotic fervor makes you the finest fellow on earth. But, believe me, your patriotic acrobatics have as much chance of making her sway as the Eastern wind has of toppling Mount Kilimanjaro.
Or you may be the nice guy, a man with a heart as tender and soft as Katrina’s cheeks (the ones on the face), who picks up stray kittens from the streets, feeds them Parle-G biscuits dipped in milk and put them up for adoption on Facebook. While everyone is flying kites on Makar Sankranti and focused on the sky, your eyes remain focused on the ground, to look for pigeons that’ve been hurt by the kite-strings, to take them to the vet. And every day, you go to the girls’ hostel to meet the girl of your dreams and enquire dutifully after her health, take the list of her day’s shopping and fetch all the items in a jiffy, like an especially well-trained and intelligent dog. You keep to your task with the persistence of the above-mentioned canine, until one fine day she introduces you to the love of her life who has come to pick her up on his Yamaha Superbike. And later in the year, to put some Burnol on your wound, she parcels a loving Rakhi for you on Rakshabandhan. Of course the Burnol feels like Kissan chilli sauce.
Or you may be one of those souls who go to the gym and punish the machines, until the weights start having vertigo, and the owner starts complaining that the steady stream of your sweat is spoiling his carpet. Soon you start resembling Hercules. As she passes you, she steals many glances at your bulges and cuts. And when you both turn around to check each others’ asses out, the thing happens, which Karan Johar calls love, but more discerning philosophers call lust. You go out, you shop together, you watch movies together, you eat together and finally you sleep together. You’re happy that you’ve found the princess of your dreams and you suggest that she fix an appointment for you with her dad, the king, so that you can formally apply for her hand. She calmly tells you to not be silly and that marriage is the last thing on her mind at the moment. She actually means that marriage WITH YOU is the last thing on her mind, at ANY moment. And despite your Schwarzeneggeresque physique, her dainty cold shoulder crashes into you with the power of 11,000 volts of pure electricity and you’re knocked out cold.
By now, I can visualize you screaming at the top of your voice, the age old question:
“WHAT DOES A WOMAN WANT????”
See, it’s not the question of what a woman wants. That’s the wrong question. A woman wants pretty much the same things that a man wants – a comfortable easy life, moderate life challenges that pleasantly exercise the faculties without taxing them too much, the latest iPhone, pizzas on weekends, new clothes and shoes, and a bit of love to make it all seem grand and fulfilling. The real question is not what a woman wants. The real question is, what nature wants.
Remember that eccentric old Irish-English dramatist GB Shaw? He wrote a lot of atrocious things and also a lot of sensible things, and among the latter was this: that a woman is nature’s vehicle through which she determines the sort of genes that will be passed onto future generations.
Look at most of the animals and their mating patterns. Who does the female select to mate with? The strongest or the smartest male she can find, right? Someone she can trust to provide and protect herself and her kids. Because that’s the sensible thing to do from an evolutionary point of view. Because only the fittest will survive in the future.
And strength in the human society is determined not by muscle or brain, but by money. The wealthier a man, the stronger he is in the society. Too obvious to state, isn’t it?
But hey, hold on, you say. What about smartness, you protest. What about intelligence? Isn’t intelligence the motive force of the human civilization? Shouldn’t human intelligence then hold the highest esteem in a woman’s eyes, and the intelligent man have the best chance of entering into her…uh…affections?
Not really. Because the most important consideration for a female is that her male should be a good provider and protector – and what provides and protects better than money? Besides, intelligent men are too often eccentric and dreamy and impractical. And most women believe that the richer man is also the smarter man. So if they have to choose between say Sid Mallya and Vincent Van Gogh, 99 out of 100 women would tell Vincent to be practical, earn some money, and go for some other girl who will make him happy.
And what about men with a sense of humor? Women’s magazines are full of articles about women practically soaking wet for the man who can make her laugh. I tell you, that’s the biggest joke of the century. Women enjoy talking to men with a sense of humor – hell, everyone does. But that’s all. Strictly platonic bro. And she may be wet because his jokes made her laugh so hard that she leaked a bit, that’s all.
So my friend, you can have any girl in the world you want – the most beautiful, the sexiest, the smartest or the one with the biggest, you know, heart – provided you have the dough. It doesn’t matter if you’re as bald as Tibet or as ugly as a toad, or as dense as the Gurgaon winter air. What matters is not the bulge on your arms, your forehead, or even the one between your legs – what actually matters is the bulge in your pocket. So don’t build those muscles, but exercise the little grey cells in your head and build your bank account. She doesn’t want the man of steel – she wants the man of gold.
NB: And dear feminists please don’t call me misogynist. Blame mother nature
Credit: Written by The Bad Doctor ( Doctor At Large )