The Female Vine

Stereotypes are like the DNA marker of our human idiocy. This has been the case ever since man found the courage to stand up to his mother goddess, the great shaman priestess, threatening to plant his pointed lance somewhere other than in the thorax of a poor mammoth on the edge of extinction. Freeing himself from the maternal embrace, the dandy of days gone by soon understood that he could now, once he emerged from his cave, organize the world to suit him without asking anyone’s permission. After several millennia of pathetically observing massacres, clinical injustice, intergalactic corruption, predatory paedophiles, political irresponsibility, and even gang rapes, let’s acknowledge it once and for all: man, in the testicular sense of the word, lacks the moral capacity to run this planet which, sooner or later, will send us one of its exterminating meteors to finally settle the accounts.

Before throwing the first stone ourselves at the great sinner, she who, with her lascivious murmurings, must have led man to eat the forbidden fruit, let us just dream, in a sort of improbable uchronia, in a total role reversal, of seeing our feminine double steering the planet ship from the beginning and imagine this world as being “100% taurine-free”, perhaps more human, friendly, passable, with a few historical cat-fights, of course, but relatively more gentle, and differences being settled without sticking a bayonet anywhere other than in the belly of a wild animal threatening the pack of children playing at the war of the buttons or being obliged to put up with never-ending willy-waving contests to scientifically determine, after three genocides and two mass gassings, who has the biggest genital organ.

This idea of returning fully to the maternal breast may be politically possible in 1000 years, perhaps, but when that day comes… will woman still be a “woman”? or will she look to the nearest chromosome like homo-force, homo-erectilus, homo-pain-in-the-neck, her skull as round and full as a flat earth, hormone-pumped biceps, and body hair short and sparse over a torso like a fleshy concrete slab, because of having to ape her genetic double to finally earn her place in this world designed entirely “for us men”.

After having ravaged their planet, killed off all the animals, and given preference to plastic plants because real ones attract bees and wasps, there would be nothing worse for the human race than only to be able to contemplate, before the apocalypse of the final days, a Big-Jim double, just as cynical, idiotic, and murderous, with, as a bonus, a crotch in semi-soft latex and a fake voice imitating a male in rut.

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