I Will Never Understand Women

Hey everybody! Thanks for visiting ol’ Sweater Ranch. Sorry I haven’t written in a while. That’s because I haven’t been inspired to write lately. And that’s mostly due to the fact that one of my co-workers downloaded Unreal Tournament to all of the G5s in our department. So 4 hours after the end of each workday I end up heading home dizzy with the taste of murder lingering on my tongue, which doesn’t leave much time for writing posts or having a life.

But I’m back. I had to come back. Because what I saw tonight disturbed me to my core.

I saw a commercial for the upcoming movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Sisterhood.

Of the.

Traveling.

Oh f**k. I can’t even type it.

What in God’s name is this world coming to? Before I even attempt to ponder the plot, what gives with this title? Ladies, you’re going to have to explain this one to me. What is it with you and your freaking crazy-ass titles for your movies? What are you trying to do to the movie industry? I bet John Wayne is rolling over in his grave right now.


Sisterhood of the…? Aw, f**k. I ain’t sayin’ that.

Let’s just think about how all your chick-flicks are titled for a moment. Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. How to Make An American Quilt. Fried Green Tomatoes. Riding in Cars with Boys. How Stella Got Her Groove Back. How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. Beaches.

First off, they’re long. Why do they have to be so long? And secondly, they’re gay. Why do they have to be so gay? C’mon ladies, it’s a movie not a Denny’s menu item.


Yeah I’ll have the…f**k it. Just coffee, thanks.

Do you expect us guys to accompany you to movies titled this way? There is no way I would go up to the box office and ask for two tickets to Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. The only way I could imagine you making it less likely for me to buy tickets is to title it Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Frolicking Box of Tampax and Roaming Dove Bars. Given the choice between the two with a gun to my head and rusty pliers firmly attached to my scrotum, I would choose the former. But it would take me a few minutes.

I have an idea. Why don’t you just name all of your movies “Oprah.” Then each time another comes out, it’s just an Oprah sequel. Like Oprah II or Oprah XXVII. That way it’s easy for us dumb guys to know we should steer clear of it, it identifies with something all women love, and it saves valuable room on the marquee for stuff like Rambo and Rocky and Cobra.


The only thing more efficient than his crime-
squelching techniques are his movie titles.

But it’s futile for me to try to reason with you women. No matter what I say you’ll still use the word “cute,” shriek at the top of your lungs when you run into one of your girlfriends in a public place (even if you’ve just seen her an hour ago at work), and insist that you are capable of driving an automobile and/or using a remote control.

Anyhow, let’s get back to this God-forsaken movie.

Let’s look at the plot. Four girls find a pair of pants that fits them all perfectly. What?!? That’s another thing I don’t get about women. Why are you always wearing each other’s clothes? Guys don’t do that. I would never think of going into one of my buddies’ closets and saying, “Whoa, Gary, these slacks are nice, mind if I try ‘em on?” If I did do that I would fully expect Gary to punch me in the neck, flip me over and check my brain stem to see if an alien had attached itself to me and taken over my body to infect the human race. In fact, if Gary did not take that EXACT course of action, I would be forced to punch Gary in the neck and check him for aliens.


”Whew. It’s just an alien, Gary.”

Then, with their awesome girl-logic they decide to use the pants as a way of keeping in touch, each one wearing them for a week to see what luck they bring before mailing them on to the next.


”I got crabs! What’d you guys get?”

This is not a joke, my fellow males. This is actually based on a New York Times best-seller. Yep, it's official. I would rather walk in on my parents having sex than see this movie, or read about my parents having sex, than read this best-seller.


Next up: The riveting Dove Bar scene.

I’ve already rambled on too long about this waste of film. Besides, I’m sure Rosie has probably already written a blog poem about how much she loves Traveling Pants that you girls would rather read anyway.

But just for fun I might have to hang out by a box office and wait for a guy to ask for tickets to this movie and then laugh hysterically as he has to bury his manhood deep inside his wife’s purse as he spits out that title.

Nah, I’ll just keep playing Unreal.


The 874th kill is just as satisfying as the first.