Men are better than women at everything. Just look outside. See all that shit? That “shit” is men kicking the ass of women up and down the court of science. Women aren’t to blame for a single brick.
Unless when you look outside you see a bunch of fat hookers or some broad who just crashed her car into a fence post while talking on her cell phone. You can blame women for both of those.
Men consistently outperform women in math and science. You know it, I know it, the ex-president of Harvard knows it; but what about the math we do with our words? What about something we call “literature”? A lot of idiot jackasses will tell you that girls test higher than boys on the battlefield of books.
“Boys are obviously smarter than girls in math and science,” says the idiot, “but because of their rampaging emotions and compulsive chattering — which somehow magically translates into improvement, girls are better than boys at reading, writing, and communicating.”
This pile of ill-reasoned shit could not be further from the truth.
What woman ever wrote the dozens of immortal works of William Shakespeare? And while I don’t know who invented more words, Shakespeare or Snoop Dogg, I know fo shizzle that it wasn’t a woman.
Your girlfriend’s obnoxious need to combine two words into one and then call attention to it like a puppy for lack of an actual personality doesn’t count as inventing a word.
Men are better than women.
Girls appear to score higher than boys in the literary arts because the tests schools use to gauge a child’s reading comprehension are pointless and a waste of fucking time. It’s like seeing if a dog is faster than a turtle by putting them both in a bathtub and getting stoned off your ass. What the hell is that going to prove?
Feel free to skip the following text because it’s the dumbest story you’ll ever read.
One day, Johnny was upset because he wanted a red ball and the store was out of red balls. It was his birthday too. He asked his mom why the store was out of balls on his birthday, but his mother told him to be patient and that maybe the store would have some in stock next week. Johnny was sullen for the rest of the day, even during his birthday party, until he got a very special present from his mother. Inside a poorly wrapped box was a red ball.
“This is the happiest day of my life!” said Johnny.
“I know,” said his mother. “And it’s all thanks to me.”
Please answer the following questions to test your reading comprehension.
1. Johnny was sad because:
A) He had no balls.
B) His mother drove his father away with her messiah complex — which all women have.
C) Who fucking cares? That is a stupid waste of time, contains nothing of actual value nor did it ever pretend to, and I didn’t read any of it anyway because I had better things to think about.
If you answered anything but C, you are a woman. Fuck off my website.
Academic tests on reading comprehension are meant for the minds of children. A real test on reading and writing is getting a law degree or figuring out how to hook up a DVD player. The part on the back of the TV where it reads “Audio IN” is where the fucking audio goes in. What’s the reading comprehension score for that brain buster?
Academic tests on reading and writing are as simple-minded as harlequin romance novels and as worthless as Oprah magazine. If you really want to test a woman’s reading abilities, give her a map and get ready to laugh your ass off.
Women have a gimmism about them called Delusional Dogma. Delusional Dogma is when a woman picks what a man is good at, and then gives herself credit for being good at the complimentary tasks by default — as if declaring herself so is somehow a miracle cure for the crippling incompetence which nature has gifted to all women. Holding a fork in one hand doesn’t mean you have a knife in the other. You might be holding a bent Alan wrench or a dildo; only one of which a woman knows how to use.
If a wife thinks her husband is smart or strong willed, she immediately credits herself as being creative and nurturing. Then she will compulsively flush 10 grand down the toilet in a poorly conceived attempt at buying her way into the arts. Or she’ll leave her baby in the car while she goes shopping. Way to nurture that kid into triple digit brain damage, trophy mom.