The futility of explanations

It may be difficult for others to understand why I see right-wing men as generally passive -- after all, the current cultural rhetoric would try to chime in, "They have penises, and that makes them anything other than passive."

But let me try to explain, and we will see how far we get.

To begin with, let us try to imagine a place called Herstralia, where the women roam free as magnificent as Giant marsupials, and where the males are fine and dandy, too, but are somehow incongruously referred to as "boys". Plodding along in parallel time with this magnificent land of Herstralia is a rather mentally grainy patch of land called GoodolUSA. It's far away so I can't tell you much about it. Besides, adult women do not pay much attention to context -- social, political or other -- because that is for whiny little boys who have nothing better to do with their time.

Anyway, in this whiny continent called GoodolUSA, I have a couple of internet pals. I try to help them as best I can from my distance in this great country of ours -- but somehow they won't be helped.

One of them complains about a chronic health condition and says that the hospitals over there simply won't pay to get him healed.  "Why doesn't he just access our public health care system for free?" I think, to myself.  I guess he's complaining about the costs he's charged because he enjoys it, but I've never had that experience myself, over here.

Now, from the perspective of my armchair, I simply don't know what all the fuss is about. "Whine, whine, whine," he goes. (I label this one "the whiny boy", although he doesn't know it yet. It will take a while before I suddenly spring my conclusions on him.)

"Whine, whine, whine," he says to me, one day. "America, blah, blah, blah."

Frankly, I don't know what the trouble is. But in my heart of hearts, I think it could point to the decisive issue that separates the Women from the Boys. After all, I have never had any trouble getting health care. I guess the key principle is to be assertive enough. You really do have to make the time for the doctor's appointment, and turn up when expected to. Once you get there, it is imperative to look the doctor straight in the eye, and tell him exactly what is wrong with you.

But he goes on and on about the same thing. It really tries my patience -- this constant mention that he is in great pain or something.

"Dick!" I tell him (for he really is a dick), "Haven't you considered that there really might be nothing wrong with you at all? I mean if you are not getting treatment as you claim you should, isn't there the possibility that you are MALINGERING?? I mean, the pain might not actually be real?"

At this, Dick hit the roof -- or at least I imagine that he did, since he never did write back to me again. But isn't that the thing with boys, and how they are? You have to tell them some home truths about themselves sometimes, give them a little bit to chew on, and in reality they simply can't take it at all.

Sometimes I wonder if it's worth all my time and effort trying to help, but I do try to point out that for me accessing health care is relatively easy.