The other day, Mr. Jenn and I loaded all four kids in the family SUV and took off to see his mama. All those progeny make my big bus look like a little Shriner’s car in a festival parade. The only things missing are those cute little hats with the tassels. But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.
I’m actually going to share with you a brilliant deduction made by Lil’ K., my four-year-old daughter, on this particular trip. Mr. Jenn, one of those Type-A personalities wound up tighter than a tick on our Crackhead Beagle’s buttocks, got behind some slow drivers on a two-lane highway. After a couple miles of creeping along at about 3 mph, Mr. Jenn let fly a few colorful words. I, of course, told him to watch his language in front of all the children.
Lil’ K. piped up from the backseat and said, “Don’t worry, Mama, Daddy is only speaking `man.’”
Diet Coke came through my nose.
“What does it mean to `speak man?’” I asked her.
“It means that Daddy always has something to say, and he likes for his words to win over other words,” she said. “It makes you roll your eyes, Mama.”
“Your daddy could never be accused of being at a loss for words,” I agreed.
A few weeks later, when we were all reclining with some friends on a National Seashore, a ranger drove up to our truck. Out here, you can drive on certain parts of the beach provided you cough up 120 bucks for a year’s permit and don’t scare the turtles and the birds.
Anyway, this ranger pulls up to where we were digging holes and playing with our eleventy-hundred million sand toys beneath our canopy and asks to speak to the owner of the red truck. Mr. Jenn, an officer of the law himself, sauntered up casually to the ranger to discuss whatever problem may have arisen concerning our red truck.
“Why is the Po-Po here?” asked Lil’ K.
“Po-Po?” questioned Lil’ P.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to eavesdrop without taking an eye off Lil’ P., who likes to snack on sand and run off into the waves. He laughs when they suck him under, so long as someone is present to retrieve him from the bottom.
Apparently, the ranger had an issue with the fact that Mr. Jenn had displayed his off-road pass inside the front window rather than outside. This state legislature doesn’t seem to care what you slap on your front windshield, so long as they get their fees from you. In our home state having anything other than inspection stickers stuck to the windshield is illegal.
Mr. Jenn drew himself up taller than his typical 6’2” stature and explained the situation to the officer. The ranger had thrown his chest out, too, and looped his fingers in his gun belt. The cloud of testosterone threatened to obscure them both from view.
“And I’m in law enforcement, too,” Mr. Jenn emphasized at the end of his manly little soliloquy.
“Daddy is “speaking man” to the Po-Po,” noted Lil’ K.
Our friends, one of whom is of the male persuasion, both quietly observed the exchange. Turns out the ranger acquiesced and let Mr. Jenn keep his sticker inside the windshield. “Speaking man, huh?” asked our male friend. “Basically, they just squared off and decided who had the biggest dick. Your husband apparently won.”
The officer did, however, get the last word by telling us that four other rangers would be checking stickers throughout the week. Translation—you can keep your sticker on the inside of your windshield, Peckerhead, but we will bug the hell out of you during your vacation until you put the sticker on the outside. When the officer left, Mr. Jenn applied the sticker to the outside of the windshield after all—I guess the thought of leaving his chair for something other than nature’s call convinced him.
So, when you get right down to it, which of these malest of males had the most generous endowment? Everyone got what they wanted in the end, I guess. The whole exchange made me think. I immediately applied this little confrontation to foreign relations. A hell of a leap, I know, especially after a few Lime-a-Ritas and some Maria cookies, but hang with me. What would have happened to our country without two female Secretaries of State over the past decade or so? Would things be better in the world if the previous and present Presidential administrations had employed men to do all the bargaining? Women know how to lubricate a situation properly before driving a point home. We cajole, we compliment, we compromise, then we jam our position down the opposing throat with the sledgehammer of our nagging, guilt-mongering, and bitching. Occasionally, some members of our sex might lower their neckline and employ the assistance of a good push-up bra. Men just puff their chests, adjust the package, and let the testosterone do the talking. Whoever seems the most bad-ass apparently has the biggest penis and gets to win.
Ladies know that you just can’t speak man with dictators. Or if you do, you’d better make sure your missiles really are bigger or you might find yourself taking orders from some douche with Teeny Weenie syndrome.
Lil’ K., it seems, has activated her female intuition prior to preschool and put her tiny little finger on one segment of the pulse of human conflict. Would we have all these wars among nations had God created all penises the same? I think this is a fair question.