alea iacta esto

The Monkey

In the year 1685 two hundred thousand little Englanders gathered round Tower Hill in London to gape and gawk at the execution of Sir James Scott. It is said that it took five or seven or eight blows to sever the head of this Pretender to the Throne. Eight! As each blow hit the head of the poor man people craned their necks to get better views and oohed and gasped as blood splattered all around. To this day we humans, vile as we are, enjoy a bloody spectacle. How else to explain the gory computer games our youths love so dearly or our fascination with wars and bloody thrillers? The happy sound of men chuckling as Bruce Willis went bullet spraying in the film “Looper” still reverberates in my head.

One thing is certain about a man: he is quick to the Jovian swagger when he has a gun. He walks around, bull-headed, with his balls in his hands, intimidating and terrorising others; hurling fire bolts if provoked. Why? Because he can. Put the same man in a fetal position absent his weapon and point a gun at his head and he whimpers, pisses in his pants and swears he’ll do good if he’s spared or may his mother get cancer. Men, lacking grit under pressure, only come from Mars when things are going their way. When a man has a (good) job and money in his pockets he is the big shot. But if he loses that job he promptly falls to pieces. Frequently, it’s then the woman, psychologically and emotionally tougher, who does whatever it takes to keep home. Let’s face it: a man is a monkey, nothing without his banana.

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