The Problem With Women Today

The Problem 02

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Dearest Deirdre

I may be fantastically fit and good looking – but I’m hungry! This has gone far enough, too far, and I’ve had to resort to this public announcement in your agony aunt column to put a stop to what is an intolerable situation.

A culture has arisen among women which is causing me all sorts of problems. I did not evolve to deal with this. By your own arguments (see below) I belong to a superior race and we should be treated with more respect.

Despite your being an inferior life form there are similarities between us. I’m almost at a loss to explain but I’ll use simple analogies which I believe may help you understand.

For instance, many of you like to eat chicken. The point I’d like to make here is that you need it suitably prepared. Few of you would like a live chicken on your plate and have to chew on feathers while listening to the poor creature squealing as you cut chunks out of it. Nor would you want to eat it overcooked until tooth-breakingly carbonised.

We like our food prepared correctly too but you are getting it all wrong. Another analogy: Think of the mess you find in a jam jar you’ve cleaned a paintbrush in – turpentine, globs of oil paint and the slurry resulting from plastic bristles dissolving. In a sense that’s what you’re providing, something similar anyway.

Few of you care too much about the living conditions your chicken endured, and frankly nor do we care about yours. What we care about is how you die and the moments leading to it.

I’ve heard your kind argue so many times that you are at the top of the food tree and can treat lower forms of life as you will. That’s exactly my point, well one of them. We sit at the pinnacle of evolution because we feed on you. Dinner is becoming impossible – and I’m becoming anaemic and whiter than ever. You are not preparing yourselves correctly.

You are supposed to be scared by us. Terror releases hormones of the best flavours by far – adrenaline, noradrenaline and even cortisol. Dreamy happiness tastes like … well, I’ve described that above. What we need are victims utterly paralysed by fear or it’s like trying to drink lukewarm snot and toilet cleaner.

That you are not suitably terrified as we blast the curtains of your bedrooms open, and stand there in our red-eyed and bat-winged noble glory, is deeply worrying. Any men we attack are suitably panicked, but you women? Something has polluted your minds in recent years and we need to sort this out.

Be scared. We are very nasty and make death as unpleasant as possible in order to improve the flavour. All your senses are flooded by our frenzy. Having your throat ripped opened by teeth is not an enjoyable experience. It’s akin to repeatedly falling into farm machinery. The way we snort and gurgle when feeding sounds not entirely unlike listening to the Sex Pistols, Wagner and Frank Sinatra played simultaneously, too loud, too fast: backwards! Not only that but sometimes we don’t let you die there and then. Like you humans, spiders and some insects, we enjoy returning for little snacks. We like our snacks to squeak and twitch.

I’ve had quite enough of waking young women only to find them happily surprised, falling in love with me and being revoltingly passionate as if I’m a wonderful romantic dream come true. It’s an appetite apocalypse.

Get a grip before we all become extinct.

Yours

Vlad the Paler

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©Gary Bonn, 2018

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