Woman Training
Last Wednesday I went out to the local Home to visit with my Great Aunt Myrtle who had just celebrated her
one hundred and third birthday. I don’t visit her often. Just often enough so she remembers me. After all,
Myrtle has a few bucks stashed away and, well, she is one hundred and three.
Anyhow, Myrtle is as sharp as a tack. Unfortunately, as a consequence of her advanced years, she’s pretty
well stone-deaf. She can sometimes follow the thread of a conversation if it’s loud enough but she surely
doesn’t get all of it. Myrtle is also legally blind. She lost her sight back in 1951 when she tried to assault
Richard Nixon during his Checkers speech. The Secret Service guys had to gang-tackle her and in doing
so they bopped her head on the ground pretty hard. When she finally regained consciousness, she
couldn’t see much of anything and she’s remained virtually sightless ever since, only able to see blurred
shapes. So even though Myrtle’s mind is sharp, her bad vision and poor hearing often betray her, as they
did that night.
About 5:30 I walked through the main door of the nursing home, hung a left, and walked down the hallway
towards room 145. I knocked on the door. As usual, there was no response, so I let myself in.
“Hello, Aunt Myrtle,” I said.
“Sylvie, is that you?” she replied.
“No, Aunt Myrtle. It’s me, Denny.”
“Well, well, Penny. Come in and visit for a spell.” (Penny is my second cousin, once removed – or maybe it’s
twice. The further the better, as far as I’m concerned. I never could stand that bitch since the time she
decapitated my GI Joe when I was ten years old).
“It’s Denny, Aunt Myrtle. Denny,” I said. “Deborah’s son.”
“Yes, dinner’s done, Penny, but I can probably rustle up some coffee if you like,” said Myrtle.
Sigh, I sighed.
“Penny, I haven’t seen you since you brought your daughter Bitsy by just before her Woman Training,” said
Myrtle.
“Aunt Myrtle, it’s me, Den... Woman Training?”
WOMAN TRAINING!!?
“Yes, her Woman Training. Bet she enjoyed it, didn’t she?”
Was I hearing something that I wasn’t supposed to hear about just because Myrtle thought I was Penny? I
decided to play along and find out.
“Um, yes, she enjoyed it,” I said, raising my pitch about half an octave.
“Penny, I was just thinking about Woman Training this morning,” said Myrtle. “We’ve been able to keep it
secret from men for all these centuries because of our cooperative network, right? But there’s got to be
more. I finally figured it out. It’s because they’re so damn stupid. Take that idiot cousin of yours, Denny...”
“Um, Aunt Myrtle,” I asked, “what was your Woman Training like?”
“Well, of course, it wasn’t too different from yours, dear,” she said. “They came to get me late at night when
I was ten years old. Or was it nine? I forget. Anyhow, I was scared at first until I saw my other little friends
there. They took us way out into the forest where we gathered by a huge campfire. They started out by
explaining the history of Woman Training – you know – how through the ages all girls received Woman
Training before entering puberty. Then they taught us The Pledge.”
“The Pledge?” I asked.
“Penny, have you gone brain dead like Denny? Yes, The Pledge. You remember:”
“Penny, you didn’t join in!”
“Well, Aunt Myrtle. I’ve got a bit of a sore throat,” I said.
“What doesn’t float, Dearie?” she asked.
“It’s not important, Aunt Myrtle,” I said. “Tell me, what part of Woman Training was your favorite?”
“Well, let me see. It was all so good – Man-baiting, Introduction to Seduction – oh, and I enjoyed Crying
Your Way to Flowers and Jewelry a whole lot, too. But you know, I think I enjoyed the Penis Desensitization
Seminar the best,” said Myrtle. “Back in my day, we didn’t have Playgirl or the Internet, so girls really didn’t
know what penises looked like unless they had little brothers or perverted uncles. So at the seminar they
passed around hundreds pictures of penises for us to look at. By the time I had looked at the third or fourth
one, I started giggling because... well... because they looked so silly. Before too long, we were all rolling on
the ground, laughing at those silly little things. Lord, it still makes me laugh to think about it.”
Myrtle was laughing so hard that her upper plate flew out of her mouth, which naturally caused her to laugh
even more. I thought it was pretty funny, too, but I couldn’t laugh, because this whole Woman Training thing
was starting to gnaw on me. When she finally got control of herself, she continued. “But seriously, Penny,
the things we learned in those three days have stayed with me my whole life. Just like they taught us, the
best way to control men is by confusing and confounding them. It drives them crazy. Take that penis size
issue men worry so much about. There’s not a man alive who thinks his penis is big enough to please a
woman. That’s because we keep confusing them about whether or not size matters. Believe it or not, I even
caught my Claude measuring his with a ruler once.
“Our Female Myths and Lies work well, too. Claude went to his deathbed actually believing that childbirth
was painful and that women menstruated. I never met a man that didn’t buy into it – even doctors. I mean,
whole industries are devoted to feminine hygiene products, and it’s just one huge joke. Lord, men are
stupid.”
Even though she couldn’t see it, I nodded my head in agreement. We had to be stupid to have bought into
those lies for so many centuries.
“So, Penny,” she continued. “What do you remember best from your Woman Training?”
“Um, well gosh, Aunt Myrtle. It was so long ago it’s hard to remember,” I stammered.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Every girl remembers her Woman Training. And don’t forget, I was one of your
instructors there. What do you remember from my Mastering the Art of Mixed Signals Seminar?”
“Well... I’m not sure. I, uh, I don’t know. Mix your signals, or something?”
“What’s going on?” Myrtle asked. “Something’s wrong here. No girl forgets her Woman Training. And
there’s no way you could have forgotten my seminar. No way at all.”
I was caught and I knew it.
“Um... I mean... Oh, crap. I’m sorry, Aunt Myrtle. I guess I have to confess. I’m not Penny. I’m Denny.”
“Jenny? I don’t know any Jenny!”
“Denny, Aunt Myrtle. Your Grandnephew.”
“Grandnephew? Denny? But... but you’re not a woman.
“You’re not a woman!” she screamed. Her face contorted into an ugly scowl and she shrieked, “Code blue!
Code blue!”
What the heck is going on? I thought. She sure doesn’t look like she’s having a heart attack.
Without warning, the door abruptly burst open. A short but very burly nurse grabbed me around both arms
and wrestled me out of the room, where I promptly slipped in a puddle of urine and fell flat on my ass.
“Visiting hours are over,” said Nurse Atilla as she slammed and locked the door behind her.
I struggled to my feet, banged on the door, and tried unsuccessfully to open it. I yelled for them to open up,
but still received no response. Angrily, I stormed down the hall towards the Administrator’s office intending
to have that nurse’s head on a platter. John, the evening receptionist intercepted me and said, “Dude, I
don’t know what happened, but if I were you, I’d leave. The natives are restless.”
Sure enough, when I looked around, I could see small groups of nurses, aides, and able-bodied female
patients gathering together and talking excitedly. One of them spotted me and pointed me out to the others.
They came toward me en masse. It’s not that I’m a coward, but I decided to run like hell for the parking lot.
Twenty minutes later, I was cruising down the expressway. I desperately wanted to know what was going on
so I figured I’d call Aunt Myrtle. I popped open my cell phone and entered the number of the nursing home.
After two or three rings, a sweet female voice answered, “Good evening. Westover Nursing Home, may I
help you?”
“Please connect me with Myrtle Gooch,” I said, disguising my voice as best I could.
“I’m sorry, sir, we have no patient by that name,” the operator said.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “She’s been a resident for almost four years.”
“Sorry, sir. I checked our records. We have never had a patient by the name of Myrtle Gooch.”
What the hell was going on?
I was angry, upset, and seriously confused that night after I left the nursing home, so, feeling the need to
stock up on beer, I stopped by the local grocery store. As I walked past the produce section, a woman
accidentally (or so I thought) bumped into me with her shopping cart. A few minutes later, it happened
again. Then two women got me at the same time. Four of them finally chased me down an aisle and out into
the parking lot. I was barely able to jump into my car and get away.
Taking the back roads home seemed like a good idea, but it almost turned out to be a deadly mistake. I
soon noticed I was being followed, but I failed to see the small pickup parked off the road just ahead of me.
As I approached, it roared out of the breakdown lane and swerved in front of me. I turned the wheel sharply,
but could not avoid being sideswiped. The force pushed me into a nearby ditch and my body was thrown
almost fifteen feet away over a small rise.
After what were probably only a few minutes, I came to. My head hurt like hell and I had absolutely no idea
what had happened. I heard noise coming from somewhere close by, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a
flickering light over the hill, back toward the road. Painfully, I crawled up the mound and peeked over the
top. My car was on its side and in flames, one wheel still idly spinning. In the firelight I could see women –
must have been thirty or forty of them – laughing and dancing around and around my burning car. The look
on their faces was one of manic ecstasy. They were celebrating because they thought I was dead. What
would happen when they discovered there was no body? I didn’t wait to find out. I quietly crawled back down
the hill towards the nearby woods and then proceeded to put several miles between us. I’ve been in hiding
ever since.
Life for me is different now. I am on the run. I cannot return to my own home. It’s under surveillance. The
women have closed my bank accounts, my cell phone account, and cancelled all of my credit cards. They
are all watching for me. But at least I’ve had a lot of time to think about this Woman Training, and now some
things are finally starting to make sense to me. Take for example when a woman asks a question like, “Does
this dress make me look fat?” All men fear these questions, because whichever way they answer, they are
in a world of trouble. I used to think that women did this just because their minds worked differently from
men’s – you know, the Venus and Mars thing. But now I know that’s not so. Women ask these questions
simply to make men cringe. It’s intentional. And when a man says, “Good morning, dear,” and the woman
replies, “Just what the hell do you mean by that?” this is not a difference in language, nor is it a
misunderstanding. This is obfuscation, a process drilled into their little heads during Woman Training.
Of course, I still have a lot of questions. For example, since childbirth is not painful, what is the purpose of
epidurals? If menstruation is a myth, why do women still constantly clog public toilets with their used
products? What about menarche and menopause? You can’t start something you’re never going to have
and you can’t end what you didn’t have, can you? And what about PMS? What is their real justification for
putting men through a week’s worth of hell?
I have one mission in life now. I must get the word out to my fellow men. Somehow, some way I’ll do it.
Epilogue
Late this afternoon I was able to slip unnoticed into the library, where I hid in a janitor’s closet. After I was
sure everyone had gone home, I entered the computer room and logged on to my John Dean for President
blog. Thank God I used a genderless handle or they would have deleted that, too.
Of course I know it is unlikely I will survive. There are too many of them. They’ll get me. They are organized
and they are everywhere. And I’m pretty sure I just heard two of them in the lobby coming for me. But it’s too
late for them too.
They may have won the battle, but they’ve lost the war. I may die, but they will not succeed. The story is
out. Their vile secret is secret no more. My fellow men will now know the truth. ’Cause I just hit the ‘submit’
key.
one hundred and third birthday. I don’t visit her often. Just often enough so she remembers me. After all,
Myrtle has a few bucks stashed away and, well, she is one hundred and three.
Anyhow, Myrtle is as sharp as a tack. Unfortunately, as a consequence of her advanced years, she’s pretty
well stone-deaf. She can sometimes follow the thread of a conversation if it’s loud enough but she surely
doesn’t get all of it. Myrtle is also legally blind. She lost her sight back in 1951 when she tried to assault
Richard Nixon during his Checkers speech. The Secret Service guys had to gang-tackle her and in doing
so they bopped her head on the ground pretty hard. When she finally regained consciousness, she
couldn’t see much of anything and she’s remained virtually sightless ever since, only able to see blurred
shapes. So even though Myrtle’s mind is sharp, her bad vision and poor hearing often betray her, as they
did that night.
About 5:30 I walked through the main door of the nursing home, hung a left, and walked down the hallway
towards room 145. I knocked on the door. As usual, there was no response, so I let myself in.
“Hello, Aunt Myrtle,” I said.
“Sylvie, is that you?” she replied.
“No, Aunt Myrtle. It’s me, Denny.”
“Well, well, Penny. Come in and visit for a spell.” (Penny is my second cousin, once removed – or maybe it’s
twice. The further the better, as far as I’m concerned. I never could stand that bitch since the time she
decapitated my GI Joe when I was ten years old).
“It’s Denny, Aunt Myrtle. Denny,” I said. “Deborah’s son.”
“Yes, dinner’s done, Penny, but I can probably rustle up some coffee if you like,” said Myrtle.
Sigh, I sighed.
“Penny, I haven’t seen you since you brought your daughter Bitsy by just before her Woman Training,” said
Myrtle.
“Aunt Myrtle, it’s me, Den... Woman Training?”
WOMAN TRAINING!!?
“Yes, her Woman Training. Bet she enjoyed it, didn’t she?”
Was I hearing something that I wasn’t supposed to hear about just because Myrtle thought I was Penny? I
decided to play along and find out.
“Um, yes, she enjoyed it,” I said, raising my pitch about half an octave.
“Penny, I was just thinking about Woman Training this morning,” said Myrtle. “We’ve been able to keep it
secret from men for all these centuries because of our cooperative network, right? But there’s got to be
more. I finally figured it out. It’s because they’re so damn stupid. Take that idiot cousin of yours, Denny...”
“Um, Aunt Myrtle,” I asked, “what was your Woman Training like?”
“Well, of course, it wasn’t too different from yours, dear,” she said. “They came to get me late at night when
I was ten years old. Or was it nine? I forget. Anyhow, I was scared at first until I saw my other little friends
there. They took us way out into the forest where we gathered by a huge campfire. They started out by
explaining the history of Woman Training – you know – how through the ages all girls received Woman
Training before entering puberty. Then they taught us The Pledge.”
“The Pledge?” I asked.
“Penny, have you gone brain dead like Denny? Yes, The Pledge. You remember:”
- Now gather round ladies,
And listen to me.
You are all going to learn
What it means to be ‘she’.
You will learn that your job
In this game we call life
Is to cause every man
Lots of trouble and strife.
You’ll learn how to use them
And toss them away.
You learn to control them
With each card you play.
So listen well, ladies;
We’re counting on you.
And in twenty more years
You’ll teach your daughters, too.
“Penny, you didn’t join in!”
“Well, Aunt Myrtle. I’ve got a bit of a sore throat,” I said.
“What doesn’t float, Dearie?” she asked.
“It’s not important, Aunt Myrtle,” I said. “Tell me, what part of Woman Training was your favorite?”
“Well, let me see. It was all so good – Man-baiting, Introduction to Seduction – oh, and I enjoyed Crying
Your Way to Flowers and Jewelry a whole lot, too. But you know, I think I enjoyed the Penis Desensitization
Seminar the best,” said Myrtle. “Back in my day, we didn’t have Playgirl or the Internet, so girls really didn’t
know what penises looked like unless they had little brothers or perverted uncles. So at the seminar they
passed around hundreds pictures of penises for us to look at. By the time I had looked at the third or fourth
one, I started giggling because... well... because they looked so silly. Before too long, we were all rolling on
the ground, laughing at those silly little things. Lord, it still makes me laugh to think about it.”
Myrtle was laughing so hard that her upper plate flew out of her mouth, which naturally caused her to laugh
even more. I thought it was pretty funny, too, but I couldn’t laugh, because this whole Woman Training thing
was starting to gnaw on me. When she finally got control of herself, she continued. “But seriously, Penny,
the things we learned in those three days have stayed with me my whole life. Just like they taught us, the
best way to control men is by confusing and confounding them. It drives them crazy. Take that penis size
issue men worry so much about. There’s not a man alive who thinks his penis is big enough to please a
woman. That’s because we keep confusing them about whether or not size matters. Believe it or not, I even
caught my Claude measuring his with a ruler once.
“Our Female Myths and Lies work well, too. Claude went to his deathbed actually believing that childbirth
was painful and that women menstruated. I never met a man that didn’t buy into it – even doctors. I mean,
whole industries are devoted to feminine hygiene products, and it’s just one huge joke. Lord, men are
stupid.”
Even though she couldn’t see it, I nodded my head in agreement. We had to be stupid to have bought into
those lies for so many centuries.
“So, Penny,” she continued. “What do you remember best from your Woman Training?”
“Um, well gosh, Aunt Myrtle. It was so long ago it’s hard to remember,” I stammered.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Every girl remembers her Woman Training. And don’t forget, I was one of your
instructors there. What do you remember from my Mastering the Art of Mixed Signals Seminar?”
“Well... I’m not sure. I, uh, I don’t know. Mix your signals, or something?”
“What’s going on?” Myrtle asked. “Something’s wrong here. No girl forgets her Woman Training. And
there’s no way you could have forgotten my seminar. No way at all.”
I was caught and I knew it.
“Um... I mean... Oh, crap. I’m sorry, Aunt Myrtle. I guess I have to confess. I’m not Penny. I’m Denny.”
“Jenny? I don’t know any Jenny!”
“Denny, Aunt Myrtle. Your Grandnephew.”
“Grandnephew? Denny? But... but you’re not a woman.
“You’re not a woman!” she screamed. Her face contorted into an ugly scowl and she shrieked, “Code blue!
Code blue!”
What the heck is going on? I thought. She sure doesn’t look like she’s having a heart attack.
Without warning, the door abruptly burst open. A short but very burly nurse grabbed me around both arms
and wrestled me out of the room, where I promptly slipped in a puddle of urine and fell flat on my ass.
“Visiting hours are over,” said Nurse Atilla as she slammed and locked the door behind her.
I struggled to my feet, banged on the door, and tried unsuccessfully to open it. I yelled for them to open up,
but still received no response. Angrily, I stormed down the hall towards the Administrator’s office intending
to have that nurse’s head on a platter. John, the evening receptionist intercepted me and said, “Dude, I
don’t know what happened, but if I were you, I’d leave. The natives are restless.”
Sure enough, when I looked around, I could see small groups of nurses, aides, and able-bodied female
patients gathering together and talking excitedly. One of them spotted me and pointed me out to the others.
They came toward me en masse. It’s not that I’m a coward, but I decided to run like hell for the parking lot.
Twenty minutes later, I was cruising down the expressway. I desperately wanted to know what was going on
so I figured I’d call Aunt Myrtle. I popped open my cell phone and entered the number of the nursing home.
After two or three rings, a sweet female voice answered, “Good evening. Westover Nursing Home, may I
help you?”
“Please connect me with Myrtle Gooch,” I said, disguising my voice as best I could.
“I’m sorry, sir, we have no patient by that name,” the operator said.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “She’s been a resident for almost four years.”
“Sorry, sir. I checked our records. We have never had a patient by the name of Myrtle Gooch.”
What the hell was going on?
I was angry, upset, and seriously confused that night after I left the nursing home, so, feeling the need to
stock up on beer, I stopped by the local grocery store. As I walked past the produce section, a woman
accidentally (or so I thought) bumped into me with her shopping cart. A few minutes later, it happened
again. Then two women got me at the same time. Four of them finally chased me down an aisle and out into
the parking lot. I was barely able to jump into my car and get away.
Taking the back roads home seemed like a good idea, but it almost turned out to be a deadly mistake. I
soon noticed I was being followed, but I failed to see the small pickup parked off the road just ahead of me.
As I approached, it roared out of the breakdown lane and swerved in front of me. I turned the wheel sharply,
but could not avoid being sideswiped. The force pushed me into a nearby ditch and my body was thrown
almost fifteen feet away over a small rise.
After what were probably only a few minutes, I came to. My head hurt like hell and I had absolutely no idea
what had happened. I heard noise coming from somewhere close by, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a
flickering light over the hill, back toward the road. Painfully, I crawled up the mound and peeked over the
top. My car was on its side and in flames, one wheel still idly spinning. In the firelight I could see women –
must have been thirty or forty of them – laughing and dancing around and around my burning car. The look
on their faces was one of manic ecstasy. They were celebrating because they thought I was dead. What
would happen when they discovered there was no body? I didn’t wait to find out. I quietly crawled back down
the hill towards the nearby woods and then proceeded to put several miles between us. I’ve been in hiding
ever since.
Life for me is different now. I am on the run. I cannot return to my own home. It’s under surveillance. The
women have closed my bank accounts, my cell phone account, and cancelled all of my credit cards. They
are all watching for me. But at least I’ve had a lot of time to think about this Woman Training, and now some
things are finally starting to make sense to me. Take for example when a woman asks a question like, “Does
this dress make me look fat?” All men fear these questions, because whichever way they answer, they are
in a world of trouble. I used to think that women did this just because their minds worked differently from
men’s – you know, the Venus and Mars thing. But now I know that’s not so. Women ask these questions
simply to make men cringe. It’s intentional. And when a man says, “Good morning, dear,” and the woman
replies, “Just what the hell do you mean by that?” this is not a difference in language, nor is it a
misunderstanding. This is obfuscation, a process drilled into their little heads during Woman Training.
Of course, I still have a lot of questions. For example, since childbirth is not painful, what is the purpose of
epidurals? If menstruation is a myth, why do women still constantly clog public toilets with their used
products? What about menarche and menopause? You can’t start something you’re never going to have
and you can’t end what you didn’t have, can you? And what about PMS? What is their real justification for
putting men through a week’s worth of hell?
I have one mission in life now. I must get the word out to my fellow men. Somehow, some way I’ll do it.
Epilogue
Late this afternoon I was able to slip unnoticed into the library, where I hid in a janitor’s closet. After I was
sure everyone had gone home, I entered the computer room and logged on to my John Dean for President
blog. Thank God I used a genderless handle or they would have deleted that, too.
Of course I know it is unlikely I will survive. There are too many of them. They’ll get me. They are organized
and they are everywhere. And I’m pretty sure I just heard two of them in the lobby coming for me. But it’s too
late for them too.
They may have won the battle, but they’ve lost the war. I may die, but they will not succeed. The story is
out. Their vile secret is secret no more. My fellow men will now know the truth. ’Cause I just hit the ‘submit’
key.
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