This title is a remarkable piece that unveils many of the timeless and unassailable blemishes that we generously implore art and convention to please disguise for us. For men, it is that we are a race of romantic bamboozlers, who despite our Math SAT scores, are hopelessly incompetent at seeing things as they are, which is the cynical gift of woman. Men are clumsy children, mountebank worshipers, and the possessors of a mental capacity to place such superficial bugle blowing above truth and sense. Woman, ever coursing with a hefty dose of nature, is the superior realist. However, her constant politcking for advancement is so skillful that she is often deceived of her own selfish motives. Thus she is in a constant beckoning and alienating circus with her husband, much as nature is temperamental herself.
