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Womenology – 101 – Basics of Womanry

 Part 2 of 3
Curiosity And Desire
by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

October, 2019

Revving The RPMs

 “The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”
– Dorothy Parker

“Perhaps that is why desire causes men calamity. By identifying with our desires and taking them too seriously, we not only increase our susceptibility to disappointment, we actually create a climate inhospitable to the free and easy fulfillment of those desires.”
― Tom Robbins (American novelist)

Ms. Parker had it right; women, just as all felines, are forever curious about near anything, and proximity triggers intense curiosity. Women are bound to curiosity by a natural force as much as they are bound to the earth by gravity.
Mr. Robbins speaks of men’s desires and it’s true in one way or another but had he in mind paradigms of desire, he would surely have brought up women’s desires. What can stop them? What alleviates them? Women’s desires are for …more. Having one of X is not enough. X must be had in triplicate. There needs be one in vermilion, one in cerise, and one rufous. There’s a reason back of that but don’t ask a man to explain it. It’s a minor qualm of even a smaller problem, but it bears mentioning for being odd but true. And that’s what this is all about – the odd but true essentials that are the makeup of women.

Recall, from part 1, the Queen of Sheba, the paradigm of the nature of woman as flesh. The paragon herself expresses that nature, and by it, reveals that all women, to some degree, are aware of that nature and its allure.

There is also that other nature of the female, the inorganic. And for this we have another paradigm, also provided by Flaubert.

This man, this writer, knew women as few others did. He understood also the nature of a woman’s mind and soul and provides for us another paragon – the indelible Emma Bovary.

Art And Life And Imitation

Madame Bovary is one of literature’s masterpieces. And the Creation myth is one of our greatest stories.

The Creation story offers us the man, Adam, who is not delectable, and the woman, Eve, who is. So too does ‘Madame Bovary’ offer the same – the ordinary Charles; the delectable Emma. Charles, as was Adam, was useful, practical, and content. Emma, as was Eve, was curious, imaginative, and desirous.

The Creator could not have been surprised at the humans’ fall from grace. What possibly could HE have imagined the result of free will would be? I wonder if HE wondered though, which would first fall, Adam, or the woman? I believe HE had strong suspicions. I would not be surprised what they were. Would anyone… really?

The creator of Emma was not surprised at Emma’s descent to disgrace. The story was not one of surprise but inevitability.

Neither Eve, nor Emma, was evil. Both merely, simply, allowed their natures to hold sway over them. Here is the test of Free Will. Which will take hold the reins, the will, or nature?

Note that throughout many of our stories, women are harder on themselves then men are, when facing their failings. There’s Antigone, Lucretia, Cleopatra, Ophelia, Juliet, Lady Macbeth, Anna Karenina, Abigaille (Nabucco), Angelica (Suor Angelica), Cio-Cio San (Madame Butterfly), Hedda Gabler, Catherine (Jules and Jim), Susannah Fincannon (Legends of the Fall), and more, still more.

Oh Woe, Oh Woe Is Me

“I see a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist.”
Katherina, Taming Of The Shrew Act 3 Scene 2 (William Shakespeare)

My rejoinder:
Brave words, Kate – in the turn of what thy husband would have want for.
But thy words drip silent to the wants the wife cannot bear resist in her turn. Resist first thyself, maiden.

Why Beat About The Bush Getting To The Nub

Paradise lost:
We’d all be slurping chilled mimosas, and EDEN would be our world if only…
Giving birth would be as a day at the spa, if only…
‘Intimacy’ would be not so much undignified, if only…
93% of the population would not be afraid of snakes, if only…
Fruit salad would have it all over charbroiled steak, if only…
“Life would be a dream, sweetheart” would be more than a song, if only…
A cursed world would not be man’s dominion to water by his sweat, if only…
There’d be no consternating at getting eaten by bears or bugs, if only…
There would be no need to don fig leaves, if only… (that’s what started the damned infernal itching! There’d be no infernal itching)… if, if… only…

And what all had it got women? A thou shalt.
“And then also, to the woman, HE said…
‘yet your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.'”
Allow women a collective stomp at that outcome and the resultant quake would break the world.

Woman, Know Thyself

Women, a good many of them, are resolutely miffed that they get blamed for the exile from the Garden. Suggest to them they’d have fared better if the Minx had consulted the MAN before the fact and not been so all-fired certain she could beguile him after, and… you might get swung at.

No woman worth her second x chromosome is without knowledge of her powers or her destructive capabilities. Women are more aware of it than men. Mothers know it better than sons, and are not timid bursting young men’s bubbles, well… trying. Women are women’s greatest critics. There are more misogynists among the female sex than the male. It is another great mystery – that women are the most formidable force against women – for reasons good, bad, inscrutable… and inappreciable.

That last we will be examined in – Part 3 of 3.

Womenology 102: Advanced Womanry

My Weekend With Mike Part 3

(The story so far: Psykosity has been effectively kidnapped by his younger brother Mike, under the pretense of going to a “Biker” gathering on the spur of the moment. AGAINST HIS WILL, Psykosity has been force-fed copious amounts of alcohol and substances, both legal and illegal in most states. The truck that Mike is driving is little more than a rolling death machine: Nothing on the dash board works but the radio, the passenger door has fallen off, the exhaust is held onto the bottom of the vehicle by wires, and there is a constant smell of smoke, burnt wires and…sauerkraut??? We pick up the story as our intrepid adventurers arrive at the gathering. The event is being held in a gravel pit. Things look grim…)

Mike parked the truck and shut off the motor. For the first time in a little over an hour, I didn’t have to scream over the metal-on-metal screeching of the motor and the contemptible sounding radio turned up full blast. Mike opened up the vial and soaked a handkerchief with the contents and held it up to his nose. It was at this moment that everything I had drank, smoked, or otherwise ingested, had finally kicked in. That’s when Mike shoved the handkerchief under my nose…

Hunter S. Thompson called it “Demon Ether”. A straight body drug. Your mind is largely unaffected, but trying to operate your body is like trying to run a backhoe with no idea of what all the levers are for. Though Mike was now operating on the level of a dumb, drunken animal when he managed to get me into the wheelchair, my situation was far dire: I was little more than a breathing bag of body parts and serious weirdness. I was almost at the verge of having an out of body experience when we plunged into the maw of the fat, sweaty, writhing mass of leather clad humanity.

There was a makeshift stage where a band was playing fast, loud, and angry, and the singer was screaming through a terrible P.A. system: the sound was essentially loud white noise with a beat. I managed to look around, but couldn’t see much: Mike was having a terrible time getting me through the crowd on the gravel bed of the pit, and from my vantage point in the wheelchair, all I could see was big, fat rear ends and stomachs the size of bean bag chairs. It was then I smelled…food?

“FUUUUD!” I yelled up at Mike, managing to get my arm to point to the other side of the crowd.

“WHA?” bellowed my brother, bending over and screaming in my ear, almost losing his balance and catching himself before he fell over into my lap.

“FUUUUUD!” I shouted again, finally getting him to notice the tables full of fried chicken, salads, and burgers on the other side of the pit.

Mike tipped me up on the two back wheels and shoved me through the crowd towards the food tables. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I needed to get something real into my body. I managed to get a couple of rolls, something in my stomach to soak up some of the alcohol. There was lots of water…I got a couple of bottles and started gulping the liquid down, spilling a lot of it, but I knew water into my system would help later on. Then, I saw some small bottles of orange juice.

Orange juice would help cut the effects of some of the substances I had coursing through my system. Between the hallucinogenic mushrooms and the constant, never ending, overly distorted, pulsing noise of the band, I was beginning to experience some rather particular sensory perceptions: the people gathered were turning into leather-clad, chain wearing, menacing looking blobs. The crowd was melting into a formless mass moving to the beat of the noise, ever changing, forming into a huge, almost demonic. fluidic organism. I could make out some Confederate flags scattered through the crowd, and there were some other flags and banners flying above the mass of fat balls writhing around us that I could not make out.

The orange juice was beginning to help bring me back down and the ether was starting to wear off. I could actually speak and operate my arms again though I was still slurring my words and my arms felt like they were made of wood. Mike was talking to a few people at the food tables, but I would not let him drift off. In the chair, on this gravel, I would be screwed if things got strange. I knew he had a fully loaded Glock under his jacket. He never went anywhere unarmed.

After about forty minutes and my third bottle of orange juice, my mind started to clear enough to see a structure sitting on top of a hill just beyond the gravel pit. The sight of it made my stomach sink right into my socks.

“MIKE!” I screamed. “MIKE! GET OVER HERE!”

He shook hands with a huge, hairy mound of flesh wearing more leather than a sex shop and walked over to me.


I reached up and grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer to me.

“Look up on the hill, you BASTARD! What the hell have you gotten me into?”

My brother looked up at the structure on the hill.

“Oh, shit!” he muttered.

There, up on the hill, was a cross. There were five people up on that hill, three of them holding gas cans, all of them wearing white robes.

Very distinctive white robes.

“Fecking HELL, man!” I said angrily. “LOOK at what you’ve DONE! This isn’t a BIKER RALLY, this is a KLAN RALLY!”

“Shit! SHIT!” muttered Mike, looking around at the crowd, trying to find a way out. “We gotta get outta here!”

“Ya THINK?” I said sarcastically as he bent down and started to pour ether onto his handkerchief again.


Mike shoved the handkerchief under my nose.

“Take deep breaths, then start screaming and try to lurch around in your chair. I will get us out of here!” He instructed.

Suddenly, my body felt heavy. I slumped down in my chair.

“AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHH! AAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHH!” I screamed, trying my best to work my body back in forth in the wheelchair.

“GIVE WAY, PEOPLE!” my brother shouted as he shoved me through the parting crowd. “GIVE WAY, PEOPLE! MY BROTHER IS HAVING A REACTION! I HAVE TO GET HIM TO THE HOSPITAL! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

We got to the truck, my brother virtually picked me up and through me into the passenger seat and pitched the wheelchair into the bed of the truck. He jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the truck. Suddenly, in the distance, the cross caught fire.

Mike turned the key again. The engine was turning over, but it wouldn’t start.

“Mike?” I said, trying very hard to get my mouth to form words.


“You know that passenger door that is laying in the bed of the truck”

“What about it?”

“If you don’t get this pile of crap going right now, the last thing I am ever going to do on this earth is beat you senseless with it.” I exclaimed, speaking very slowly and deliberately as he tried yet again to get the engine to start.

Just then, the motor screeched into life, belching smoke and backfiring, and the radio, left on and turned up full blast, just happened to be playing the beginning of one of my favorite songs:

“Hey, hey Mama said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove…”

To the strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog”, Mike jammed the truck into reverse to get it back onto the dirt road, and then muscled the truck into gear and hit the gas. As we roared off, the cross on the hill was almost completely engulfed, leaving the truck’s exhaust pipe in the middle of the road.

“Mike” I said, still trying to speak clearly over the blaring radio, the squealing engine, and the throbbing rumble of the much louder, exhaust pipe-less engine. “I swear, if we survive this, I am going to get our sister and our mother together and the three of us are going to tie you up and take you to an exorcist!”

Mike lit a joint and passed it too me. “Shut up and smoke this,” he ordered, taking the Glock out of his holster and setting in in the console between our seats. “Keep your eye open for someone following us. Things might get tricky before we get back into town…”

To be Continued…

Hapless Halloween

Those Damned KIDS! Every time he thought about them, Harv gave himself another shot of anger adrenalin, making sleep all but impossible. They’d taken his prized jack-o-lantern on the front porch and smashed it all over his favorite welcome mat! The one he’d ordered from Amazon with the nice autumn colors that read, “Door Bell Broken – Yell DING DONG Very Loud!”. Harv wanted to take the old rusty K-Bar combat knife that his dad had given him at age 14, and gut Every Single ONE of them with it!

Thoughts of his late goony granny also ran through his head. As a youngster, Granny used to frighten him with her gruesome tales of Malevoleine, an avenging spirit from the Underworld that often appeared on Halloween and fed itself on thoughts of Anger and Hatred. According to Granny, after feeding itself, Malevoleine would then punish the thinker of evil by torturing him or her to death with its long, tentacle-like fingers tipped with razor-sharp claws. It would then hurl the shriveled corpse into the deepest bowels of Hell, there to rot forever in righteous torment. Harv snorted a quiet chuckle to himself as he imagined Those Damned KIDS getting a visit from Malevoleine!

His wife’s snoring on the other side of the bed wasn’t helping him fall asleep, either. Suddenly, Harv felt a burning line of fire rake across his back as he lay on his side! It was so blindingly PAINFUL that, in his complete shock, Harv couldn’t even utter a small gasp, let alone any other kind of sound. Then, he felt razor-tipped claws ripping into him from several directions. One went into his navel and worked its way deep into his guts, exiting from his lower belly. Another went right up his anal sphincter and out through his back, taking part of his spinal cord with it. A third went straight down his throat, puncturing his lungs, and exited through his crotch area.

By this time, Harv really, really, REALLY would’ve liked very much to scream!! Alas, he was now in no condition to do much of anything else but die!!

His last thought was that a nice blowjob was probably quite out of the question.


My Weekend With Mike Part 2

(Dear Sparky: This is Psykosity’s wife. Due to some unforeseen side effects from changes in his medications, Psykosity is in the middle of what can only be described as a ‘fit’. He is sitting in his lift chair, looking forward, hardly blinking, gripping the armrests and occasionally screaming about “Hottentots”. Thank goodness the godawful drooling seems to have stopped. At one point, he shoved a thumb drive across the table at me and just said the words: “Free lunch, final wisdom, total coverage”. I checked out the thumb drive and found a sound file on it, probably recorded on his phone. I assumed he wanted me to transcribe it, which was difficult; with all the screaming, the wind sounds, and the distorted music, it was hard to figure out what was being said. I did the best I could and send it to you now. P.S. thanks to you and Mod for the blowgun and the tranquilizer darts. They came in handy two nights before when he decided to shoot bottle rockets at the neighbors and try to ‘annex’ the alley behind the house.)

 (The sound file opens with a loud, coughing and spitting engine whine, the sound of wind, and the loud, distorted sound of music which could be… “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC?)


MIKE: I TOLD you not to LEAN on that DOOR! I TOLD you that the door was BARELY HANGING ON!

PSYK: WHY is there no SEAT BELTS in this Death Trap?

MIKE: They didn’t put seat belts in trucks the year this was built. Besides, seat belts are for WUSSIES! HANG ON!

(There is the sound of metal banging…the phone possibly being dropped…undecipherable yelling…)

PSYK: …will you PLEASE slow this pile of crap DOWN! You hit that bump there and I smacked my head on the roof! I almost lost my phone!

MIKE: Where we’re going, you don’t NEED phones!

PSYK: What does that mean? Why do you SAY shit like that? I’ve had a bad feeling about you since Mom and Dad brought you home from the HOSPITAL!

MIKE: Shut up and smoke another joint. Hand me some more of the ‘shrooms!’

PSYK: Holy SHIT does that creep up on you!

MIKE: Pretty good, huh? Check out the stuff in the vial.

PSYK: No, not now. It’s important to pace yourself. You never know when you’ll need that “fight or flight” reflex. We have to be ready for ANYTHING. I need a drink.

(Sound of furious rooting through a cooler)


MIKE: Shut up and drink it! You are always so prissy about your alcohol!

PSYK: Do you know WHY our sister calls you “.5”? Do you have ANY IDEA WHY THAT IS? When Mom and Dad got married, the standard family size in the United States was 2.5 children! They had ME, and then they had HER: a boy and a girl! Perfect! And then YOU came along; the “Oops Baby”. THAT’S why you are “.5”! You are only SLIGHTLY more a part of our family than all the PETS we used to have!


(Another sickening ‘THUD’…the sound of metal bouncing around and screaming…)

PSYK: OOOOOWWWW! Fucking HELL! SLOW DOWN! How fast are you going anyway?

MIKE: No idea. Nothing on the dash works. Probably ninety.

PSYK: WHY did you buy this rolling piece of SHIT???

MIKE: Well, this truck isn’t exactly mine. MY truck has a water pump problem. I borrowed this from one of my neighbors. He’s pretty cool…


MIKE: Borrowed…

PSYK: I’m riding in a STOLEN metal death machine going NINETY MILES AN HOUR with no door and a cooler full of at least TWENTY YEARS IN PRISON if we get caught! Probably more! I’m telling the cops you KIDNAPPED ME! I SWEAR I will!


PSYK: YES! If we were in prison, I would sell you for a couple of cigarettes and a plastic spork! NOOOO!


PSYK: IT’S JAMES TAYLOR! JAMES TAYLOR, YOU BASTARD! We can’t go into battle to the ‘soft rock’ sounds of JAMES “YOU’VE GOT A FUCKING FRIEND” TAYLOR! We need to be listening to something like Japanese Death Metal! Why doesn’t this piece of SHIT have a CD player???

MIKE: Get a GRIP, man! You’re riding in a truck that has no passenger side DOOR and you expect a CD player??? You’re lucky I didn’t stuff you into a cannon and SHOOT your crippled ass over to this shindig!

PSYK: Doomed, I tell you. We are well and truly doomed.


(Now, there is the sound of squealing tires, tires digging into gravel, screaming, and bouncing metal)


PSYK: Patches! You remember Patches, the dog? The dog that always HATED me and kept trying to bite me? That ugly black and white dog we had when we were kids that gave birth to a litter of puppies under Mom and Dad’s bedroom window ALL NIGHT LONG that one summer? SHE was more a part of our family than YOU were!

To Be Continued…

A Walk Down Halloween Memory Lane

Bear with me here. This piece is likely to have more spelling and grammatical errors than a Democrat public school teacher. But, I digress. Let’s get on to the story.

I spent two years of my teenage life in a rural little town in Georgia. My Grandaddy on my Mama’s side decided to buy a “farm”; thus Mama and I were thrust into the midst of his dream. Daddy was a “Professional Entertainer”, served our country as a Master Sergeant in the US Army; and at the time was touring the world with his gigs.

We were summarily removed from the home in which I spent my formative years to … dum-de-dum-dum.. “Tend The Farm”. I was 14, going on 15 and was to “Be a lady at all times” ingrained from the time I could talk.
I was suddenly in a new school. A Country high school. I despised it. Every bit of it.
And knew no one.

Until…… I met Eva. Think about it.. that name.. Eva. I was enthralled with her very presence. She was liquid motion. When she went to the front of every class to sharpen her pencil the boys threw change and dollar bills at her. Her walk should have been patented. She was a full blooded Cherokee Indian and sex on a plate.

For some reason, it was decided we should become fast friends. We were inseparable.
Thus, she decided we should egg cars on Halloween after we had ridden atop the town fire engine, which we got into plenty heap shit over, by the way. And I’d lost a shoe.

I find we’re in a corn field next to a busy road that we’d walked nearly a mile to reach; and we each have two dozen eggs we’d purchased at the local grocery store for fifty cents. She whispers, “Lie down in the grass and wait ’til you see headlights comin’ down the road.” I didn’t have long to wait… here comes something!! I jumped up, lobbed a huge cackle berry at the passing pickup truck and threw myself to the ground to keep from being spotted. It was at that moment she jumped up from her hiding spot and began yanking her pants down; yelling at the top of her lungs, “Oh lordyJesusgawdamighty, I’ve got a cricket in my damned britches!!”

I learned three things that night:
How not to act like a lady, cuss words I never dreamed were possible, and I really could run faster than I ever thought after staring into old man Henderson’s double barrel shotgun.


I love Halloween. It’s been my favorite holiday for the longest time, which I attribute to being a distant relative of Bela Lugosi. Where most kids would shiver with anticipation for Christmas, I got the same way with All Hallow’s Eve. My mother used to say that she might not get a birthday card, but she always knew I’d send a Halloween card.
There’s just something delicious about having one night to be anything you wanted to be, whether it was a puppy, witch, clown, Playboy Bunny…and get candy to boot!! Homemade candy apples and popcorn balls! Glorious days…one year, my older cousin Karen did my makeup. I thought I looked glamorous, but more likely looked like a pint-sized hooker. (I later found out she was a “dancer” in a gentleman’s club.)
Then Halloween took a dark turn. People started tampering with candy…I still can’t fathom who would do this. If you were even still allowed to go trick or treating, you could still get candy bars in wrappers, but even those weren’t immune to sabotage…people started giving out quarters, or worse, pencils, small packs of crayons, and in adding insult to injury, toothbrushes.

But one day you’re an adult!! You can go to parties and drink and dance like crazy, and no one looks twice…being dressed like a “Lil’ Devil” or a maid takes on a whole different connotation. Dry ice in the punch bowl and glow sticks in your drink glass…hint: if you’re ever having a Halloween party, track down blue light bulbs. What a blue light does to food is hilariously disgusting.

The best is when everything comes together so perfectly with your costume that no one recognizes you. The joy that this creates is indescribable…it is an invitation to riot, and being completely honest, torture certain people a wee bit. One year I decided at the last minute to go to my neighborhood dive bar for a party. I threw a costume together of odds and ends in my closet/storage bin: tinsel wig, black leggings, high black boots, and a tee shirt with a filthy saying on it. Add a handcuff belt and a ton of well-applied makeup, with a slight Slavic accent…no one knew it was me. Oh, the lines I heard!! I never revealed it was me until long after the party. Then one day, you’re married and giving out candy, only now you find yourself on guard…to what might be on the other side of the door. I was in the habit of having a firearm by the front door on Halloween (just in case) and one night I was glad I did. Doorbell rang, and upon opening it, there were 4 young men…large young men, dressed like they were going to play baseball. Complete with bats. I said, “Aren’t you guys a little old to be trick or treating?” I was rewarded with a sneer, and was informed they were coming back from “batting practice.” I slid my Colt into my waistband, and said “Oh, I just came back from practice too.” They stared and quickly backed down my steps and took off…I yelled out the door “Don’t you want any candy?” The next morning we learned that every pumpkin on our street was smashed, until my house. Damn kids…

Have a happy and safe Halloween, kids!