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  • One day not too many months from now, a mysterious ray will strike the Earth and every man on the planet will suddenly start talking about his feelings. In multitudes we will discourse on pride, fear, anger, courage and pleasure. The women of Earth will be overtaken by delight. This is, after all, what they said they have wanted for millennia.

    By the third day, long-held grudges about not being picked first for the playground football team will surface en masse and the women will start to grow slightly bored. But we will not care. We will pout because Andrew in Accounting got a raise and we didn’t. We will cry because we were not allowed to cry when we wanted to cry. We will not notice the women’s tears of irritation.

    By the sixth day, driven mad by a non-stop male dirge about fading potency, the newly-formed Women’s Task Force (WTF!) will announce a crash program: whatever the cost, whatever the risk they will find and destroy the hideous, damnable Ray from Space. We will be tempted to tell them that the source of the beam is actually Trump Tower, but we won’t. No use hurting anyone’s feelings.
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