Tough Economy Forces Women To Marry Small Men

With the single-car family more the norm than the exception, and the McMansions of yesterday yielding to smaller, smarter, more efficient home construction, more and more women are discovering they can also make do with a smaller husband.

In what is being touted as the Domestic Revolution, those favored to take the place of the American husband are Asian men, most notably the Chinese and Japanese. They’re smaller, more compact, and the place is teeming with them.  For many wives, despite barriers such as language and live food, replacing their old American husband with a new Asian man makes good economic sense.

“To anyone who’s studied the market, the transition toward Asian husbands is not a surprise,” says Margie Davenport, author of Where is My Husband, and Do I Really Care; The Downsizing of The American Family. “Let’s face it, the American husband is a drain on resources. It consumes a lot of meat, drinks enormous quantities of beer, and spends too much money on fast food and sports.”

In contrast, the habits of an Asian husband leave a much smaller carbon footprint, and not simply because of shoe size.

The average Japanese man is six inches shorter than his American equivalent. Even the Chinese, who have witnessed something of a growth spurt during the last thirty years, still look up to even the shortest American husband.

This leads to immediate advantages for women struggling to cope with a tighter budget, not the least of which is clothing their man. Many of these so-called men find they can still fit into less expensive children’s clothing. Even if they might choose not to admit it. This allows wives to pick up most of the husband’s clothes at smaller and lesser known stores like SmallMan and The Little Weeners’ Place.

It isn’t just clothing where wives are seeing gains. Excessive beer drinking, for example, sends American men straight to the bathroom. Four or five visits in an evening is not unusual. That’s a lot of water going down the toilet. Women with Asian husbands, whose preference is for smaller quantities of rice wines, are seeing their water bills cut by at least 50 percent every month. With figures like these, it’s easy to understand why many women are going Asian.

The Japanese work ethic mean husbands spend less time at home than at work. There are tremendous advantages, from both economic and psychological perspectives, in a husband who spends significant stretches of time out of the home. Studies show that the grades of children with absent fathers improve by as much as 7 percent. Wives are more content and develop closer relationships with friends, and there’s more money in the bank. “When you see quality of living on the rise like this, it’s a difficult one to argue with,” says Robert Johnson, PhD.

A penchant for raw fish is another reason wives of Asian men are seeing their money go further. While we didn’t speak to anyone who’d been able to do away with the stove completely, that day may not be far off. Says one satisfied wife from Arkansas, “Half the time I don’t even bother killing it. Saves a fortune on gas and electric.”

So where are these ex husbands going? For the moment, most are being returned to their parents. A smaller number get sold off to foreign markets, and in some cases they are simply left on doorsteps or abandoned by the side of the road.

What we’re witnessing is akin to opting for a Prius over a Hummer. Economically speaking, there’s really very little choice.  Unless they are able to reinvent themselves, time is quickly running out for the American husband. In less than a few years he’ll likely go the way of the bison, and be found only in small drinking  groups dotted along the Great Plains.

Karl the Curmudgeon Wants a Writers Feud

“Writer’s don’t have feuds anymore,” said Karl.

What are you talking about? I said. We were sitting in a writer’s bar called, predictably enough, First Edition. We had run out of internationally-themed bars, ever since Hey Man, the Isle of Man’s bar closed down, so we decided to plumb the literary bars that dotted Indianapolis.

For the last 20 minutes, Karl had been glaring at a publicity photo of some writer hanging behind the bar, muttering something about holes in glass, or something like that. I had been on a mini-rant about how plagiarists should be publicly flogged with the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, hardbound edition, when he decided he wanted to fight with other writers.

“We need more writers feuds!” he thundered, plonking his empty beer mug on the bar. “Jack Kerouac and Truman Capote used to have feuds. Norman Mailer once head-butted Gore Vidal. Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein used to snipe at each other in their books. Why don’t more writers do that?”

What the hell for?

“Because we’re all too nice to each other! Because everyone is just supposed to get along. Not make waves. Not make trouble.”

Of course. We’re a civilised society. See, I even spelled civilised with an ‘s’ right there.

“Screw civilized society,” he snapped, restoring the ‘z’ to its rightful place. “It’s sucking the very life right out of us. I can feel my very soul withering away. It needs to feel. I need something to stir it up and get my blood boiling.”

And so picking a fight with another writer is going to do it?

“Yeah, I think so. Look at that picture of that guy on the wall. René Whitehorse. Some French dude. Heh, René is a girl’s name.”

Do you even know him? I asked. I waved down Kurt, our bartender, and ordered two more beers.

“Actually, yeah. I’ve met him a couple times at book signings and parties for other writers. Pretentious little snot. He publishes one freaking poetry book — a collection of blank verse — and he thinks that makes him a book author.”

Doesn’t it?

“No, it makes him first-time lucky. Kid, I’ve written 18 books so far, and I’m not nearly as pretentious as this guy. When his little ‘pamphlet’” — Karl made air quotes — “first came out, he pitched a fit at a bookstore manager because it wasn’t placed on the New Arrivals shelf with the real, big boy books. He even whined to his publisher, but nothing was ever done.”

What does that have to do with you?

“When my last book came out and it was put on the big boy shelf, I had a friend email him a photo of it and say ‘don’t you know this guy?’”

So you’ve already started the feud with him?

“Well, that’s what I’m not so sure about. I’ve started making snarky comments about him to other people, but I don’t think it’s working. I was hoping you could help me.”

Me? I don’t know the first thing about picking a fight. I consider myself to be a man of peace and quiet action.

“Uh-huh. I’ve ridden in the car with you. You’re anything but a man of quiet action.”

Whatever. Have you tried throwing a drink in his face?

“Waste of beer.”

Heckled him at one of his poetry readings?

“His last poetry reading had two people. I’m not wasting A-material on an empty room.”

Ever tried punching him in public?

“That’s a little drastic, don’t you think? I just want to have a feud with him, not be arrested for assault.”

So write a scathing review on your blog about his poetry.

“Won’t he write a nasty response about me?”

Sweet jebus, Karl! That’s what a feud is! You two carp back and forth at each other, trying to make each other sound stupid by using big words. So write something nasty about his work, and make him sound like the kind of pretentious twit who lists his weight on his résumé, like some county fair beauty contestant.

“Ooh, good one. It’s not like he can retaliate. What’s he going to do, write a woolly-headed poem about me in his next book? Both his readers will get a good chuckle over it. Great, what else?”

Write a novel with a diarrheic penguin who writes blank verse poetry as one of the main characters.

“Is that what you do with your literary feuds?”

I don’t actually have any literary feuds. I get along with everyone.

“Yeah right, what about that science fiction writer from Memphis?”

You mean where I wrote that 3,000 word blog post that he should stick with writing Big Bang Theory fan fiction?

“Yeah, whatever happened to that one?”

His mom grounded him from Facebook for three months after he used his high school laptop to Photoshop a picture of me on Attila the Hun’s body.

“So you. . .”

Count it as a total victory? Oh yeah.

This post was originally published on Erik Deckers‘ Laughing Stalk blog.