Mark Morford does it again:
All Women Are From Zorkon 9 – Forget Venus.
I am not here to exaggerate these kinds of things. I am not here to make this stuff up. Truth happens. Reality pinches, rides up, makes you start and shiver in utter amazement.
Sometimes the differences are razor sharp and dazzling. Sometimes the sexes can only look at each other across our vast chasms of insanity and mind-set and unique psycho-emotional temperament, and laugh. And then cry. And then have sex. And then carry on as if nothing fantastically bizarre is happening here.
What you are about to read is exactly as I remember it, though it is possible my memory is slightly hazy, tainted from the snifter of Havana Club and the daylong shopping and the morning sex and the earlier argument about proper cleanup of parrot poop from my fabulous couch. Plus the fact that it all took place while wearing sweatpants and bras and underwear, in various combinations, depending on who you’re looking at.
Nevertheless, I stand by every word. Except for the part about the screaming. That may be slightly exaggerated. But not by much.