Women Better Than Men At Multitasking

I see!

At long last I have an explanation.

Listening to the radio this morning, I heard an expert explain that women’s brains are not the same as men’s.  Women’s brains, apparently, have more long-distance connections, and this allows them to do many things at the same time, like, for example, watching TV and talking at the same time.  This is called multitasking.


Well that explains a lot.  It explains, for instance, why women keep right on talking while you’re trying to hear the absolutely vital bit in the movie where the detective explains who did the murder.  That’s a very endearing quality in women.

One thing I still don’t get, though.

If women are so good at multitasking, why do they pack away every last item at the checkout before they go searching for their purse?


It’s a Client’s World

I bumped into my lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian, today.

Well Gonad, I said. What are you doing to celebrate International Women’s Day?

Doing? he replied, What am I doing? If you have to ask, there’s no point, is there?

Eh? What’s that you say, Gonad?

You shouldn’t need to ask!

What the fuck are you on about? I said.

Oh, that’s lovely, he said. That’s a nice way to talk to me.

I was baffled. What’s wrong with you?

Nothing! he whispered, brushing away a tear and pushing his hair back.

Gonad, I said. This isn’t like you.

He rounded on me with his eyes flashing fire. What the hell would you know about me? I might as well be fucking invisible. All you care about is me slaving away in my office, issuing writs and suing the ass off media moguls for you. But you never see the real me. The real Gonad behind this suit. I’m just another piece of brief to you, aren’t I? Admit it.

I was staggered. Good Lord, Gonad. I had no idea.

No, he spat. You didn’t, did you? No idea what I go through. Oh, it’s all right for you. You don’t have to get up in the morning and wonder if last night’s wig and gown will still fit you. You’re not seized by sudden inexplicable mood swings. Oh no. Not you. Typical client. Fucking clients are all the same. I’m finished with them. Fucking clients!

Gonad, I said.

There was a long silence as he stared into the distance, a small tear running down his cheek, his lip trembling.

Gonad, I repeated.

He sniffled. What?

Look, Gonad. Let’s go someplace warm where we can talk this over.

He sniffled again and nodded.

Tell you what, I suggested breezily. Why don’t we go to that new Café, what’s it called?

A little smile crept across Gonad’s tear-stained face.

Planet Chocolate, he said.

That’s right, I said. Let’s go to Planet Chocolate and we can get an extra-large choco-choc-chocburger with chocolate topping and a chocolate-sauce frappachocaccino.

That’ll be grand, said Gonad. And then we’ll have a few pints. Did you see the match?