I have just two words for Mr. Mark Ryan Youngman, who asserts that women are only concerned with their hair and clothes:

Professional wresting.

How do you explain this, sir? And don't try to say it's not a sport. It's on pay-per-view. It has the word "professional" in front of it. And you men love it. Admit it! It doesn't matter that it's really nothing more than sweaty, waxed men, occasionally in thongs, performing what amounts to a really violent ballet. You eat it up. You probably even own a Goldberg shirt. And I have news for you, Mr. Youngman. We like it, too.

I'm not quite sure what it is that does it for us-- it could be the soap-opera-ish story lines, or the fact that the wrestlers seem quite a bit more obsessed with their looks than, say, Cher. Or it could be that, on the whole, big swarthy men groping at each other really turns us on. It doesn't matter-- what matters is that we finally have a common ground.

That's right-- the way for the sexes to unite is through pro wrestling. A radical idea, but true. We can't relate to your Sportscenter fixation, and you most certainly can't fathom what appears to you to be our constant preoccupation with our looks (what you don't know is, without makeup, we all look like Ethel Merman). But everyone understands the desire to pick up your arch nemesis and drop them on their head, rendering them incapable of doing anything but appearing in Slim Jim commercials.

In general, life would be better if it were more like pro wrestling. We'd all be a heck of a lot bigger, for one thing; shinier, too. And we could have cool nicknames, like Sting and the British Bulldog. We could carry microphones around with us, and scream nonsensical statements into them, like "Wooooooooo!"

We can align ourselves in groups and splinter groups, and assign ourselves colors, and wreak havoc on each other's lives, for no apparent reason. Also, we'd do a lot of arm wrestling.

Every time we entered a room, sparks would shoot everywhere, and we could flex menacingly, and maybe even have the chance to yell "woooooooo!" again. Everywhere we'd go, people would hold up signs with our names on them, and maybe even attribute some Bible verses to us.

And when things got boring, we could have scantily clad girls come out and dance for our amusement. (Okay, so there are a few decidedly male things about pro wrestling.)

The best part of it is, after our pro wrestling career ends, we still have the oh-so-lucrative world of film at our fingertips. Who could forget Andre the Giant in The Princess Bride, or Hollywood Hulk Hogan in... um... that one where's he's like a babysitter or something, and he wears a tutu, and... um... I think there's a monkey involved. It's all very complicated. Oh, and action figures! How cool would that be, to be immortalized as a hunk of plastic for little kids to put in their mouths?

All I know is, it seems to me to be the only way to go. I, for one, am ready to make the change right now; from now on, I demand that you address me as Kim the Unstoppable Force of Death Shable. Better get that spark machine ready. Wooooooooo!