I came across an article that Rollo linked in his latest blog today that I thought would be a good read for you guys...especially you guys who still, in the face of all of the evidence, are actually contemplating marriage in the year 2015.

First a link to Rollo's blog, which is an excellent read in it's own right:

http://therationalmale.com/2015/03/31/wives-lovers/

Then, he links this article in the "Myth of Mismatched Libidos" section of it:

http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a31760/balancing-mother-and-wife/

Reason being, simply, it's from Good Housekeeping magazine, which I never fucking read and I imagine a good number of you don't either. Text is below with some of my editorializations.

I'm 99% Mother and 1% Wife — And It Has to Be That Way

Already off to a good start in the title, gentlemen, aren't we? Don't be surprised when you're getting 1% of the sex after the first fuck trophy pops out.

When my husband, John, and I were newly married, we bought a chihuahua and named him Prancer, as he looked like a reindeer.

How I loved him! He had a wardrobe to rival mine, a custom-made house indoors (for fear he'd get a chill), was hand-fed chicken, and graced our holiday cards. Prancer, I mean, not John.

Already, even before the kids arrive, her dog is a bigger prize to her than her husband. Let that sink in for a moment. She can't be bothered to cook a meal for her husband John, but she can build her dog project houses and hand feed it chicken. This is, essentially, the crux of Rollo's point, but from the mouth of a hamster. Once she's locked down her Beta, that's it. Provisioning secured. On to other things more interesting than hubby beta boy.

Then I got pregnant. A friend with a daschund and a toddler warned, "When the baby comes, you won't care about the dog anymore." I said that was crazy talk.

By the time our son was six months old, I had given Prancer to my mother. "He deserves someone who can still dote on him," I reasoned. My mom delighted in spoiling him; I more or less forgot he existed.

And again, on to bigger and better things, like the kids. We just listened to this loving wife author tell us how much she adores her pet chihuahua, yet she discarded the dog like a dress she'd outgrown. Now, remember where Prancer was on her hierarchy of importance (the top), and where hubby John was. Now let that sink in for a minute.

Years later, John and I have three kids. I wonder why nobody gave me this head's up: "When you're half dead keeping three humans happy, you won't care about your husband anymore."

Yes, I just compared my husband to a dog. But stay with me here.

Finally the hamster connects the comparison it's just made. More running on the wheel to come, I sense this fluffy little bastard is about to wear it's claws down to the nubs.

I've come to realize I'm a crappy wife.

I put John last, pretty much all the time. And it's not like he's a bad guy — far from it. He does the laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, makes the kids' lunches, even braids my daughter's hair. He often compliments me, and regularly asks if we can go away, alone, for a weekend, or at least out to lunch.

Remember what Rollo talked about in "Choreplay", which is the bullshit myth that if a husband does chores around the house he will be rewarded with sex and affection. Resist the urge to slap the next bitch who says "the sexiest thing a man can do for his wife is the dishes." The truth is she stopped seeing you as a sexual being not long after you said "I do".

She doesn't even want to entertain his company for lunch. For lunch! Even sharing a meal for less than an hour is a repulsive thought to her. Too "dead" I guess, right?

I tell him I have no time for leisurely lunches, let alone two entire days away. I can't be bothered to figure out who is going to take care of our kids, pack, unpack, then scramble getting ready for Monday morning.

Vacations? Forget about it. She can't be bothered. I recently saw a TV commercial a couple days ago for Choice Hotels, in which they cite a statistic that a total of more than 4-million paid vacation days go unused in the United States today, and now I think I know why. So get ready married men: not only are the weekend flings to Las Vegas going away, you'll be lucky if you get to sniffs a dwarf's ass at Disney World. Mommy's just too tired to be bothered.

At Christmas, I blow an insane amount on the kids, then someone will ask "What did you get John?" Oh, yeah. What I wind up grabbing at the last minute is usually as personal as if I'd be shopping for his boss.

Ever wonder how the stereotypical "dad" gift is always socks, underwear, or a lame fucking tie? It's because after doting on the kids with video games and designer jeans, your wife doesn't give a shit to put thought into your gift, that's why.

Your reward for your hard work as a loving father is something you fart into, or maybe something you'll eventually use to hang yourself from the ceiling fan with.

I stay up late, nearly every night, and creep into bed after he's long asleep. The next morning, I'm up and at 'em before he can roll over and give me a hug.

So not only would 66% of wives rather read a book in bed than fuck their husbands, it looks like there's a percentage above that that doesn't even want to do the laying in bed with him part. I bet she lies down reeeeeaalllly soft after he's sleeping. Wouldn't want to endure the paralyzing horror of waking him, would we? He might get frustrated and marriage-rape her, right?

I've spoken this sentence to John. "Let me be clear: If I have to choose between you or one of the kids, you will lose every time. Do you have a problem with that?"

So the marriage shit-tests were flying in no time flat. Got it.

Why am I such a biatch? Here's my excuse: I'm exhausted, mentally and physically.

For most of the last 10 years, I've been the breadwinner. I worked long hours commuting into Manhattan full-time. Now, John has a job, but I still commute, and also work from home trying to keep us ahead of the bills.

My older son is in college, and I will save him from student loans or die trying. My younger son has some special needs, and keeping him on track is a full-time job. My daughter, like any 11-year-old girl, wants her mom to listen, to watch, to help. The clock is ticking on her innocence, and I dare not miss a second of what's left of it.

I am tired, and I am worried. Worried there won't be enough. Enough money, enough luck, enough time, enough of me. John's a great dad, but I play a singular role in each of my kid's lives. And as they've grown, the urgency to get it right screams at me, day and night.

But I thought this is what the modern woman wanted, honey? You're a hard-working "career womyns" who's "doing it all", right? So what the fuck are you bitching about? Your fore-sisters fought for your right to be a life-sucked cubicle drone, so what's the problem? I thought gender roles were just social constructs, right?

Pay attention, you aspiring stay-at-home-fathers to be. For as much as we hear about how acceptable it is for a SAHF while wife goes off to her cubicle hell "career", for all of society applauding you for embracing your new-aged emasculation of diaper changing and building popsicle stick houses, there is one person who will absolutely hate your guts for doing this. You have handed her all of the control, all the frame, all of the responsibility, and like our author, it will destroy her inside. She is not built for it, but will never admit it. Instead the fault will be projected onto the easiest target: you.

The ship is going down, and I've only got three life jackets. Who am I going to give them to? John, you learned to swim a long time ago, right?

Boy, this woman just keeps getting more and more pleasant. Hold on while I Google Map "wedding chapels".

You've said you feel like a second-class citizen in our family, and for that, I am sorry. You deserve better than me, you do. I hope that on some level, you know that the reason why I am the way I am has nothing to do with you. I love you, believe it or not.

"You deserve better"..."it's not you it's me"...these are the rationalization every girl uses right before she is getting ready to leave you. I'm sure many of you have heard these lines before...right before she dumps you for being "too safe", right before she runs off to fuck Chad T-Cock.

Only in this case, it comes with a nice helping of divorce rape.

When the kids are all off enjoying their successful, happy lives, and the two of us are left looking at each other, please, please, ask me to lunch.

It'll be my treat.

This last part is just to make sure he stays fully in his beta paradise, to keep him so he doesn't, I dunno, start looking up gym memberships and making dating site profiles. At least until she's ready to sit him down to have "the talk". Over lunch, of course.