It wouldn't make much sense to start rambling on about hazardous work sites without illustrating how easily men can be influenced by women’s affection or neglect.

For example, feminists have successfully argued that men's lust for thin female bodies has resulted in some extreme cases of fatal anorexia among women. A duplicate experience for men could be how women's appetite for money has resulted in some extreme cases of fatal accidents in the work place among male employees. In my opinion, both points are valid. The trouble is, only women's views have achieved public recognition.

With an hour to kill on my lunch break, I casually stroll through the brightly lit corridors of the shopping mall. As I look around, it occurs to me that I could easily spend the rest of my life without ever needing a good 95% of the items sold in this place. Yet everywhere I look it's mostly women snapping things up left right and center. I can't imagine what that form of craving must feel like. These people seem to have expectations beyond my wildest dreams.

I buy lunch, set down my tray, and dig in. While eating, I pause to consider the invisible forces at work all around me. In order for this standard living to exist, it stands to reason that somebody would have to pay the bills. Christ, it would take years to pay for all of this. Why would anyone want to do that? In a job like mine, about the only way to make that much money is to cut corners and do things quickly. That means ignoring vital safety procedures while taking calculated risks within a very slim margin of error. Sooner or later you're bound to make a mistake, and that's when serious accidents happen. So why would anyone want to put themselves in that much danger ?

Pondering the hidden forces compelling men to take dangerous jobs for more pay takes me back to my own experience. It started in high school. There I was, this skinny, ugly, poor kid from a broken home trying to fit into the crowd. The first thing I noticed was that most of the girls around me were drop dead gorgeous. They were the physical embodiment of heaven in my world of loneliness and it soon became apparent that they were completely out of reach. These girls seemed to gravitate toward older boys with good looks, muscle, fighting ability, money, a car, popularity status, or some combination of success potential. They went through an available selection of boys like Baskin Robins ice cream flavors. In the fierce competition for female approval, only the strongest males broke ground.

I was not so fortunate. Allow me to list of the following defects I took to school every day; Frizzy tangled hair, zits, crooked ugly teeth, bad breath, skinny arms and legs, hopelessly out of style clothing, and five pubic hairs to speak of. In other words, weak, frail, and ugly as sin. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and petrified of violence most of the time, so being a tough guy was out of the question. I didn't have a car, money, or popularity status. I wasn't a jock or a rich kid, and lousy grades implied that I wasn't too brilliant. I suppose music could've been an option, if only I chose to play something else instead of drums. A guitar is portable enough to lug around, but drums require a vehicle. So much for being a starving musician with success potential.

About all I could do right was play the class clown by annoying the teacher for the amusement of other classmates. The teachers didn’t like it much, but at least it persuaded the other students not to pound the crap out of me after school every day. I got plenty of beatings from my older brother at home, so I really didn’t need any more at school. Apart from that, my presence was relatively insignificant.

But my relative insignificance couldn't have been summed up any better than the day I walked through the high school parking lot. There he was. The tough guy with the black leather jacket sitting in his suped-up green Plymouth Duster, receiving intimate oral affection to his genital area from the pretty girl in math class. She looked up at me, spit out, told me to "f___off", and quite casually bent down to finish the job. I may as well have been a passing squirrel for all she cared.

As I got older, I pretty much lost any hope of being in a relationship with a woman. The message of my youth was "access denied", and I felt left alone to live and die in the dark. At least my dismal financial situation guaranteed that I'd be too preoccupied with survival to afford the luxury of wondering when someone might take an interest in me. However, I did notice one thing; it seemed that most of the guys who paired up with attractive women were reasonably good looking themselves, and there were very few exceptions to this rule.

But the point was made far more eloquently by a behavioral research study once I heard about. Apparently, this psychology professor used a hidden video camera to study how people were treated differently according to their appearance. Two specific males were selected to participate in the experiment, and a lecture hall of full time students became the laboratory. Both males were identical in every respect ranging from body build, height, eye color, personality profiles, success potential, you name it. The only difference? Jack possessed handsome facial features, while John was rather homely.

On Mondays and Wednesdays Jack would attend classes, while Tuesdays and Thursdays John would show up. The two were never seen together. About three weeks into the course, an obvious pattern began to emerge. Proximity ranges between Jack and other female colleagues drew closer, while John was kept at a distance. Some women engaged in subtle physical contact such as touching Jack's shoulder or arm. Occasionally someone would pat him on the rear or play with his hair. Eventually Jack was invited to a party with some of the women, and became quite popular with the group. Their fascination with him formed at least one inescapable conclusion. Jack could potentially have a relationship with one or more of these women while John remained in the "let's just be friends" category.

One morning, the professor asked the class if any one thought they might be capable of treating or mistreating people based on physical appearance. Some men rejected the possibility while others openly discussed their preferences, much to the scorn of many female colleagues. The women adamantly denied susceptibility to such "shallow" behavior.

At that point, the professor plopped a tape into a VCR and began playing footage from the hidden camera. Despite obvious resistance, the women could not dispute the resulting footage. Or so I thought. For the next hour or so, discussions centered around various personality traits which seemed to make Jack more attractive than John. Neither Jack nor John were in the room to contest these evaluations. "Jack is more intelligent, funny, outgoing, positive, has more strength of character, moral fiber, etc."

That's when the bomb fell. John stepped into the front of the class and began peeling the latex makeup from his face to reveal another identity; He was also Jack. You could've heard a pin drop. Within minutes, these women invented a new strategy. They now insisted that "John" behaved more poorly than "Jack" because he knew he "appeared" ugly and felt insecure about his features.

I honestly had to wonder if there might be a school of evasive answers somewhere I didn't know about, but at least I got the straight goods on a problem I've dealt with most of my life. It made cheap character assassinations a lot easier to ignore, while shedding new light on women’s "moral superiority".

Another glimpse of women's desire for good looking men came from my job as a taxi driver. The privilege of being a fly on the wall offered many opportunities to study female behavior up close and personal. As far as these women were concerned, I was a non-person whom they weren't going to see again so they weren’t too concerned with what I overheard. I may as well have been part of the steering wheel to them and judging from the gossip, they obviously preferred good looking men.

From that point on, physical appearance became a priority that clouded my awareness of other factors I should have paid more attention to. Looking back on my twenties, I recall how women expressed more of an interest in me when I was gainfully employed, but no interest when I was out of work. Whether it was cab driving or video production, the quality of women's attention was directly proportional to the amount of money I made or success potential I appeared to have. The trouble was, living in a frail and ugly body every day of my life obscured my understanding of how money factored into the equation. Thinking it was all about looks, my introspection was limited to questions like; "Why is she watching at me that way? How come she decided to stay with me after the meeting to help me work on a few extra details? Why did she call me at home only to show up looking like something off the cover of cosmopolitan magazine? Why is she making herself more available? Why is she rubbing her breast against my arm? Hey! Did she just put her hand on my thigh?" Incredibly naive as I was, I made a point of studying the way I looked with hopes of another engagement. Was it my hair? My cologne? mouthwash? The right clothing? What? I tried desperately to understand what women found attractive, and made every attempt to resemble that image.

By my late twenties, I went on an all out military campaign to change my appearance. First on the list were my teeth. They were a combination of fangs and bucks that made me look like Dracula's ugly brother. The high price tag put braces out of reach, so I got them pulled out and settled for a fixed bridge of straight teeth. Then I studied clothing. I went to just about every shopping mall in Ottawa looking for the right combination to match my profile, and finally settled for an outfit that worked. Then came weight training. With the dedication of an NHL hockey player, I pumped iron until I was blue in the face. I kept it up through the winter and by late spring, I looked pretty good. It didn't change my personality much, though. I still felt the same as before, only now I looked better. But as much as I hoped it would happen, I was still overwhelmed by the degree to which women responded to my new appearance. I lost count of how often they gyrated their heads in my direction as I walked down the street or made physical contact with me. I was more than flattered.

So when am I going to be in a relationship, I wondered? The answer eluded me. I couldn't understand why I was still being left out. It seemed like the only domain in which I could work as hard as it's humanly possible with little or no reward. Almost by accident, I picked up a copy of Warren Farrell's book entitled "Why Men Are the Way They Are". I finally got the answer I could never figure out on my own; yes I have to look good, but good looks alone aren't enough. I also need a steady income, or possess some form of income potential. That's when it hit me full force. I felt hurt. I couldn't understand why after playing fairly by every rule, I still wasn't considered worthy of a partner. Even if I'm just as attractive as her or more, I'm still expected to provide access to material wealth. But with no intention of having any kids of my own, this particular expectation seemed to raise a few questions:

Paying may seem like the only option to most men, but for me it feels like a socially imposed mandate with absolutely no relevance to my situation. When financial security remains a prerequisite for women's love, the very foundation for love is flawed. Some people might argue that my love is conditional because I prefer attractive women. What’s missing from their reproach is something I found out the hard way after I changed my own appearance; any woman who prefers good looking men has the same conditions for physical attraction as I do. Her desire for Brad Pitt is no better than my desire for Demi Moore. But because everyone’s bought the line that her sex is worth so much more, she can insist on being paid for. Throw in a selection of men who practically wait in line to comply with her demands while feeling grateful for any scraps of affection she may toss down, and we now have the perfect incentive for my immediate replacement. The moment I refuse to pay, she’ll drop me and find someone else within an hour.

Personally, I can’t imagine what it’s like to think along those lines. I would never expect a woman to pay for me. All I want is what I'm willing to give and that means my sex should be worth hers, not less. I don't know why so many people have trouble with this concept. Maybe I should call the credit bureau and ask them how I ended up with an outstanding debt to every woman I go out with. Did my parents owe her family?

The foreman nudges my arm and shows me his watch. Ten after one. Shit! I scramble to my feet and we head for the elevator. My ears pop as we reach the top floor of a high rise building in downtown Vancouver. Time for the chair drop. It's windy up here on the roof. Nice view of the mountains. I suit up in rain gear, put on my safety harness, and walk to the south edge of the building. Just for fun, I spit over the side and time how long it takes to hit the bottom. Half a minute later, it vanishes. Thirty six floors off the ground, I climb over the edge and step on a piece of wood suspended from a single rope, four cables, and a Sky Genie. A patch of carpet keeps the ropes from getting cut by the concrete, and the wood swings while I manage to get my feet through the cables. I'm now firmly seated the Boson chair with my safety harness attached to a second rope.

The foreman hands me the gun and we're ready to rock and roll. It's a bit like sandblasting, only with water. The process is called pressure washing and it's about the most effective way to clean concrete. A dirt digger tip kicks out twenty five hundred PSI of water to remove a layer of sand from the wall. Chunks fly everywhere including my eyes, and the water pressure can easily cut through the ropes. Needless to say, I have to be careful. It's real loud too so unless I want to go deaf, I better wear ear plugs. Making even strokes is tricky, so I hook my feet underneath the balcony to avoid getting pushed off the wall by the water pressure. The guy beside me is junk sick from heroin, but he's giving it his best shot.

Halfway down, my throat starts getting sore. Nobody bothered to tell us about the caustic soda chemical we were all breathing in. After the drop, I'm completely drenched and have to piss real bad. Three hours in a seated position didn't help any. We pull cables, grab our gear, and pile into the swing stage for the trip back up. The weight limit is exceeded by two extra crewmen and support cables strain under the load. The name of the game is "make a lot of money fast", so we ignore critical safety regulations. With bills to pay, we can't afford take our time.

I've been thinking a lot about these men and their limited options of finding companionship. Every one of them needs and deserves love. But these men learned a long time ago that the only guarantee of female approval comes from making as much money as they possibly can. Many of them aren’t smart enough to find profitable employment in a safe environment, so they end up on job sites that come within inches of their lives eight hours a day. No wonder they get killed and injured so often. Without money, there's no love and without proper education for a high paying job in a safe environment, hazardous work is the only job that pays. It’s also their only real chance at finding love.

But if that wasn't bad enough, powerful feminist lobby groups attack these men around the clock. Polluting men's need for love by depicting them as evil pours out of the media every day. It's in newspapers, radio, women's self help books, the Internet, and just about everywhere else you could possibly stumble across. Personally, I don't know any evil men. Most of the poor slobs I've met wouldn't dream of hurting women. They're just lonely people who need and deserve love in a dangerous and scary world. I wish a couple of these feminist lobbyists would join me on a thirty six floor chair drop for a day. I’d gladly show them the ropes.

• Equality for Hermaphrodites

• Are Women just Dumb, After All ?

• The Non-Wage-Gap

• Los Angeles Times Propaganda about Brains

• Psychologists and Women Don't Have the Brains to Study Intelligence

• Women's Brains and the Feminist "Research" Scam.

• Women Bully chess.com Into Insanely Enforcing Lies

• Discrimination is always Negative

• Double Standards in Sport and Employment

• Anti-Male Discrimination in the Workplace

• Men Die Because Female Police are Physically Incompetent

• Police Legal Adviser Calls Police Human Resources Manager a Liar