No, they surely aren’t . . . messy, silly, foolish creatures. Handy, I suppose, but just little boys you can lead around by their pee-pees. Why . . . all you got to do is . . . well, lick the spoon handle from time to time, and they’ll do almost anything for you.

And doesn’t that just make you mad, ladies? DOESN’T IT? Can any ‘a you fine ladies out there explain why the only way I can get fame and success is by trottin’ out my cookin’? I wanted to be a vet, you know. I always understood what was ailin’ the horses and cows ‘fore the menfolk figured it out. But no school for Jenny. I declare, sometimes it makes me so mad I could just spit -

But I can’t spit in the Spry; that’d be wrong.

Still, ladies, we all know how humiliating it can be when the mister comes back from town stinkin’ of rye and ceegar smoke, and he wants a little of what he calls “comfort” or asks us to do our “duty.” That’s why I mix a little salt-peter into every cake. When I’m makin’ frosting, I use my special receipt to make sure Calvin isn’t makin’ frosting later that night. If you know what I mean.

Oh, we have our ways, ladies.