When I say "better" than men, I mean better. These are some of the ways they are better:

• righteouser
• eleganter
• securer
• stronger
• gracefuler
• smarter
• cleverer
• prettier
• smoother
• wittier
• mysteriouser
• admirabler
• respectabler
• capabler
• adventurouser
• fashionabler

These are important adjectives. Actually, all adjectives are important. Without adjectives we couldn't describe things, and this would make people hate each other.

Consider this sentence:
The quick, brown fox leapt over the black, stinking rabbit poop.

Now consider this sentence with the adjectives removed:
The fox leapt over the poop.

See the importance?

Other kinds of words are important, too. Remove the prepositions:
The fox leapt the poop.

Remove the verb:
The fox the poop.

Now, remove the articles:
fox poop.

Do you see what we have done? We have alchemized rabbit poop into fox poop. Since fox poop comes from foxes and rabbit poop from rabbits, this transformation of rabbit poop into fox poop implies that we have craftily and mysteriously altered reality and transformed rabbits into foxes.

Rabbits into Foxes, people! Do you hear?!

And that brings us to today's topic: classy women.

When men think about women, they often think about foxy women. Rarely does a man think about rabbitty women (rarely, but not never).

Adjectives aren't like other parts of speech -- they are powerful and easy to understand. Other parts of speech are extremely suspicious things and difficult to comprehend. Take adverbs, for example. Adverbs are hard to recognize as such. Take this sentence for example:
I am extremely milky.

Where is it? Where is the adverb? You had to think about it, didn't you? That's because adverbs are tricky devils.

Look at this sentence:
I milked vigorously the voracious cow-thing.

What do you think of that? Vigorously. Who'd have guessed it?

Look at this sentence -- this is most insidious of all:
The fox milk spilled forth.

Can you find it? The adverb -- do you see it? You can't, can you. That's what I'm talking about! Oh, it's there, hiding, lurking, waiting to go into your eyes or your ears and burrow into your brain, and once there, it will never come out. Never. Adverbs are all around us all the time. They are like air. Invisible, but always pressing in, pressing in, keeping our blood from boiling, but pushing on us, squeezing into every little pore, sucking themselves into our lungs and then spreading into our tissues throughout our bodies, unstoppable, unquenchable things.

Classy women can spot adverbs a sentence away, and they don't have to think about it first. That's because classy women are foxy, and we have already established that rabbits are really foxes with a different kind of poop.

When I close my eyes and imagine a classy woman, I imagine a very big house with lots of shiny marble and a big fireplace. There is a leather couch and the classy woman is standing tall, elegant, looking down at the couch where sits a man -- her spouse -- watching some stupid sports show on ESPN called Cold Pizza on the big screen TV in the fireplace.

The fireproof TV set is the way to bring couples together. No two people, especially men and women, like to watch the same television shows, but everyone likes to watch a fire. So, while my significant other watches some lame sports show on ESPN called Cold Pizza, I sit quitely beside her with a glass of fine wine and watch the fire burning gently around the television set. Thus, we sit and watch the TV together. She watching some sports show on ESPN stupidly called Cold Pizza, I watching it burn. This brings us closer together and we feel love for each other that manifests itself in forgiveness for passing gas.

Classy women don't pass gas. In fact, Classy women don't defecate at all. This is different than excreting rabbit poop, and therefore classy women are like foxes -- i.e., foxy. No one likes to think of his or her lover actually passing solid waste through his or her anus. Why? Because you lift your lover up such that he/she transcends earthly forms. Romantic love is the spiritual act of deifying another human being, and therefore for love to be present requires that one construct an elaborate illusion that the lover is devoid of all baser human traits.

Nothing dispels an illusion like the passing of gas.

Except maybe clowns. At the circus, you can create in your field of experience of the magical whirling lights and sounds an illusion that you are in a surreal, topsy-turvy, happy-place world. Until someone brings in the clowns. When Sillysocks' pants fall down when the bicycle horn toots, the magic spell is broken. You return to your seat, notice the crick in your back, the smells of the laughing people crowding around you, the utter vulgarity of attending a circus. Sillysocks may just as well have broken wind as tooted his horn.

I love a woman who is as close to classy as I have met. I know she utilizes her rectum (though I've never witnessed it) but I have never known her to pass gas. And so when I love her, it is still after more than ten years, with the transcendent illusion of the deification of a lover.