By Tim Sanders

Post editor Scott Wright recently drew my attention to an article from the journal Nature concerning an experiment conducted by researchers at University College London. These researchers used a MRI machine to measure the brain activity of 32 volunteers after their participation in a game involving strategy, cooperation, and a lot of cheating. What the researchers did was to occasionally zap some of the participants with an electric shock, and then look at the brain waves of the other participants.

Guess what the research revealed. (Choose one):

1. It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you attach the electrodes.

2. Nothing can enliven an otherwise dull game of water polo like an electric toaster and a forty-foot extension cord.

3. We don’t know how, but we’d be willing to bet the Bush administration had something to do with it, and we believe a special prosecutor should be appointed.
 

Actually, the answer is "none of the above." What this research revealed was that while both men and women empathized with perfectly innocent game participants receiving electrical shocks, the women also showed empathy for the cheaters who were zapped. The men, on the other hand, seemed to derive satisfaction from seeing cheaters given physical punishment. All of this was determined by examining those MRI scans and watching the brains’ pain and pleasure centers light up. Then, of course, it was simply a matter of painstakingly deciding which brain images were men’s and which were women’s by isolating the large female frontal "home decorating" lobe, which in men’s brains has atrophied over eons of time into the tiny "leaving my undershorts on the doorknob where I can find them" lobe.

As you might expect, these revelations led some scientists to conclude that, as Will Knight of New Scientist news service put it, "a lust for vengeance may be hardwired into the male brain." So there you have it–modern science declares that men are hard-hearted beasts, while women are warm, empathic, nurturing creatures just bubbling over with kindness and good will.

Well, I would hasten to point out that history is replete with horrific tales about the likes of Lucrezia Borgia, Lizzie Borden, Lorena Bobbitt, and of course that Kathy Bates character in "Misery" who, if she didn’t have a lust for vengeance hardwired into her brain, certainly had a deep and abiding desire to nurture James Caan back to health, even if she had to strap him to a bed and break his legs to do it.
Many years ago while I was in college, I worked for a lawn maintenance company. The gentleman who owned the company was a fine, soft-spoken fellow, but on occasion was given to drinking. One night he arrived home late, somewhat inebriated, and passed out on the bed. His wife, who was likewise an upstanding individual but not quite so soft-spoken, had warned him about his drinking several times. This time she drew on all the sensitivity she could muster, affectionately removed his false teeth, gently wrapped the bed sheet around him, softly sewed it together, and then lovingly beat the stew out of him with a broom handle and tenderly flushed the remnants of his false teeth down the commode. When I arrived at their home for work the following morning, all Jim could do was flinch a lot and say "mmmmft." He’d learned about female empathy the hard way.

When my wife and I were in our first year of marriage, I was driving down Cass Avenue in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. It was late Spring, and I was paying more attention to my driving than to Marilyn in the passenger’s seat. She was saying something about a song on the radio, or possibly about UFOs being sighted above Lake St. Clair, I wasn’t sure which. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my right ear.

"YEEEEOWTCH!" I exclaimed, nearly careening off the street and onto the sidewalk. "What was that all about?"

Marilyn had twisted my ear, and not gently. "I saw you looking at that girl!" she said.

It was the era of short shorts, and there had indeed been a young lady walking down the sidewalk wearing a very revealing pair. Of course, I was totally honest with Marilyn.

"What girl?" I said.

"The one you almost broke your neck turning around to look at," she replied. "Don’t tell me you didn’t see her!"

Of course I didn’t tell her I didn’t see the girl. I’d already tried that. I’d seen her, and looked for a bit longer than might have been absolutely necessary simply out of concern that the poor thing might catch cold in the chilly Spring weather. I made the mistake of telling Marilyn that, and she elbowed me in the ribs. She had a very sharp elbow, but it didn’t hurt as much as the ear twisting, because I was ready for it.

Marilyn is standing beside my keyboard now, and she could tell you dozens of stories about things like bruised–OW–shins–OUCH–a hard blow to the nose from a hunting boo–YEEOWTCH–hunting boot, or baking–HEY–baking soda in my undershor–OUCH ... never mind. Marilyn says I need to stop now, before I say something really stupid and she puts away her rubber band and goes looking for the jumper cables.
I’d like to see one of those goofy British researchers tell his wife that her new one-piece bathing suit is exactly what a plus-sized girl should wear to the beach, and add "Not everyone can be Jessica Simpson, dear." And after he extracts that beach umbrella from his nose, then let’s see how he feels about the male sex holding any kind of monopoly on meting out painful physical retribution.

And speaking of Monopoly, now there’s a game where the "weaker sex" could have a field day with a little randomly applied electrical stimulation.

"Well, Doreen, you just landed on Park Place, and I got hotels. Cough up $1000—BZZZZZZZZT–hand over $500–BZZZZZZZT–let’s say $100–BZZZZZZZT–oh forget it. I’ll give you $2,000 and my Get Out of Jail Free card if you’ll just unhook these wires and put that crank telephone back in the closet."

Let's just hope the women in upper management at Parker Brothers don't get wind of that London research study.