Trouserial Mysogyny.

It's not often that i'm given to bouts of introspection these days, but one such bout recently overtook me.

I'm a fairly well-adjusted sort of a chap who, it must be said, has worn frocks on stage. On stage only, mind you. There was a valid artistic reason, and that was as far as it went. As Laurence Olivier once said, "it's a fine line between good natured horseplay and homosexuality. It's rarely crossed and when it is, it's only ever in the dressing room."
But I digress. Having established my red-blooded, beer-drinking credentials, I found myself wondering the other day what it would be like to wear a dress. Not so much the actual wearing as such, but what would it be like to wake up every morning to have the option of what to wear on the lower half of one's body?
It's a choice that I really can't concieve of. When I arise in the morning and Scrotum, my butler, has laid out my walking-suit, I never stop to consider the possibility that there may be other options out there. I am a man, and therefore I wear trousers. It's as simple as that. Imagine trying to make the choice every morning? You'd go potty in short order. Perhaps that explains the general behaviour of the female population.
Mysogyny is a great thing.