I was reading a news article a couple of days ago about a Périgord truffle known as the Black Diamond. These are not the chocolate candies, but the precious truffles that cost a million dollars to fry up and plop on your toasted cheese sandwich made with Wonder bread and Velveeta.

I’m a sucker for any food article, since my physician, Dr. Killyasoon, has systematically removed every possible morsel of feedbag joy from my life.

I read about halfway through the truffle article when I stumbled on the bad word I never say, the three-letter s** word.

Apparently a scientist named Claude and his buddies discovered Périgord truffles have a s** life. How come a guy named Claude gets such a good job?

I don’t know how long it took Claude and company to figure out these truffles had a s** life, but what was interesting to me was Claude said the truffles were still a mystery.

Claude and friends reported they couldn’t figure out how the truffles were doing what they were doing, but somehow they were doing it.

The scientists couldn’t make the truffles do it when the scientists wanted them to do it, which was apparently frustrating the scientists. The darn truffles just kept doing whatever they were doing when they wanted to do it.

I know why Claude and his friends couldn’t figure out what the truffles were doing when they were doing what they were doing. The truffles they were studying were girl truffles, and the scientists were probably all men.

I believe the definition of women is they do whatever they do and men will never figure it out because we are dummies.

Let me give a couple real life examples.

This may come as a shock to the males reading this column, so, brace yourself.

Women use wax for things. I’m not sure for what, but my daughter, Katy, let it slip.

She was home from college the other day and as she left the house I foolishly asked where she was going.

All I heard was “something, something waxed.”

Again, like the dummy I am, I asked, “Waxed?”

I got the girl answer I have heard all my life.

“Never mind. You won’t understand.”

God doesn’t understand. And you want to know something else. Girls pay money for this waxing. I’ve paid for it and I don’t even know what it is.

Dummy me.

Here is another example.

Again, the men reading this column need to take a deep breath. This is scary.

Women have a special language about rings. That’s right. Diamond rings are called special things and they all know it. Every single one of them. They look at the rings and it means something. I don’t know what it means yet, but I’m working on it.

I have found this much out. There are all kinds of different ring things and they go on different fingers and they all have secret meanings to women. They know it and I don’t. I have tried to learn it, but I can’t. I can conjugate Latin verbs, but I will never learn to decipher women ring language.

I got lucky when Ginny married me. All I remember is hazy light and praying she wouldn’t wake up from her temporary psychosis. She didn’t and she liked whatever it was I bought, which, of course, she told me to buy.

Some luck.

The truffle is not really so hard to figure, Claude. If it’s a mystery, it’s a girl, and that means there’s a boy not too far away hoping the girl doesn’t figure out he can’t tell a ring from a toasted cheese sandwich, which sounds really good right now.

What a world.