She: It wasn’t until we were without Internet service for a couple of days last week that I realized the impact it has had on our lives.

Z: Tell me about it. I had to look up phone numbers in the phone book, movie times in the newspaper and naked girls in something called Playboy –– which, by the way, has some great interviews.

She: The thing it made me realize is that access to the Internet in general, and Google in particular, has reduced your “Male Answer Syndrome’‘ symptoms by at least half.

Z: Huh?

She: Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Z: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

She: Male Answer Syndrome: The tendency for all men to answer any question they are asked with great authority, regardless of any actual knowledge.

Z: I know for a fact that no such thing exists.

She: Before I could fact-check on the Internet, you used to make up things all the time. If I questioned it, you’d just say you read it in the Los Angeles Times or in Newsweek.

Z: Did you not see the article in Newsweek this month flatly denying the existence of Male Answer Syndrome?

She: Stop.

Z: I do miss the good old days. When I was a kid, my friends and I could debate some of the most pressing issues of the day –– Would you tap Ginger or Mary Ann? Does disco really suck? –– and we’d infer stuff with no possible way to check facts. Note the use of “infer.” Not invent. Infer.

She: How was this good?

Z: Much better than today. Now you have a bunch of people out to dinner, and the most insufferable one can give an accurate answer to any question just by tapping on his iPhone. That’s not how real men argue. Real men defend even the vaguest sense of what might be correct to the death. It’s not the same for today’s kids.

She: But the disease is still spreading to our son. You want to know anything about anything, just ask Koss and he’ll make something up.

Z: Be still my heart.

She: “The fire is 37.29 percent contained, and 22.96 percent of the people have been repopulated.”

Z: I was so proud.

She: That your son makes up statistics?

Z: That he derives such precise statistics. This makes them sound so much more real. It’s an art. It’s a gift.

She: Oh, yeah, a gift that everyone in the male species seems to have. You should hear Koss and his friends citing fake facts from the Guinness Book of World Records and the Food Network. They say them with such authority, too.

Z: Maybe there’s hope for the next generation, after all.

She: It’s a disease: Mini-Male Answer Syndrome.

Z: You’re making me all mushy inside.

She: Why do think that happens?

Z: It’s genetic. They found the marker in a DNA sequence on the seventh chromosome.

She: Let me guess, you read this in the L.A. Times.

Z: Harper’s, actually. They did a special issue on men and emotions.

She: The only one-page Harper’s ever.

Z: Seriously. I have it by my bed somewhere.

She: I can just look it up on my iPhone.

Z: No need. Trust me.

She: How did people settle their arguments in the caveman days before 24/7 access to wireless Internet?

Z: They inferred stuff –– and said it with great conviction.

She: Yes, dear.

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