While “men” don’t really smoke anymore in quite the same way as they did in the 50s, the proverbial excuse about needing to go out for a pack of cigarettes still holds water in terms of the fathers who abandon their children in favor of a life of freedom, wielding paltry excuses such as this classic one as a means for their escape. Though “going out for a pack of cigarettes” might have evolved into “going out to vape,” the same level of flightiness in “men” who become fathers still exists.
For whatever reason, maybe some “men” feel nonchalant about being informed that they’re going to have a child at first, thinking that nothing will really be different as his significant other will probably handle it while he goes out and gallivants after work (in the current century, this means a startup where most of said work involves “team activities” that don’t make for quite the same residual grit left behind from the work day as it once did). But over time, and with enough of an earful of the sound of crying, the “man” who thought he could handle fatherhood decides he might want some more time to himself before being saddled with the burden of parenting. And no, though he might not use the same excuse that would have worked so well for, say, a Ricky Ricardo-type in the 50s, he can still escape just as easily with the insistence that he’ll “be right back.” Alas, you never know when the last time you might see a father’s back is. Because even commitment to their own blood is a challenge for “men” to stay focused on.
It’s bad enough when a “man” rapes. But, in many respects, what almost makes it worse is the fact that he knows, as our culture and society make evident time and time again, that he’s going to be able to get away with it. It’s liable to cause a bit of controversy, a slight amount of damage to his reputation at first, sure. But, at the end of the barrage of “overblown accusations,” he knows all too well that the woman will end up looking like the fool for even reporting anything to begin with.
In the endless game of “he said, she said,” evidence seems to be irrelevant, with the “man’s” word and often legal counsel (because, yes, rapists of the rich kind are especially “ballsy” in their sexual conduct when fully aware they can just hire a lawyer if the woman gets too “mouthy”) consistently triumphing in the end. And in his own self-applied delusions, the rapist in question genuinely believes he did no wrong. Then again, why would he be led to when the public at large is so nonchalant in inflicting any form of comeuppance–even something as minimal as shame (of which there doesn’t even appear to be any when it comes to enjoying golden showers)?
For whatever reason, a lot of women succumb to the trap of settling. Generally, it’s as a result of hitting a certain wall, age-wise, and then realizing she ought to just take what she can get that’s semi-decent right quick. Otherwise, she might not get anything at all. And what could be worse than being alone–apart from being with someone you can’t stand? It’s rather neck and neck, one supposes. And, speaking of necks, there’s no more uncomfortable feel than that of a disgusting “man’s” lips on yours.
Yet, what else are you supposed to allow him to do since, you know, sex is clearly out of the question. You don’t want to fully discourage him from touching you because, as they say, just one touch from another human being–particularly that of a sexual nature—can improve and expand your life. Still, sometimes the texture of his scaly dry skin and/or lips is enough to make your entire body shudder on contact. That’s why, an endless and steady supply of champagne and wine ought to be funneled into your gullet, Amanda Woodward enduring Peter Burns-style. Then, suddenly, everything and anything feels glorious. Even loose “male” skin with a hint of crust.
As a youth, I always wanted to be a lounge singer in Las Vegas. I thought there was something so endlessly glamorous about it. Now that I know what I know about the women who tend to gravitate toward this profession, it rather makes a lot of sense that my child self would intuit the forthcoming tragedy of my life. Because, obviously, the lounge singers of this world–whether relegated to Las Vegas or not–are all plagued by the same epidemic: melancholy.
And where does this melancholy stem from? Why, being jilted and/or rejected by a “man” they presumed was to be their great love, naturally. After their heart has been put through the meat slicer, however, they quickly see that there is nothing “great” about love. It should be avoided like the plague, dodged like a bullet at a GOP baseball game. But if you learn this the hard way, there’s nothing for you to do to recover except become a lounge singer. It really is the sole means by which to cope with what’s happened to you, to mourn the part of yourself that’s summarily been extracted by the person who played you like a harpsichord. You know, that part that once possessed a plucky hopefulness, that might’ve had a twinkle in its eye if it could be personified. But like Sugar Kane in Some Like It Hot says, that aspect of yourself is “through with love.” It will never fall again. Unless it’s on a stage as a result of drunkenness while walking to the microphone.
Every white “man’s” rite of passage is, for some reason, taking a “spiritual journey” either to India or Africa. Maybe even both if he’s super rich enough a.k.a. living on daddy’s dime. For whatever reason, going to Africa in particular seems to bring out a part of himself that withdraws his inner “wokeness.” The zen he’s so desperately been searching for amid his own chaos, typically self-inflicted due to not having any real personal problems other than being a piece of shit.
And while it’s “fine” to appreciate the scenery, the culture and the overpriced safari you didn’t pay for yourself, it’s less than [insert Zulu word for kosher here] to come back to Brooklyn and decide to pay roughly $800-$1,000 for an Africa tattoo paying “respect” to the “African peoples” when the only thing you know “bout dat lyfe” is what you heard from Die Antwoord songs. So please, do not pollute our vision not only with your blinding skin, but with a blemish called your Africa tattoo as well. It’s not going to get you black women, but it might get you beat up by some. And probably even Creolean ones too.
It’s not often that a woman of a high-functioning, mind-exiting caliber is liable to attempt going on the wagon, not in this town anyway. But when she does make the extra occasional effort to purge, as they of a religious or bulimic nature might say, it’s only cruel for a “man” to try to cajole her into staying off the wagon so that she might never realize just how unattractive and bad in bed he is.
While, yes, no one is half as much fun, entertaining or even more prone to embarrass themselves than you are when they’re sober, it doesn’t mean you ought to steer them off the path of momentary righteousness just so you can feel better about your own antics. And yes, “men” are chock full of antics when they’ve moved from mother’s bottle to the liquor bottle. Chief among them being impotence, verbal abuse and unwanted commentary about how physically appealing other girls are. So even though you might get a hair bored while waiting for the woman in your life to inevitably succumb to the taste of the only thing in this world that works as a truly effective numbing agent, it’s better to let her on the wagon needs run their course. Because, honestly, haven’t you already led her astray enough as it is in getting her to lower her standards in being with you?
There’s perhaps no worse breed of “man” than the music snob–the one who will either only listen to Bach like the skull fucker he is or only go to or participate in DIY shows like an elitist motherfucker pretending to be a “man” of the people. There is no in-between with “men” when it comes to music. They’re either “classicist”-loving pretension-wads or angst-ridden alt rock/indie adoring fuckboys. And if they do love or even vaguely appreciate pop music, you’re probably fucked anyway because it generally signals a predilection for their love of other “men” in addition.
Even so, just because a “man” might cringe when he hears the opening, dated notes to “…Baby One More Time” doesn’t mean he ought to begrudge you one of your few simple pleasures in life, often, these days involving the making of a video of some variety to go along with your lip syncing. And anyway, is it a crime if your body responds to the frothy melodies of a pop star like Ariana Grande or the so-called vacuous lyrics of women so frequently describing being abandoned and done wrong in the most upbeat way they can? (e.g. “Sorry” by Beyonce). How else are they (and the women they appeal to) supposed to cope with the constant disappointments and fuckery if not shaking it off with the type of ditty that laments, “You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline” while also allowing you to move your arse on the dance floor? So no, do not begrudge a lady her devotion to pop music. She doesn’t hold it against you when you splooge over Radiohead, after all.