Men Who Ride A Big Dick To Space ‘Cause They Don’t Have One of Their Own.

Perhaps we’d all been so distracted by the chode-swinging of Elon Musk and Richard Branson of late to remember that Jeff Bezos, too, has long had “grand” plans for venturing into space. Ones he “achieved” by just barely “penetrating the surface” on July 20th. Apart from noticing on an entirely new level the grotesque discrepancy between the rich and the poor with this voyage, others were even quicker to point out that Bezos’ “rocket” looked a lot like, well, a big dick. 

This takes the trope of “men” who drive obscenely oversized trucks around in a hostile manner to a new stratosphere of overcompensation. For everyone knows any “guy” who drives such a vehicle is in desperate need of being reassured about his “man”hood. Or lack thereof. And sure, maybe Bezos has already paid good money at some point for a convincing penis enlargement, but in his heart of hearts (metaphorically speaking, of course, for everyone is aware billionaires can’t have that muscle), he knows what its real size is. And it still tears him up inside. Enough to say, with a straight face, to the person who engineered his “rocket,” “And you know what? Make it look as phallic as possible. And tell people it’s for the sake of the best possible ‘aerodynamics.’”

Sure, “aerodynamics.” “A perfect shape for the most volume.” Yeah, a real perfect shape indeed—or the most blatantly visual manifestation of the cock-swinging that’s been going on in this absurd billionaires’ space race that apparently can’t be stopped because said billionaires’ hearing does not register the decibels of poor people (a.k.a. anyone beneath their income tax bracket). They’re building their colony to defect to as soon as possible after cryogenically freezing themselves to avoid the uprising… and no one can tell them otherwise.

Yet, even for as “futuristic” as Bezos and his ilk are supposed to be, they still can’t seem to do away with the antiquated view of what proving one’s “masculinity” means. And that is, of course, parading their nonexistent big dicks in the form of spending power and now, evidently, through spaceships that have the literal shape of a big dick. Oh what a reductive world. Though, with billionaires populating new ones in our universe, it doesn’t look like there’s any hope of that reductiveness fading when Earth does.

Men Who Take Vaxxies.

While “men” who take ordinary selfies to begin with are already endlessly irksome (not just for their vanity, but for being classed among a certain type of dickless “male”), that irritation is compounded tenfold by those who would take a vaxxie.

And yet, it is also completely expected that “men” would be the gender to most happily perpetrate this crime against humanity when taking into account it’s very difficult for them to find a sense of pride in much of anything these days.

Considering it’s one of the few “gender neutral” things to do in 2021 (that is to say, no one can politicize the act based on gender), it’s no wonder “men” have been just as eager as women to delight in curating the image of their arm being “penetrated”—the nature of such a photo being undeniably suggestive and innuendo-laden when coming from a “man.” For, whereas Cher Horowitz said, “Sometimes you have to show a little skin. This reminds boys of being naked, and then they think of sex,” “men” now instead declare, “Sometimes you have to show a phallic symbol piercing into your skin. This reminds women of being penetrated, and then they think of sex.” 

There are, of course, a number of “men” who would only seek to post a vaxxie so as to assure his female followers that he’s “ready to mingle.” A.k.a.: “Yo girl, get that waxed pussy out now that we’re both vaxxed.” As if they weren’t both flitting around even before the vaccine became available… so why bother pretending they’re both being “responsible” now? More inane still, the fact that one’s face is covered anyway for the proverbial “shot.” A “man” could just as easily post a pic of someone else with a similar build and sartorial style getting it and still pass it off as his own. It ain’t that fuckin’ special.

The “gimmick vaxxie” is also part of the more “male”-oriented version of the practice, during which the “man” in question somehow finds a way to promote himself, his “job” or some product he’s shilling as part of his “job” by tying it non-cohesively back to getting his shot. But hey, whatever works for a “man” to make himself part of a national conversation that won’t ultimately seek to berate him for his very existence.  

Men Who Feel The Need To Emphasize Their “Point” With Capital or Bold Letters.

In their endless bid to “man”splain, the average “male”—particularly the white supremacist one who hates when his sense of patriarchal dominance feels rattled—also favors what adds up to being possessed by cave“man” parlance via use of “enraged” capital or bold letters. But all these letter formatting tactics have ever done is prove that a “man” knows his so-called “point” rests on, well, not much of anything. Only on the perception that he’s being threatened. That his fragile ego has somehow been questioned to a threshold where he wants to lash out and say something like, “YOU DON’T GET IT. AT ALL.” Or, “You don’t get it. At all.” But darling, what is there to “get,” really, except that you blow a gasket when someone presents anything you don’t agree with?

What he might as well say in non-bolded, non-capital letters is, “You’re a dumb cunt. You know nothing, I know everything. Shut the fuck up.” It would be more effective than the frivolous—and ultimately detracting—bells and whistles of the aforementioned. 

His fear that his words will not be heard or “fathomed” indicate he knows that no one is really listening, and if they are, they don’t actually give a shit about his opinion. Yet he begs—needs—to be heard. That was the “God-given” “male” right for so long, after all. Still is, in fact…there’s just more vocalized “pushback” against it now. But “men” can’t handle any form of being “called out” for what amounts to their entitled behavior. Can’t tolerate experiencing any form of “persecution.” As just about everyone else without a white penis has since time immemorial. 

Alas, because white “men” haven’t had to try for so long, the sudden societal expectation that they need to seems to shake them to their very core. Incidentally, part of “trying” would include actually coming up with some words and phrases that were cutting enough on their own without needing to “color them in,” like a little “boy” with his crayons, by way of the caps lock and/or bold buttons. Whatever he might be trying to “man”splain by, obviously, tearing you and your very existence apart as best he can with his sputtering words, it would surely be better served with the staidness of conventional typescript. But then, that would imply what he had to say would be laid bare entirely, only for us to find that he’s saying nothing at all. It’s just more bloviation from the white supremacist nation. 

Men Who Are Still Guilty of Mansplaining.

It was, at this point, all the way back in 2008 that Rebecca Solnit released her seminal essay, “Men Explain Things To Me.” In 2014, it would go on to become the crux of her eponymous collection of essays, which also featured such titles as “The Longest War.” And it has, indeed, been the longest war–that is to say, the one between “men” and women, generally spurred by “men” constantly “clapping back” when they feel they’re being attacked or that their “authority” is being in any way “stepped on.” Women, in contrast, are still expected to sit quietly and listen intently to what the “sage” “male” has to say. To accept that her opinion is real cute and all, but now how about she sits back and listens to an “expert.” And, of course, if she says anything to negate his thoughts, he comes back with a condescending “explanation” (or “mansplanation,” if you will) of how it’s really sweet that she has her “beliefs,” but here are all the reasons she’s wrong. 

Some “men” will simply respond to you with a flat-out, “No” to a thoughtfully composed “opinion” (because of course everything a woman “believes” is just an opinion–it couldn’t possibly be doctrine the way “men’s” words are). If a woman ever said “No” as a starter to a response to a “man,” it would not be received lying down. And maybe if this woman was fortunate enough to be deemed a Scholar on certain subject matters like Solnit, she would have a bit more clout, which is why Solnit admits, “I’ve had a lot more confirmation of my right to speak and think than most women, and I’ve learned that a certain amount of self-doubt is a good tool for correcting, understanding, listening and progressing–though too much is paralyzing and total self-confidence produces arrogant idiots.” Unfortunately, most packing a vagina (not to exclude trans people or nothin’–that wasn’t a J.K. Rowling moment) do not have the good fortune of being slapped with a Legitimate Book Publisher. 

Luckily, Solnit can speak for the majority of women when she says, “I[’ve] objected to the behavior of a man, only to be told that the incidents hadn’t happened at all as I said, that I was subjective, delusional, overwrought, dishonest–in a nutshell, female.” Because “credibility is a basic survival tool,” “men” have been at the top of the food chain since the dawn of time, whereas women are so often working to survive without it. And still managing to prove their infinite value while operating with far fewer tools (well, minus the tools that are “men” themselves).  

Solnit is careful to note that even those female voices subjugated in the West still somehow have it “better” than most other women on this planet, as she remarks, “More extreme versions of our situation exist in, for example, those Middle Eastern countries where women’s testimony has no legal standing: so that a woman can’t testify that she was raped without a male witness to counter the male rapist.” 

Upon the release of Wanderlust in 2000, Solnit realized it was only after its acclaim that she gained a new level of confidence that many women still can’t ever imagine. Prior to that, she realized, “Most of my life, I would have doubted myself and backed down. Having public standing as a writer of history helped me stand my ground, but few women get that boost, and billions of women must be out there on this seven-billion-person planet being told that they are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, that the truth is not their property, now or ever. This goes way beyond Men Explaining Things, but it’s part of the same archipelago of arrogance. Men explain things to me, still. And no man has ever apologized for explaining, wrongly, things that I know and they don’t.”

So often, there is no point in responding to anything “men” say. Especially in the comments section of, say, a pop culture article. As Solnit put it, “His scorn was so withering, his confidence so aggressive, that arguing with him seemed a scary exercise in futility and an invitation to more insult.”

Women who bother with wasting their breath (at least vocally and in front of the “man” in question as it’s happening) know better by now. That the “man” is incapable of “reception.” Or being convinced of anything other than what his own doctrine is. A doctrine he feels should be spread because “explaining men assume [we are], in some sort of obscene impregnation metaphor, an empty vessel to be filled with their wisdom and knowledge.”

The fact that “men” have never known what it’s like to “fight wars on two fronts, one for whatever the putative topic is and one simply for the right to speak, to have ideas, to be acknowledged to be in possession of facts and truths, to have value, to be a human being” actually makes their opinion ultimately less valuable anyway. 

After the essay’s release, things, of course, got more meta for Solnit as she described, “Some men explained why men explaining things to women wasn’t really a gendered phenomenon.”

And it was a phenomenon indeed, as the essay made the rounds and clearly seemed to resonate with women everywhere. Solnit pointed out, “By 2012, the term ‘mansplained’… was being used in mainstream political journalism… and I was sometimes credited with it. In fact, I had nothing to do with its actual creation, though my essay, along with the men who embodied the idea, apparently inspired it.” Alas, even after all this time, “men” don’t appear to understand that they’re the joke when they continue to mansplain. Many of them are still too young to have an excuse for acting in such an old guard way. But then, that’s just a testament to how it takes generations for a trait to be stamped out. What’s more, pissing off the old guard is getting easier and easier to do. They’re all so rattled by losing power that they’ve turned into barking chihuahuas–all bark, no bite–ready to yap at the slightest movement of one’s mouth. Especially if what comes out of that mouth shatters their fragile worldview. 

We cannot continue to live in an environment where “men’s” “presumption… makes it hard, at times, for any woman in any field; that keeps women from speaking up and from being heard when they dare; that crushes young women into silence by indicating, the way harassment on the street does, that this is not their world. It trains us in self-doubt and self-limitation just as it exercises men’s unsupported overconfidence.” 

In short, stop rewarding mediocrity–as has been the case for centuries of white men taking up spaces that they were only in possession of by non-virtue of their skin tone and gender. In 2020, Taylor Swift’s “mad woman” from folklore would become like a sardonic and bittersweet addendum to Men Explain Things To Me in pop song form. Because the go-to for “men” to dismiss women is, even to this day, to brand them as “cuckoo.” Thus, Swift sarcastically sings, “Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy/What about that?/And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry.” As is the usual “male” “right.” Thus, Swift, oozing with venom, delivers the chorus, “And there’s nothing like a mad woman/What a shame she went mad/No one likes a mad woman/You made her like that.” She further illuminates, “Now I breathe flames each time I talk/My cannons all firin’ at your yacht/They say, ‘Move on,’ but you know I won’t.” Rightly so. For how can any woman “move on” when every day–for what will be the foreseeable future–she’s faced with a battlefield for merely expressing herself? Is that enough of a fucking explanation for you?

Men Who Re-engage the Same Memories Shared With An Old Girlfriend For Use On A New One.

For “men,” “trading in for a new model” has always been commonplace (and parlance)–even if the current “model” he has is already youthful to begin with. And even though being crass about switching to a new girl at a moment’s notice has been rendered less and less socially acceptable to brag about (relegated to the “behind closed doors” phenomenon called “locker room talk,” as the Orange One is well-versed in), it doesn’t mean his actions can’t still scream the words not being said. Words that pertain to, as Olivia Rodrigo recently pointed out, just another form of invoking déjà vu. In fact, that’s what her latest song is called. 

A song that’s all about the type of “man” who feels perfectly comfortable re-conjuring the same memories he shared with his ex even though that ex thought he at least respected her enough and valued what they had enough to make some vague attempt at more originality with the new bia. Then again, maybe it speaks to the notion that, as Rodrigo elucidates lyrically, “men” are ultimately reliant upon women who can make decisions about activities–this includes, apparently, driving to Malibu, getting strawberry ice cream, trading jackets and, unfortunately, watching reruns of Glee. Because, obviously, most “men” lack a sense of originality (even if Rodrigo showcases a predilection for basicness, at least she comes up with something). That’s why they do so often rip every great line they’ve ever had from a woman (*cough, cough* F. Scott Fitzgerald).

And it’s honestly a wonder “men” were ever deemed to “wear the pants” (before Katharine Hepburn broke down that barrier) when they lack any viable form of assertiveness or dominance in terms of being able to steer the memories ultimately cultivated from a romance (sort of like what Clementine does for Joel in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Then again, there was a time when “Johnny” loved to take “Susie” to “Lovers Lane” circa the 50s and make out, but that was more “the thing to do,” than any testament to “Johnny’s” originality in coming up with “interesting ways” to spend time with “Susie.” 

So yes, for the “man” who appears endlessly “okay” with re-creating the exact replica of a dead relationship with a different eventual corpse, there is a special category of dicklessness. For it also indicates a certain soullessness and spinelessness, to boot. That’s a lot of important missing parts. 

And yeah, maybe we’re all guilty in some way of trying to replace an old relationship with a new one. Telling ourselves that with a tweak here or a modification there, it can be just like that original edition but better. Because clearly things didn’t work out for whatever reason with the “old permutation,” even though they were probably the love of your life, but whatever (like Haddaway asked, “What Is Love?” anyway). So you try your best to make it work in a similar vein with a new person. It just seems as though “men” (short of being John Cusack in a rom-com) are much more prone to and skeevier about this behavior of “re-creating.” It doesn’t bother them to go to the same places and do the same things with a different girl because, well, they’re a pretty mentally checked out breed, so maybe it never even fully occurs to them what they’re doing. That’s just lazy sociopathy in motion. And why they can’t explain their ever-present sense of déjà vu.

Men Who Accuse You of Being Self-Loathing If You Point Out Loathsome Qualities Based Upon Accepted Stereotypes of Your Race.

“Men,” especially the white ones (quelle surprise) can’t ever seem to help themselves when it comes to “mansplaining.” No matter how much they get called out for it, or how many examples they’re given of how not to talk to a woman, they will continue to go about their faux pedantic business and explain things as they see them (that is to say, through brain damage-colored glasses, which, yes, could also be rose-toned). One of the apparent things you cannot talk about as a woman to “men” is the glaring stereotypes that continue to hold true about your race. Let us take, for example, the most enduring archetype of white folk these past few years, the entitled extraordinaire Karens and Chads. Of course, we cannot say stereotypical names of Black people (or Arabic, or Latino, or Chinese, and so on and so forth) out loud as a means for a catch-all noun to describe certain consistent behavior, for that would be deemed out of line in the political climate of muzzling anything that can be construed as offensive or discriminatory.

So, for the purposes of this issue, let us stick with the loathsome Caucasian example in pointing out predictable characteristics of a race since no one has any issue with bashing their kind except Confederate flag owners (another unpleasant yet accurate stereotype of someone to avoid). When a white girl discusses her contempt for the cliches of her kind, it is, in the present moment, classified as merely being au courant with what’s expected of her. That she’s only “acting” in a certain manner because it’s how she’s “supposed to think.” The self-hating thing does not only apply to the white girl, but an array of genders, sexualities and colors. It just so happens that white privilege as it pertains to someone with a vag is the most overt epitome of where ample room for pointing out fault comes in (thanks, in a recent example, to Amy Cooper, the illustriously nicknamed Central Park Karen). And yet, to do so, especially to un uomo bianco tends only to result in the eye rolling write-off of being “self-loathing.” And when a white girl is dubbed as such, she is charged with doing it merely “for show.” For the “attention” it gets, even if only negative (that’s just how much white bitches love attention, right?). And don’t even talk to The Silence of the Lambs‘ Buffalo Bill about any such thing, for he’d be happy to take the burden of your white woman’s skin right off you and use it for himself. So, too, would any white “man” right now for that matter, for they’re all so convinced that being a woman would actually make their lives much easier. Freer of “being bashed” “all the time” in the “accursed” post-#MeToo landscape.

But for the white “men” who would say that it is the white women who like to “cash in” on the “self-loathing trend” of their race as a means to be “relevant,” they need only look to the ample amount of gringas who are perfectly content to relish in their whiteness, most glaringly, of late, Lana Del Rey, who has become a beacon of doubling down on incendiary statements that are a precise manifestation of her unappreciated and unacknowledged white girl privilege. It seems as though this is a phenomenon of extremes, with blancas like Del Rey and her oblivion on one spectrum and blancas of a more “self-hating” nature on the other. Yet self-hatred isn’t really the applicable word, despite how some “men” would like to conveniently file it away as such for the sake of appeasing their “man”splaining hard-on. It is more a constant hyper-awareness of how your skin tone affects your place in the world versus the places of others, which contributes to insecurity and self-doubt more than full-on self-loathing (though the former two are often considered byproducts of the latter). Because why should you have this skin tone that affords certain tacit luxuries that it does not for others? In some kind of “gotcha!” twist, this is the very thing that non-whites have been enduring since time immemorial–that fear of how they look and what it will mean for how they’re perceived.

The white girl oblivious to her privilege, however, extends beyond shades of whiteness alone, with those who have “a dash” of Latinidad, like Miya Ponsetto, a touch of Italian, like Ariana Grande (who unwittingly penned a white privilege anthem) or a bit of Armenian, like Kim Kardashian, bending their more “flexible” racial lines at their discretion. And they will never display a shred of self-loathingness about it. Yet gender fluidity is more acceptable than “racial fluidity”–and it likely always will be. The two types of fluidity mean very different things to people, with the color aspect being more affronting for how it is so often used for some self-serving political machination.

The implications of having “just enough” of one ethnicity to offset the whiteness that will get you automatically accused of needing to check your privilege has proved a dangerous tool for many. Especially those women who don’t want to be inculpated by “men” for “playing” some sort of “card.” Because, unfortunately, we still live in a world where women are affected by “men’s” non-nuanced opinions. And they are the ones quickest to call a contempt for the worst stereotypes of your race a matter of nothing more than your own self-loathing. So if one doesn’t play the so-called “I hate myself because I’m white” (or sometimes even orange) card, they’re bound to play another. And likely the one that’s more detrimental to marginalized races in terms of choosing to lay claim to that culture, something that ironically still works thanks in part to Plessy vs. Ferguson. For, as Machiavelli (a “man” filled with aphorisms and privilege) once noted, “The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar.”

Men Who Say, “Glad to Be Living Rent-Free in Your Head.”

While it’s decidedly more of a dumb cunt thing to say something as “Live Laugh Love”-inspired as, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” there are “men” who have fallen prey to the feminine disease that is this “rejoinder” to just about anything deemed “too negative” to be “absorbed.” Such “thoughts” tend to come into play most in the conservative versus liberal death pit, where one party consistently tries to one-up the other for relevancy, therefore grotesquerie. Spoiler alert: neither party will ever be relevant as the entire “system” needs to be blown up and remade.

Going back to when the phrase first started to be regurgitated noticeably ad nauseam, in 2018, many were likely delighted when a “man” such as Michael Avenatti, a.k.a. Stormy Daniels’ lawyer (who would end up embezzling $300,000 from her), responded to Trump’s accusation that he was a “lowlife” (just another white bread 1950s insult the Orange One has brought back, along with “nasty woman” and “thug”), with, “I am thoroughly enjoying living in your head rent-free, Donald Trump.” Just as Lady Caca would echo a similar sentiment as the election dragged on back in November (with Caca performing at his Pittsburgh rally) of this year, the “insult” seems often to be directed at the Orange One, who, make no mistake, is never really allowing anyone in his head “rent-free” except himself. What’s more, do the people offering up this “witty” riposte understand how untenable the idea of being anywhere near Trumpio’s “mind” is? It ain’t no fuckin’ picnic the way it is inside John Malkovich’s head, let us say that. No sir, that is one “sunken place” you do not want to end up in, free or otherwise.

Then, of course, there are the non-famous “men” who feel comfortable using the phrase with women they feel have been dwelling too long on a slight (usually pertaining to ghosting or a heartless and heinous breakup). If they offer you anything at all, it will be this sentiment, as though to make you look like the “freak” for giving so much of a shit that they fueled the fire of your abandonment and trust issues. Because if living in an epoch since Gen X rose to prominence has taught us anything by now, it’s that caring is not “cool.”

And to the “man” who would say to me, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” the only response is: “Are you? Are you fucking glad to be living rent-free in my head? Because I really don’t think you fucking would be. I think you’d look for any means necessary to kill your damn self, and would probably find a more than adequate tool to do so as suicide is one of the primary thoughts at the forefront of my mind at any given moment. Along with the contempt of being a misanthrope that sparks random rage flare-ups at the drop of a hat (especially a beret).” So sure, please, enter one of the rooms in my vastly expanding tenement, with so many people inside of it to think about on a loathing basis that pretty soon, I might actually have to start charging.

Men With Histrionic Tendencies.

While it is generally women who are accused of histrionic behavior (see: any one of their Instagram accounts, whether high-level influencer or low-level wannabe, and also the fact that “women are diagnosed with HPD roughly four times as often as men”), the “male” tendency toward it cannot be denied. Nor the fact that when a “man” does have Histrionic Personality Disorder, the consequences are often far graver (no murder pun intended). Let us take one of the most glaring examples of this phenomenon in the form of Michael Alig, recently departed by way of a heroin overdose (even going so far as to seek attention via such a dramatic death). His entire existence was based upon upping the ante on methods of being noticed. He craved attention as though it were a SAD lamp, giving off, at the bare minimum, 10,000-lux rays of approval in his direction.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because, yes, the current “president” still clinging to his final dregs of power is the same way. In both the cases of the Orange One and Alig, it’s the stock excuse of blaming childhood for their eventual mutation into monsters, one political and one party. For Alig, being bullied as a South Bend, Indiana gay boy was likely plenty of negative attention to make him yearn for the approval that came with “positive” attention of his own making. For Trump, constantly desiring to both one-up and be revered by his patriarch has led to the gross ogre we see before us today (though Daddy Trump was perhaps even more despicable–or it might be neck and neck–it’s just that he didn’t end up ascending to the highest office in America in order to spread that contemptibility so far).

Like a not so distant cousin of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, HPD, too, leaves “men” feeling (granted, they can’t feel much at all) cold and unmoved by anything other than validation, often by soaking up the energies of those around them–whether women or “men”–manipulating the social strata for purposes that will make them the center of the “narrative” they’ve crafted in their mind. One in which, of course, they’re the star. It’s all very Norma Desmond, herself likely a sufferer of the disorder.

Alig’s blasé approach to the murder of Angel Melendez retrospectively comes off more than ever as a symptom not only of HPD, but white “male” privilege. Drugged out of his mind or not, if Alig was Black or Latino, there’s no goddamn level of inebriation that would’ve made him think it was okay (a.k.a. he would get with it) to kill someone… and then dismember him. HPD itself also reeks of a privilege generally reserved for white “men,” which is just another reason it’s a more odious disorder in this sex than in the female one (no one ever got that upset over seeing some titties and ass flashed at them for attention, whereas being, oh, murdered or subjugated in cruel and unusual ways tends to be the fallout for dealing with a “man” who has HPD).

For those who fell for Alig’s “good time” shenanigans, tinged with such an overt toxicity as they were, it was difficult to reconcile–especially for Melendez, clearly–that they had been mere props in his tableau. Still, some were happy to be associated with and used by him even after he was jailed, visiting him at the correctional facility as though it was just another “offbeat” locale where he was having a party. That’s the thing about “male” histrionics: they’re oddly capable of maintaining a devoted following. Even long after they’re dead.

Men Who Take Pictures of Their Girlfriends “At” BLM Protests.

“Men,” of course, have never been a very astute lot. Critical thinking isn’t where they thrive. Nor do they in much of anything else, if we’re speaking frankly. Except, that is, in the art of dutifully taking pictures and videos of their girlfriends when asked to. No matter how overtly inappropriate the context is to anyone with some semblance of objectivity. Yet because everything is “subjective” to the so-called social media “influencer”–generally a white female with a fitness “angle”–she perhaps can’t see that posing in front of a broken window fresh from looting/a police scuffle or making sure to be seen in front of a backdrop of protesters she just happens to be passing by (but is not actually in any way part of) so that she can feel like she’s “participated” in the movement is in, to put it mildly, poor taste. 

However, her “boy”friend is almost on a worse level than she is. For as it is said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good ‘men’ to do nothing.” In this case, that good “man” taking the photo for his shrew of a girlfriend seems not to exist. Is a mere vessel for her bidding. He knows not what he does, apparently, as he lives to serve as her willing accomplice to whatever kind of video or photo shoot she wants. One supposes he feels it’s the least he can do in exchange for some occasional pussy, the height of white people kink being to turn her over and bang her from the back. Such scenes, naturally, are what keep his eyes on the prize as he adheres to her request to get the perfect shot of her appearing to help board up a business with broken windows or joining in the march with a token sign featuring a generic message.

He himself cares as little as she does about the cause at hand. He’s in it for his own aims, just as she is to make it seem as though she’s relevant at a time when white people are clinging more tightly than ever to any sort of “dominance” in the media realm. Possibly among the few white “men” accepting their obsoletism–their expected subservience in the twenty-first century–the “boy”friend of the “influencer” simply can’t care about his own dastardly role in the whole production. And yet, if one is type of “man” content to be with the woman posing as a do-gooder in the BLM cause, then he can only anticipate reaping what he sows– which is taking a lot of fucking phony baloney pictures as a way to ensure semi-regular sex. 

Men Who Are Obsessed With Karen.

Does she even exist (in non-Lana Del Rey form)? Or is it just another conveniently file-able stereotype for “men” to classify women so they don’t have to think so hard. Technically speaking, the evolution of “Karen” as a catch-all term for upper middle class white women with anti-science, anti-“the help” “values” did arise from a real person. And, like all things, the Karen trope existed long ago, not just in 80s-era terms like “yuppie” or “richie,” but, as is the case with most memes that go viral well after it already made the rounds on Reddit, Karen was born there. Specifically from a bloke who was basing the stereotype on the ex-wife of a fellow Reddit user, telling his internet brethren all about how she took the kids and the house. It’s the exact sort of entitlement Karens have come to exemplify to those looking for the perfect witch to burn in the endless American trial called rampant inequality and injustice. Which Americans seem ostensibly more enraged about on a regular basis as their Constitution has falsely claimed life could be otherwise, where other countries appear to be more realistic about the inherent life cycle (under pretty much any economic system) of one party being subjugated and the other doing the subjugating. A classist yin and yang balance, if you will.   

And yet, what’s most odd about Karen taking such flight in all facets of where pop culture is disseminated is that “men” are the ones who seem to derive the most pleasure from wielding the “insult.” That Karen was, indeed, sprung from the rib of a “man,” so to speak, could have some accounting for why they seem to be more obsessed with her than women. Or, it’s simply the age-old story of “men” naturally getting off on anything that debases women, even if only a “subset” of them. Then again, Karen is also debasing herself by being the sort of broad who marries a CEO, a cop (or chief of police), a corporate defense lawyer, etc. What’s more, there’s no denying that the most frequent users of the trope are those who embody the spirit of the Karen class themselves, though, of course, they would either 1) never admit it or 2) think this form of self-deprecation gives them a pass for having privilege. 

The hard-on for turning a “white woman’s” name into something derogatory comes at a time when contempt for white folk is at a fever pitch, and, indeed culls from some of the same inspiration Keegan-Michael Key took in the Key and Peele sketch, “The Substitute Teacher,” transforming white people names into pronunciations that suit his own “culture” (namely, subverting the way Jacqueline, Blake, Denise and Aaron are said) in the spirit of what was done to “ethnic” students in the past by their white teachers. The payback factor in this shoe on the other foot parody feels especially salient in the joy of calling out Karens. Even if the majority seeming to do so are self-hating whites themselves (after all, you have to be pretty self-hating to treat others the way whites with power do). More to the point, “men” who are obsessed with Karen. As if they wouldn’t take plenty of pleasure in turning her around and fucking her up the ass if she let them. Alas, she’s too prim for such things. And that’s part of why “men,” especially, love to hate on her. It’s merely grounds for misogyny (you don’t see no “man’s” name getting dragged even half as much for being a white stereotype) under the guise of being a “social advocate.” Just as much as Karen thinks she is.