If you’re still reading and relying on Pitchfork for musical inspiration, you might be missing a dick. To harbor the delusion that the writers of Pitchfork can offer you a unique and esoteric playlist to impress people (specifically women) with is a strong indication of a penis the size of a chickpea.

I mean, this shit’s been around since 1995 and it’s based out of Chicago. What about this screams “masculinity” or “finger on the pulse” to you? If you want to find out about new music, you should probably move out of Williamsburg, because, to loosely quote Shania, “That playlist don’t impress no one much, and we all know you created it by the date and genre of Pitchfork’s reviews.”