Maybe you’re unaccustomed to having to use your hands for anything these days seeing as how you live in your modern apartment on the waterfront with stainless steel appliances, a trash compactor and a garbage disposal. So I guess when the horrifying prospect of having to reach into the sink drain comes up (obviously after you’ve been doing some Patrick Bateman shit and shoving limbs down it), you’re slightly reluctant to do so with a bare hand.
It’s just a fucking hole. But the again, you don’t really know much about those, do you?
And so, like a little bitch, you put on a glove so that you can reach into the recesses of this hole without actually having to feel anything. My guess is this is probably how you finger a woman too. Maybe next time you clog that shit, you can find it within the depths of your guts to muster the courage to place your bare hand in there like someone with a dick would.
The “man” who doesn’t walk next to you is probably the sort of fellow who either 1) thrives on making you feel like shit or 2) is so selfish that he lacks the consideration of a woman in heels. If a woman takes the time and effort to look good by not succumbing to the quitter’s cult of flats, you should at least have the decency to be proud to walk next to her.
Why is it so hard to understand that one can’t walk in a rapid pace in this shit?
Because most “men” who aren’t drag queens could never understand the challenges of walking from a heeled vantage point, an inability to walk next to a woman, no matter how sluggish her pace, exhibits a total lack of empathy. Granted, the well-paved streets of Williamsburg don’t have as many roadblocks as, say, the Meatpacking District (Wburg’s granddad/progenitor), but, still, show some fucking respect by slowing your goddamn roll.
We’ve all been phased out by someone or another in our lives. It’s even happened to Regina George. No matter how amazing you think you are, there’s invariably going to someone els who doesn’t. These people are usually men. When a man is done with you, or rather, with fucking you, his method of expressing this sentiment is to cease communication with you altogether.
The most notorious and blunt phase out
While some men argue that there’s no better way to go about eradicating someone he’s no longer interested in his life, there is a statute of limitations on how callous you can be about it. So long as “men” exist and thrive in the Cenozoic era, the phase out will always be here to torture women and force them to wonder what they did wrong. For the Williamsburgian “man,” however, the phase out can easily come back to bite you in the ass, seeing that the Wburg radius is incredibly petite and the bar scene is a cess pool of the same people. With this in mind, I don’t recommend the phase out unless you can assure its success by switching neighborhoods altogether.
It’s not really clear to me why any “man” under the age of 65 would want to play bingo, but for some reason, Williamsburg is a big champion of the so-called game. Under the guise of parading it as a bar activity, bingo reigns supreme at places like Videology, Alligator Lounge and Pete’s Candy Store. For a “man” to willingly play this game is quite beyond me. Perhaps, in its own way, it makes him feel more dickful.
This is the type of hipster shtick that lures in the men of Williamsburg to play bingo
The symbolism of this game, in which a man tries to “hit the right spot” is all too glaring in terms of his inadequacies in the boudoir. If you can’t give a woman an O through oral or normal means (which is unlikely what with your dick missing and all), then of course you’re going to try to console yourself with the “free space” at the center of the bingo board. At least you can touch the right area somewhere, since you can’t seem to on a woman’s vajay.
When snatch is readily available to a man, he tends to lose sight of the work that should be sustained in order to continue deserving it. One should not assume that just because it’s there, you’re entitled to it. A bit of romantic innovation is key to promoting instantaneous wetness.
The tramp knew what was up
In Williamsburg, the potential for romance is endless. That’s right, amid the corporate fuckery of American Apparel, Urban Outfitters and Duane Reade, you can find your own quiet spot, away from the temptations of commerce, to take your lady of the moment and show her just how much you care–whether with words, sex in public or a trinket of some sort. Whatever you do, don’t find yourself wondering why you’ve been left with your dick (assuming you have one) in your hand after a dry spell of romance. She’s found someone who doesn’t think watching TV in a different room constitutes being attentive and into it.
Many men are capable of a requisite amount of delusion when it comes to penis size. Some like to say, “It’s not the size, it’s what it can do.” This is the first sign that they’re packing something that’s probably likenable to a stuffed olive (especially if they’re claiming to be Italian) in terms of girth.
I’m guessing not too highly if you’re living in the country of Williamsburg
And by the way, a small penis cannot do all the things a larger penis can. Just ask Samantha from Sex and the City. Granted, if you’re a “nice guy” who knows how to treat a person with a vag (which you undeniably don’t because you’ve chosen to live in Williamsburg and therefore think you’re superior to everyone), then you may have a chance of eking by with a small peen…but don’t count on it.
It does give one a distinct sort of pleasure to know that while women usually get, to borrow a phrase from Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, the fuzzy end of the lollipop in terms of improving our sense of self-worth through body modification, men with a tiny dick–a worse fate than utter dicklessness–are essentially powerless to change their fate. The world of penis enlargement isn’t half as advanced as breast enlargement, after all.
I’d be lying if I said that I’m all for a “man” who loves his parents. Rather, I accept the guilt that comes with feeling like you owe your parents something when, as a white “male,” they probably paid for your college education and are still paying for your various needs as you navigate the “real world.” The attachment to one’s parents is, if we’re being totally honest with one another, generally motivated by financial incentive. Of course, a certain amount of emotions hinges on a natural rapport as well (they’ve known you since birth, so it’s kind of a vanity thing, you being allured by how much they give a shit about your biography. But make no mistake, it’s only because they’ve invested so much time and money into you turning out a specific way). And sure, everyone’s always going on about how having a child is the most selfless thing you can do, but it’s really a means to wield a modicum of authority over someone for the rest of their lives for one’s own selfish, power-hungry purposes. To have a child is the ultimate admission of feeling like there’s nothing else you can do. It’s a way to take back the power you thought you were going to have in life.
Get over it, she’s practically dead.
I’m not saying, you know, throw your parents in a trash bag and put them on the curb or anything. I’m just saying, maybe limit their influence by maintaining communication in short, controlled doses. Because, eventually, being into one’s parents comes across as decidedly dickless. Like, can’t you just form your own opinions without asking mommy and daddy for their take on a situation? It’s really unsexy. It’s okay for you to cut the umbilical cord. This isn’t Europe. This is motherfucking Williamsburg. You have no cultural excuse to continue to suck on your mother’s tit or your father’s dick (though he’s probably missing one too, if the apple falls anywhere near the tree). You should be sucking on a woman’s tit (or “man’s” dick, since that’s more likely your taste anyway) who isn’t related to you at this point.