The predatory “man” is nothing new when it comes to the trolling scene. But there is a different class of predator who gets his most joy and fulfillment from trolling on Halloween night, alternatively known as Passed Out Bitches Free-For-All Day. The “man” who typically relishes this frequently offers little in the way of game or finesse, and so Halloween is his one night of the year to take full advantage of various women’s states of inebriation.
“Yo girl, you want some of this?”
Because Williamsburg is one of the many parts of Brooklyn that encourages the donning of costumes, the “man” who trolls in this area on Halloween is made to look even creepier and more disgusting while attempting to flirt in what is presumably the thin veneer of a rapist. If you want to at least pretend like you’re not seeking out the most wasted girl you find on this particular night of the year, try dressing in something that doesn’t make you look like some sort of new-fangled John Wayne Gacy.
Betty White, frequently presumed to be dead, is a wise old lady for a reason. That reason is her ability to understand that a vagina is far more resilient and powerful than a dick.
Yes, indeed, balls are “weak and sensitive,” especially when you don’t have a dick as a means of extra protection from the blunt force trauma of the swift kick to the “groin” you probably deserve. And yet, these emblems of weakness have so many Williamsburg women atwitter with feelings of inadequacy and somehow being “not enough” (though, granted, Williamsburg women have their own separate faction of annoyances). If everyone could just remember that the phrase “grow a pair” is actually referring to ovaries rather than testicles, we might all learn to love one another a little more.
Many “men” like to imagine that there is a “spark” between him and the woman he currently wants to have sex with. Though the common misconception is that women are the ones who like to play into the fantasy of sharing a deep connection with someone upon first meeting them–that whole love at first sight game–it is really “men” who project all the desired traits they want in a woman onto the one they’re most physically attracted to for the time being.
The only time sparks really fly between a “man” and a woman is when they’re created by Roy Lichtenstein
Once a “man” realizes that he’s completely imagined his own vision of a certain woman after a few casual dates at places like Dram and Caracas (sparks can only be allowed to flourish over overpriced food and drinks), he suddenly blames her for allowing “the spark” to dim, when, in fact, it was all a grand illusion to begin with. That, and she happened to be in between waxes the night he finally decided to go down on her.
In any case, “men” who bowl in general are kind of dickless, so, in a way, it’s to be expected that someone spending his time at a bowling alley would have ebola. Where there’s one characteristic of dicklessness, there’s bound to be many, after all. But, as Lauryn Hill once said, “develop a negative into a positive picture” by hoping this makes bowling less palatable to people/”men” in Williamsburg (#downwithBrooklynBowl).
Like Times Square, Williamsburg has fallen prey to the pressures and allure of giving in to the financial gain of a corporate/funhouse vibe. That’s why it seems a bit of a “dick” move (in the absence of having a dick, of course) to deny places like Urban Outfitters, Starbucks and Sing Sing their liquor licenses under the guise of trying to keep the neighborhood safe from mongos and drunkards.
How is this Starbucks in Williamsburg supposed to have any allure without bona fide Irish coffee?
Members of the community board (already a faint sign of dicklessness in and of itself) bandy about statements like, “I get the kumbaya moment, but why do you have to be blasted to do that? I go to Ikea and have a sandwich with meatballs, and I don’t need a drink. I have no idea where the alcohol fits in.” Spoken like a man without chutzpah/a dick. The denizens of Williamsburg are so afraid to embrace the fantasy land it has become because they fear its inevitable toppling if there’s too much in the way of Sodom and Gomorrah activity. But, dick or no dick, Williamsburg is destined for a fall–so why not let it be someplace like Urban Outfitters, amid overpriced clothes while drinking excessively?
If you haven’t already heard about the local Williamsburg “man” whose wallet and house was ransacked after inviting three strangers over, now you have. The identity of the “man” who took two “men” (already a dubious ratio) and a woman back to his apartment with him after meeting them at LP ‘n Harmony (a bar off Graham that dickless types love to hang out at) remains unknown–most likely because he’s ashamed for the world to know how absent his genitals are.
McDonald’s: serving fare as limp as a man with symptoms of dicklessness
The taking home of randos in Williamsburg is almost passé in a way, harkening back to a time when a sense of community was still felt among “artists” (a word as deserving of quotes around it as “men”). Although the “man” claims to have been drugged, which is totally possible in the Bret Easton Ellis times we live in, it seems all too appropriate that the thieves saw fit to spend upwards of two hundred dollars at the Grand Street McDonald’s as the ultimate kick in the groin. They could have at least gone to Kellogg’s or Hana Natural to bouge it up a bit and show some respect for the “man” whose dime they were eating on. But then, perhaps the band of outsiders in question has a special radar for those missing a dick.
There is, as Carrie Bradshaw once noted in the episode “The Ick Factor,” a certain threshold for cheesiness in the modern era. To be sure, romance is much appreciated, as it distinguishes between the label of “friend” vs. “lover,” but an overwhelming display of affection and/or forced gestures of bathetic amorousness tend to negate the belief in a “man” having a dick.
Sometimes, dancing can only be done in a McDonald’s if it’s going to be passable as not overly cheesy
With fall in full swing, the couples scene tends to reach a crescendo of annoying maudlin-ness that is especially noticeable in Williamsburg. From sipping hot chocolate together at Mast Brothers to walking along the waterfront hand in hand, there’s nothing more vomit-inducing that the Wburg cold-weather tableau. But what takes the cake for dicklessness is when you pick a leaf up off the ground, offer it to your girlfriend to hold and ride with her on the L train without shame as you and she touch the leaf together while entwined together. It smacks of a goddamn Mandy Moore movie. Not even The Notebook, a Mandy Moore movie. So try to rein it the fuck in. This isn’t 1948, after all, and you’re certainly not dressed well enough to pull off anything other than buying your girlfriend a book that you thought she’d identify with (probably, knowing your dicklessness, Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham).
There are many “men,” particularly those who live in Williamsburg or were born in New York, who have this unbelievably false sense of being amazing and/or somehow special. This imagined feeling of superiority generally stems not only from no one telling them that their shit is basic, but, worse, the fact that there are those who bolster these “men’s” self-inflated opinions of themselves.
“Hi, I’m John Basic.”
The “man” who is delusional enough to think he’s great, but in actuality utterly normal, doesn’t make it happen all on his own. It starts from a very early age, usually caused by his equally delusional mother filling his head with ideas of grandeur. Because one’s early years are so formative, the “man” as “boy” gets it ingrained in his head that he truly is fantastic, when, in reality, he is a total basic. Hence, he lives in Williamsburg and will invariably shop at the J. Crew that’s now open on Wythe.
Smoking weed is, by nature, a decidedly languid activity, inviting you to curl up into your own desires for utter selfish introspection, or a total lack of thought at all. Considering how tame and accessible this drug has become, it is appropriate that the Williamsburg “man” would seek this outlet as a means to justify the improvement of his “art.”
The accusation may seem harsh, but it’s true: “men” who smoke weed “for their art” are just doing it to escape
Whatever that “art” may be, from painting to graphic design to, oof, writing, the real reason a “man” smokes weed is pure and simple: to escape the reality of his dicklessness and the oppression of living in a condo that he knows he doesn’t deserve to live in. Ergo, sobriety is not conducive to marring the guilt and self-loathing that creeps in on a daily basis. “Art” is not the reason. “Art” is always shittier when coming from a drug-addled place. But it’s a pretty excuse, isn’t it?
I suppose there’s nothing wrong with carefully sowing your wild oats before deciding to relegate yourself to one woman. But there’s a difference between youthful folly and an utter lack of expressing interest in anyone or anything other than your own visual pleasure. Being into and aroused by every woman you encounter is not only exhausting for all involved, but it also infers you’re probably riddled with all manner of sexually and socially transmitted diseases. So if you find your eyes bulging out at every pair of tits you see walk past you from Driggs to Kent, try to remember to have some motherfucking discernment.