There are many “men” who still believe that a woman is reliant on them for money, clothes, jewelry, food and other trappings of the good life. This inaccurate perception seems somewhat comical when you consider that most Williamsburg “men” either work from home or have supplemental income from a trust fund.
Speak on it, Joan
Especially bad at emotional support, some “men” are even deranged enough to think that they’re capable of taking care of a woman when they can barely take care of themselves (see: wardrobe choices). But the truth is, women have always been self-sufficient. The eras of sitting at home and knitting/baking bread were nice while they lasted, but otherwise, if you haven’t got a dick to offer (which we’ve already established you don’t), you haven’t got much at all to con a woman into thinking she needs you.
I get it, Thanksgiving is an emotionally stressful time during which we’re all looking for some sort of release. However, “men” who feel that this release should come from hitting on the female family members of their friends are, quite simply, skeevy. As if the scent of desperation wafting off of you wasn’t enough to prevent anyone from actually inserting your non-existent dick into them, then surely that hideous sweater you’re wearing will.
And don’t think you’ll get lucky with someone’s sister at a bar afterward either
Granted, women can be pretty vulnerable at this time of year, especially if they’re single or recently broken up and dealing with the pressure of familial judgment. But capitalizing on that susceptibility doesn’t increase your odds for getting sex, merely your odds for having to listen to her talk about her problems while she dangles her pussy before you with no real intention of actually handing it over. And that makes you something of a eunuch stranger to her who she just happens to be frenzied enough to share her plight with–certainly not fuck material. So give it up, go back to the table and content yourself with having to wait until you return to Williamsburg to troll for someone.
Sheer up, ducky, surely there are other places to get drunk and see marginal music
Did anyone really enjoy the music that was played there? No. It was a lovely hangout for hipster bros who were on the fence about committing to full-fledged hipsterdom. Now it’s gone. Big fucking deal. When Rosemary’s closes, then you know the neighborhood is really over. #temptingfate.
Because Williamsburg “men” have a general tendency toward a certain feyness/daintiness, cooking is a skill that’s a little too involved for their specific “talents.” In spite of still being regarded as “a woman’s job,” culinary ability bears the mark of a man with a dick. As for the average Wburg “man,” if they’re not being waited on hand and foot by their girlfriend or their cleaning woman, then they’re probably going out to a restaurant for Thanksgiving, in typical fagula fashion.
But if a “man” actually took the time to use the beautiful kitchen in his waterfront condo, as well as the bougie ingredients he’s bought from the Bedford Cheese Shop, he might find that making something really isn’t that difficult. It just involves time and a soul, though, I guess, therein lies the problem. So if you’re dealing with a “man” who doesn’t cook in general and especially on Thanksgiving (some cranberry sauce, shit, anything), then you’re most likely dealing with someone of the dickless variety.
To be a “man” in the twenty-first century has been deemed a challenge by most males who are merely upset that they weren’t living in the prime of the twentieth century (the 50s) when you didn’t have to be anything other than on time for dinner. But now, “men” must constantly toe the line between being sensitive and macho, while never being overly one of these characteristics.
Women love to watch “men” fall, or rather, fail at being the ideal “man”
That’s why the best possible “man” is a metaphorical tightrope walker, able to balance delicately on the wire between being a sniveling bitch and an asshole misogynist. One must embody just the right amount of sweetness, snarkiness and accommodatingness to successfully please a twenty-first century woman. Unfortunately, Williamsburg and beyond is peppered with nothing but twentieth century “men” still stuck in a mode of extreme sensitivity (1990s) or extreme brutishness (1900-1989).
A recent rash of robberies at Williamsburg bars by a thief targeting unattended bags leaves one to automatically to assume that the victims were women. However, one description does not specifically state that the person whose “bag” was stolen was a female, leading one to deduce that, in fact, he was a “man.”
No, this does not “work”
Because this isn’t Europe, “man bags” have never been passable, in spite of the ever-lax gender roles offered by the twenty-first century. To be frank, a “man” with a “bag” deserves to have it stolen. Because not only is it a crime against fashion, but a crime against your dick to have one. A backpack is maybe acceptable, but a “bag,” never. Just ask Joey Tribbiani.
In general, “men” who go to coffee tastings–or “cuppings”–are already sort of blowhards to begin with. But going to a tasting at a Williamsburg Starbucks really compounds the element of dicklessness. The latest Starbucks to creep into the area (there’s also one near Union Avenue) attempts, like Urban Outfitters before it, to appear as “Williamsburg” as possible with an open space and communal tables (more gag-worthy than trying to suck on a non-existent dick).
The first Starbucks in Wburg paved the way for this second, more douche baggy one
In “keeping with the spirit of the neighborhood,” the establishment has also bouged out with its plan to hold regular coffee tastings (what does that amount to, Pike Place and Blonde Roast ad nauseum?). The “men” who go to these tastings are inevitably sure to be missing a dick, as they’re more than likely looking to 1) troll or 2) show off their knowledge of coffee to other “men,” which is kind of gay. Fuck, it’s starting to make the Dunkin’ Donuts look more legit.
Carmela Soprano once said, “If I had an ounce of self-respect, I’d cut your dick off.” This statement obviously does not apply to you as you are not Tony Soprano and most likely don’t have a dick to cut off. But the fact that dickless “men” are generally intimidated by an imposing, expressive woman like Carmela is telling not only of a certain callowness, but also an inability to “handle” a “strong-minded” female.
Apart from “men’s” overwhelming fear of women who look to Lorena Bobbitt or Left-Eye as an inspiration, their wariness of decisive, self-assured types comes from their own realization that, apart from their dick (which they don’t have), they don’t really have anything to bring to the table (Carmela’s already got that covered anyway with her baked ziti).
I don’t really know why Sade became the staple in so many “men’s” minds for setting the mood, but, for some reason, this bitch continues to make it onto sexual playlists the Williamsburg over. It’s almost as though “men” think that the mere playing of the first few notes of “Smooth Operator” guarantees a woman’s disrobing.
The cliche mood setter
But, for as overtly sensual and mellifluous as Sade’s vocals are, there is absolutely nothing grosser or sleazier than when a “man” opts to put her greatest hits album on before taking off what one can only assume are his boxer briefs. In addition to inducing the gag reflex, it also shows a total lack of originality/harkens to something Patrick Bateman might do. It basically screams, “I’m overcompensating for my dicklessness with this music!”
It’s a tough break having a November 12th birthday when you’re not Ryan Gosling, mainly because: you’re not Ryan Gosling, nor will you ever live up to him in large part due to your dickless ways. As a Scorpio, you’re already at a disadvantage. But as a Scorpio male who isn’t Ryan Gosling, it’s safe to assume you’re a sexual deviant with zero consideration for anyone but yourself.
This one in particular
When held up in the harsh light of a comparison to Ryan Gosling, no Williamsburg “man” born on November 12th stands a chance. Sure, you might dress in plaid shirts like him, be essentially mute like him, but you can never embody his essence of undeniable male virility combined with “being there” for a woman. Instead you’re just you, a regular dickless Scorpio.