Last night’s episode of Broad City featured just one salient moment. While on a boatful of lawyers, Abbi and Ilana ask a handful of bro stereotypes, “So where do you live?” to which they all respond, “Murray Hill, but I moved to Williamsburg.” The comical reality of this pervasive demographic in the neighborhood is just one of many reasons why it’s impossible to talk to (or dance near) any of the “men” there.
Williamsburg is where “men” go to settle into senile frathood
The “quaint” “coziness” of Williamsburg provides your average Murray Hill denizen a chance to live a more “low-key” life while still being permitted to drink and fuck as many low-caliber drinks and women as his heart desires. Thus, the transition from Murray Hill to Williamsburg is only natural–though to the rest of us, it feels rather against nature.
While there’s a certain nobility to a “man” trying to bring any level of mischief back to the highly sanitized Williamsburg area, it is most certainly lacking in punk rock cachet to break some windows at “The Shops @ 240 Kent Avenue.” And yet, that’s exactly what one drunken/possibly drugged out “man” decided to do last week.
The picturesque location of the break-in
Among other telltale signs of dicklessness, the “man” in question was raving about an inevitable zombie apocalypse, perhaps uncertain if the end of the world would come as a result of this or happen afterward when there were no humans left. Or maybe he’s trying to say that the people currently living in Wburg are already zombies. Whatever the logic, if you’re going to do something “badass,” at least put some goddamn intent behind it.
As Kevin Spacey in American Beauty so very succinctly illustrated, “men” have a natural tendency toward the crass, rude behavior of masturbating in bed next to a woman. Not only is this indicative of a “man’s” base needs/inability to control his sexual urges, but also a blatant lack of consideration for the body next to his.
This is how interested a woman is in having sex after waking up to a “man” masturbating next to her
The heedlessness and disrespect works on a two-pronged level: 1) it is disruptive to a woman’s sleep and 2) it is indicative that you’d rather fuck yourself than an actual vagina (though this is, admittedly, preferable to sleep rape)–or perhaps your “dick” is merely not sizable enough to fit into the vagina in the first place. Perchance, the best way to fulfill your disgraceful masturbation needs is to release your load quietly in the bathroom, so as to maintain some modicum of dignity. And maybe a better question to ask yourself is: Would Humphrey Bogart or Gary Cooper masturbate in bed next to a woman? No. And neither should you.
Some may think I’ve gone too far this time in terms of addressing what I feel constitutes the dickless “man.” But regardless, I would like to talk to you today about sleep rape–a far grosser offender than normal rape in that the woman who is a victim of it cannot even adequately prepare herself for the oncoming unwanted thrusts. States of sleep can be classified as both normal sleep patterns or alcohol/drug-induced serenity.
Rohypnol: Williamsburg’s drug of choice
When a “man” takes advantage of sleep rape, he is not only advertising that he can’t get laid in normal circumstances, but that he can’t even be bothered to put up with a woman’s physical struggle in the case of rape. Moreover, a woman’s wetness (pending she’s over the age of 21) is at its least optimal while in a slumber-induced coma (see: Kill Bill Vol. 1). So basically, you’re a double deviant for both forcing yourself on another body and not even allowing that body a proper chance to resist. But what’s to be expected when Rohypnol is the drug of choice in Williamsburg?
If you don’t know what Caviar is, congratulations, there’s a chance you might have a dick. If you do, well, maybe this can help you to learn that using an elitist delivery service app is all kinds of indication that you’ve got genitalia issues.
Caviar: for delivery ASAP–’cause you’re an entitled prick
Obviously, you feel the need to prove to whoever you’re ordering in front of (probably a woman who only hangs around you because you buy her shit) that you are far above the basicness of Seamless or GrubHub. Because, clearly, getting food presented to you from places like the Meatball Shop
is worth the extra expense of using Caviar–even though you could just goddamn well order from Peter’s Since 1969.
News of the Meatball Shop delivering will leave many Williamsburg “men” salivating over the food possibilities. However, if you’re a privileged enough soul to live within close proximity to the Meatball Shop (this constitutes anywhere from Bedford to Kent–whether on the north or south side), there’s very little excuse for you to indulge in using the latest model iPhone to dial the number of the hallowed establishment and ask for delivery. Unless of course, the void where your dick should be feels so immense when you actually get up off your ass that you just can’t bear to walk for long stretches.
You have to work to deserve this taste. It shouldn’t just get handed to you.
The Bucket o’ Balls, among other savory fare on the menu at Meatball Shop, is perhaps the most telling item a “man” can order for delivery, as it usually infers he desperately wishes he had some balls of his own. When you show disrespect to the Meatball Shop by forcing it to come to you instead of you displaying reverence by going to it, you’re also showing that you’s missin’ a dick.
As we all know, Belle and Sebastian is an infallible band. However, it’s also the band a “man” listens to when he wants to appear faux deep/intelligent. It’s the type of band he’ll tell a girl he loves in order to sweet talk her into the bedroom she imagines will be candlelit/peppered with razorblades that have dried blood on them to indicate just how “emotional” he can get.
Like The Smiths, Belle and Sebastian frequently have music nights dedicated to them so that “men” can pick up on an ideal trolling opportunity (usually to find other “men”). The latest one is, predictably, at the Grand Victory in Williamsburg. Undoubtedly, all of the worst sort of “men” will be there. The kind who can’t simply sit at home perfecting their horizontal cuts while listening to “Fox in the Snow,” instead of parading their duplicitous adoration for the band by using it as an excuse to soak their “dick” in someone.