Don’t get me wrong, every “man” has a period. But there are certain “men” of the fire sign variety with a far more intense strain of menstruation than other elements in the zodiac. Ruled by the sun, the “man” in Sagittarius, Leo or Aries needs to be steered of at all costs if you don’t want to be scorched at any given moment by his mood.
“Passionate” is code for “look the fuck out”‘
Being that these signs are, for some reason, deemed to have a high chance for success (read: money), they tend to gravitate toward the Williamsburg condo nexus to flaunt how powerful they are. You will initially be duped by his seeming charisma only to be burned by the wrath of his temper and/or depression. So if you must spend time with a “man” who has a period, opt for Scorpio. Nothing fazes them, and they usually live in more sexually sinister places like the West Village or Bushwick.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that pit bull owners are the scum of the earth. Case in point is a recent scuffle that occurred in Williamsburg involving a 20-year-old punching a 65-year-old over the fact that the dog being walked by the latter was a “pussy” in the eyes of the former.
Pit bulls are assholes because their owners are assholes
Being that all dogs worth their weight in owning at a domestic level are docile, gentle “pussies,” the actions of this Williamsburg “boy” are not only extremely skewed in terms of perspective, but also a prime example of ageism in the neighborhood. For the most part, elderly people with animals have them as a source of comfort and solace. But in Williamsburg, you’re only allowed to be old enough to have a baby and a condo, not so old that you look like that guy at the end of Logan’s Run.
There are a lot of exercises “men” shouldn’t do. Yoga is one of them. Rowing is the other. A “man” who likes to sit in a boat with other “men” (often with his shirt off) is 1) a little too ancient Greek and 2) an indication that he’d rather hang out with other heterosexual poseurs than you.
A little too close for (hetero) comfort
The close proximity of a rowing team is extremely telling. There’s a chance he’s probably physically closer to them than you. Yeah, I guess the payoff is he has a nice set of abs and arms or whatever, but give me a beer gut and sincerity any day over a “man” who would rather occupy waters as shallow as his mind (see: the Winklevoss twins).
Broad City is a magical show. We can all admit this. It is a breath of fresh air in the wake of false representations of twenty-something life in New York as perpetuated by Girls, or what I like to call Dunghole Half Hour. But it risks being tarnished when “men” like the one who kicked another “man” off a plane going from Austin to Chicago prove that the world isn’t fully ready for Broad City‘s amazingness.
Perhaps the primary issue was the fact that the “man” wearing the t-shirt was flying on a plane that had to be diverted to St. Louis, a city that still gives a shit about notions of “decency.” It was there that he deboarded wearing the shirt that read “Broad Fucking City” (supplied to him by Comedy Central while he was attending South by Southwest) and it would be there that he was prevented from re-entering the plane by the agent at the gate. The flight was run by Southwest Airlines. Telling, indeed.
I get that feminism is like super chic for “men” to embrace right now, but the whole “Oh let me be a champion of Hillary Clinton to prove I don’t think women are bull shit when really that’s exactly what I think” philosophy is getting really old. Older than the cum stain on Monica Lewinsky’s infamous dress, in fact.
This is essentially the type of denigration being performed on Hillary in turning her into an action figure
That’s why it’s quite infuriating that a Williamsburg “man” has decided to join forces with his girlfriend/female business partner (a hot trend in Wburg enterprises right now) to mass produce a Hillary Clinton action figure. While, from his perspective, he probably sees it as an homage or a sign of reverence–a misguided notion undoubtedly perpetuated by his naive girlfriend–there is nothing deferential about it. It’s actually quite obvious he’s trying to belittle her (literally) by making this product. You know what other kind of women are action figures? The kinds who use their body as bait. Is this something any true “man” could possibly feel Hillary would be on board with? Certainly not. I just hope she at least gets a pair of castration scissors as an accessory.
Perhaps to regular Missing A Dick readers, the notion of a “man” who asks for permission to slap your backside comes off as a dickful thing to do. You might think, “Hey, this ‘man’ is actually respectful and polite.” Well, in some cases, like if you’re on a quest to marry a missionary, this is what you want. But, in general, you’re looking for a “man” who knows what he wants and goes after it.
That’s why a “man” who blubbers, “Can I, uh, smack your ass as you walk by?” is not to be trusted in the long run. He probably also possesses uncertainty about what to do in the boudoir, asking you for instruction at every second. While you might be momentarily offended at getting smacked without warning, there’s nothing like the pleasant sting of a spank to get your attention and in no way make you question the “man’s” bravura.
Eating lamb is deplorable enough (though understandably tempting). But to bring one to lunch is absolutely contemptible. It’s worse than using your dog to troll for women–because you know the cuteness and innocence of a lamb is irresistible to all. To make matters worse for your dick, bringing the lamb to Five Leaves, the connecting hub between Williamsburg and Greenpoint a.k.a. the nexus of all dickless “men,” adds a new level of cachet to the gaping hole where your wang should be.
While, in this particular case, it was a lamb belonging to both a “man” and a woman (kind of like how a “man” and a woman were responsible for the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan “museum”) that made its way to Five Leaves, it is the “man’s” fault for agreeing to own a lamb in the first place. It would be different if you had a lamb and you were a farmer or, I don’t know, Hermes. But you’re not. You’re a Brooklyn denizen. You are not worthy of the earthliness and tenderness that a lamb represents. You’d be better suited to owning a serpent, since that’s usually what you become when you live in BK and it’s the closest thing resembling a penis you’ll ever have.
For the most part, “men” who celebrate St. Patrick’s Day are not even actually Irish. They are Williamsburgian by way of Murray Hill. They use St. Patrick’s Day as arbitrarily as Cinco de Mayo for their own drunken pleasure. And, like Halloween, as an excuse to capitalize on the drunkenness of other people with a vagina.
These “men” can’t even stomach their alcohol
The true “man” drinks on his own time, not at the urging of a so-called national holiday. He also doesn’t binge drink to impress anyone but his damn self. And, being that binge drinking is only impressive when you’re in a sorority, most “men” with a dick know this isn’t the way to a girl’s heart–luck o’ the Irish or not.
Talking closely in someone’s face is never acceptable, even when you’re metaphorically close to them. Regardless of whether you brush your teeth more than twice a day, the smell of breath is always just that: breath–and no one wants it wafting closely to their visage, especially a lady. Plus, “men” who talk closely are notorious for not actually having anything worthwhile to say; they just want to assert themselves and this is the best way they know how.
Degrassi shows us how boys and girls should talk, in terms of the distance between them
If you have a secret or something dirty to say, you can whisper it into her ear. This is far sexier and more preferable to getting up in her face so that she can see that faintly forming whitehead underneath your nose. Think of it this way, do you like to look at women in HD? No, you don’t. And if you didn’t already know the answer to that question, it’s because women have the good sense to not reveal that they’re full-on Monets to you by not coming within .03 inches of your face (unless, of course, you’re eating them out–which you’re probably not).
Admittedly, there’s something sexy about a “man” who can cook. What’s not sexy, however, is when he tries to Mrs. Doubtfire it by passing something he didn’t really make off as his own. That’s where Blue Apron, a meal delivery service that’s bougier than Fresh Direct, comes in.
The type of “man” who uses Blue Apron
Designed to make “cooking easy” by giving “men” of the Williamsburg demographic simple, gourmet (two words that don’t go together) recipes that are healthy and effortless to create–whatever that means (all good food should take a certain amount of effort), Blue Apron is one of the many deaths of dick. If you, as a “man” can’t cook, just own it. Don’t try to intensify your dicklessness by using a gimmick as smoke and mirrors to hide your defect. It would be the harder thing to do to admit your imperfection, but at least it would mean you’re capable of a hard-on.