I guess I understand why “men” feel the need to piss on buildings whenever the fancy strikes them, being that it’s this marking one’s territory sort of thing. But why does spitting also need to come into play with regard to the less comely and decorous habits of “men”? It’s almost as though they need that extra form of territory marking to assure themselves that somewhere down there, he has a dick (side note: “Men” who “unintentionally” spit while talking are a separate breed, and are only slightly less odious).
A necessary sign
Apart from how jarring, foul and hideous witnessing the primitive practice is, it’s also quite inconsiderate to those chic mothers walking down Bedford Avenue who happen to unwittingly step upon a fresh batch of sidewalk spit. How could a “man” do that to her presumably $300 designer shoe? Moreover, how could he possess such a lack of self-respect as to make himself look no better than a jungle animal. If one really must spit, do it on the hole where your dick should be, and maybe it will crust over enough to make it look like you have one.
Regardless of whether or not you’ve managed to lock down a “man,” this so-called security will not, in any way, prevent him from commenting on the hotness of others–least of all your friends and family members.
You know Jay-Z thought Solange was hot before she clocked him in the elevator
This is often why it’s best to pretend you don’t even have a family for awhile, or even forever. You should also turn into a loner if you possess any friends without unsightly facial moles. It keeps the romantic notions you have of your “man” alive, and prevents him from being in the dickless position of remarking how attractive your sister, cousin or, worst of all, mom is.
In this bitch boy day and age, a lot of “men” have forced women to be more masculine than they care for. From their mumbling and waffling to their lack of a job and direction, it leaves a female no choice but to take on the dual role of “man” and woman.
What “men” have forced women to become
This can often cause her to have a temper flare up when dealing with a “man’s” grunting, noncommittal communication steez. Especially if she’s trying urgently to find his dick, which can sometimes refer to having sex, but also his inability to show any signs of assertion.
One of the many things that can draw a “man’s” attention away from a woman is his bromance, sometimes with one “man,” sometimes with multiples. And, let me tell you, the only thing gayer than being gay is being “straight” and being super into your best guy friend.
It’s also gay
Sure, it’s all well and good for a “man” to have his assorted friendships so that he’s not some sort of clingy annoyance sans a life of his own, but it’s also kind of a boner killer when he’s always going on about what John Plainface did to make him go all gooey-eyed. So, with this in mind, try to keep your male friendships on the Butch Cassidy and Harry Longabaugh (“the Sundance Kid”) side rather than in Evan and Seth from Superbad territory.
“Men” have this mythology surrounding them that they’re not all that sensitive. And they’re not, except when it comes to themselves. So when Missing A Dick comes along to roil their delicate self-perception and ego, the ire can tend to flare up and, inevitably, the question, “Why do you hate ‘men’?” will be asked as a means to insult and infer that I am some kind of feminazi.
The question “men” ask re: Missing A Dick
But I don’t hate “men”–they’re perfectly lovely if and when they can eat you out or give you an orgasm. Or write you poems and otherwise appeal to your vanity. But how often does this actually happen? Usually only when they first meet you and enjoy the novelty of your pussy. Once it becomes day old bread to them, all of their formerly enjoyable qualities disappear and suddenly you start to feel like Madonna after kissing Drake. This is when it becomes easy to point out their glaring shortcomings, now that they’ve revealed their true and constant self to you. And this isn’t to say that women aren’t chockfull of annoying qualities, especially when clustered together in groups. But at least we tend to look better while being a pain in your ass.
In an ongoing attempt to cater to the worst stereotypes about the bourgeois nature of Williamsburg, the Starbucks on N. 7th between Bedford and Driggs will now put on something called “Starbucks Evenings,” during which they will offer wine, beer and “small plates” for sale, adding to the profit margins of their sordid empire.
Bacon-wrapped dates that look like chodes
Rather than the question being, “Who would actually buy their alcohol from Starbucks?”, the real question, unfortunately, is, “What douche bag ‘man’ about town would be able to resist the convenience and expensiveness of such an offer?” If the Brooklyn Brewery craft beers and Malbec/prosecco isn’t enough to tempt, then it’s certain no “man” can resist the truffle mac and cheese and bacon-wrapped dates being billed as part of the “small plate” crew. At this point, it seems bacon-wrapped dick would be an appropriate addition to the menu as well, because clearly any “man” partaking in “Starbucks Evenings” has given his up, and might as well donate it to suppressing hunger.
It’s unclear as to when the concept of “no strings attached” arose in the relationship scene among “men” and women. It certainly wasn’t during cavemen times when the opposite sexes were beholden to one another on the basis of survival (“men” would hunt, women would figure out how to cook that shit), and therefore seemed to know better than to fuck with the delicate balance that is monogamy.
The movie (which the French call Sex Friends) that vehemently disproves the no strings attached trope
But maybe around the time of the “free lovin'” 60s, “men” got it into their minds that no strings attached sex was a genuine possibility. But let’s be very clear: there are always strings attached. By the very nature of the meeting of two yin and yang genitals, you are attaching yourself to a woman. And then, because of pheromones or whatever, she starts to feel emotional about it, fond of you, even (though logically she shouldn’t ’cause you’re probably an unkempt broke ass). No matter the brevity of the one-night stand you find yourself in, there is also the strings attached of contracting an STD, AIDS, etc. or the chance that she’ll come at you Nan Britton-style and tell you you’re the father of her child–and all in the name of no frills. But the dickful “man” should recognize that there are always, but always, frills.
The entire reason to make a list is to classify, to rank–in short, to waste your time on building an opinion that no one else cares about. While women occasionally do this (usually when trying to build the archetype for their perfect fiancé), it is more often than not “men” who enjoy arranging people and things in a chronological manner according to importance.
Lists are bound to wound
One conjures to mind “The One With the List” episode of Friends wherein Ross creates a document on Chandler’s new computer (telling of the decade) of things that are wrong with Rachel in order to decide if he should break up with his current girlfriend. Rightly, the list loses him Rachel’s affection and we’re doomed to watch the show for another eight seasons. The moral, of course, being that it is an extremely “male” thing to try to gauge what “the best” is. Others of a more dickful nature aren’t as apt to classify. It’s the more democratic (and socialist) thing to do.
The trouble with Williamsburg’s female to “male” ratio isn’t just that it promotes trolling for pussy past 1 a.m., but also that it fosters the notion that “men” have to fuck every woman they meet. This phenomenon, presented succinctly by Dr. Melfi to Tony Soprano, is a sad elucidation of the male mind being run by an appendage that’s barely there.
A “man” who mistakenly thinks these women want to fuck him, and that he should fuck them all
I get that, with “men,” women are like cereal box prizes and they think they have to collect them all, but, ultimately, only one of the prizes is worth having–unfortunately by the time “men” have this revelation, they’ve already contracted every STD under the pubic hair (in large part thanks to the clientele that congregates at Verboten). So next time you see a group of women walking down Bedford Avenue, remind yourself to hone in on just one of them. You don’t have to fuck everyone. Freddie Mercury already did.
It takes a certain kind of douche to buy Ralph Lauren clothing. But it takes an even worse breed to make a Ralph Lauren purchase in Williamsburg. The opening of a store there lacks shock value in the wake of J. Crew, Apple and Whole Foods all being par for the new era Williamsburg course.
This “man” wears Ralph Lauren
What is shocking, however, is that any self-respecting “man” would allow himself to set foot in the location (poised for Wythe and N. 3rd Street) to feed into the new stereotype of what it means to be a “man” who lives in and/or hangs out around Williamsburg. If you really must deign to don casual wear on par with Old Navy products, at least have the decency to buy it online so that you might hide your secret shame until actually putting on the clothing.