Believe it or not, there are many who will vehemently defend the embarrassing dance moves showcased by Drake in his latest video, “Hotline Bling.” Considering that the Canadian “rapper” is something of an honorary mascot for Williamsburg “men” who want to show off their soft side while setting the mood in their waterfront overlooking condo, it’s no wonder that the dickless ilk would like to believe that adopting Drake’s incongruous dance moves is a prudent idea for success with women.
Making the “naughty” no no finger gesture also doesn’t help
Although it might look like (to those with cataracts) Drake is dancing in a carefully cultivated manner, it is clear he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, and further proves that “men” shouldn’t try to dance unless they’re John Travolta (who we all know is gay, thus explaining his skills on the floor). In any case, if you must dance at Output with a skank, please don’t model your moves after the “Hotline Bling” video.
The only thing worse than dead weight in the dick area is dead weight in the mental and contribution (read: financial) area. So many “men” are liable to just stand or sit next to the woman they’ve currently leeched on to by way of a Verboten or Output encounter and stare blankly at nothing like an unformed piece of dough, never offering any signs of a personality or bank account.
“Men” who are dead weight often look like unformed pieces of dough
As usual, the woman provides all the pizzazz in a century where “men” have taken to becoming props due to the paradigm shift in the power between the sexes. Content to just “lie there,” so to speak, the dead weight “male” has become so pervasive that the untapped market for custom-made saddlebags for women to put “men” in as they carry their emotional and physical deadness around should really be explored as a surefire marketplace initiative.
New York didn’t used to be known as the type of place that glommed on to mass trends until around the time of TRL. Before that, it was the place associated with caricatures of intellectualism, like Woody Allen and Peter Bogdanovich. As time wore on during the early 00s and beyond, the city and its nearby Williamsburg became much like every other place in the United States–that is to say, utterly consumed by inane memes and moments. In the case of the pizza rat, there is very little that can be likened to how intensely New Yorkers (and I guess Williamsburgites specifically) have become obsessed with it. Not since William Hung has their been so much fervor surrounding a single incident.
The rat the launched a tattoo
But the “man” who recently decided to get a tattoo of gluttonous rodent at Magic Cobra Tattoo Society on S. 3rd Street has taken this fervor to the absolute heights of extremism–and dicklessness. In fact, a “man” getting a tattoo of the pizza rat is tantamount to the woman who gets a tattoo of pizza: trying desperately to show passion for something that loses all meaning once you get a tattoo of it–and that everyone else of your gender wants to get inked on themselves for life. This is not likely to be the last pizza rat tattoo we see on the bodies of “men” walking through Williamsburg either. Perhaps Magic Cobra and Joe’s Pizza should go in on a promotional event for this ne’er dying moment in NYC subway history.
The only amount of time a “man” should be spending thinking about his wardrobe is the amount of time it took James Dean to put on a leather jacket. And yet, in Williamsburg, “men” seem to think the more money and effort spent on clothes, the more alluring he will be.
Spin that yarn
Such is the case with a new company called Boerum Apparel, which focuses on a “nerd core” aesthetic and “farm to closet” approach. If these two terms alone didn’t black you out over how dickless a “man” can be, then you must be missing a pulse (in addition to dick). The founder believes in “sustainable clothing,” which mimics that Portlandia episode where Carrie and Fred wanted to know everything about the chicken they were going to eat. But, truth be told, the less one knows about the food they consume and the clothes they wear, the better. It makes it so much more enjoyable to spend ten dollars on a t-shirt as opposed to a hundred just so you can be sure it was made by a white “man” in Williamsburg.
Before Nitehawk and before Williamsburg Cinemas, there was Spectacle Theater, an unassuming hub of camp cinema situated on South 3rd Street near Bedford Avenue. Because it only charges five dollars per showing, it’s understandable that it needs a bit of help to make a few essential renovations in the wake of renewing a very expensive ten-year lease.
The living room-like interior of Spectacle Theater
Being that most “men” inhabiting Williamsburg at this moment in time are probably not even aware that this gem of a theater exists in their realm–the perfect place to take one of their many dates for a good time that doesn’t cost a minimum of thirty dollars–it’s no surprise that Spectacle is still roughly $9,000 short of its Kickstarter goal. But, for the dickful cinephile interested in films other than the ones created by Michael Bay, donating to preserve this theater as a beacon of the $5 movie ticket is essential.
Music has taken so many tumbles since Napster came along, but its latest blow is almost too egregious to bear. Not that Pitchfork Media hadn’t sold its soul long ago, but to sell the remaining modicum to Condé Nast for the price of their remaining reputation shows not only a missing a dick nature, but genitalia that’s completely inverted.
Say goodbye to what you knew
Formerly owned by Ryan Schreiber, the enterprise began so differently than what it has become, a juggernaut of advertising and reviews bought and sold not for the benefit of educating readers on “what’s good,” but what can generate “hits” to the website. Naturally, Condé Nast’s interest in the company stems from their desire for “millennial ‘males,'” even though this infers that 1) women don’t enjoy or have good taste in music and that 2) GQ, Details, Golf Digest and The New Yorker aren’t enough to quench the company’s appetite for an audience with a dick.
An unholy alliance
Undoubtedly, this is a shrewd move on Condé Nast’s part, now able to secure the entire “male” population of Williamsburg in its pocket. Not only is the selling of Pitchfork an indication of those “men” who now continue to take to heart what the site has to spout about what’s “hot” in music not having any viable taste of their own, but also that every company worth shaking a stick at feels inclined to go the VICE route and transform into the antithesis of its original intent by selling itself with the resignation of an aging showgirl.
Possibly one of the most irksome things about “men” today is their constant reliance on the excuse of not asking to be “men” in the face of being told they are not masculine enough. Yeah? Well women didn’t ask to be women forced to deal with the dicklessness of “men” incapable of forming an opinion or possessing any sort of conviction beyond how long to grow their beard.
Many “men” would prefer the “easiness” of being a woman
This flimsy reasoning on the part of “men” not willing to embrace what little amount of genitalia they have is exactly why Nancy Meyers made The Intern. Detailing the glaring disparity between “men of then” and “‘men’ of now,” it is tragic to watch the drastic evolution of what males have allowed themselves to become simply because, in modern times, this isn’t the role they wanted–a.k.a. playing second fiddle to women.
There are numerous reasons why “men” are drawn to Williamsburg. The latest? Nordic startup companies getting incentive (i.e. money to make their way into Dickless Country) to get (it) “up and running” less than the average amount of time it can usually take for foreign businesses to go through the red tape of procuring the necessary permits and advertising.
Go Dream is one of the Nordic companies being bankrolled by Lemonsqueeze
In truth, Nordic businesses are quite well-suited to the incongruity of Williamsburg existence. Where else would a company offering macaron making classes thrive? Operated by a startup in itself, Lemonsqueeze, this cluster of frou frou companies have made their hub on N. 4th Street and Wythe Avenue, proving, once again, it’s a dickless, dickless world over there in Williamsburg, founded upon the so-called entrepreneurial spirit of someone with an excess of cash to begin with.
There are few things in this world that can save an alcoholic from a hangover. One of those things is Checkers, a rare and precious find in New York City. More than just a “fast food” chain, Checkers offers the kind of food item solace that no other establishment can, least of all mothafukkin McDonald’s.
A “man” who should be experiencing more than mild joy over the consumption of Checkers
It isn’t just that its later founding in 1999 makes it better understand the plight of the modern drunk (why else would they have invented the Baconzilla Fries?), it’s that their employees are the most non-judgmental ilk you will ever come across. They’ve seen it all, and nothing fazes them anymore. There’s even a Facebook page called I Love Julissa at Checkers off the Marcy Stop (granted, that I created) that proves how magical Checkers is as a place to curb drunkenness without the the injudicious opinions of another intervening in your meal.
The chicken sandwich is best for the not too far gone drunk
And so for a woman to have to beg a “man” to come into the Checkers right by the train to cap off an evening of revelry and embarrassing instances is indicative of a larger issue: 1) his appetite is lesser than yours and that will never do 2) he thinks he’s too good for Checkers, in which case, he’s missing a dick. Do not let your blotto state be affected by the poor decisions of this “man;” he is the one who will suffer the next morning as a result of not coating his stomach with fully loaded fries.
There are a lot of embarrassing issues a “man” must endure: being broke, being egregiously close to his parents and, of course, having a nonexistent dick. But among the latest embarrassments is the trend in “baby-faced men” being incapable of growing a beard and therefore getting a beard transplant to mask their lack of virility.
This outline for a transplant, incidentally, looks like half a dick
The motives in agreeing to spend money on concealing a lacking propensity toward the hirsute stems from one reason: a “man” wants to be perceived as an older, burly sort so that women are duped into thinking he’s worth a damn. A beard is a way to coast on this false perception. But truth be told, some of the biggest bitch boys of all-time have beards: Ben Affleck, Jake Gyllenhaal and Zack Galifianakis, for example. Getting a transplant isn’t going to change what you are: a hopeless dickless being. So why not spend your money on a prostitute who won’t care about your many inadequacies?