With “Netflix and chill” being the pervasive euphemism that it is, it’s not as though any woman experiences shock when a “man” reaches over her shoulder with his arm and grabs her tit old school-going-to-the-movie-theater-style so as to initiate the inevitable process of disrobement. What’s more shocking, however, is when he does absolutely nothing sexual to her after inviting her over to “watch something.”
“I don’t want your popcorn, I want your dick.”
The only thing that should be watched when a woman is invited over is the gradual engorgement of her vagina as you finger it. And yet, knowing the Williamsburg lot, the only fingering that goes on is in the bowl filled with artisanal popcorn. The utter gall of subjecting a girl you’ve asked to your shittatay but expensive apartment to actually sit through almost two hours of cinematic non-gold (the dickless “men” always choose titles like Die Hard or Scarface as the classics they want to use to “impress” others in terms of showcasing how masculine they are) is completely unwarranted. If you really want to watch a movie in its entirety, do it on your own time, not the time you should be sexually satisfying someone else.
A chocolate scandal in Williamsburg is the height of controversy beyond a reality show about four women “struggling” to figure out where to eat brunch. For years, the Mast Brothers have been happily infiltrating, among other entities, the shopping carts of Whole Foods patrons, pulling one of the grandest cons of the culinary world with their claim of using only “single-source” chocolate beans.
Olive oil chocolate already sounds unappetizing to begin with
Now, an ironclad exposé about how the bro-turned-hipster brothers, Rick and Michael, have been duping the gluttonous mouths of their customers since the founding of their company in 2007 reveals that all it takes to be a success in Williamsburg is confidence and a beard. Rather than getting their chocolate beans from one farm to give each bar that “artisanal” flavor, the duo’s process instead consists of melting down commercially produced chocolate and passing it off as their own in wrappers that cost more to produce than the “sweet treats” themselves. In spite of this revelation, it’s entirely possible that the dickless lot of Williamsburg will continue to stuff their faces with the fraudulent candy.
Maybe it has to do with being filthy rich and the lack of innovation or personality that comes with such a trait that has spawned Williamsburg “men’s” belief in the need for a localized app that will help them shop for their various bitches in time for the holidays. What else could be the explanation for Shophood, an app created by a 25-year-old “man“?
App logo for Shophood
I suppose if you’re one of those nouveau riche types who have come into the neighborhood recently and for some reason have no idea about Catbird, The Bedford Cheese Shop and other such artisanal bougerie simply by walking down the street, then maybe you are challenged enough to need an app for the scant radius that comprises your condo and douche bag bar-laden area. Happy shopping!
It’s pretty much Freud 101 that any “man” overtly fixated on a dick tends either 1) not to have a very large one or 2) is probably lusting after another “man.” The transparency of this psychology, however, did not stop one Williamsburg Christmas reveler from decorating his apartment window–a penthouse, mind you–with multi-colored lights fashioned into a dick shape.
What 65 Ainslie Street looks like under normal, non-Christmas decorated conditions
This dick shape is also six feet in length–a.k.a. this “man” fucking wishes. By putting his desired penis size on blast to the entire neighborhood, the Williamsburg denizen is not only infecting everyone with his damaged self-esteem, but also tainting Christmas the way your mother warned you New York would taint your sexual purity. Though it is fairly dickless of everyone else to get so up in arms about it–it’s just a giant wang for fuck’s sake.
Just when you thought the “man” who delights in $42 dollar chicken was bad, along comes the “man” who opts not only to buy his records at Urban Outfitters, but also to dine there. And what would the location on N. 6th be without an Israeli BBQ restaurant called Esh (it means fire in Hebrew, how profound) for the wary dickless shopper to find refuge?
What could possibly warrant an exhausted or desperate enough state to eat food within a retail facility, Missing A Dick couldn’t tell you. It’s one thing to stop at someplace like, say, Saul inside of the Brooklyn Museum, where you are actually using some of your mental energy to elicit hunger. But shopping for Kanye West albums on vinyl just doesn’t merit a sit-down for some chicken schnitzel with talon.