Easter is a time when we all like to think about (well, when some of us like to think about), the magic of Jesus Christ’s resurrection after everyone he elevated to a higher level stabbed him in the back figuratively and then stabbed him in the front with some nails literally. While it only took Jesus three days to return from the dead, most “men’s” dicks will never come back after years of flaccidity and non-existence.
Just a ghost
And sure, it’s blasphemous or what have you to measure normal “men” against the standards and abilities of Jesus, but isn’t Christianity about constantly striving to be more Christ-like? So honestly, if you want to give the women in your life an Easter present today during whatever bourgeois Easter egg hunt you’ve organized on the roof of your condo, try conjuring the spirit of your dick in honor of Jesus.
Part of the many pratfalls of the “millennial” generation is the pervasiveness of “men” unable to do much of anything beyond press buttons that are, alas, not in any way related to a woman’s pussy. Sure, he’s great at finding ways out of doing anything tangible (which is an art that should not be underrated), but when it comes down to accomplishing a truly difficult or meaningful task on “his own,” a woman is usually required.
What most “men” need in order to function
Whether this stems from being handicapped by his mother as a child and constantly told he was great simply for being her son or perhaps because he grew up amid a large group of older, “nurturing” sisters is irrelevant. The point is, he has now reached a stage in life where he should be classified as a “man,” yet cannot even manage to adequately dress up a Cup O’ Noodles (technically called Cup Noodles). He is a giant, festering baby, who probably has, if any dick at all, one that could be classified as “Velveeta dick” (you know, featuring a head that’s caked on with a powdery texture) from a lack of even being able to properly clean it himself.
Maybe Narcissus is responsible for the origins of too much self-love in “men.” And maybe Hemingway and Picasso perfected the art. Whatever the case, the practice of vainglory has been allowed to triumph for far too long, primarily due to “men” being permitted to make gross amounts of money that have merely fortified their ego/ability to go through people–and usually via means of not even creating anything real (e.g. coding).
Too much love
However, there is an even worse breed of “man:” the kind who does nothing but still seems to genuinely believe he is a gift to women–nay, the universe. Often, he lives on family money and tells people he’s an artist so that his existence is more socially acceptable. He feels his mere presence in your midst should be enough to explain his greatness, how much he deserves to be revered. Each night, he tries to cozy up with his non-existent dick, delusional enough to believe it is actually a behemoth when, in fact, it is not there. Still, he loves himself with the ferocity of a heroin addict for the feel of the needle. But even needles have more girth than the phantom dick of the Narcissuses of the world.
Looking for loyalty? Looking for someone who sucks you off in equal measure? Or how about just someone to make you feel like you’re not less than nothing? If you are, Missing A Dick does not recommend trying “men.” They will not only reel you in like a pussy-wielding fish, they will also throw you back in the water once they’ve gutted you and drained you of anything valuable.
How you will look after being cast aside
Anything you think you can get from “men,” you can actually get from practically anywhere else. Orgasms? Babeland. “Stimulating” conversation? Read The S.C.U.M. Manifesto aloud to yourself. Someone to hold you at night? Revert to your goddamn teddy bear. There is nothing a “man” really has left to offer women anymore, which is why it’s rather strange that he chooses to toe the line so indelicately between annoying and useless. You would think those on the verge of total extinction would be a bit more concerned.
It’s all well and good for a “man” to enjoy ice cream. It’s not like he has a dainty figure to watch (except he probably does if he’s living in Williamsburg, the Los Angeles of Brooklyn), so it’s understandable that he might want to get a bit overzealous with his enjoyment every now and again. However, to ignore the time-honored tradition of enjoying pure alcohol on Saint Patrick’s Day instead of diluting it with a whiskey-tinged ice cream flight is, quite simply, unacceptable.
OddFellows, where dickless “men” are made on Saint Patrick’s Day
And yet, at OddFellows on N. 3rd and Kent, the bastardization of Saint Paddy’s Day continues to get worse (it’s kind of like Columbus Day for Irish people in a way) in that ice cream is supposed to substitute and/or supplement the necessity of getting completely and utterly blackout drunk. Even Van Leeuwen doesn’t have the dickless presence of mind to promote such a thing. So if you’re a “man” living in a condo near OddFellows, why don’t you just veer toward the Levee instead? All the sausage there might just make up for you’re lacking.
With the Fuller House revival in full force (see that reiteration there?), the population at large is finding yet another reason to be reminded of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen–even though, of course, they’re not participating in the reboot. And, naturally, that population includes certain denizens of Williamsburg also responsible for bringing you the Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding “Museum.”
Art in the 21st century
This time their pop culture obsession pertains to opening a museum that will showcase the specific kind of “active portraiture” that details the Olsen twins in various states of shielding themselves whilst trying to avoid the paparazzi snapping a photo of them. But somehow there’s also a Real Housewives theme at play in the museum–it’s all very confusing, and you can try to figure it out and/or buy into millennial whimsy by contributing to their Kickstarter, which I have no intention of linking to because people should support their own damn dickless projects. If I want to see an Olsen homage, I’ll fucking watch Very Mary-Kate. In any case, if and when the project probably comes to fruition, it’s safe to say any “man” who attends the exhibit is either sexually confused or trying to discreetly masturbate in front of the paintings.
There are a lot of ways into a certain kind of woman’s heart. One of them is, now, apparently, pretending to care about International Women’s Day–which is almost as bad as flagrantly mocking the very concept of it. Although one might ask, “Why would a ‘man’ ‘pretend’ to care about something so important when he should just actually care about it?” Well, because he’s the type of “man” to use a cause to his advantage–like “men” who troll other people’s female family members on Thanksgiving.
The type of quote “men” use to lure vulnerable women on March 8th
He sees an opportunity to appeal to a woman’s psyche, which as any “man” should know, is the way into her pussy–they both start with “p,” it’s sort of mnemonic. He memorizes a few facts, paraphrases a few quotes and, blammo, International Women’s Day has magically transformed into International Men’s Day (which is every day, but technically reserved for November 19th) once he gets her to leave the bar. And then, of course, after he’s had his way with her, he’ll passive aggressively mention how no one ever posts thoughtful memes (is that an oxymoron?) about International Men’s Day and maybe gender equality would be a little more feasible if women weren’t trying to “be” “men.” And that’s when the woman who was conned will put on her “I Got Hot Sauce In My Bag” shirt, leave his condo and never tell any of her fellow “feminist” friends what she fell for: a “man” who cares about “women’s causes” that isn’t Kurt Cobain.
There is no end to the lengths a “man” will go to live in Williamsburg. From resorting to Furnishare for his interior design needs to living in “converted dumpster” apartments, there appears to be little sense of shame that one feels when it comes to needing to live in this particular zip code.
Because every “man” wants to showcase his lack of dick to whoever is cooking
Perhaps this is why a $1,950 a month “living space” featuring a shower as one of the primary focal points of the kitchen is for rent in Williamsburg, real estate’s most easily suckered (but not sucked off) world capital. The best part? There isn’t even any kind of protective cover or door to prevent whoever is cooking in the kitchen from seeing that your dick is missing. But at least not having one won’t put you at risk for getting your appendage scalded from any overpriced sautéd fare from the nearby Whole Foods.
The “men” of Williamsburg have very little responsibility to take on in order to function in their day to day. All they have to do is get up, grab a coffee from Blue Bottle or Konditori (or some other establishment touting baristas that eat out the coffee beans before grinding them) and then go to an office space modeled after WeWork where they make money for marketing inanities like a new app that tells you where you can buy second skin-like condoms.
A room “men” end up at some point when they pass out in their apartments
And so, really, his sole job of existence is to not black out in his own apartment, thereby inviting any novice-level intruder the opportunity to rob him. 1) What does this “man” do to allow him the liberality of a work schedule that enables him to both live on Meserole and party till the break of dawn, then not wake up until three in the afternoon, go back to sleep and wait until seven at night to report it? 2) Any truly worthy resident of Williamsburg and vicinity should meet the materialism prerequisite that would incline him to either not give a fuck about losing his possessions (and also save a lot of embarrassment by reporting the theft to the police) or awaken immediately from his drunken stupor after sensing that his beloved belongings were being robbed.
Many have argued that vengeance is a dish best served cold–that the longer you wait to carry it out, the more clarity of mind you have. But to women, this form of waiting is crushing to the spirit, to the time-honored art of making someone pay for what he hath wrought upon you. Thus, the mindful “man” ought to do well to remember that playing games with a woman’s heart in the style of the Backstreet Boys song will only result in something terrible happening to him. There isn’t a band called She Wants Revenge for nothing, you know what I mean?
She wants blood
For, you see, a woman doesn’t run merely on calculation and apathy the way a “man” does. Her emotions and sheer force of will are what drive her unquenchable desire for retribution no matter what it takes–or how insane she might appear. This is, in many ways, what makes her a far more unstoppable force than “men” when it comes to the fine expression of avengement. Her level of rancor propels her forward at every turn, while the “man” she pursues is content to take a so-called Gandhi stance (let’s not forget about Gandhi’s sex life, shall we?) as he finds another female victim to convince of his goodness. But it won’t be long before every woman’s latent Beatrix Kiddo is unleashed to take hold of him in some form or another (not necessarily a murderous form, but not necessarily one that will allow him to escape physically unscathed).