The advent of both the Whole Foods and the Apple Store on Bedford has been a long time coming. And though we all knew each would come about eventually, no one could have predicted that these behemoths of corporate grotesquerie would essentially open the same week, with Apple to follow Whole Foods’ suit by opening on Saturday, July 30, just in time to really heighten the hell feel of North Brooklyn.
But worse than the fact that each exists right across the street from one another is the idea that “men” are willing to go into both back to back to tend to their food and technological “needs.” To preserve at least a modicum of dickfulness, a “man” should attempt to rein in his lack of genitalia by opting for just one of said stores in an outing, as going into one after the other indicates not only a pod person mentality, but that there is a Ken flap of skin where the puh-neese should be.
“It’s like she’s cultivating these idiosyncrasies to make up for the fact that she has absolutely no personality.” So Carrie Bradshaw says to Big of their uppity Upper East Side host after Carrie can’t get a glass of red wine because the former insists on not serving “brown liquids.” But this faux weirdness and sensitivity has extended far more to the “male” gender in recent years.
More than just “being awkward,” the ersatz eccentricity of most “men” in the North Brooklyn area stems from a latent guilt over not actually being in any way interesting, least of all “crazy.” His desperate desire to seem somehow worthy of the position he’s gained in life (e.g. a high-rise condo in Williamsburg) compels him to act in a way that others–especially women–will view as bizarre and esoteric, therefore at least offering a mild excuse for why he’s otherwise unable to function in the real world.
But underneath it all (not that there’s that many substrata to the counterfeit crazy “man”), he is bland–stark-ravingly normal. And ultimately that’s what drives him to madness.
When it comes to women being taken “seriously” (even though they rarely are because of what is perceived as their “emotional” delivery and frivolous nature), it still requires the likes of someone with clout such as Michelle Obama to convince people that being a woman is an empowering, “noble” thing.
Thus, without Michelle to back you DNC convention-style, you can be sitting at a stodgy bar like Teddy’s in Williamsburg and have to deal with explaining to a “man” who horns in on your conversation why someone like Madonna is actually talented, regardless of the fact that his mind has been so brainwashed by the need to regurgitate what the media has said that there’s no point in having a meaningful exchange.
When you present him with the facts, he will ignore what you have to say not just because he’s already made up his mind about his opinion, but because your aesthetic as a woman isn’t something he can process as worth accepting information from. On the other hand, perhaps if you were wearing a staid powdered white wig à la George Washington, he might actually take into consideration what you had to say, instead of turning to your “male” cohort and asking him if he wants another drink, brushing off the ninny he perceives before him.
With the sexlessness that continues to pervade the current era, “men” seem to have more and more difficulty with actually cumming inside a woman as opposed to outside of one and by themselves. Perhaps it’s the pressure and the stress of being viewed as an evermore useless gender, or simply that “men” have no idea what to do with a vagine anymore.
The reason, like so many things about “men,” is elusive, and not necessarily a reflection of the woman so much as the bloke in her bed’s irksome psychosis and propensity toward asexuality (think: Andy Warhol and Michael Jackson). Although, as always, sheer narcissism could be at play. His need to beat the meat by himself–or worse, in front of her–in order to cum is not only tantamount to staring at a locked refrigerator while hungry, but also an extreme insult to the capabilities of a pussy.
However, as “men” delve deeper into the depths of the epicene, it’s likely that self-love will indeed be the wave of the future–the norm, if you will. And if “men” are only giving it up to themselves, it means women in the “straight world” will be forced to do the same.
When taking into account that a hoverboard is basically a worse, more annoying version of the skateboard, it’s difficult to imagine that any “man” would want to subject himself to the embarrassment of using one. Then again, just look at the “men” who skateboard freely–it’s merely a more grandiose extension of that.
And while the very notion of a hoverboard was immortalized by Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox) back in 1989 with Back to the Future II, it seems as though it couldn’t catch on until the peak douche bag levels of this century called the twenty-first. And, in spite of being banned on the subway, the MTA is hardly capable of preventing anything horrendous from happening on their trains, let alone in the world of the aboveground, where all around us “men” hover just so, their dicks barely within our reach.
Because the twenty-first century seems to be all about opening its arms to gender neutrality, the previous limits of “male” fashion have been all but lifted entirely (see: Oak). Case in point, the average Williamsburg “man’s” comfortableness with wearing a tank top–whether smooth skinned or not.
With the heat dome upon us all, one has a feeling that it might not even be safe to leave the house until Tuesday, as it’s pretty much guaranteed that going outside the confines of your dickful zone will ensure the sighting of an army of tank topped “men,” sporting shades of pink, peach, minty green and other such fey colors.
Understandably, a “man” wants to keep cool because he never would have had it within him to build the pyramids (where at least “men” went topless altogether rather than attempting the guise of a tank). But honestly, show the classic parameters of fashion some respect–as well as other people’s eyes who don’t want to see your soft ass body flapping about.
Ghosting is hands down the most dickish (in spite of being allusive to not having a dick), cowardly move a “man” can make on the interpersonal relationship front. However, once he decides to go through with it, it’s very important that he sticks to the sociopathic choice. There shall be no recycling allowed.
And yet, for whatever reason, there are occasions for a “man” to fuck up (every second of the day is an occasion for them, really) and “mistakenly” invite you to one of their “events” on Facebook. But honestly, there are no mistakes when it comes to these invites, for what kind of non-discerning asshole clicks the Invite All button on this sort of thing? Everyone knows they must sift through their list of contacts (ultimately, people on Facebook are contacts, not friends) to ensure that no unwanted demons from the past are unburied.
Thus, for the ghosting “man” to attempt summoning you to one of his shitty performances, be they comedic, musical or otherwise, as a soft-dicked method to “feel out” your sentiments toward him is utterly vile. You wanted to disappear, so fucking stay that way.
“I’m gonna cut your face up so bad you’ll have a chin. You’ll all have chins!” This threat from Liz Lemon to her staff of weak chinned “men” on 30 Rock is a valid one, and perhaps a warning that truly should be executed by women who endure the presence of weak chins in their lives. For you see, it’s widely known that this sort of physical defect isn’t just unsightly, but also an indication of a “man” who has come from jank ass stock.
It is one thing to excuse this fault for the sake of relishing some of a “man’s” more compensating qualities, like a sense of humor or a sense of generosity when it comes to expressing affection and/or sentimentality. But the thing is, whenever you do make this exception to the intolerance of a weak chin rule, he will inevitably reveal himself to be just the sort of “man” who one expects to have a weak chin–because he’s dainty, uncouth and otherwise extremely punchable. No, no, it’s angularity that shows character, even when such angularity can give way to vanity.
Because most “men” are well-aware of the ratio that exists when it comes to women, a great many feel inclined to take the recycling approach to “relationships” (a.k.a. fucking) by revisiting females they formerly discarded from their past. Whether it’s because they assume you’ll always be around just waiting to offer up the magical forest that is your pussy or because they have no concept of human emotions, a grand majority of “men” are prone to viewing you as “reusable material.”
And yet, for as wrong as you know it is to fall prey to the objectification that comes with being perceived as waste worth picking through again, you, like a plastic bottle or aluminum can, allow yourself to be drunk from once more. But let’s just say it doesn’t hurt to “pepper your rim” with a bit of strychnine for the second go-around.
It’s hard to know what makes circumstances favor the formation of a craze. In the case of Pokémon Go, perhaps all that can be said about it is that “men” of the American variety are very daft, and very easily entertained. Plus, the promise of a virtual world often holds more cachet for most than what’s contained in the real.
That being said, those riveted by the game tend to be so not just in open, outdoor settings, but indoor ones as well. Never mind that the consideration factor of this entire app is indicative of just how effortlessly selfishness has become a caricature of itself in the modern epoch, but let us also take a moment to consider the inanity of the game’s concept. A “man” literally holds his phone up to the location he’s in–probably the Williamsburg waterfront if he’s especially dickless–and takes a picture of the Pokémon for, Christ knows what, posterity? The bottom line is, it’s all so flippant, and only compounded by the “man” who chooses Williamsburg as the milieu for virtually throwing a ball “in just the right way” at something to capture it or using “stardust and candies” to acquire more power. Though, in many instances of the successful Williamsburg denizen, he is using something akin to stardust and candies to get by on a wing and a prayer that cultivates the illusion of luxury.