While, yes, The Strokes had their place and time back in 2001 and 2003 with Is This It and Room on Fire, the band’s downhill slide mirrored that of other similar acts of the era, including, say, Franz Ferdinand. And so, there is a certain breed of “man” who relishes telling others that his favorite band is still The Strokes. He is usually a “man” from New York and therefore feels the need to support one of the city’s largest claims to pop culture fame apart from The Ramones, a band The Strokes has ripped off in many a way.
He is also the type of “man” to be in a band himself, playing that odious word, “gigs,” at haunts like Baby’s All Right and Shea Stadium, just hoping and praying for someone to notice that his “style” is different than all the other indie groups in town. Not too different, but just different enough–much like The Strokes themselves, who haven’t had a decent album since, at best, 2006.
More than the clothes making the “man,” it’s his musical taste–and The Strokes say it all with their moniker: “men” who worship them are merely self-stroking their phantom appendage.
It used to be you could get a modicum of common courtesy in the pre-dating app world. “Men” had to be more discreet with their constant perusal for the next orifice to stick their nub in. But the advent of Tinder (and other jank knockoffs of its nature) altered a “man’s” perspective on appropriate, decorous trolling behavior. Vagine overload, if you will.
While, yes, women still mainly use the app in the hope of at least getting free food or drink out of an encounter with a “man” whose conversation skills are limited to monosyllabic cave speak, it doesn’t give a so-called dude the right to go on the hunt for his next fix merely because he’s bored, dissatisfied or otherwise. What is more, the least a “man” could do in exchange for being given the privilege of touching a woman’s cuerpo is not go on a quest for another in her presence. But then, that would be too dickful an act in the twenty-first century.
There is an unfair ratio in this town. One that heavily tips in favor of the “male” prowl. It is something like 9:1 (this is mathematical hyperbole, yes, but sounds completely accurate as far as Missing A Dick is concerned). It is odds like these that merely further compel the average “man” to act like a whore/asshole/ghost with regard to comportment toward the women they manage to penetrate.
Why bother treating a woman well, after all, when there are so many to swing one’s nonexistent dick at? Sadly, this tends to result in another unjust ratio: that of female tears to “male” tears. The hours a dame will spend wasting her energy on the sadness of being easily disposed of is a blip to “men” who have no need of mourning the loss of any pussy–because it’s a cinch to discover another. Furthermore, because the straight “male” population is a dying breed (blame Michael Cera for being a viable leading “man” to this generation), the ratio only augments, adding to that vial of female tears that will soon need a vat for storage.
“Men” do a great many things to disappoint women. But usually, on the bright side, it’s things that they’re at least aware of. However, not in the case of a certain overzealous sperm donor by the name of Ari Nagel, who has donated his seed to enough women to have produced twenty-two children, some of which could be learning French in Williamsburg right at this very moment.
While, theoretically, it’s all very “noble” and “generous” for an “educated” “man” to contribute back to society in this way, the act is rendered immediately skeevy when it comes to one’s attention that Nagel’s wife had no idea of the extent to which he was being so charitable. Indeed, it seems as though Nagel quite literally gets off on the spreading of his seed in secret–the illicitness of it all contributing to his orgasm. But sooner or later, the well is going to run dry, and then what will he be able to offer his wife other than a framed picture of the New York Post cover story he was on?
In spite of the fact that the screenplay for Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist was penned by a woman, its limp male influence is strengthened by the co-writer of the original story, David Levithan, the director, Peter Sollett, and, of course, that half “man” hybrid, Michael Cera. Establishing the trend of films that would set off an unwanted “indie romance” chain that would later go on to include 500 Days of Summer, Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist is tailored to the “man” who aspires to be a musician and doesn’t seem to know that his entire romantic life is based on a hackneyed version of the plot of Romeo and Juliet (where the whole replacing an ex with someone shiny and new right away storyline occurs).
While some women might like to believe that a “man” who enjoys this film is someone with a “sensitive” side who understands how perfectly to create a mix tape (whatever format that may take in this epoch) that will speak to your soul and therefore your pussy, it really just means he is the very pinnacle of effeteness, drooping with the sort of softness that one wishes could at least apply to his dick, except that its presence clearly doesn’t exist. But then, what does one expect when a “man” looks to Michael Cera as a viable protagonist worth emulating?
Like most holidays, the concept and meaning behind the Fourth of July has long ago gotten away from many Americans (hint: it’s about our own prehistoric version of Brexit). And, of course, residents of the North Brooklyn vicinity are no exception. Although they like to think they’re special or a band apart from the Midwest and whatever other nondescript region exists within this country, the truth is, those who stay in town are going to do exactly what every other American is: “grill out.”
No one is really sure when this expression came about. Missing A Dick surmises it was probably sometime in the 1950s, when being masculine meant sizzling a lot of meat at once. Though, of course, there is nothing more rife with homoerotic overtones. And because, for whatever reason, there is no practice truly as “American” as barbecuing hamburgers and hot dogs, made most often during the summertime, “grilling out” eventually seemed to bleed into Fourth of July festivities. And yet, the “man” who extends this very specifically worded invitation to you has no excuse for using such terminology. You’re better off going with the bloke who offers to buy you a six-pack and sit in the park to watch the other saps (a 50s term I’m trying to bring back) “grill out.” Then again, you’ll probably just have to do such things with your female best friend who you’ll invariably end up marrying anyway because she knows better than to use douche bag phrases that offend you.
Listen, we’ve all made exceptions regarding sexual practices at the tail end of our period. We either simply forget that it’s still concluding or assume that the “man” in question will be too blacked out to notice a light sampling of blood. But every now and again, if you manage to find that rare breed who doesn’t evade eating you out, you and he might both be taken aback by the presence of more blood than expected.
“I looked like Hannibal Lecter,” he’ll whine to you after returning from the bathroom. Then you’ll feel like a shithead, as though it’s your fault that nature did this to you, and you have other things to keep track of besides whether or not you should still be wearing a tampon. But in today’s world of dainty “men,” there’s usually no coming back from an incident like this. He will toss you out in favor of a Seasonale sort of broad. Whereas women eat ass, suck hairy dicks, lick sweaty skin and are willing to tolerate the looser flesh of an older gentleman and pretty much any other physical flaw. But no, a “man” can’t handle a little period blood now and again. Jesus Christ, it’s good for one’s constitution.