While those with large hands (and not the odious small kind that are lacking the potential for ten extra dicks) might have a strange tendency to display a predilection for the finger bang in bed, there’s something to be said for the “man” who overly prefers sticking his fingers into a generally private orifice. It tells you either 1) he is insecure about using his actual puh-neese or 2) he probably secretly hates women and wants to stamp their pussy out into oblivion with his fingers.
On the one “hand,” sure, it might initially come across as a nice gesture (literally) for a “man” to be so seemingly concerned with your ability to cum that he’s willing to drive himself to the point of near carpal tunnel. But what is actually going on is rarely so cut and dried (unlike your presumably damp vag). In truth, the psychosis behind the “man” who favors the finger bang is far more disturbing, because, yes, there is a large part of him that wants to go all Patrick Bateman on it.
There’s missing a dick and then there’s missing ten potential dicks in the form of fingers. While, yes, it’s an old cliche–maybe even a, to use a derogatory expression, “old wives’ tale”–that those who have small hands also have a small dick. But then again, maybe “tales” of such a nature exist for a reason: to prevent dickless “men” from getting the kind of “tails” they oughtn’t be fucking with.
The roster of notable small-handed “men” has, of course, done nothing to debunk the myth that behind every pair of petite digits is an even more petite penis. From Napoleon to Trump–it’s clear that “men” with demure phalanges have psychological issues from being incapable of pleasuring a woman with their hands. And it isn’t just that a “man” whose fist feels more like wearing a pad than riding a bike when he presses it against your vag is unenjoyable to be in bed with. It’s that, yes, his dick size mirrors the hands, okay?
In the advertising world, there can be no denying that the industry is still heavily dominated by “men.” That being said, there’s no question that the latest Seamless ad to cause offense (on the heels of the “Cooking is so Jersey” aspect of the campaign) was engineered by someone with an alleged penis.
While one is all for a bout of irreverent humor at the expense of others, there are some instances where a “man” should know better and rein it in. That being said, the Williamsburg-placed Seamless ad parading the mantra of speed that insists it can deliver food “faster than this neighborhood is gentrifying” is not only behind the times in terms of speaking to what’s already transpired in “the ‘Burg,” but also a far too “light-hearted” jab at the displacement of long-standing residents in any area–New York or otherwise.
While it’s all very crafty and predictable to cater to the audience of whites most likely to use the delivery service that will bring overpriced Thai food right to their doorman, at what point does a company finally decide to weigh total insensitivity against profit margins based on a harsh media blitzkrieg?
To loosely quote Cher Horowitz, it is one thing to be nostalgic for the 90s, but it’s quite another to be so into it that you revert back to actually playing pogs. And yet, because Williamsburg caters to the endless cultivation of an adult playground, a pog store dedicated to the selling, trading and playing of pogs is expected to open off the Graham Avenue L at the end of August.
Though some are speculating this could very well be a hoax, the rule of thumb in this town is usually that the more absurd something is, the more likely it is to be true. And with purported tie-ins like 90s TV nights offering screenings of such awesomely bad programming as Full House and Step by Step, whatever this store ultimately decides to call itself will invariably be a field day for the dickless, a magnet for the regressive weaklings unable to face their true age.
It’s not just you who has noticed a certain pussy-like trait in the millennial “male.” Now you have science on your side to prove that, yes, every “man” age 18-34 is a fragile little daisy, inept at most things, particularly functioning and having a job (HSP is, of course, a symptom of all this). And, worst of all, he’s “significantly weaker” than his father, which is only a further boon to his sensitivity and frivolous motivations.
As Missing a Dick has expressed in the past, there are some “men” so tormented by living in the shadow of their patriarch, they will even go so far as to only get a Father’s Day gift to prove they’ve surpassed their old man. But what’s most concerning about this weakness in “men” is that it isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. Literally weak. “The research, published… found that the hands and arms of men aged from 20 to 34 were less strong than those of men measured 30 years ago.” Though this might seem unbelievable considering how much masturbation and video game playing goes on in the current era, the emotional is an extension of the physical. So maybe if all these “men” in the millennial demographic weren’t so damned faint-hearted and worried about impressing their daddies when they never fucking will, we would be dealing with fewer puny “penises.”
In the days of the early to mid twentieth century (and, of course, all the centuries before), “men” seemed more capable of swallowing any of the unpleasant “emotional problems” that were bothering them in order to carry forth with whatever task du jour needed to be performed (fucking included). Now, with the approved, near government-sanctioned state of lily-liveredness allowed to run amok, psychology has permitted “men” to use the excuse of being an HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) a.k.a. someone with hypersensitivity.
This concept, highly accommodating and somewhat hypocritical considering how often “men” make fun of women for being overly touchy (see: the cliche joke, “You on your period or something?”), is just the tip of the iceberg for allowing “men” to get away with essentially any douchebag behavior they want. He’s too sensitive to something you’ve said? It’s time for him to ghost (then probably pretend he never did anything wrong by inviting you to an event on Facebook). He’s offended by the loud sound of your burp? Time for him to cut and run. There is a point where psychology as it relates to “males,” more than anything, is designed to compartmentalize in a way that completely eradicates culpability. Where the fuck is Freud when you need him to get back to basics? You’re not hypersensitive. You’re a fucking coward.
In life, there are some musical faux pas that simply can’t be forgiven. Apart from listing Like A Virgin as the best Madonna album, not having listened to the entire canon of The Smiths’ work is number one on the list of unforgivable sonic sins. The “man” who refuses to let the gospel into his life is often of the belief that The Smiths are “whiny,” or an even worse descriptor, “emo.”
Not only is this generalization petty and small-minded, it highlights just how susceptible the “man” in question is to absorbing regurgitation without actually finding out his own opinion for himself. To veto The Smiths based on the mere fact that Zooey Deschanel briefly ruined them by singing “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” in 500 Days of Summer is not the mark of a very open or informed “man.” And those “men” who had already listened to The Smiths but decided they were too “grown up” for such things not only have no dick, but no soul.
The only other excuse a “man” might try to use to get out of being chastised for not having listened to the Manchester quartet’s complete discography is that he’s too young–the band is “before his time.” But alas, immaculate works of sonic brilliance exist outside the bounds of time, whereas some “men’s” dicks only existed in their mother’s womb when the umbilical cord was still mistakable for one.
Because New York persists in becoming increasingly like the plot of J.G. Ballard’s High-Rise, the undercurrent of class-related jealousies continue to crop up in the most unlikely of ways–the latest being a subtle homage to the Ying Yang Twins in that a “man” felt compelled to heave a salt shaker at a 23-year-old girl standing outside of the Alligator Lounge in Williamsburg.
Granted, the ilk that gravitates there isn’t exactly aware of “the struggle” as fully as others. Yet, surely they must be mildly desperate if they’re trying to get a free pizza with their drink. The “man” in question was not identified with ethnicity, though, suffice it to say, he probably had it in for white girls “peppering” the neighborhood, perhaps lending some intentional poetry to his weapon choice.
His use of the derogatory phrase, “privilege bitch” instead of “privileged bitch” also indicates that maybe if he had a little bit more fucking education he would 1) know how to properly insult someone and 2) wouldn’t be so goddamn uppity about his station in life. “Men” don’t throw salt shakers at women, they use them to season the elegant meal they’ve prepared for them in their condo.
Who knows where that sort of self-imposed pressure “men” who make constant jokes comes from? It could be anything from a youth spent among verbally abusive parents and needing to lighten the situation however possible to being ugly and wanting to impress the opposite sex via “personality” instead.
Regardless of the reason why some “men” feel compelled to constantly tell not just jokes, but usually bad ones, it can grow quite wearisome to the woman who has to pretend to listen to and laugh at them on a regular basis. Worst of all, of course, is the “man” especially fond of telling “‘Guy’ walks into a bar” jokes, including the likes of “A man walks into a bar with a slab of asphalt under his arm and says: ‘a beer please, and one for the road.'”
No matter how much money you make, there is nothing worth a woman subjecting her skin to wrinkles garnered in vain for your shittaytay attempt at humor. So unless you’re willing to furnish all of your dates with a tub of La Mer, shut the fuck up–that joke isn’t funny anymore.
Perhaps we can thank Dion of Dion and the Belmonts for subconsciously infiltrating the collective “male” psyche with the notion of needing to constantly be on the move. That belief that to be a wanderer is to avoid reality, to embody a Maslowian form of existence.
The “man” who “cultures” himself by geographically and sexually wandering is, in truth, in a permanent state of eschewal from a connection to anything or anyone (who knows if it’s a psychological form of avoidance or not?–but, as we all know, “men” are mentally delicate flowers). As Dion boasts, “I kiss ’em and I love ’em/’Cause to me they’re all the same,” indicating that people and places are interchangeable; why bother getting too close?
Smacking of sociopathy as Dion happily admits, “I roam from town to town/I go through life without a care,” it’s enough to make Mary, Flo, Janie and Rosie rue the fuckin’ day they trusted him with their hearts and pussys (hearts and pussys not just being a good butt metal band name, but also what drive and destroy women for the most part).