There are a lot of ways to impress a woman. Expressing an interest in books and films, casually mentioning you just came into an inheritance, tripping and falling so that your huge dick pops out of your zipper, etc. But one of the ways that is not effective is urging, “Check out my YouTube channel.”
For one, any “man” who feels the need to bring this to light is clearly trying and failing at being famous (a common epidemic among the North Brooklyn population) and for another, the last thing any female wants to see is how willing you are to prostrate yourself before “millions” (but really tens) of strangers. It probably means you have a Tinder profile and will inevitably go on it in front of her.
And then, of course, there is the level of braggadocio it requires for a “man” to make such a declaration. Whenever this occurs, his need to talk himself up is almost always compensating for his lack of a dique. Thus the formula, no YouTube channel = presence of puh-neese, can be applied to the majority of situations.
Sometimes, it’s hard to know which is worse: a “man’s” obsession with his father or with his mother. But, for the most part, the most frequently used expression of love for a parent veers toward the maternal side when it comes to inked form.
Not only is the use of the standard issued heart with the capital letters “M O M” a sign that you as a woman with needs for a “man” who has, what psychologists call individuated, should run the other direction, but also one that he is disgustingly attached to his matriarch.
Whether she’s dead or alive, the tattoo homage is a definite indication that the only woman in his life who he’ll ever care about is Mama, and you ain’t gonna be able to hold no candle to that. You should let your candle burn for someone else, preferably a “man” with a tattoo that shows commitment to a single city, so you know he doesn’t like to travel and he’ll never leave you.
Before Nelly Furtado became rather annoying, she was just trying to promote her first single, “I’m Like A Bird” back in 2001, even going so far as to make a cameo singing at “Las Cruces University” on Roswell (kind of like how Christina Aguilera had to make an appearance on a life supported era of Beverly Hills 90210 in 1999 to sing “Genie in a Bottle”). In any case, this song offers a surprising amount of profundity with regard to how most “men” see themselves.
As Furtado laments, “You’re lovely, but it’s not for sure,” she sets the tone for describing a skittish “man” who could fly off of his perch at any moment to pursue something potentially better or simply because it strikes his fancy in that moment. His shrug-it-off excuse, “I don’t know where my soul is, I don’t know where my home is,” means he can deny any sense of accountability for leaving you in the lurch without warning. Like a bird, he’ll only fly away because it’s much easier than sticking around to hear a woman squawk.
There is a difference between wanting something so badly you’ll do anything to get it and merely being an outright simp. That line has been toed by a certain “man” who agreed to pay $450 a month for a windowless hovel in Williamsburg. Rather than live for free in the public bathroom at McCarren Park, which essentially offers the same ambience, and probably far more space than a forty-square-foot cubbyhole, this “man” has decided to throw away $450 to sleep standing up. At this rate, homelessness truly seems like a more viable and reasonably priced option.
The worst part is, now that the “man” in question has put his living quarters above a music venue on blast, he’ll probably be evicted for violating some sort of rental code. But then again, maybe his desire for fame as a musician is better suited to the ends of giving an interview to The New York Times about his living situation, which, if nothing else, can be parlayed into another shittatay Williamsburg-based reality TV show.
It’s difficult to fully pinpoint when Bill Murray’s resurgence in popularity came about–with specific regard to his mascot-like presence and lovability in Brooklyn. Maybe it was around the time after Lost in Translation came out. Whatever the case, the obsession many “men” and women alike have with Murray reached a fever pitch this weekend when the Ghostbusters icon appeared at his son’s bar to sling drinks.
With his son’s latest “project”–a bar/restaurant in the North Brooklyn nexus called 21 Greenpoint–opening, Murray decided to show his support by offering to tend bar. At first an open event, it quickly became invite only when everyone got wind of it. This still didn’t stop hordes of “men” from lining up around the block in the hope of gaining entrance to be served by a cult celebrity. However, more than wanting to go purely for reasons of “fanship,” the true motive for the “men” driven to the bar stemmed solely from the potential for a photo opportunity. But alas, only the most dickless of the lot managed to gain entry to snap their prized photo of Murray, who was appropriately soused to get through the event.
Like Thom Yorke himself, the Radiohead lover is not without his own very distinct set of neuroses, seeking “artistic” solace and justification in the words of Yorke, who can assure anyone that a malaise and disinclination toward “success” is perfectly natural, and that, yes, women are merely things to write about after discarding them (e.g. “All For the Best,” “True Love Waits,” “Give Up The Ghost,” etc.).
The “man” overly elated at releasing his seed whenever Radiohead releases something is also something of a flutterer in relationships, waiting to play that perfect sentimental song for whoever he happens to be in bed with that night. There’s nothing that connotes a “serious” “man” more than one who listens to Radiohead, after all. And the more content they put out, the more women will do the same to the “man” who feigns substance in being one of their fans.
Considering Jesus Christ is probably one of the most dickful “men” in history, the bloke deserves a fair amount of reverence when having his iconography handled. But alas, a one hundred-year-old statue at a South 3rd Street rectory was not given its due delicacy when a drunk “man” decided to high five it and give it a kiss.
While perhaps somewhere deep down, this “man’s” intentions were pure, as he was overcome with a feeling of worshipful appreciation, feelings rarely count when they’re expressed either drunkenly or violently–and, in this case, both factors were at play. Though religion may not have any place in a town like Williamsburg, is it still too much for a church to ask to keep Jesus safe from harm? The “man” died for your sins so that your dickless self could keep sinning without remorse (hence, statue breaking) for fuck’s sake.
There are a lot of people who were in Williamsburg before it was “a thing.” One of those people was not Adrian Grenier, who seems all too content to solidify his status as the douche bag he “played” on Entourage. Why else would he make the following declaration in a certain interview?: “’I pioneered Williamsburg… it got so gentrified that I had to come to Bushwick. I lived two blocks away, and then this place opened, and I couldn’t afford to live in this neighborhood,’ he says, gesturing around Roberta’s, which opened in 2008. ‘We used to have to walk three miles backward in the snow for a cup of coffee when we lived here. Now there’s, like, baristas and cold brew.'”
Those sound like really trying times and all that Grenier had to endure in order to pioneer a neighborhood that’s been “trending” since at least 2006, when The New York Times first alluded to the paradigm shift (the first allusion in what would be many about how it was–and sometimes still is–the next hot neighborhood). Plus, he then had to leave for Bushwick when it had nothing more than Roberta’s and a bar. Quelle martyr. Honestly, it’s as though he suffered the same travails as Lewis and Clark.
Because there is such a thing as a pussy tease, women of the twenty-first century are right to feel sexually frustrated and enraged when “men” dangle the promise of themselves like John Lennon so often did to Brian Epstein. Though the historical origins of “the dangle” can most likely be traced to the homoeroticism of Rome, it’s important to look to one of the most concrete examples of the tantalizer: Lennon.
Knowing full well of Epstein’s desire for him, Lennon used the sexual power he wielded as a torture device to extract what he wanted from the longtime Beatles manager. And sure, he let Epstein suck him off a few times to placate him, but, by and large, Epstein was always left unsatisfied (one can surely imagine Lennon taunting him with the phrase, “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”).
This level of brandishing one’s body is common to the “men” of today, who, for whatever reason, are skittish about giving up the dick. Maybe it has to do with the overtness of how interested a woman is in sex that makes it unappealing to a “man.” Maybe the thrill of boning was only enjoyable to them when it felt more withheld. No one likes easy availability, after all–it connotes damaged goods.
It’s ill-advised in general to bring one’s inflatable blow-up doll to any public venue, but this lack of decorum is compounded when the venue in question is, well, the 9/11 Memorial. And yet, that’s exactly what a gaggle of British “men” (the daintiest of the gender, followed closely by the French) decided would be best to do following a stag party.