It’s ever commoner for a “man” to think that the mere bandying of the phrase “stay woke” makes him in touch with the plights of others, with his own very inner so-called turmoil. Lately, he is a “man” of a couleur blanc, which makes the use of this phrase especially unfortunate. It’s unclear how, exactly, it took this long for the term to catch on among the masses (again, this means blancs who have finally become aware of something that a minority previously helmed). And, lest you forget, “stay woke” was already being touted by Erykah Badu in 2008 with “Master Teacher (I Stay Woke).”
Yet here we are, suffering the aftermath of Childish Gambino’s “Redbone” nine years post-Badu (though the song was released in late 2016). Apparently, the words in this incarnation have somehow been made far more palatable to the average blanc “man,” particularly since the track peppers the soundtrack to Get Out, which, as we all know, white people have a super boner for–almost more than they do for Wes Anderson movies, strangely enough. But, as an American expatriate living in Paris once noted, most of the people quote unquote staying woke are in a coma. But they’re woke in that coma though, don’t even worry about it. Just keep repeating the phrase and you, too, can believe in your own heightened consciousness.
Usually, when a “man” is a cop or TSA worker, he has this tendency to relish searches of the non-spiritual kind, which is almost worse than that ilk that goes to an ashram in the Far East specifically to find something. In any case, this is to say, he likes to explore orifices of other people’s bodies instead of the ones in his own mind. Because why explore the self if it’s far too grotesque to examine on a level beyond the surface that a bullet can nick?
The greatest pleasure of cavity searching is how much it allows the “man” doing it to humiliate the person he so chooses to randomly target. It’s as though to say, “I am god, and you are but a ‘man,’ or worse, a ‘helpless’ woman.” And I will stick my finger up your asshole as far as I goddamn well please. Because cavity searching isn’t just for dentists anymore. And maybe it never really was (at least, historically looking back on some of the ancient Greek and Roman behaviors that focused far more on ass play than teeth concerns).
Morrissey once claimed, “The more you ignore me, the closer I get.” Maybe he had never dealt with a “heterosexual” “man” (but who am I kidding, that’s all he’s dealt with in his lust at its most unfulfilled). The more a “man” ignores a woman these days, the more she wants to establish herself into his emotional ether, only spurring his reflexive desire to run in the other direction from any girl who comes across as too earnest, interested and otherwise into it.
She can attempt to transcend all of his boundaries and barriers, doing things she never thought herself capable of (like feigning an interest in nature or something), but it won’t mean anything to the “man” she seeks to pin down. As a matter of point, he’ll only respect her less in the process of continuing to cut the cord she’s so insistent binds them together. But he just looks so desirable over there on the other side, creating the space between them that demarcates unattainability.
The “man” who wears rings in general is typically not to be trusted. Or, worse, if he isn’t wearing one, he’s probably concealing the fact that he’s married. And yet, the “man” continuing to feign bachelorhood isn’t half as bad as the multiple ring wearer, or worse, the “man” who just wears a pinkie ring.
What does a pinkie ring say? Well, usually one of three things: “I’m involved in Long Island, Staten Island or New Jersey-based organized crime,” “I’m extremely hairy and have made my money in some sort of sleazoid fashion” or “I will be going to the strip club and doing cocaine tonight.” At the bare minimum, however, a “man” with a pinkie ring should splurge for genuine white gold or gold. Because the words “-tone” or -“plated” attached to the aforementioned mean a further unattachment to a puh-neese (or, panisse).
Cross-gender–not to be confused solely with cross-dressing or being transgender–empathy is the simple ability for someone–a “man”–to put himself in the place of another person that is not technically packing a dick (though probably has more of a dick than most cisgender “men” of the moment). This propensity is usually most helpful when contributing to what the powers that be funnel into mainstream society, specifically within the realm of film and television.
If the suits in charge see that “men” continue to be non-amenable to the vision of women in roles that usually only generally “befit” a “man,” of course they’re going to find no monetarily profitable reason to change the tired “male”-oriented formula. As Emma Watson pointed out, it’s harder for “men” to relate to genders and walks of life that aren’t straightforwardly “male.” This is, one supposes, why they sit there with their mouths agape upon seeing a woman onscreen who isn’t being objectified or melodramatic. And, in general, “men” only tend to see women as melodramatic in their comportment because they react so little themselves to emotional trauma. You’re not gonna see them pull a Jasmine Francis on a park bench in most cases.
There is a term helmed by screenwriter Dylan Haggerty, the mastermind behind writing Gregg Araki’s 2007 stoner opus, Smiley Face. That term, ladies and gentle”men” is skull fucker. What type of monster creepazoid would fuck a skull, you ask? The kind that obsesses over Bach. That’s right, people who listen to classical music all the time are the types of weirdos who fuck skulls. The kind that actually refers to Bach as Johann Sebastian Bach and can cite the name of the cantata he’s hearing without hesitation. Nay, uses the goddamn word “cantata” in casual conversation.
It’s nice when “men” are learned, sure, but there is more than a tinge of faux learnedness to the “man” overly enthralled by the musical genius of Bach. And yeah, there’s no argument that the “man” was a genius–yet still he was presumably as pompous and self-aggrandizing as the “male” fans he’s accrued over the centuries.
Thus, if you’re in a setting that’s not showing Beauty Shop (in which there’s a scene of a boy who thinks the girl he’s interested is talking about 2pac instead of Bach), in a music conservatory or at a stodgy dinner party on the Upper East Side or the part of Brooklyn where kids’ schools cost more than the average community college, run for cover if you hear any “man” bring up Bach like the magniloquent motherfucker he probably is.
Like the rainbow bagel, the spaghetti donut has set off a chain reaction of salivating “men” fiending for a food item that should never have been birthed. Served at the epicenter of dicklessness, Smorgasburg, this prime example of culinary bastardization has got “men’s” mouths all over the trend like their mother’s tit.
Who knows if something about the thinness of the spaghetti reminds them of their own dick girth or if they realize that the hole within the donut is the closest they’re ever going to get to an entity resembling a vagina? It’s arbitrary. The point is, “men” get positively erect for mutant/fusion food of this nature primarily because the only thing they get enthusiastic about is that which is inanimate as opposed to that which is tactile: a woman’s body.
So while “men” ignore the waifish Williamsburg pussy passing them by in favor of Instagramming themselves eating a spaghetti donut, the world at least gets ever closer to a point of zero population growth.
I get being contrarian, more than you could ever understand. But some things simply can’t be argued in favor of, and the Kendall Jenner Pepsi commercial is one of them. Unlike a certain past controversial Pepsi ad, it is statementless–its lack of consideration of a message actually speaking larger volumes regarding just how oblivious to reality someone with a lot of money and a specific racial background (yeah, white) can be.
But more than fueling the fire of contempt for the white girl, the Pepsi ad has now bred a new source of disdain, this time for the “man” defending it. Yes, the only extra from the bizarre-in-its-indifference, pro-police piece of propaganda who has spoken out in the aftermath is arguing that the majority of the people on set were culled from Thailand and most likely didn’t fully understand where any source of offense from Americans might derive from (which is obviously why they agreed to act in the commercial, as no self-respecting American familiar with the racially charged divide between police and the Black Lives Matter movement would go through with appearing in such a vehicle, regardless of being able to put something “legitimate” on his or her resume).
In addition to touting that the Pepsi folk assured a message of “unity,” the “man,” strategically and understandably choosing to remain anonymous, commented, “It’s like, I was just doing my job. They asked me to be in the commercial.” And that’s where the whole complicity thing that’s been blowing up the Merriam-Webster site of late comes in. One can feign the Mariah defense of “I don’t know her”/it, but as the world becomes an ever-mounting hotbed of catastrophe thanks to apathy, the citadel of feigned ignorance really doesn’t work for anyone.
A happy face. A face with a wink and a tongue sticking out. A “man” on a surfboard. It all seems so innocent and nonchalant to most “men” unaware that texting is an art form that should be treated with the same level of care as writing a thesis. Because the woman on the other side of that text is going to analyze it with the meticulousness of a holy document, and he should at least have the consideration to know that any especially esoteric emoji will keep her busy dissecting for hours.
It can’t be helped, really, as she wants so badly to find depth and thought where there is none: inside a “man’s” mind. But no, the “male” texter in question has far less strategy in his method of communication, arbitrarily choosing laughing, crying or kissy faces as the whim strikes him. If only he could put just a touch more intent behind what he said, as opposed to emitting what amounts to emoji salad, a grab bag of meaninglessness that the girl he’s sending it to is deranged enough to attempt deciphering like Talmudic law.
It’s rare to find a “man” to spoon with befitting your tailored body molding specifications and the desired amount of time spent engaging in a lack of activity (“men” seem to need to be constantly buzzing about, as it were). So when you do, you can’t help but believe that it must feel so magical because he, too, is experiencing the same internal explosions of l’amour–or at least intense like.
It shouldn’t be so easy, after all, for a “man” to give himself in that way. And yet, you may soon come to unearth the awful truth for yourself: “men” have no trouble feigning intimacy for a few sessions before throwing in the cum-stained towel–just long enough to make you believe the emotion radiating from this unique physical expression was real.
But, darling, it was not. And almost worse than getting a taste of good dick is getting a taste of that sweet spoon, only to have it ripped away. It really makes the loneliness of being “one with yourself” in a bed that much more drastic. With this in mind, it’s best to treat spooning with more caution and careful consideration than, well, fucking.