Men Who, For More Than Introduction Purposes, Use Their Middle Names and/or A Roman Numeral.

It’s got to be said, darling, that whenever a “man” needs a lot of fanfare for anything, most especially something as simple and straightforward as his name, well, then, it’s fairly likely he’s got something to hide. And that something is a phantom panisse. Think about it: did the greatest lotharios, the most illustrious sex machines rely on some long flowery moniker to distinguish them to women? Certainly not. Don Juan, Marquis de Sade, Ron Jeremy. These are all extremely succinct. In the old days, a cumbersome nom might have been a sign of nobility–but when was nobility ever a sign of virility?

When you start involving the lengthiness of a name like Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, it becomes clear just what is not lengthy where it counts in duration of coitus and size of appendage delivering the performance. No one needs to know your credentials based on the largeness of your name, but on how pleasantly large you can make the clitoris swell and then contract at the opportune moment of orgasm. So unless reciting your unnecessarily protracted name while having sex helps you protract the enjoyment of the ingenue you’ve managed to convince of your greatness in stature and finances (there’s a reason rich girls flock to bartenders and waiters), a one-word designation will suffice. Like the most tangible personification of sex there ever was, Prince.

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Men Who Are White Supremacists.

The word supremacist really oughtn’t exist at all, as no one on this planeta is supreme in any way or by any means. We’re all assholes really, in some fashion or other. Then again, some assholes are bigger than others, chiefly “men” who subscribe to being white supremacists. Where the notion of their so-called supremacy comes from is difficult to pinpoint, as white “men” have been responsible for just about every war (not to mention heartbreak) in history. It’s almost impossible to fathom that they could think their actual skin tone is superior, being that we all know pasty and pallid tones certainly make one look much fatter.

Their use of “science,” or rather, pseudoscience, in defending their presumed “dominance” over other races is just one of many platforms for their “cause” that rather indicates, if anything, inferiority to those they wage their vitriol and violence against. Sadly, even the most “enlightened” of thinkers–Voltaire, for example, who once wrote, “It is a serious question… whether the Africans are descended from monkeys or whether the monkeys come from them.”–have fallen prey to this illusion of race. The U.S. especially has shed most of its blood solely based on this construct.

In UNESCO’s first official statement issued on race in 1950, entitled somewhat pejoratively, “The Race Question,” the apparently timeless assessment, “…’race’ is not so much a biological phenomenon as a social myth,” continues to evade the obviously daft prick of a white “male,” so convinced is he of his supremacy when its only motive can derive from having either a thin or chode-like panisse. Call it pseudoscience if you will.

Men Who Leave Shit Stains in the Toilette.

Considering that “men” are too often coddled by their apparently incompetent-in-raising-children parents, it’s probably no wonder that they can barely wipe their own asshole, let alone spare the time to properly ensure that they leave a clean toilette bowl for those subjected to sharing the foul experience of trading off bathroom time with them. But one really has to ask: how is it deemed acceptable in the mind of any “man” to look behind him, see the flecks of brown caked on the bottom of the porcelain abyss and think, “Yeah, it’s fine for me to keep that there for someone else to see–for someone else to never be able to unsee”?

Does the “man” in question truly believe that this is how a toilette should be? That other people with unimpaired vision will simply be immune to the visibility of his former food items? The gall of depositing one’s “remnants” in this way is not only typically telling of a white “male” who has had everything “happen” to him for most of his life, merely expecting problems to melt away from someone else pressing a button (in this case, the handle on the toilette), but also, frankly, an uncouth entity barely evolved past cave”man” status. Except at least cave”men” had the decency to handle their elimination process somewhere behind a bevy of rocks that no one was liable to see again thanks to one’s sense of smell deflecting his interest in approaching the area.