Just as it is that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, so it is that every time a “man” wears flip flops in public, the earth becomes just a little bit ickier. Of course, it’s one thing for a being claiming to have a penis to wear flip flops in a confined, private space (presumably not his own home due to the fact that “men” never have their own homes). But to take that sanctity of the private space in question and try to translate it into the public realm is not only gauche, but also, quite simply, an overt affront to one’s fellow “man” (since we all know “men” aren’t motivated in any way to impress or cater to their fellow woman, but then, why would they be if she’s saying shit like, “Living my best life“).
Plus, whenever he walks through the streets with his stench-ridden feet, made all the more stench-ridden from the sweat that comes with the heat of the summer, it most assuredly accelerates global warming by one degree–and is that something we really need all for the sake of his ability to “feel comfortable” in and out of the domicile he doesn’t even pay for? By the same token, if he’s saving all this money on being unkempt, can’t he at least pay a few extra bones (since he has no boner) to, at the bare(foot) minimum, buy a pair of closed-toed shoes so that the rest of us don’t have to bear witness to the atrocity exhibition? Even those rare women who fetishize shrimping can’t get off on an unclean, city grit-endured set of toes.
Just as it is with film, so it is with books that “men” of an often pretentious nature have a very specific arsenal of go-to recommendations tailored toward impressing women that they think are intellectually inferior anyway. From Raymond Chandler to Gunter Grass, the “man” with the book recommendations is calculated in his choices, wanting to be just esoteric enough, but not so obscure that the girl he’s trying to impress is made to feel totally stupid. Because heaven forbid she could actually know anything beyond what was suggested to her based on titles she’s viewed or purchased on Amazon. Or even be cognizant of what “true literature” (code for: written by a blowhard) really is.
And while the novice sort of female, the kind who is usually too young and not well-read enough to know better (this is, in point of fact, just one of two reasons why “men” have a predilection for zygotes), might be impressed by the “sweet nothings” not so much whispered as touted in the form of his literary knowledge, those who have been through it all before at this point will know that the best approach to “listening” is simply nodding along as best as you can without eye-rolling. Letting him have the orgasmic satisfaction of believing that you believe that he hasn’t recommended these same exact novels to every other pussy that has had the misfortune of entering his con artist life. That this is “custom content,” if you will–reading advice given purely from a place of wanting to suggest something tailored to your personality and interests, when, in reality, it’s about his own self-validation. You’re so smart, [insert white guy name here]. You’re so worldly, [insert white guy name here]. And before you know it, he’s cum all over the books he’s peddling toward you.