Men Who Say Women Only Cry Rape When They’ve Been Rejected.

A running theme throughout the grotesque narratives that have come out of the endless barrage of women finally feeling “somewhat” at ease enough to report the abuse both physical and emotional that they have endured at the hands (or rather, pathetic nubs) of “men” is that they are lying. At first, it was all, “Okay women, we’ll let you have your fun with Harvey Weinstein and some other Hollywood types.” But now that the #MeToo “crusade” has hit the political arena, “men” in suits want to put a stop to the Pandora’s box that has been opened, and they will do so by the most classic means necessary: gaslighting, writing women’s recollections off as “crazy” or “overblown.” That they’re caricaturizing the events or, as the U.S.’ own president claims, are just doing it for publicity or money. This, in turn, has brought about the #SheDominatedMeToo/#SheTheShrew movement.

In the aftermath of the Kavanaugh hearing, it is more apparent than ever that “men” are doing their best to repurpose women’s traumas as nothing more than a “witch hunt,” a way to take down “powerful” “men.” Or, worst of all, that she was rejected and therefore wants to get back at her rejector (see: BØRNS). It would be rather interesting, however, if “men’s” perceptions and memories of a situation weren’t so fucking blacked out, presence of alcohol or not. For you see, the “male” amygdala, a key piece of the brain that helps to process memories and the emotions associated with them is almost as small as their penis, with studies on the effects of the female amygdala finding that “women tend to experience greater enhancement of their memory by emotion.” No fucking shit. This is precisely why to deride a woman for having the courage to come out thirty-five years later with her story (which, frankly, still isn’t enough time to have learned to deal with the scar left on your psyche) is quintessentially callous in terms of a “male” reaction. For a “man” can erase with more efficaciousness than a pencil (not to be confused with his pencil dick). Filing away events and feelings as effortlessly as a girl Friday, the “male” mind has no room in its data bank to consider such things as being ruined for life by the careless action of another. No, he has much more important subjects to think about: like who to abuse next.

So when it comes to how baffling it is that “men” have such a predilection toward cold clinicism in their relationships with women, in short, it’s like Cardi B said, “Teach me to be like you so I can not give a fuck.” In truth, “men” only react in an emotional way when something they say has been challenged or the perception of their nonexistent virility is questioned. Which is precisely why they’re all so fucking scandalized by the women emerging in droves to tell it like it is. That it’s not okay. And it’s not a witch hunt, it’s just that the witches themselves have finally caused the bitches to reach their threshold for pain. “Crying rape” is not crying wolf any more than denying what really happened makes what a “man” did go away.

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Men Who Balk At the Bourgeois Lifestyle.

Because stereotypes make everything easier and generally hold some grain of longstanding truth (e.g. Italian Americans working in construction or plumbing), it is safe to say that the reason “men” hold such general contempt for women is a result of their many luxury “needs” (though some “males” would like to deny their unwitting complicity in the success of the beauty and fashion industries). The things, in short, that make them so very susceptible to desiring and coveting the bourgeois lifestyle. Certainly, it’s not as on blast as it was in the 50s, when Lucy was asking for all manner of increase in her allowance from Ricky, or in the 80s, when Bret Easton Ellis was inspired to write about someone as frivolous as Evelyn in American Psycho. But the residual materialistic airhead trope is hard to shake even with the firm presence of the twenty-first century as well (see: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, Kylie Jenner specifically and, for some reason, Tiffany Trump).

The resentment “men” have toward women of this nature (which is to say, most of them), stems from the reflection it gives back of his own inadequacy as a functioning member of a capitalist society (the only society still recognized by mainstream media). Because, yes, for the most part, “a scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly” but also has no fucking money to at least back up a shitty, irascible personality in addition to being bad in bed. So it is that they balk at the bourgeoisie so as to make themselves feel slightly less deficient about being unable to ever be a part of it. Because you know goddamn well if you could be, you would be. That you would not be so quick to balk at an endless reserve of cash if you could actually access it without more than the effort it takes you to get out of your pathetic excuse for a bed.

Balking also aids in convincing the girl whose vagina they’ve briefly managed to enter that she’s the one who’s in the wrong–insane, in short–for wanting access to such vacuous things as a memory foam mattress or a Nespresso maker. Convince her that it’s the more proverbial “man” who has infected her brain with these false and inane aspirations that set us all back to the June Cleaver era. But like, again, if these things were handed to a “man” instead of him actually having to work for them, where would his balking be then? Probably slightly muffled by the taste of homemade bread from a stand mixer.

Men Who Think They Are Unaffected by The Beauty & Fashion Industry.

As Miranda Priestly once laid it the fuck down for Andy Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada, “I see. You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select… I don’t know… that lumpy blue sweater, for instance because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise. It’s not lapis. It’s actually cerulean. And you’re also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves Saint Laurent, wasn’t it, who showed cerulean military jackets? And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of eight different designers. And then it, uh, filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic Casual Corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room from a pile of ‘stuff.'”

So it is that a certain kind of “man” truly believes that he, too, is exempt from the industries of fashion and beauty that cater to his archaic preconceptions of femininity (it doesn’t matter how many attempts at “body conscious” ads by Aerie there are). This theory of exemption is particularly pronounced should he 1) not be a Marc Bolan acolyte or an 00s-era poseur trapped in the past who wears guyliner or 2) “go for” women who favor a “natural” look (likely because said “women” are probably girls still freshly entering the motherfucking sebum phase, which Humbert Humbert must grossly described as, “The excess of the oily substance called sebum which nourishes the hair follicles of the skin creates, when too profuse, an irritation that opens the way to infection. But nymphets do not have acne although they gorge themselves on rich food”).

The reality is, however, that “men” are the ones who fall prey more than the female gender to the illusions and temptations of what “beauty”–as it is stylized by makeup, fashion and other cosmetic alterations–means. Titillation is an entire industry predicated on the cliche arousal of what’s left of “men’s” libidos–and all as they feign not to notice the difference between a woman who has put forth effort and one who hasn’t (“men” are blacked out to reality, sure, but come on). More than trying to appeal to how women want to feel about themselves, it is about how they feel about themselves when they know they have the power to make a “man” get an erection on sight. For that has far more political clout than any presidency. It indicates she has the power and control to essentially get him to do whatever she wants in exchange for the dangle of the possibility of sex.  And while, sure, the twenty-first century has done its best to stamp out lust and desire in that Orwellian/Bradburian fashion built upon stacks and stacks of screens and false entertainment, beauty and fashion have remained largely untouched (save for various genderless clothing lines) by the female rage characterized by contempt for catcalling and rape culture (“asking for it” because of how she dresses, as it were. But no, she’s just asking for the aforementioned power that comes from mind controlling a penis with her “beauty”).

While the “evolved” “man” peddles his expected, “Oh my god that’s so sad, I feel so bad for you that you’re shallow enough to believe that a ‘man’ doesn’t value more in a woman than her appearance.” But smart or not, “things to say” or not, all it takes is one “hot person” to walk into the room for all intellect and humor to be rendered as far less valuable. And “men” who try to delude themselves into thinking otherwise simply haven’t recently seen a woman walk past in an Yves Saint Laurent cerulean blazer with a fresh coat of makeup demarcating the “au naturel” aesthetic that Kylie Jenner has of late sanctioned.

Men Who Have Google Alerts On Their Name.

While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).

The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”

The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.

 

Men Who Fuck You Over But Still Look At Your Instagram Story Every Day for the Rest of Your Life.

“Men” have almost too many bizarre behaviors to fully track and monitor in an epoch that has only recently gone truly hog wild on mocking them for their weirdness, but among one of the more overt peculiarities is his unabashedness in watching a girl’s Instagram story every day for the rest of her life despite having flagrantly fucked her over.

How he might have slighted her could have occurred in any number of ways, from arbitrarily deciding to ghost her to giving her an STD (since, apparently, that’s happening a lot more frequently these days). Whatever the case may have been, it was surely cause for any normal human being not pretending to have a penis to feel at least some modicum of shame. Not so for a “man,” a gender evidently born without the mechanism required to imbue him with any sense of guilt or humiliation when blatantly destroying another’s ability to ever trust, and by default, love again. No matter to him. He’ll still watch your Instagram story. Not for any reason that could possibly be clear to anyone but himself. And even that might be a stretch, for the only actions a “man” seems to be cognizant of is shoveling his face full of slop and ejaculating (from any number of holes when taking into account the former activity). Both of which he can (and likely will) do while watching your Instagram story.