Men Who Still Insist R. Kelly Is A “Dante”-Level Genius.

In another increasingly classic case of being unable to separate the “man” from the “art” in the twenty-first century, R. Kelly has–at long last–been indicted for aggravated criminal sexual abuse after decades (decades!) of accusations regarding his sexual abuse of women (also involving the perv’s bread and butter of pissing on them). For whatever reason evading a worthy comeuppance for this long, a six-part documentary about the allegations against him called Surviving R. Kelly increased the catalyst for the bloodlust against his crimes as 2019 began–though this unfortunately also led to increased streams of his music despite the #MuteRKelly campaign that began in 2018.

Considering R. Kelly has never been much for hiding his overall grossness in lyric form (ranging from “You remind me of my Jeep, I wanna ride it/I wanna pump it/Girl you look just like my cars, I wanna wax it” to “It really don’t matter, who’s first in the shower/Fruit platter from a young maid every hour” to, simply, “My tongue is in the mood”), it should come as no surprise that, over the years, he’s only gotten more foul in his descriptions, as though getting off on “hiding in plain sight” as the music industry remained complicit in his behavior the same way the movie industry was with Harvey Weinstein’s. Through all the bad music and horrendous lyrics, however, there remain “men”–mostly white ones, to be honest–that still can’t help but view R. Kelly’s “canon” as brilliant.

Some “men” in particular are most fond of R. Kelly’s “masterpiece,” Trapped in the Closet, a twenty-two chapter “opus” released over the period from 2005 to 2012 detailing varying layers of infidelity, involving, among other absurdist (read: stupid) Tyler Perry-esque plot devices, a midget. Thinking it a combination of hilarious and well-thought out, one has to wonder if any “man” still secretly harboring an affinity for this work also feels that R. Kelly’s lifetime of sexual abuse is perhaps even more hilarious and well-thought out. Or, worse yet, still wants to “go out on a limb” and make the claim that R. Kelly is the modern Dante, leading one to ask, “O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?” (on a side note, “wind” in R. “Dante” Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet refers to breaking wind. How poetic indeed.).

 

 

 

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Men Who Read Margaret Atwood.

One understands that in the era of what “men” will look back upon as the Henpecking Dark Ages after they inevitably reclaim their power upon finally making The Handmaiden’s Tale a reality that, in the now, it’s very important to come across as “feministic.” For self-preservation purposes more than a genuine belief in the merits of women beyond their mouths when they’re not talking. Of course, what greater emblem, literary or otherwise, of said adjective is there than Margaret Atwood? She, the grand creator of dystopian realities generally involving more pronounced instances of female subjugation, has become quite “accessible” all of the sudden to the average “bloke,” particularly the kind bearing a blanco skin tone.

He wants everyone around him to know that he “gets it.” He gets it so much that he wants to make sure you see he gets it by carrying around a large hardcover book with him throughout town so that everyone everywhere can comprehend just how “with it” he is. Though if he was actually with it, he might consider buying a fucking “man” bag so as not to be forced to carry such a cumbersome tome. But then, that would defeat the entire purpose of reading Margaret Atwood, wouldn’t it? If it was concealed within a glorified purse. How would anyone know what a “man” just minding his own business with no intent of reading for mere show was reading if he couldn’t demonstrate it with a handsome and large edition?

“We should all be feminists,” sure. But we should not all read Margaret Atwood to fucking prove it.