Men Who Conveniently Have Heart Palpitations After Being Convicted of Rape.

A “man” who brought us movie titles like Scandal, The Hour of the Pig and Scream could, of course, only be someone as predatory, foul and latently self-loathing as Harvey Weinstein. Yet it is that latency that makes Weinstein believe he is still somehow deserving of mercy after decades of assault and general perversion carried out at the cost of others’ permanent trauma. There can be no denying this is the reason he was conveniently rushed to Bellevue Hospital (a name still commonly associated with lunacy) after the pronouncement of his verdict in Manhattan on Feb. 24th: one count of criminal sexual assault in the first degree and one count of rape in the third degree. Sadly, he was not condemned on all five counts, one of them being predatory sexual assault, which would have led to a life sentence. But alas, women are supposed to be grateful for any legal comeuppance Weinstein has received. After all, something like two percent of “men” accused of rape are ever actually jailed for it. Weinstein, evidently, only wants to be part of the one percent wealthy instead of the two percent of convicted rapists. Surely that’s why he decided to have “heart palpitations” at the convenient moment of when he was supposed to be transferred to Rikers Island.

Instead, he was taken to the prison wing of Bellevue, where discussions centered around whether or not he’s “fit” to go to prison based on his deteriorating health is such a prudent idea. The answer, to be sure, is yes. Justice is always a prudent idea. The problem is, in our society, we’ve become so hung up on this notion of being able to forgive a monster in order to move on that we seem to all have forgotten how satisfying it is to slay a proverbial dragon. Watching it slump to the floor in a heap of defeat in some tower that seems to be a prison unto itself. A once “great” titan now nothing but the scaly sum of his deflated parts. Indeed, one hopes the part of Weinstein that has been his and countless women’s undoing is now forever deflated. Then again, a disgusting being such as himself could probably still get an erection in a cellblock. That is, unless the ultimate karmic justice is served and Weinstein is raped on the regular as the “freshest” prison bitch to arrive. Only then, perhaps, would he understand the same feeling of powerlessness he inflicted upon others for so long during his Hollywood Reign of Terror. Ah, but who is one kidding? No one wants to tap that. What’s more, it’s entirely likely that he’ll manage to weasel his way out of any real, truly harrowing jail time by playing the health card to its utmost potential. Because a “man” like him would surely go the way of Jeffrey Epstein if his sentence was actually enforced rather than given merely as a verbally symbolic gesture of the courts.

Men Who Remark, “You Are Delusional” When You Say Something Against Art (Or Anything Else) of the Old Guard.

Right in keeping with the “instant write-off” “burn” of “OK Boomer,” a tradition as old as time for “men” has been the tried and true gaslighting method. In keeping with that tactical shutdown of any opinion–particularly a woman’s opinion–against that which is accepted as The Unequivocal Truth (e.g. Ulysses is an unbesmirchable masterwork), one of the simplest ways to negate a female and make her feel like she ought to shut up lest she start talking further nonsense is simply: “You are delusional.” Knowing full well that this once cut to the jugular for its intention to scare a girl into thinking she might have to go the way of Mrs. Lincoln or Frances Farmer, with the “men” in white coats sure to come and put her in her own white coat of a straightjacket. Well, darling, fuck that. So-called crazy is worn as a badge of honor these days as though it is a form of cosmic retribution for all the times any “abnormal” behavior or dissenting viewpoint was suppressed by “men” and their power-hungry need to puppeteer the thoughts of others to mimic their own.

The image of a “man” making the “crazy” gesture–circling his index finger near his temple–comes to mind as he tauntingly chirps, “You are delusional” to any woman who has said something that is, from his perspective, not in keeping with formerly accepted without question old guard “truths.” But how is this immediate rebuffing supposed to breed any form of intelligent conversation or cultivate an overall philosophy of heterogeneousness (after all, don’t “men” of this nature tout all things “hetero”)? Alas, thanks to the political climate of the past several years, there has been a societal conditioning to believe that argument is no longer intelligent, but merely a product of harboring the “wrong” stance. They get particularly uppity if you violently suggest that–gasp!–despite white “men” being the most pervasive kind of “artist” in every century, this sect is, in fact, the most whining, noncreative excuse for “artistry” the world has ever known (this includes Christopher Isherwood, invention of Montmere or not). But no, we cannot say such things. Such things are “delusional”–merely a product of an undiscerning woman’s inability to separate a feel for talent from her own feeling of being jilted by the type of person who masturbates over white “men” and all they “do” on a daily basis.

That’s fine though, this delusionoid would rather be pazza than finger the pages of James Joyce with reverence when I could be fingering my pussy with much more genuine respect instead. You go on ahead and have your Birth of a Nation/Gone With the Wind viewing party with Trump though. Just make sure you know that you’re the one actually in the padded room as you soak up these “beacons” of High Art.

Men Who Pose As A Ken Doll a.k.a. Men Who Pose Without the One Part of Themselves That Means Anything.

While Pete Davidson somehow manages to continue to be the “most desirable” “man” in the entertainment industry (though there’s not much to be entertained by in his SNL sketches), he’s striking while the, er, plastic is…hot–but not totally melted. This, of course, referencing his recent foray into adopting the persona of a Ken doll, complete with nothing but a nub for genitalia to match. Naturally, this is all meant to be very tongue-in-cheek since the only memorable rumors regarding Davidson are the size of his member, thanks in large part to Ariana Grande’s written vote of confidence as immortalized in her version of Mean Girls’ Burn Book in the “thank u, next” video

All devoid puppy dog eyes as he stares at the camera in various scenarios as the character of anatomically incorrect Ken, all one can think is: are men that afraid of terrifying women with the only thing left they have to offer that means anything to them? Sure, we understand that in the present “witch hunt” climate, as “men” like to call it (though one would really love to see how they fared during the actual witch hunts of Salem), they’re scared of chancing upon scandalizing “fragile” women in any way lest they be accused of something. Even so, does the average “man” not understand that, at this juncture, it’s certainly not their mind that’s going to win women over? 

As a first attempt at objectifying “men,” this is an extremely weak offer. As is Davidson talking about masturbating to Leonardo DiCaprio in the article for further boner killing to any woman who might have tried to be aroused by his “intellect.” Or his “profundity” in posing as a “depressed Ken” from Staten Island (if that’s so, then why the fuck was this shot in Bushwick?). Yet the idea was apparently sprung from an “intellectual ribbing” between interviewer and 13 Reasons Why actor Tommy Dorfman in which he suggested Davidson adopt the Ken doll shtick, with the latter adding, somewhat too enthusiastically, “Yeah! And dickless, like, with Ken-dick.”

If it was intended as a way to play up the fact that Davidson is ogled by women more than the average “man” (at least in his mind, and judging from the recent string of girls, not women, he’s dated), the aim was not achieved. For it doesn’t seem as though Davidson even has a grasp of what the “female gaze” is when asked about it, instead transitioning to a comment about how people either love him or hate him. Ineloquently phrased as, “I do know that [the gaze] is either, ‘Ye-YESSS!’ or ‘FUCK NO!’ There’s no happy medium with me, which I think is really fun. It’s either like, ‘Oh, that guy’s awesome,” or it’s like, “I hope that guy fucking falls off of a cliff.'”

It makes sense that he would gloss over what it means to fulfill the female gaze, for to truly pander to women, as Davidson says he does in relationships by treating them like “princesses,” one would have to actually not be afraid of being “offensive” in the one way it truly mattered: visually. A.k.a. offering us a Ken with a real dick. But oh wait, because Ken was created as a feminine ideal from the perspective of “men” (specifically Elliott Handler) who think women are too “dainty” to handle seeing some bona fide salsiccia (as the Italians would say), it’s only to be expected that his censored anatomy would endure in the twenty-first century. 

Where words are concerned, Davidson remains to be all talk (with no fear about speaking on how pop stars use gay “men” as props or how stand-up comedy is too much of a hot potato at present therefore he won’t perform at colleges anymore). Just like the rest of his nub-packing brethren who won’t give up the goods in any other form than word vomit.

Men Who Have No Difficulty Crossing Out One Woman’s Name in Ephemeral Favor of Another.

In the archives of what “men” are capable of, there is no more common affront than the propensity toward self-imposed amnesia. The almost superpower-like ability to simply forget about a past relationship and the wrongdoings committed therein. About a girl he once spouted sonnets to and made the false promise of what love is supposed to entail to the rom-com dosed female: happily ever after. More to the point: forever. “Men” do not have the capability to fathom such a concept. To them, forever is a single night. If a girl is “lucky,” maybe more than a year. She, in all her naive optimism (particularly if it is her first major relationship), will fail to see that even tattooed names can be crossed out in favor of another (just look to that famed Norman Rockwell painting pictured above).

She will assume that, like her own heart, his is steadfast and true, when, in fact it is irresolute and false. Pining for Alice one day and Zelda the next. How can he be blamed though? When there is so much vagina in the world to experience. So many women’s minds to infiltrate and steal from to pass off as his own lack of personality. But he is culpable; and somewhere within the depths of the hole where his soul should be, he must know it. Otherwise, why would he be so adept at blocking out the past and the person he pretended to be in that now bygone era? Of course, whether he wants to admit it or not, the past is always present. Feigning to forget that is the only means with which to blithely flit from “cherishing” one woman’s name to another before ultimately crossing it out until he must finally settle for the youngest “thing” he can get when he’s at last too middle-aged to be bankable in any way other than being “straight.”

For the woman scorned, however, she will never forget the name that so easily tossed out her own.

Men With A Kierkegaardian Stance on Labels.

Revered as one of the “great” philosophers, Danish or otherwise, Søren Kierkegaard may not have been the best “man” for a woman to tie her wagon to when taking into account his Houdini-like stance on not being defined by any label. For, as he put it, “If you name me, you negate me. By giving me a name, a label, you negate all the other things I could possibly be.” However, like Andy Warhol’s constantly mangled “fifteen minutes of fame” quote, Kierkegaard’s, too, is often repurposed as, “Once you label me, you negate me.” In whichever fashion he chose to phrase it, it was fairly clear that he was developing an ironclad “philosophical” excuse for never being deemed anyone’s boyfriend or husband. And certainly not Regine Olsen’s. A girl he was in love with (or at least, in love with what the poetic idea of l’amour once meant). He spouted in his goddamn journal toward the end of their engagement, “O, can I really believe the poets when they say that the first time one sees the beloved object he thinks he has seen her long before, that love like all knowledge is recollection, that love in the single individual also has its prophecies, its types, its myths, its Old Testament. Everywhere, in the face of every girl, I see features of your beauty…”

But it is better to keep an idealized image of one’s “true love” vacuum sealed in the mind as opposed to actually taking her on as the ball and chain of wife. For that would utterly shatter the idealized image. And nobody wants that, in the end, so he comes up with: “If you name me, you negate me.” Well all right then, that’s Regine to the curb. Now how to handle the matter of being a “man” who never took a wife: why not become labeled as a rebel of the nineteenth century. Because one can’t really avoid labels and if he’s got to have one it might as well be rebel. As in: “Kierkegaard does not marry in defiance of the whole nineteenth century” (Martin Buber’s words, not anyone else’s). Yes, defiance, that’s what makes a real “man,” isn’t it? Then again, how can anything be real if it can’t be labeled? One isn’t “man” or woman (much to the delight of the proponents of the pronoun “they”). One is not in general.

This delicate dodging of classifications also helped Kierkegaard avoid the critique of being a petulant rich boy living on Daddy’s dime, profiting from it even more once his wealthy wool merchant father, Michael, kicked the bucket and he used the 31,000 rigsdaler inheritance to bankroll himself through the rest of his “studies.” A.k.a. writing in his little notebook and publishing whatever he wanted from it. That’s just the luxury of being rich (and even now, publishing is most certainly a rich man’s game when one wants the marketing blitzkrieg required to actually move units). But oh, no. Do not label him or any “man” as that. Not privileged, not fuck”boy,” not “boy”friend, not husband. Not anything, in short, that carries any weight of responsibility in its implications. Ah yes, that Kierkegaard. He really foreshadowed so much “male” behavior of the twenty-first century.

 

 

 

Men Who Make Gaslighting Their Religion.

Just as religion with its devout followers that cannot be convinced that their beliefs are in any way wrong, subjective or otherwise completely coked out, so, too, does the Church of Gaslighting have its unswayable acolytes. The lackeys known as “men” who will, until their last dying breath, insist that it is the woman who is the “psycho”–the one with the perception of reality that is either “blown out of proportion” or deemed utterly “cuckoo” because, I don’t know, she has “blood coming out of her wherever.” Her perception–nay, “opinion”–is not to be trusted. No, you should trust the word that’s been bowed to for ages, that confabulation ejaculated from the penis that serves as the “male” control center. Or rather, the gash or stub where a penis is supposed to be on most “men” today who can only seem to get aroused when a woman is powerless.

And, no matter how much evidence a woman has to back up her case (not that there can usually be very much when it’s simply “her word against his”–a perennial statement on women versus the patriarchy), it will never register in the “male” mind, comprised of a collective Charles Boyer as “Gregory Anton” (a false name, if you couldn’t tell) mentality of “rightness.” That to manipulate a woman into thinking her feelings are somehow invalid or entirely imagined altogether is better than to simply admit to the truth, or at least a version of the truth that is closer to objective reality. That would be far too dangerous to the overarching “male” need to assure himself of his dominance, which can only come with the conviction that his perspective on the retelling of events is the accurate one. After all, women get their emotions too involved when it comes to memory, ergo how could they rehash things with any sense of “clarity” or “rationality”? As though displaying emotions is the furthest possible thing from being rational or having a normal response.

But just as you cannot talk a zealot out of their “crusade” for “God,” nor can you convince a follower of the Church of Gaslighting that listening to women– believing them without making them have to perform some sort of dance in order to actually be heard–is worth their time or effort (football and porn, on the other hand–the one that’s not holding a dick–totally worth it).

Then again, it’s easy to gaslight, one supposes, when there is so much gas contained inside the gasbag that is “man.”

Men Who Gloss Over Their Wrongdoings After They Feel Enough Time Has Passed.

While “men” will never and can never admit to having committed any wrongdoings toward another person, least of all one packing a vagine, he must somewhere know deep down in the recesses of his soul (which, in a “man,” is called his loins) that he has done something to affront. Otherwise, what would be the point of waiting months, years, sometimes even decades to at last come out of the woodwork feigning nothing trauma-inducing ever happened? Delivering a missive as though believing he is a messenger of God himself to say, “Hey.” Just like that, very la-di-da. Oh, nothing fucked up ever happened between us because time heals all wounds. Well, no actually, it’s more as Groucho Marx stated: “Time wounds all heels.” Except, alas “men” who are heels feign total ignorance of their heeldom, arbitrarily dropping cunt-ish information into their out-of-the-blue communication about how he happened to give a t-shirt you custom-made for him to his friend who now works out in it at the gym and isn’t that so funny? As though that’s the way to reenter into someone’s life after years of silence.

Of course, because “men” have such a fucking phobia of female rage, perhaps it is only to be expected that they would be too goddamn callow to acknowledge the elephant in the room: their shithead behavior. The behavior that caused a lifelong need for therapy that they probably owe you a Mariah Carey-inspired inconvenience fee for because you sure as hell can’t afford that kind of extra expense on the shoestring budget called “being a free spirit.” A “freedom” that, in part, was crafted from a self-protective need to never grow attached again.

There are other ways “men” like to attempt re-ingratiation as well, those methods deemed more “harmless” than direct communication, such as a bullshit like on [insert name of social media outlet here]. But the truth is, the only way to succeed in one’s endeavor at reconciliation with a woman scorned is to, at the bare minimum, address the fact that you are a fucking asshole with no real emotions for anyone other than yourself and anyone who serves your agenda in the moment. By opening with this admission, a “man” might catch more flies (for we all know “men” see women in just as annoying of a light as this insect) with honesty as opposed to gloss.

 

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.).

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Men Who Wear Harnesses.

Being that “men” have become increasingly prone to docility as a result of their fear of “nasty women” that might further try to henpeck them to death with their words and associated outrage, it would seem that many are taking advantage of a certain trend in fashion initiated by a “bewildered” to what he was wearing Timothée Chalamet at the Golden Globes at the beginning of January and carried on last night by Michael B. Jordan at the SAG Awards. That being, of course, donning a harness as though an outfit simply wouldn’t be complete without it.

While a war of dominance and submission has long been the name of the game in the tacit dance between genders called, “Who has more power?,” it would appear, to the untrained eye, that this fashion trend is some kind of “win” for females. An unbridled (no pun intended) indication that “men” have visibly surrendered to knowing their place as the whipping “boys” of womankind. But delve deeper into the psychology of the trend, and it’s easy to see that this “dressage” is the final nail in the coffin of masculinity (of which there will likely continue to be many as all coffins should be sealed quite tightly).

Sure, “men” who don’t understand the complex mind of a woman will say that we cannot have it both ways: a hairy-chested “man” smelling of the natural musk of his sweat who can carry you over to the bed and a “man” you can control and manipulate as well. And this is why we now have “men” wearing harnesses in public instead of behind closed doors: we’ve let our standards sink this low. Accepted that “men” can only be complete bitches or utter misogynists and that to lust for a Goldilocks happy medium would prove futile. Ride him, lest he rides you and all that.