Men Who Accuse You of Being Self-Loathing If You Point Out Loathsome Qualities Based Upon Accepted Stereotypes of Your Race.

“Men,” especially the white ones (quelle surprise) can’t ever seem to help themselves when it comes to “mansplaining.” No matter how much they get called out for it, or how many examples they’re given of how not to talk to a woman, they will continue to go about their faux pedantic business and explain things as they see them (that is to say, through brain damage-colored glasses, which, yes, could also be rose-toned). One of the apparent things you cannot talk about as a woman to “men” is the glaring stereotypes that continue to hold true about your race. Let us take, for example, the most enduring archetype of white folk these past few years, the entitled extraordinaire Karens and Chads. Of course, we cannot say stereotypical names of Black people (or Arabic, or Latino, or Chinese, and so on and so forth) out loud as a means for a catch-all noun to describe certain consistent behavior, for that would be deemed out of line in the political climate of muzzling anything that can be construed as offensive or discriminatory.

So, for the purposes of this issue, let us stick with the loathsome Caucasian example in pointing out predictable characteristics of a race since no one has any issue with bashing their kind except Confederate flag owners (another unpleasant yet accurate stereotype of someone to avoid). When a white girl discusses her contempt for the cliches of her kind, it is, in the present moment, classified as merely being au courant with what’s expected of her. That she’s only “acting” in a certain manner because it’s how she’s “supposed to think.” The self-hating thing does not only apply to the white girl, but an array of genders, sexualities and colors. It just so happens that white privilege as it pertains to someone with a vag is the most overt epitome of where ample room for pointing out fault comes in (thanks, in a recent example, to Amy Cooper, the illustriously nicknamed Central Park Karen). And yet, to do so, especially to un uomo bianco tends only to result in the eye rolling write-off of being “self-loathing.” And when a white girl is dubbed as such, she is charged with doing it merely “for show.” For the “attention” it gets, even if only negative (that’s just how much white bitches love attention, right?). And don’t even talk to The Silence of the Lambs‘ Buffalo Bill about any such thing, for he’d be happy to take the burden of your white woman’s skin right off you and use it for himself. So, too, would any white “man” right now for that matter, for they’re all so convinced that being a woman would actually make their lives much easier. Freer of “being bashed” “all the time” in the “accursed” post-#MeToo landscape.

But for the white “men” who would say that it is the white women who like to “cash in” on the “self-loathing trend” of their race as a means to be “relevant,” they need only look to the ample amount of gringas who are perfectly content to relish in their whiteness, most glaringly, of late, Lana Del Rey, who has become a beacon of doubling down on incendiary statements that are a precise manifestation of her unappreciated and unacknowledged white girl privilege. It seems as though this is a phenomenon of extremes, with blancas like Del Rey and her oblivion on one spectrum and blancas of a more “self-hating” nature on the other. Yet self-hatred isn’t really the applicable word, despite how some “men” would like to conveniently file it away as such for the sake of appeasing their “man”splaining hard-on. It is more a constant hyper-awareness of how your skin tone affects your place in the world versus the places of others, which contributes to insecurity and self-doubt more than full-on self-loathing (though the former two are often considered byproducts of the latter). Because why should you have this skin tone that affords certain tacit luxuries that it does not for others? In some kind of “gotcha!” twist, this is the very thing that non-whites have been enduring since time immemorial–that fear of how they look and what it will mean for how they’re perceived.

The white girl oblivious to her privilege, however, extends beyond shades of whiteness alone, with those who have “a dash” of Latinidad, like Miya Ponsetto, a touch of Italian, like Ariana Grande (who unwittingly penned a white privilege anthem) or a bit of Armenian, like Kim Kardashian, bending their more “flexible” racial lines at their discretion. And they will never display a shred of self-loathingness about it. Yet gender fluidity is more acceptable than “racial fluidity”–and it likely always will be. The two types of fluidity mean very different things to people, with the color aspect being more affronting for how it is so often used for some self-serving political machination.

The implications of having “just enough” of one ethnicity to offset the whiteness that will get you automatically accused of needing to check your privilege has proved a dangerous tool for many. Especially those women who don’t want to be inculpated by “men” for “playing” some sort of “card.” Because, unfortunately, we still live in a world where women are affected by “men’s” non-nuanced opinions. And they are the ones quickest to call a contempt for the worst stereotypes of your race a matter of nothing more than your own self-loathing. So if one doesn’t play the so-called “I hate myself because I’m white” (or sometimes even orange) card, they’re bound to play another. And likely the one that’s more detrimental to marginalized races in terms of choosing to lay claim to that culture, something that ironically still works thanks in part to Plessy vs. Ferguson. For, as Machiavelli (a “man” filled with aphorisms and privilege) once noted, “The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar.”

Men Who Say, “Glad to Be Living Rent-Free in Your Head.”

While it’s decidedly more of a dumb cunt thing to say something as “Live Laugh Love”-inspired as, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” there are “men” who have fallen prey to the feminine disease that is this “rejoinder” to just about anything deemed “too negative” to be “absorbed.” Such “thoughts” tend to come into play most in the conservative versus liberal death pit, where one party consistently tries to one-up the other for relevancy, therefore grotesquerie. Spoiler alert: neither party will ever be relevant as the entire “system” needs to be blown up and remade.

Going back to when the phrase first started to be regurgitated noticeably ad nauseam, in 2018, many were likely delighted when a “man” such as Michael Avenatti, a.k.a. Stormy Daniels’ lawyer (who would end up embezzling $300,000 from her), responded to Trump’s accusation that he was a “lowlife” (just another white bread 1950s insult the Orange One has brought back, along with “nasty woman” and “thug”), with, “I am thoroughly enjoying living in your head rent-free, Donald Trump.” Just as Lady Caca would echo a similar sentiment as the election dragged on back in November (with Caca performing at his Pittsburgh rally) of this year, the “insult” seems often to be directed at the Orange One, who, make no mistake, is never really allowing anyone in his head “rent-free” except himself. What’s more, do the people offering up this “witty” riposte understand how untenable the idea of being anywhere near Trumpio’s “mind” is? It ain’t no fuckin’ picnic the way it is inside John Malkovich’s head, let us say that. No sir, that is one “sunken place” you do not want to end up in, free or otherwise.

Then, of course, there are the non-famous “men” who feel comfortable using the phrase with women they feel have been dwelling too long on a slight (usually pertaining to ghosting or a heartless and heinous breakup). If they offer you anything at all, it will be this sentiment, as though to make you look like the “freak” for giving so much of a shit that they fueled the fire of your abandonment and trust issues. Because if living in an epoch since Gen X rose to prominence has taught us anything by now, it’s that caring is not “cool.”

And to the “man” who would say to me, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” the only response is: “Are you? Are you fucking glad to be living rent-free in my head? Because I really don’t think you fucking would be. I think you’d look for any means necessary to kill your damn self, and would probably find a more than adequate tool to do so as suicide is one of the primary thoughts at the forefront of my mind at any given moment. Along with the contempt of being a misanthrope that sparks random rage flare-ups at the drop of a hat (especially a beret).” So sure, please, enter one of the rooms in my vastly expanding tenement, with so many people inside of it to think about on a loathing basis that pretty soon, I might actually have to start charging.

Men With Histrionic Tendencies.

While it is generally women who are accused of histrionic behavior (see: any one of their Instagram accounts, whether high-level influencer or low-level wannabe, and also the fact that “women are diagnosed with HPD roughly four times as often as men”), the “male” tendency toward it cannot be denied. Nor the fact that when a “man” does have Histrionic Personality Disorder, the consequences are often far graver (no murder pun intended). Let us take one of the most glaring examples of this phenomenon in the form of Michael Alig, recently departed by way of a heroin overdose (even going so far as to seek attention via such a dramatic death). His entire existence was based upon upping the ante on methods of being noticed. He craved attention as though it were a SAD lamp, giving off, at the bare minimum, 10,000-lux rays of approval in his direction.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because, yes, the current “president” still clinging to his final dregs of power is the same way. In both the cases of the Orange One and Alig, it’s the stock excuse of blaming childhood for their eventual mutation into monsters, one political and one party. For Alig, being bullied as a South Bend, Indiana gay boy was likely plenty of negative attention to make him yearn for the approval that came with “positive” attention of his own making. For Trump, constantly desiring to both one-up and be revered by his patriarch has led to the gross ogre we see before us today (though Daddy Trump was perhaps even more despicable–or it might be neck and neck–it’s just that he didn’t end up ascending to the highest office in America in order to spread that contemptibility so far).

Like a not so distant cousin of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, HPD, too, leaves “men” feeling (granted, they can’t feel much at all) cold and unmoved by anything other than validation, often by soaking up the energies of those around them–whether women or “men”–manipulating the social strata for purposes that will make them the center of the “narrative” they’ve crafted in their mind. One in which, of course, they’re the star. It’s all very Norma Desmond, herself likely a sufferer of the disorder.

Alig’s blasé approach to the murder of Angel Melendez retrospectively comes off more than ever as a symptom not only of HPD, but white “male” privilege. Drugged out of his mind or not, if Alig was Black or Latino, there’s no goddamn level of inebriation that would’ve made him think it was okay (a.k.a. he would get with it) to kill someone… and then dismember him. HPD itself also reeks of a privilege generally reserved for white “men,” which is just another reason it’s a more odious disorder in this sex than in the female one (no one ever got that upset over seeing some titties and ass flashed at them for attention, whereas being, oh, murdered or subjugated in cruel and unusual ways tends to be the fallout for dealing with a “man” who has HPD).

For those who fell for Alig’s “good time” shenanigans, tinged with such an overt toxicity as they were, it was difficult to reconcile–especially for Melendez, clearly–that they had been mere props in his tableau. Still, some were happy to be associated with and used by him even after he was jailed, visiting him at the correctional facility as though it was just another “offbeat” locale where he was having a party. That’s the thing about “male” histrionics: they’re oddly capable of maintaining a devoted following. Even long after they’re dead.

Men Who Take Pictures of Their Girlfriends “At” BLM Protests.

“Men,” of course, have never been a very astute lot. Critical thinking isn’t where they thrive. Nor do they in much of anything else, if we’re speaking frankly. Except, that is, in the art of dutifully taking pictures and videos of their girlfriends when asked to. No matter how overtly inappropriate the context is to anyone with some semblance of objectivity. Yet because everything is “subjective” to the so-called social media “influencer”–generally a white female with a fitness “angle”–she perhaps can’t see that posing in front of a broken window fresh from looting/a police scuffle or making sure to be seen in front of a backdrop of protesters she just happens to be passing by (but is not actually in any way part of) so that she can feel like she’s “participated” in the movement is in, to put it mildly, poor taste. 

However, her “boy”friend is almost on a worse level than she is. For as it is said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good ‘men’ to do nothing.” In this case, that good “man” taking the photo for his shrew of a girlfriend seems not to exist. Is a mere vessel for her bidding. He knows not what he does, apparently, as he lives to serve as her willing accomplice to whatever kind of video or photo shoot she wants. One supposes he feels it’s the least he can do in exchange for some occasional pussy, the height of white people kink being to turn her over and bang her from the back. Such scenes, naturally, are what keep his eyes on the prize as he adheres to her request to get the perfect shot of her appearing to help board up a business with broken windows or joining in the march with a token sign featuring a generic message.

He himself cares as little as she does about the cause at hand. He’s in it for his own aims, just as she is to make it seem as though she’s relevant at a time when white people are clinging more tightly than ever to any sort of “dominance” in the media realm. Possibly among the few white “men” accepting their obsoletism–their expected subservience in the twenty-first century–the “boy”friend of the “influencer” simply can’t care about his own dastardly role in the whole production. And yet, if one is type of “man” content to be with the woman posing as a do-gooder in the BLM cause, then he can only anticipate reaping what he sows– which is taking a lot of fucking phony baloney pictures as a way to ensure semi-regular sex. 

Men Who Are Obsessed With Karen.

Does she even exist (in non-Lana Del Rey form)? Or is it just another conveniently file-able stereotype for “men” to classify women so they don’t have to think so hard. Technically speaking, the evolution of “Karen” as a catch-all term for upper middle class white women with anti-science, anti-“the help” “values” did arise from a real person. And, like all things, the Karen trope existed long ago, not just in 80s-era terms like “yuppie” or “richie,” but, as is the case with most memes that go viral well after it already made the rounds on Reddit, Karen was born there. Specifically from a bloke who was basing the stereotype on the ex-wife of a fellow Reddit user, telling his internet brethren all about how she took the kids and the house. It’s the exact sort of entitlement Karens have come to exemplify to those looking for the perfect witch to burn in the endless American trial called rampant inequality and injustice. Which Americans seem ostensibly more enraged about on a regular basis as their Constitution has falsely claimed life could be otherwise, where other countries appear to be more realistic about the inherent life cycle (under pretty much any economic system) of one party being subjugated and the other doing the subjugating. A classist yin and yang balance, if you will.   

And yet, what’s most odd about Karen taking such flight in all facets of where pop culture is disseminated is that “men” are the ones who seem to derive the most pleasure from wielding the “insult.” That Karen was, indeed, sprung from the rib of a “man,” so to speak, could have some accounting for why they seem to be more obsessed with her than women. Or, it’s simply the age-old story of “men” naturally getting off on anything that debases women, even if only a “subset” of them. Then again, Karen is also debasing herself by being the sort of broad who marries a CEO, a cop (or chief of police), a corporate defense lawyer, etc. What’s more, there’s no denying that the most frequent users of the trope are those who embody the spirit of the Karen class themselves, though, of course, they would either 1) never admit it or 2) think this form of self-deprecation gives them a pass for having privilege. 

The hard-on for turning a “white woman’s” name into something derogatory comes at a time when contempt for white folk is at a fever pitch, and, indeed culls from some of the same inspiration Keegan-Michael Key took in the Key and Peele sketch, “The Substitute Teacher,” transforming white people names into pronunciations that suit his own “culture” (namely, subverting the way Jacqueline, Blake, Denise and Aaron are said) in the spirit of what was done to “ethnic” students in the past by their white teachers. The payback factor in this shoe on the other foot parody feels especially salient in the joy of calling out Karens. Even if the majority seeming to do so are self-hating whites themselves (after all, you have to be pretty self-hating to treat others the way whites with power do). More to the point, “men” who are obsessed with Karen. As if they wouldn’t take plenty of pleasure in turning her around and fucking her up the ass if she let them. Alas, she’s too prim for such things. And that’s part of why “men,” especially, love to hate on her. It’s merely grounds for misogyny (you don’t see no “man’s” name getting dragged even half as much for being a white stereotype) under the guise of being a “social advocate.” Just as much as Karen thinks she is.

Men Who Are Proponents of the Surgi Mask Because It Solves the Butter Face Problem.

Because “men” have never been very particular or discerning as a breed, there frequently comes a time when he will opt for the phenomenon of a woman known as a “butter face.” You know the trope: a woman with a “hot” body but a rather unfortunate visage to go with it. As in: “She’s got a great body–but-her-face…” Well, never has there been a better time for “men” with low standards to thrive. To “clean up,” as they say, on the unwanted dregs of women now forced to conceal their butter faces in public with a surgical mask–usually “required” in most stores, though that’s a word that has remained as loose with most Americans as the classification of American beauty. To some, so long as it’s a woman with the right body specifications, she’s “beautiful enough.” In fact, “[insert adjective or noun here] enough” is the low bar Americans set for themselves long ago when they decided to settle in a shithole wasteland with terrible weather (yes, that’s shade at the East Coast and its colonial settlers). 

So long as something just barely qualifies as satisfying, an American–particularly an American “male”–is pretty okay with it. I mean, just look at the U.S. president. Not even qualifying as satisfying, yet still, that’s what was pursued, asked for. Just as it is with the butter faces of this world. For who wants a pretty face, let alone anything resembling a “healthy mind,” when one can simply rail the physique that best suits his fetishes? Ones that might further amplify when she chooses to keep her mask on even while indoors. After all, it’s better than using a paper bag instead (see: Nip/Tuck, season three, episode eleven: “Abby Mays”). Indeed, maybe it adds a bit of much needed kink for both parties trying to ignore the elephant that is her face in the room. 

Because women do not have an option to call a “man” something like a butter face in normal circumstances, the victory of the surgi mask in terms of covering a countenance once too unbearable to look at in comparison to a “sick” body (if the body matched the face, of course no one would be looking in their direction at all–also known as: The Fat Person’s Invisibility Irony) isn’t as triumphant for them as “men.” Just another effortless vindication that seems to be merely congenital with having a so-called penis. In one of the many glaring examples of sexism in the English language, there is no official name for a man with a bangin’ body and just an okay, if even passable, face. And no, “butter face boy” or “justicebody” (“just his body”) do not count. Are not nearly as tailored or insulting. 

Which is rather what makes it all the more upsetting that he’s profiting from the labeling of this type of woman during a pandemic. But hey, that’s patriarchy, innit?

Men Who Use the Word “Partner.”

Thanks to Sean Lennon, of all people, recently bringing the subject back into the limelight, the way in which people refer to their significant others has become a buzz-worthy topic again (as we were all momentarily distracted by the apocalypse long enough to forget about politically correct modes of how to refer to someone or something). As it happened, Lennon remarked via Twitter seemingly apropos of nothing on Cinco de Mayo, “When did it become woke to say ‘my partner’? I mean it’s the least sexy moniker I can think of. It’s as if you’re working together at a law firm. I’d rather be called ‘my bitch.’” But perhaps the subject of how to refer to one’s “bitch” has come up again thanks to the requisite quarantine that has forced many couples in different degrees of a relationship into hiding with one another. With such meme trends as “Will you be my quarantine?” also adding to the pantheon of ways to refer to someone you bone on the regular, it’s no wonder that “partner” might be dredged up again as a means with which to “grossly” refer to someone you’re “in a situationship” with. 

Barring the fact that “partner” does seem like a word John Lennon might have used to refer to Yoko considering his own obsession with “wokeness” at the end of the 60s and throughout the 70s, the legend’s son makes a valid case for why the clinical nature of “partner” should be avoided at all costs. Not only does it smack of the overly PC 90s lesbian tinge that Ross’ ex-wife Carol used on Susan in Friends, but it also completely sucks the romance and ardor entirely out of a dynamic that’s supposed to be replete with such nouns. 

Of course, if one is cordoned off from the rest of society with just one person–as has been sweepingly the case thanks to corona–maybe “partner” starts to feel more viable. Partner in binge watching, partner in cooking lackluster cuisine, partner in grocery shopping, etc. With all the “mystery” drained out of any previously “torrid affair” thanks to being saddled with the same person twenty-four hours a day, why not just succumb to the use of a term as antiseptic as the era we now live in? Then again, if we let language devolve with such a blasé attitude, institutions like the Académie française might actually let COVID-19 be referred to with a masculine article.

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.