Men Who Monitor.

No matter how increasingly aware women become of how little they actually need a “man,” there’s always going to be that sect that persists in carrying on with the so-called tradition of monogamy and the associated trajectory of marriage, an institution that, like the presidency, is frivolous, but still sort of cute (or would be if the person embodying its post at the moment didn’t induce vomiting on sight).

With the territory of marriage often comes a sense of possession and entitlement, usually on the “man’s” part if his wife is blatantly more attractive than he is. That being said, an inexorable tendency toward monitoring even the smallest, most insignificant of activities can start to become par for the domesticity course. Whether she’s washing the dishes (no doubt, ineffectually, by his standards), folding the laundry (after starching the appropriate garments, no less) or giving the requisite “at least twice a week” blow job, her “man” is sure to be watching closely, waiting to take issue with some ridiculous nuance she didn’t “perform” quite right. And the more he monitors, the more uneasy and unsettled a girl can become, questioning her every move, spiraling further and further into an Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight mentality.

Fearing the constant hovering presence of a “man” over her shoulder, the confidence with which she approaches her day-to-day former enjoyments can suddenly feel like a perpetual dry anal rape. There’s nothing worse than constantly self-questioning in the non-Socratic way, after all. It can really mess with a woman’s pretty little head. Accordingly, why don’t you try to strike the perfect balance between attentiveness and not totally ignoring? It would signal far more care on your part than hyper-vigilance, which so often stems from a place of selfishness rather than love. If that increasingly mythical concept can even exist between a “straight” “man” and woman.

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Men Who Try to Dupe You With the “Bad Boy” Shtick.

The abstraction that is the “bad boy,” perhaps both helmed and perfected by James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause, has long been romanticized, fetishized and all the other positive “-izeds” a woman can give to a “man” parading around as too moody and emotional beneath the veneer of “badness” for this life. Something of an embryonic form of the “fuckboy,” a bad “boy” is possibly an even worse entity to contend with, because he’s usually impossibly good looking, has a motorcycle and offers the promise of taking you to the freedom of the open road with him. As a young female, this sounds endlessly alluring, and you’ve got a lot more time to waste on the fantasy of running away with someone who proves “the world was built for two,” which eventually includes the naive thought that the bad “boy” will grow restless with his wandering life and want to “calm down” a little bit. But the only definition of calming down a bad “boy” knows is giving up on any musical aspirations he might have had.

This unique ability to dupe women for long periods of time is what makes the bad “boy” such a powerful force. What also makes him far more dangerous than a fuck”boy” is how much easier it is to fall down the rabbit hole for him, because the signs of his fuckery remain shrouded in his aura of arcaneness and his intoxicating good looks that seem to easily make up for not having much in the way of anything intellectual to say (but everything he says sounds so profound specifically because it’s so sparse). And while someone like Michelle Pfeiffer as Stephanie in Grease 2 might be able to forgive away every flaw of the bad “boy” with the justification that he’s “just like super sensitive underneath it all,” the truth is, dear dick seeker, he’s a bad person, not a bad “boy.” Because bad people exhibit this sort of detached, dissociated behavior all the time. Often become world leaders, in fact.

Men Who Think Any Woman Who’s “Crazy” Has Daddy Issues.

The general go-to when it comes to chalking up a woman’s “insanity” to something–if she’s even allowed the “courtesy” of being given a reason for said unhingedness other than her gender–is that she must have daddy issues. This, too, must also be the reason why she can never be satisfied by any “man”–least of all one in her age bracket. No, she’s too busy subconsciously comparing him to her father–even if he was never around to make for much of a comprehensive comparison.

But “men,” often more unwittingly convinced of the Electra complex than women are of the Oedipus one, are too quick to write off a woman’s neuroses to the very first “man” she ever had any dealings with in her life: old Daddy-o. Except, in most latchkey kids’ cases, there wasn’t much interaction with her patriarch anyway–of course, they (therapists?) say that the absence of this key “male” figure in a girl’s life can be just as damaging in the same ways that a ubiquitous “father” can be with his invariable verbal and/or physical abuse. Regardless, a woman’s alleged “madness” can’t be attributed entirely to the one “male” in her life whose job it was, by twentieth century and prior standards, to make her “palatable” to another “man” who would be responsible for taking care of her (since, basically, a “woman” had to be passed off, as it were, by the time she reached a certain “marriageable age”). Except, in truth, this obligation always fell to the mother. In any case, if we’re going to place blame on anyone for a woman’s “batshit” ways, let’s place it on all “men,” largely immune to common decency and morality as they are, not just those “penises” responsible for bringing a child into the world against her will.

Men Immune to “Subtlety.”

“Men” aren’t the most adept at picking up on things, even when they’re hit over the head with them. Which is why even bothering with the nuance of being “subtle” can only lead to invariable disappointment. Just look at the most recent Golden Globes, where “men” stood there daftly with forced Time’s Up pins on their lapels, saying pretty much nothing about the reason behind having to wear them. For even when they do pick up on the sentiment you’re trying to get across to them, they tend to express their emotions as adroitly as a woman who despises children would hold a baby.

They don’t mean to be such dullards when it comes to the expression of feelings and understanding, it’s simply that they’re perhaps still coping with a time-honored indoctrination of bottling up empathy of any kind. That being said, it’s easier to tiptoe around what’s being very plainly directed at them by a woman, usually rage and/or sadness. Because “men” tend only to be capable of evincing these emotions in between occasional attempts at placating you with an orgasm. Which is why they would prefer not to further poke the bear that is a female’s fury. It’s better, in his mind, to pretend his car hasn’t been just set on fire than to actually acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part–copping to why his car deserved to be incinerated–thereby eliciting another mudslide of feminine “overreaction.”

Men Who Are Not Even Freaks In Bed to Make Up for Not Being Freaks in Life.

There are still plenty of “freaks” in the world, sure. They just so happen to be of the genuinely scary variety as opposed to the fun, drum up this humdrum existence variety. Take, for example, any “man” in the current Cabinet of the United States, among other strange creatures far too close to our homes. Rather than the pure form of freakdom that once existed in Tod Browning’s day (or shit, even John Hughes’ day), we are now faced with a more frightening breed: the normal and boring sort.

This, of course, spreads into the “dating” and “sex” arena (if you can call being treated like a blow-up doll for the evening as such), where there is no shortage of stark-raving typicals claiming to be “so weird” the same way a certain sect of women go out of their way to pretend to be quirky. But their only weirdness lies in how they just lie there in bed stiff as a board making you wish for the Amphibian Man in The Shape of Water to come take you from this flaccidity-infested land. As a masquerading straight “man,” if you’re not going to be even remotely interesting or endearingly bombastic in personality, at least have the decency to show some level of imagination behind a closed bedroom (or bathroom) door.

Men Who Say “PT Anderson.”

While the Orwellian prediction of “Newspeak” makes the constant and vexatious habit of abbreviation no surprise in the present, one would have thought that it could have at least managed to evade usage on people’s names. Alas, not so with Paul Thomas Anderson, whose ardent, largely “male” fanbase has prompted the overly familiar epithet of “PT” to arise. But unless we’re talking about the famed ringmaster, no “man” should have the misfortune of such a bastardization of his moniker. What’s more, as the auteur known for sweeping, lengthy cinematic experiences, doesn’t he at least deserve the courtesy of being addressed as his own overly long for the American tongue name?

And, to be sure, this abridgement is employed primarily by “male” acolytes of his oeuvre. Because, by and large, women only get on the Paul Thomas Anderson train when their boyfriends do, generally for the cachet of being one of the “cool girls” of the sort that Tove Lo declares herself to be. And because women are typically better at savoring and appreciating things, they’re less prone to blurt out Paul Thomas Anderson’s name in an incomplete form. Their “male” counterparts, however, get a vague titillation out of the, in their minds, “informality” of addressing him as such. Which is really nothing short of dweebo.

So next time you think of asking someone if they’ve seen such and such “PT” Anderson movie, please, use your words. It’s not that many more syllables.

Men (White “Intellectual”) Who It Pains to Say “Gangsta.”

White “men” have a lot of hangups and shortcomings, to be sure. So many and so much so that it makes one wonder how they’ve been able to ascend to and sustain “supremacy” for such a long period over the rest of humanity. That being said, one of the many issues white “men”–particularly those branding themselves as “intellectuals” have is with pronunciation. Specifically of those overly colloquial words used by “black folk” (as Nicole Richie would say). Unless, of course, he’s at the other end of the spectrum of how white “men” approach rap and its vernacular, and we’re dealing with an Eminem type that’s overly boca-happy with “informalities.”

But for those “men” at the Jeopardy player spectrum of whiteness, he would unwittingly seek to incur humiliation of a different kind–even if it means literally thousands of dollars ($3,200, to be exact) are at risk for simply saying a word incorrectly (though, yes, technically “correctly”). Because a “scholarly” white “man” would rather suffer the slashing of his pockets than risk sounding “uncouth,” instead preferring not to risk the slashing of his so-called integrity.

As was the case with a certain Jeopardy contestant that Alex Trebek (the last of the dickfuls) saw fit to put right into place by throwing back the real answer to a question that required locution in his face: “Gangsta’s Paradise Lost.” Not “Gangster’s Paradise Lost,” you poor misguided “academic.” Now not even rich enough to make up for a minuscule panisse.

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Men Who Do Their Top Nine.

Discovering one’s “Top Nine” photos (don’t ask me why it’s such an arbitrary amount) is the thing to have done in the last days of 2017. But, truth be told, determining what images will be put on display in collage form needn’t endure the scrambling code of an app to tell any of us what these pictures from the dickless will yield: they’re going to be of himself, his “travels” (though one really oughtn’t count running or mountain hike photos) and his exercise regimes.

How sodding original. Worst of all, his hashtag will be as generic as #topnine. Not even something more unique in its blandness like #kingofadventure #cantstopwontstop #topnine. And what is his aim in partaking of this particular inane trend? To appear more attractive (even as an “attached” “man”) to the equally thirsty women following him. Because every “man” sans dick knows the importance of building himself up to the outside world in order to soften the blow (or lack thereof knowing most “men’s” stinginess with performing oral) when a potential new female comes to know him in real life–without, of course, ever cumming at his hand (he’s likely a finger banger to substitute for the nub). The usage of Top Nine, for a “man,” is thus, just an undercover form of a Tinder profile.

Men Who Post Pictures With Their “Little Nieces” (Especially Around the Holidays).

Something within each shady fuck”boy” of a “man” is aware of an antiquated tactic that really doesn’t (at least not anymore) appeal to the evolved woman who no longer wishes to have children in the current wisdom of knowing full well that there are zero rewards to having them (unless you’re rich and want to pass your “legacy” name and money down to subsequent generations, Hilton-style).

Yet, because a “man” remains primitive in his approach to women no matter how many apps appear in the proverbial meat market of “online dating” (I use this in quotes merely because it’s an obsolescent term in the way that social media is becoming), he thinks that catering to her “biological need” for a child and being able to envision a “man” who can be a “good father” (which, these days, means being a stay-at-home dad with an occasional freelance graphic design gig) is going to work. But since the “man” in question who would use an unwitting relation as a baiting method would never actually have a child himself (unless he finally turns fifty and finds an Asian twenty years his junior), the only truss he can use to support the false impression of being “likable” “Dad material” is a niece. With the holiday season upon us through January 2nd, the calculated “man” knows full well that there’s no greater opportunity for press and promotion than this time of year–a chance to post plenty of photos with niece(s) and stock up on a plethora of material for future profile curating options.

Fortunately for this classic and artless fuck”boy” strategy, many a woman of the Missing A Clit variety falls for the yarn, thinking how “sweet” this “guy” must be to while away his free hours with children. As for the rest of us, asshole, we know you don’t give a fuck about your “little niece”–are merely using her as a prop for pussy. Would probably fuck your own kin as a matter of fact if incest and pedophilia weren’t so frowned upon. But keep telling yourself you’re not the creepy uncle.

Men Who Are Scandalized by The Sight of What They Wish Could Be Their Own Genitalia.

It never ceases to amaze that anyone can be shocked in the current year we live in, as we hurtle evermore through time under the presumed guise of collective acceptance. Yes, 2017, when two ugly fat men control power from the West to the East and you’re deemed a dinosaur of anti-progress if you still identify concretely as anything. Fittingly, one “man” living on the Lower East Side has taken offense to the existence of a freshly painted mural that he has a ringside seat to every time he opens his window. Painted, appropriately, without balls by Swedish artist Carolina Falkholt on the day many need the cheer of dick most of all–Christmas Eve–its size is no doubt also threatening to the few straight “men” still left in the borough.

Accordingly, the reaction of feeling a combination of shame and outrage and then blaming it on being “not good for the kids” is an overt projection of one’s own issues. With his extremely small and useless panisse. Sure, it would be awful and scandalizing to open your window to the sight of a veiny, mammoth wang baiting you if you yourself had no penis to speak of. But that’s your own crying-for-therapy issue. That’s why it’s a shame someone like Samantha Jones or Dr. Ruth isn’t willing to live in a tenement on the LES.