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

June 17, 2020 — 1 Comment

“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.

May 28, 2020 — Leave a comment

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.

May 25, 2020 — 2 Comments

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.”

May 13, 2020 — Leave a comment

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.

February 26, 2020 — 1 Comment

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.

February 23, 2020 — Leave a comment

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.

November 22, 2019 — Leave a comment

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.

September 4, 2019 — Leave a comment

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.

July 16, 2019 — 1 Comment

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.

July 8, 2019 — Leave a comment

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.”