Watching a show with a new romantic interest is always something of a big deal, a strong indicator of the turn for seriousness and intimacy things are taking. Sitting with someone in a confined space for multiple hours is, after all, something you’re usually paid to do (see: office worker). That’s why one must be very careful about what he chooses to absorb with his femme de la semaine. Anything from the Criterion Collection is absolutely out of the question as it will be too tailored and memorable–plus, who are you kidding? She knows you don’t give a fuck about high art cinema.
Something too low-brow, however, like Rick & Morty, could send her running in the other direction. No, no–the best thing you can put on is something totally middle ground and universally loved. At least until you’re sure you’re going to be banging on the reg for more than just a couple months (usually the cutoff before the ghosting period begins). For some reason, certain “men” can’t seem to understand that Broad City is an ideal starter kit for dipping your toe into the TV viewing realm with a fresh body–somehow assuming that the girl they were formerly with’s “super quirky!” status makes her special enough to be the only goddamn dame who watches it. As if. The Broad City viewing clientele is a dime (and dame) a dozen. And the “man” who somehow thinks it’s hallowed or sacred viewing material from his previous “serious” relationship best stick to watching Modern fucking Family with this kind of deluded viewpoint. What’s more, we all know Ilana is a fairy godmother of instilling horniness.
It could very well be that because “men” view women as walking receptacles for their semen and bullshit that they tend to lack the apparent care it takes to ensure that a condom, or condodo (let us honor the dodo bird by referencing that one needs to wear a condom to prevent the breeding of stupid people) is removed after insertion. And sure, the female in question should probably make certain that this has happened as well, but then, look at what happened to Abbi on Broad City, pissing out a condom at an upscale restaurant because, “Like a lady, I keep my eyes closed when I make love!” And it’s true, you’d be surprised at how little women actually know about what’s going on with their bodies during a bang. Especially if alcohol is in the mix.
Thus, the “man” responsible enough to put a condodo on should also be just as responsible for ensuring its extraction not just from his panisse but also from the orifice from which he’s just exited. Because really, there’s no point, anti pregnancy-wise, in even wearing one if you’re just going to allow it to stew and ferment in her vag for a day or so. Oh but wait, it doesn’t affect you, you’re just trying to protect your fragile little “dick” from the presumed STD you’ll get from this “drunk bitch” you found at a bar. What concern is it of yours? Other than the fact that women are highly trained in both stalking and vengeance.
The methods by which “men” have the ability to lie not only to women but, most keenly, to themselves never ceases to amaze in this radius called New York. And, being that Broad City is the most wondrous depiction of life in this town since Sex and the City (we needn’t reiterate that Girls is total shit, but yeah, to reiterate, it is), it’s only natural that a “man” would wield this for his own ill-intentioned, lascivious benefit.
For what more predatory act than to pretend to be a writer for the show?–preying on every semi-sane female’s love of Abbi and Ilana, two impossibly sage women who know the plight of being deadbeat and sexual in a town that does nothing but encourage these descriptors. Because why would one of the best shows on television right now be written by a “man”? They all write for late night TV, after all. Plus, as Glazer so succinctly pointed out in her recent standup act calling out the offender of this egregious lie, no “men” write for Broad City, and it’s liable to stay that way after this incident.
One of the few shows about New York City that doesn’t paint (see that pun there?) everyone in it to look like a total tool bag is, as you should already know, Broad City. The hyper-surreal yet simultaneously so real plotlines centered around Abbi Abrams (Abbi Jacobson) and Ilana Wexler (Ilana Glazer)’s day-to-day existence simply getting by is enough to make you think this shit hole is all worth it.
Mural painting requires the help of the dickful
And so, when they ask you to help them paint a mural–even if it’s at one of the worst places in Williamsburg, Kinfolk–you fucking do it. Furthermore, if you’re a “man” of any substance who holds no regard for the negative theories of the rom-com, you should well have the gumption to ask one or both of them to marry you. They’re the best clientele you’re ever going to find lurking the streets near Brooklyn Bowl, and you’re not likely to see them again. Fuck, even if you’re a woman you should make a grand leap toward locking them down. Then you can also play the gay card whenever you want.
Broad City is a magical show. We can all admit this. It is a breath of fresh air in the wake of false representations of twenty-something life in New York as perpetuated by Girls, or what I like to call Dunghole Half Hour. But it risks being tarnished when “men” like the one who kicked another “man” off a plane going from Austin to Chicago prove that the world isn’t fully ready for Broad City‘s amazingness.
Perhaps the primary issue was the fact that the “man” wearing the t-shirt was flying on a plane that had to be diverted to St. Louis, a city that still gives a shit about notions of “decency.” It was there that he deboarded wearing the shirt that read “Broad Fucking City” (supplied to him by Comedy Central while he was attending South by Southwest) and it would be there that he was prevented from re-entering the plane by the agent at the gate. The flight was run by Southwest Airlines. Telling, indeed.
Last night’s episode of Broad City featured just one salient moment. While on a boatful of lawyers, Abbi and Ilana ask a handful of bro stereotypes, “So where do you live?” to which they all respond, “Murray Hill, but I moved to Williamsburg.” The comical reality of this pervasive demographic in the neighborhood is just one of many reasons why it’s impossible to talk to (or dance near) any of the “men” there.
Williamsburg is where “men” go to settle into senile frathood
The “quaint” “coziness” of Williamsburg provides your average Murray Hill denizen a chance to live a more “low-key” life while still being permitted to drink and fuck as many low-caliber drinks and women as his heart desires. Thus, the transition from Murray Hill to Williamsburg is only natural–though to the rest of us, it feels rather against nature.