Men Who Go to Bartending School.

“Yes, please tell me more about how you went to bartending school,” the bar manager will internally muse to himself as “men” convinced that attending a one to two week course at [insert name of any scam artist “school” here] will make them shoo-ins for a position at the establishment of their choosing. Because, yes, “learning” to daintily mix together an old fashioned, negroni or some other cocktail that no one at the shithole bar you end up working at will order is really going to bolster your candidacy.

And yet, in the mind of the flaccid (usually blanc and hoping for the most effortless way to dip his toe into the working world) “man” faintly aspiring to make a fast buck in NYC–specifically Brooklyn–when he’s not trolling for pussy that’s just as effortless, the motto is: the less toil, the better. This also tends to be their philosophy in the boudoir as well (much to de Sade’s dismay). If only they could mix up their material in between the sheets the way they do in between the cracks of martini glasses as they sloppily pour in their ingredients to fill a row of them up (no cum pun intended). So yes, maybe a “degree” (a.k.a. certificate) in bartending can get your foot in the door, but it’s going to get a foot to kick your ass right out of it even faster than you got hired, too. ‘Cause ain’t no preparation for the fuckery of an NY bar other than to start out as a dishwasher (or alcoholic). But what would a “man” who can afford to go to bartending school do that for when he can just flounce in bandying his little certificate? Which is probably still much larger than his little dick.

Advertisements

Men Who Tell You They Meant The Sentiment “When They Said It”–But Now, No More.

“Men” have the natural tendency to come on strong in the beginning of any pursuit, particularly if the woman in question seems arcane and standoffish to him. His feelings of ardor reach a fever pitch the more the object of his affection rebuffs or acts coolly toward him. For it always goes that we want that which we can’t have.

So naturally once a “man” gets it, he no longer wants it, or at least, isn’t half as interested as before. This is the phenomenon most succinctly explained by Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, when he describes telling a girl that he loves her, in spite of the sentiment being transitory–intended only for that split second when he felt it. As he elucidates, “Then, just to show you how crazy I am, when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I’m crazy. I swear to God I am.” At least he admits it, some “men” can’t even do that.

Would that we could all have such passing fancies as “men” prone to love a girl at variable intervals, ranging from three weeks to three years. Devotion and loyalty, however, are concepts invented by Shakespeare and mafia dons who cheat on their wives anyway. So should you find yourself throwing it back in a “man’s” face that he told you he loved you, just remember that he did mean it “at the time,” it’s just that now, that no longer applies since you’ve made yourself so available and have ceased to provide any mystery.

Men Who Watch Rick & Morty.

What woman among us hasn’t been subjected to watching Rick & Morty at some juncture during “consistently” banging a “man” of the unavoidably puerile variety living in North Brooklyn? At some point or another, the show is bound to come up–either in conversation or in the morning. They’ll tell you that you’ve simply got to watch it, that you’ll instantly fall in love with the unlovable Rick, alcoholic mad scientist and grandfather to impressionable adolescent Morty. So basically, that you’ll have a better time watching this show than you did having sex with this person.

In your weakened hangover haze, you will oblige because, honestly, it’s way too early to go back out into the MTA-run world and when you see Rick and Morty–or sometimes Rick and Beth–hop through dimensions of the multiverse, you’ll try to tell yourself, “Yeah, yeah. This is way existential. Like Cher thought Ren & Stimpy was.” But it’s, at its core, an abrasive cartoon for the “boys” of Neverland who still somehow condescend to women in spite of sitting at home in the middle of the day smoking weed and watching this lauded show.

Then again, as Rick has said, “Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.” So you do. Because you’ve got to put in the effort if you’re going to get a few subsequent “dick” appointments.

 

 

 

 

 

Men Who Drink Brosé.

Almost worse than “men” who drink straight up frosé is the “man” who tries to bill his pillaging of a woman’s sole right toward the dainty and femme as brosé. But beyond it being merely a word used to rebrand something distinctly feminine into something slightly more masculine (though, in truth, it might actually sound more effeminate), brosé is also its own form of beer. That’s right, in your very own grocery aisle, you can find an extra special in its douchery form of this beverage.

Those who have capitalized on a trend that has been sanctioned by the oh so appropriate unofficial spokesperson of sucking it down, Justin Bieber, are banking on the mass dicklessness of “men” not just throughout Brooklyn, but all of America. Fully aware of the laxity that has befallen the definition of machismo in the past ten years (even ancient Greeks having homoerotic encounters appear butcher in comparison to the dainty ass motherfuckers currently pervading the scene called “male”dom), beverage companies with the power to turn dicklessness into cash aren’t wasting time. As commented on by The Drinks Business, “An increasing number of male drinkers are embracing rosé in what has been dubbed the ‘brosé’ phenomenon, as rosé shakes off its female-only image and the top examples are taken more seriously as fine wines.” Now if only “men” could shake off their “pussy-only” image while drinking such fare.

Men Who Clutch To Your Stomach.

Though “men,” for the most part, do all they can to shy away from the paternal (always demanding a DNA test on former trash TV staples like Maury and Jerry Springer), there is something biological that occasionally possesses them to, for no apparent reason, clutch to a woman’s stomach. It can be someone they know intimately or merely an acquaintance in passing. There is no rule for degrees of familiarity that will prevent a “man” from the impromptu stomach clutch.

Whether this is due to a woman’s so-called “ripeness” for pregnancy or because the “man” in question sees something in her that makes him want to father her child is indiscernible. All that’s known for certain is that any sensible woman would do well to keep her midriff area angled strategically from any and all “men” approaching, lest it be grabbed at random and for an indeterminate amount of time. I mean, what if she really was pregnant or something and didn’t want to call attention to it? It’s really enough to make a girl feel absolutely rotund from having to suck it in out of nervousness. Jesus, it used to be all you had to worry about was an ass or tit grab, but now we have to add the paunch to the mix, too? Oh, yeah, and apparently pussy thanks to Trump. Is no body part on the female sacred? Well, the answer to that was already made clear when God or whoever told us all that Eve was crafted from Adam’s rib. If she’s an extension of his body, then why shouldn’t he be able to paw at her as he pleases?

Men Who Call Themselves “Gender Fluid” To Avoid Being Called A White Male.

“If I’m a white ‘male,’ that means I’m the oppressor, right? That’s why I identify as gender fluid.” So another nail in the coffin of “heterosexuality” is hammered. That a “man” of the Caucasian persuasion could express this form of deflective logic to avert the bubbling condemnation that women and minorities of all varieties (black, trans, Hispanic–the gamut) that aren’t, statistically speaking, really minorities as they lash out against the Trump juggernaut is telling of the overall callow nature of a person purported to have a dick.

That the white “man” is already a minority in Census Bureau numbers (“population growth is fastest among minorities as a whole, and according to the Census Bureau’s estimation for 2012, 50.4% of American children under the age of 1 belonged to minority groups”) is likely what makes him want so badly to feel apart of something he never can be. For, in truth, there is no one gender and ethnicity like the white “man” in terms of the fact that he feels most guilty of all for being a congenital piece of shit. This is so often the underlying reason for why he puts his assholery on blast in the vein of Hitler. It’s like Taylor Swift surrendering and essentially saying with “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Fine, you want me to be the villain? Then I’m gonna fuckin’ do it to the nth degree since everyone despises me anyway.”

Then again, the other side to the coin is being a spineless little turd that lays claim to “gender fluidity” so as not to offend anyone, cowering in the corner like the dickless worm he is. On the plus side, the type of “man” usually making this declaration isn’t very attractive to begin with and is therefore no real loss to the last of the straight women still taking faint stabs at monogamy.

Men Who Don’t Dress On Your Level.

In these “modern” times, it’s a challenge to find anyone–“male” or female–that dresses on your level. More often than not, you’re lucky if you stumble upon someone who wears anything other than a snuggie-similar garment upon exiting the apartment. But for those who still actually put clothes on that have buttons and zippers, being seen in public with the garden variety schlub that tends to abound in this town can be a constant source of embarrassment. I mean, didn’t New York used to be the only U.S. hub of high fashion?

Further, when taking into account just how fey and feminine “men” have become ever since the term “metrosexual” was coined in 1994 and became a household word as a result of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and David Beckham, one would think that they would at least feel inclined to take greater pride in their appearance. But no, it’s just as Cher Horowitz said: “I don’t get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants, and take their greasy hair—ew!—and cover it up with a backwards cap and, like, we’re expected to swoon? I don’t think so!” This is, however, apparently exactly what “men” expect, making you look as though you’re constantly dressed in a ball gown in comparison to their perpetual frumpery. So until you find your Jareth the Goblin King, you might prefer to walk the streets alone to spare yourself the trauma of being seen with someone sartorially unworthy.

Men Who Bear a “Love Will Tear Us Apart” Tattoo

It might have been romantic–even “edgy”–to get a “Love Will Tear Us Apart” tattoo when the song first came out in 1980 and held a meaning that wasn’t overly commodified by the abstract noun “hipster.” But in 2017, seeing a “man” sporting this Ian Curtis aphorism (especially if it’s situated right above his heart) is nothing if not an indication of just how little he cares for anyone but himself. The tattoo is not an expression of his sadness over a love lost or his genuine belief that l’amour causes nothing but heartache. It is a method of luring in naive pussy.

Because yes, a certain type of girl will find it charming that a “man” has emblazoned this mantra on his skin–a sign of tenderness and passion. But the only thing the lyric signifies in tattoo form is a tender dick and passionless mind. He is a phony baloney with no concept of just how fucking much it pains to experience attachment of any kind. He can let go in a way Ian Curtis never could–which is, in part, why he had to commit suicide, being unable to choose between two women and all. The “man” with the immortal quote on his body, however, is likely to live a very long life sustained on his egoism and falseness alone.

Men Who, For More Than Introduction Purposes, Use Their Middle Names and/or A Roman Numeral.

It’s got to be said, darling, that whenever a “man” needs a lot of fanfare for anything, most especially something as simple and straightforward as his name, well, then, it’s fairly likely he’s got something to hide. And that something is a phantom panisse. Think about it: did the greatest lotharios, the most illustrious sex machines rely on some long flowery moniker to distinguish them to women? Certainly not. Don Juan, Marquis de Sade, Ron Jeremy. These are all extremely succinct. In the old days, a cumbersome nom might have been a sign of nobility–but when was nobility ever a sign of virility?

When you start involving the lengthiness of a name like Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, it becomes clear just what is not lengthy where it counts in duration of coitus and size of appendage delivering the performance. No one needs to know your credentials based on the largeness of your name, but on how pleasantly large you can make the clitoris swell and then contract at the opportune moment of orgasm. So unless reciting your unnecessarily protracted name while having sex helps you protract the enjoyment of the ingenue you’ve managed to convince of your greatness in stature and finances (there’s a reason rich girls flock to bartenders and waiters), a one-word designation will suffice. Like the most tangible personification of sex there ever was, Prince.

Men Who Suck Tits.

Maybe it’s because my tits are lacking in every way that I somehow always end up with a tit-sucker–a “man” whose mouth consistently seems to find its way onto what Shakira would call your mountains. Or for some, like myself, your chode-like hills. I don’t know if maybe things would be different if this wasn’t the part of my body I’m not most self-conscious about, if maybe 1) I would enjoy a tit-sucker or 2) because of a lack of inhibition regarding them, the “man” in question might be less interested in them.

Whatever the case, there is obviously one thing that can be said for your average tit-sucker: he has a mother obsession. Or is at least trying to re-create the best part of his life: infancy. Even though very little has changed for him since then, in that he still has his parents taking care of him, or a woman as a placeholder to do so until he invariably moves back home to “regroup.” When you come across these tit-suckers in your boudoir–or portable bed a.k.a gurney–more regularly than most, you might have to ask yourself: am I putting out a maternal or matronly vibe? As for me, that’s definitely not the case, and anything that might emanate from my nipple is the barrel of a machine gun that so many other fembots have. Because it isn’t just that looking down and seeing a fully grown “man,” for all intents and purposes, masticating your breast is rather disorienting, it’s that you know he’s reverting to the most intimate moment he’s ever had with his mother. And if I wanted things to get Greek in my sex den, I would just order from Seamless.