Men Who Very Literally Put the Disease That Is Their DNA In You.

Scientific studies are always unveiling unwanted truths you really could have done without–like when everyone in the 60s had to admit that cigarettes and red meat were killing them in the 50s. But the latest undesirable find is targeted specifically at women, mainly those who lead a non-monogamous existence. Because at least if a girl manages to finagle just one to two “loves” her entire life, she’s only absorbing a few strands of “male” DNA.

Those who bang multiple “men” on the reg, however, are probably doomed to become psychotic not only because of various DNA personalities, but also as a result of having too much “male” in their brains. Because, as if sex isn’t already sci-fi enough, now research (albeit by the shoddy Pacific Northwest entity that is University of Seattle) has shown that sperm attaches to your flesh, infuses your bloodstream and, basically, becomes one with your body–FOREVER (as Mark Wahlberg would say it in Fear). Also known as male microchimerism: it’s like all the most disturbing elements of an Almodóvar/Lynch joint. In any case, women ought to think twice about going home with that attractive but obvious serial killer type. Or anyone at all, really–because who wants “male” DNA of any kind within herself when it automatically entails being a schizoid?

Men Who Act Like They’re Treating You to Decadence When They Take You to $1 Oysters.

No one in New York has money. And if they do, they’re certainly not going to be caught out in public, least of all at a place that serves dollar oysters to attract in the petit bourgeois set. Alas, women of North Brooklyn have very little choice in the matter when they’re either 1) meeting a “man” from Tinder or 2) trying to parlay a one-night stand into a meaningful handful of dates that briefly delude her into thinking she’s not promiscuous.

In the feigned attempt to be romantic and come across as worldly/”not cheap,” many a “man” resorts to the dollar oyster happy hour so prevalent throughout Williamsburg. After all, what better way to trick a woman into believing she’s experiencing decadence, not to mention pump her full of aphrodisiacs to ensure that if she’s not drunk enough to fuck him this time around, at least she’ll be horny enough to. Then again, this might not be the case if she’s yakking over the toilette as a result of a bad batch and/or realizing that watching the “guy” eat an oyster is probably a preview of how he’ll eat her pussy.

Men Who Go Out For A Pack of Cigarettes & Never Come Back.

While “men” don’t really smoke anymore in quite the same way as they did in the 50s, the proverbial excuse about needing to go out for a pack of cigarettes still holds water in terms of the fathers who abandon their children in favor of a life of freedom, wielding paltry excuses such as this classic one as a means for their escape. Though “going out for a pack of cigarettes” might have evolved into “going out to vape,” the same level of flightiness in “men” who become fathers still exists.

For whatever reason, maybe some “men” feel nonchalant about being informed that they’re going to have a child at first, thinking that nothing will really be different as his significant other will probably handle it while he goes out and gallivants after work (in the current century, this means a startup where most of said work involves “team activities” that don’t make for quite the same residual grit left behind from the work day as it once did). But over time, and with enough of an earful of the sound of crying, the “man” who thought he could handle fatherhood decides he might want some more time to himself before being saddled with the burden of parenting. And no, though he might not use the same excuse that would have worked so well for, say, a Ricky Ricardo-type in the 50s, he can still escape just as easily with the insistence that he’ll “be right back.” Alas, you never know when the last time you might see a father’s back is. Because even commitment to their own blood is a challenge for “men” to stay focused on.

Men Who Make You Feel Gross With Their Touch.

For whatever reason, a lot of women succumb to the trap of settling. Generally, it’s as a result of hitting a certain wall, age-wise, and then realizing she ought to just take what she can get that’s semi-decent right quick. Otherwise, she might not get anything at all. And what could be worse than being alone–apart from being with someone you can’t stand? It’s rather neck and neck, one supposes. And, speaking of necks, there’s no more uncomfortable feel than that of a disgusting “man’s” lips on yours.

Yet, what else are you supposed to allow him to do since, you know, sex is clearly out of the question. You don’t want to fully discourage him from touching you because, as they say, just one touch from another human being–particularly that of a sexual nature—can improve and expand your life. Still, sometimes the texture of his scaly dry skin and/or lips is enough to make your entire body shudder on contact. That’s why, an endless and steady supply of champagne and wine ought to be funneled into your gullet, Amanda Woodward enduring Peter Burns-style. Then, suddenly, everything and anything feels glorious. Even loose “male” skin with a hint of crust.

 

 

Men Who Prompt You To Become A Lounge Singer To Release Your Melancholy.

As a youth, I always wanted to be a lounge singer in Las Vegas. I thought there was something so endlessly glamorous about it. Now that I know what I know about the women who tend to gravitate toward this profession, it rather makes a lot of sense that my child self would intuit the forthcoming tragedy of my life. Because, obviously, the lounge singers of this world–whether relegated to Las Vegas or not–are all plagued by the same epidemic: melancholy.

And where does this melancholy stem from? Why, being jilted and/or rejected by a “man” they presumed was to be their great love, naturally. After their heart has been put through the meat slicer, however, they quickly see that there is nothing “great” about love. It should be avoided like the plague, dodged like a bullet at a GOP baseball game. But if you learn this the hard way, there’s nothing for you to do to recover except become a lounge singer. It really is the sole means by which to cope with what’s happened to you, to mourn the part of yourself that’s summarily been extracted by the person who played you like a harpsichord. You know, that part that once possessed a plucky hopefulness, that might’ve had a twinkle in its eye if it could be personified. But like Sugar Kane in Some Like It Hot says, that aspect of yourself is “through with love.” It will never fall again. Unless it’s on a stage as a result of drunkenness while walking to the microphone.

Men of the Caucasian Persuasion That Get A Tattoo of or Pertaining to Africa.

Every white “man’s” rite of passage is, for some reason, taking a “spiritual journey” either to India or Africa. Maybe even both if he’s super rich enough a.k.a. living on daddy’s dime. For whatever reason, going to Africa in particular seems to bring out a part of himself that withdraws his inner “wokeness.” The zen he’s so desperately been searching for amid his own chaos, typically self-inflicted due to not having any real personal problems other than being a piece of shit.

And while it’s “fine” to appreciate the scenery, the culture and the overpriced safari you didn’t pay for yourself, it’s less than [insert Zulu word for kosher here] to come back to Brooklyn and decide to pay roughly $800-$1,000 for an Africa tattoo paying “respect” to the “African peoples” when the only thing you know “bout dat lyfe” is what you heard from Die Antwoord songs. So please, do not pollute our vision not only with your blinding skin, but with a blemish called your Africa tattoo as well. It’s not going to get you black women, but it might get you beat up by some. And probably even Creolean ones too.

Men Who Begrudge You Your Love of Pop Music.

There’s perhaps no worse breed of “man” than the music snob–the one who will either only listen to Bach like the skull fucker he is or only go to or participate in DIY shows like an elitist motherfucker pretending to be a “man” of the people. There is no in-between with “men” when it comes to music. They’re either “classicist”-loving pretension-wads or angst-ridden alt rock/indie adoring fuckboys. And if they do love or even vaguely appreciate pop music, you’re probably fucked anyway because it generally signals a predilection for their love of other “men” in addition.

Even so, just because a “man” might cringe when he hears the opening, dated notes to “…Baby One More Time” doesn’t mean he ought to begrudge you one of your few simple pleasures in life, often, these days involving the making of a video of some variety to go along with your lip syncing. And anyway, is it a crime if your body responds to the frothy melodies of a pop star like Ariana Grande or the so-called vacuous lyrics of women so frequently describing being abandoned and done wrong in the most upbeat way they can? (e.g. “Sorry” by Beyonce). How else are they (and the women they appeal to) supposed to cope with the constant disappointments and fuckery if not shaking it off with the type of ditty that laments, “You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline” while also allowing you to move your arse on the dance floor? So no, do not begrudge a lady her devotion to pop music. She doesn’t hold it against you when you splooge over Radiohead, after all.