Men Who Wear Belly Chains.

And fluid takes a human form in “men” who wear belly chains. Currently trending in the world of “men’s” jewelry and fashion is this emblem of being a 90s woman or early 00s era Christina Aguilera. No one knows how or why “men” suddenly decided they wanted to graft sartorial inspiration from women, especially considering how much they seem to despise them in every other regard, but one can trace its most blatant recent origins to 2017, with “men” all in a frenzy (I will not make the pun “gaga” to reference the perpetual infantile state of “man”–especially since Lady Gaga further ruined the use of that word) over “male” rompers a.k.a. romphim. From there, it was only going to be a quick ride into the territory of belly chains.

The appropriation–yes, use of the term is warranted–of belly chains ultimately by Western white women from Indian history does not need to be appropriated by white “men” as well. In Trump’s America, there’s only room for one gender of the Caucasian persuasion to steal blatantly from another culture and it damn sure shouldn’t be anyone sporting what amounts to little better than a protruding clitoris. Of course, no “man” can adhere to rules either written or unspoken, so here we are with the belly chains of “men’s” pale blanco stomachs shoved up in our faces as our heads are forced down to where life does not begin so much as ends in tears (of sperm) and all at once you just want to gag yourself with the chain at the same time as the cum runs down your throat. All the while, he’s looking for an award for his accessorizing brilliance and you’re just over here like:

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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.