From soggy burritos at San Loco to limp fries at Extra Fancy, there’s a wealth of flaccid food in the Williamsburg vicinity. The “man” who chooses to eat said food (’cause God knows he ain’t eatin’ no pussy–the ultimate in wet and soggy factor) not only displays an utter lack of couthness and epicurean savvy, but also undoubtedly mimics his own personal flaccidness.
Would you kiss a man who ate this?
One can gauge whether or not a “man” is a regular flaccid food consumer by watching his reaction to you asking if he wants to eat at Subway–the mac daddy of floppy, drooping sandwiches
. If he looks excited about heading over to the location on Bedford, you need to cut bait and look for a man who likes his food the way he likes his vag: tight, firm and with no hairs on it.
You would think there’s nothing worse than a “man” who refuses to engage in any form of chivalrous act, but alas, there is: The “man” who overtly engages in chivalry with a look of sheer reluctance and disgust in his eyes. You’ve seen it. The one who gets to the door of the Wythe entrance first, sees you approaching, rolls his eyes, quickly forces a smile and assures, “After you.”
No “man” can bear to hearken back to the Victorian-era custom of throwing his cape over a puddle so a woman can cross
Sure, women expect to enjoy their own independence, self-sufficiency and all that shit, but they don’t want the sort of “man” who exhibits a total lack of valiance to such an extent that it is telling of utter selfishness. It infers he’s probably not very generous toward the vag area either
. So the next time you hesitantly pay for food at Extra Fancy
or walk at the same pace as the woman you’re with regardless of how slow she’s moving because of her heels
, just know that genuine chivalry is the mark of a truly dickful man.
To describe one’s establishment as an “upscale clam shack” should automatically seem dubious to any real man. Therefore, men who eat at Extra Fancy are all too quick to admit that they’re somewhat deficient in the groin area. One willing to pay twenty dollars for fish and chips is obviously more than willing to trade their dick for presumed “status.”
Nineteen dollar mussels.
The very fact that Extra Fancy exists is telling of Williamsburg’s continued identity crisis in wanting to remain “hip” but also still appeal to bourgeois gentlemen (I use the term “gentlemen” loosely) willing to plunk down the cash for seafood, along with their scrotum. And so, if you ever catch yourself eating at Extra Fancy, ask yourself: Is it worth it for the “catch of the day” (either a blonde wispy type or the food itself) to sacrifice the last smidgen of your vas deferens?