Men Who Think Going to A Bar On Their Block Constitutes “Braving the Snowstorm.”

There is nothing a New Yorker loves more than talking about how he’s endured something that no one else outside the city limits could understand. In the recent case of Jonas, a blizzard that has dropped the second highest amount of snow NYC has seen, the “men” in particular are quite avid about speaking of their bravery in the face of near death.

Skinny Dennis: where Williamsburg "men" find courage from the storm

Skinny Dennis: where Williamsburg “men” find courage from the storm

And yet, apart from the “man” who snowboarded through town on the back of a Jeep, the only “bravery” exhibited in Williamsburg was a number of “men” hauling their bundled up in The North Face bodies to the trifecta of one of the following bars all owned by the same people: Lucky Dog, Skinny Dennis or Rocka Rolla. So unless you whored yourself out for money like this “man” on the same day of the storm, please note there is nothing heroic about drinking a hot toddy two blocks from your apartment like un petit bitch.

Men Who Still Try to Troll For Pussy Past 1 a.m.

There is a certain kind of “man” who refuses to give up the ghost of his potential for sex while trolling the bar Monday through Sunday. No matter how late it gets and, thusly, how significantly the potential for taking someone home with him dwindles, he still can’t seem to apprehend that he is leaving the bar alone.

Donny boy is just the type of "man" to troll past 1 a.m.--good looks or not

Donny boy is just the type of “man” to troll past 1 a.m.–good looks or not

He will ignore all attempts at sustaining any form of dignity by leering, slurring and offering to buy drinks to any woman who looks vulnerable enough to take the bait. But, truth be told, the type of “man” who is willing to opt for the type of woman leftover by the time last call rolls around is probably finding his soul mate–for the night. Particularly at Lucky Dog.

Men Who Think That Because You’ve Engaged In Conversation With Them at The Bar That This Allows Them Free License to Follow You Into the Bathroom.

I don’t really know what it is that makes “men” assume a personal relationship with you just because you’ve allowed them to say a few sentences to you at the bar. Whatever the reason, the second you say something they deem “intimate” (a.k.a. simply acknowledging them with eye contact), they seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to infer you’re down to fuck.

She ain't feelin' you, stop reading into politeness

She ain’t feelin’ you, stop reading into politeness


This desperate, visceral need to stick one’s nub into something wet is further made heinous when you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom as a mode of escape and they interpret this to mean this is their cue to follow you into said facility. And because you’re in one of the three Williamsburg bars owned by the same people (the Lucky Dog/Skinny Dennis/Rocka Rolla trifecta), the lock is shitty enough to… penetrate. It is at this point that one can feel free to implement the techniques learned from that kickboxing class she took thanks to a Living Social deal her friend got (though this smacks of missing a clit and you should probably just go for a classic kick to the groin).

Men Who Think They Can Show A Whole New World In Williamsburg.

There are many “men” who feel that the so-called promise of Williamsburg, with its “dive bars” (e.g. Lucky Dog and Skinny Dennis), boutique hotels (Wythe and whatever that monstrosity nearby is going to be called), Eurodance clubs (Verboten) and faux bougie pizza (Fornino), is enough to impress a woman. It is not. If you want to get your prized pussy, you’re going to need to put in a lot more work than simply taking her to Williamsburg and expecting the locale to speak for itself.

At least Aladdin had a fucking magical carpet to show her the shit on

At least Aladdin had a fucking magical carpet to show her the shit on


You are not Aladdin and this is not Arabia.You’re probably John from Ohio. So just embrace that fact and stop tyring to pass Wburg off as the epicenter of chic. And certainly don’t try to pass Bushwick off as chic either. Obviously, what I’m suggesting is flying her in a private plane to an exotic city if you truly want to secure lifelong wonderment and gratitude. ‘Cause a Styrofoam to-go cup from the Turkey’s Nest ain’t gonna cut it.