A chocolate scandal in Williamsburg is the height of controversy beyond a reality show about four women “struggling” to figure out where to eat brunch. For years, the Mast Brothers have been happily infiltrating, among other entities, the shopping carts of Whole Foods patrons, pulling one of the grandest cons of the culinary world with their claim of using only “single-source” chocolate beans.
Olive oil chocolate already sounds unappetizing to begin with
Now, an ironclad exposé about how the bro-turned-hipster brothers, Rick and Michael, have been duping the gluttonous mouths of their customers since the founding of their company in 2007 reveals that all it takes to be a success in Williamsburg is confidence and a beard. Rather than getting their chocolate beans from one farm to give each bar that “artisanal” flavor, the duo’s process instead consists of melting down commercially produced chocolate and passing it off as their own in wrappers that cost more to produce than the “sweet treats” themselves. In spite of this revelation, it’s entirely possible that the dickless lot of Williamsburg will continue to stuff their faces with the fraudulent candy.
There is, as Carrie Bradshaw once noted in the episode “The Ick Factor,” a certain threshold for cheesiness in the modern era. To be sure, romance is much appreciated, as it distinguishes between the label of “friend” vs. “lover,” but an overwhelming display of affection and/or forced gestures of bathetic amorousness tend to negate the belief in a “man” having a dick.
Sometimes, dancing can only be done in a McDonald’s if it’s going to be passable as not overly cheesy
With fall in full swing, the couples scene tends to reach a crescendo of annoying maudlin-ness that is especially noticeable in Williamsburg. From sipping hot chocolate together at Mast Brothers to walking along the waterfront hand in hand, there’s nothing more vomit-inducing that the Wburg cold-weather tableau. But what takes the cake for dicklessness is when you pick a leaf up off the ground, offer it to your girlfriend to hold and ride with her on the L train without shame as you and she touch the leaf together while entwined together. It smacks of a goddamn Mandy Moore movie. Not even The Notebook, a Mandy Moore movie. So try to rein it the fuck in. This isn’t 1948, after all, and you’re certainly not dressed well enough to pull off anything other than buying your girlfriend a book that you thought she’d identify with (probably, knowing your dicklessness, Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham).