“Yes, please tell me more about how you went to bartending school,” the bar manager will internally muse to himself as “men” convinced that attending a one to two week course at [insert name of any scam artist “school” here] will make them shoo-ins for a position at the establishment of their choosing. Because, yes, “learning” to daintily mix together an old fashioned, negroni or some other cocktail that no one at the shithole bar you end up working at will order is really going to bolster your candidacy.
And yet, in the mind of the flaccid (usually blanc and hoping for the most effortless way to dip his toe into the working world) “man” faintly aspiring to make a fast buck in NYC–specifically Brooklyn–when he’s not trolling for pussy that’s just as effortless, the motto is: the less toil, the better. This also tends to be their philosophy in the boudoir as well (much to de Sade’s dismay). If only they could mix up their material in between the sheets the way they do in between the cracks of martini glasses as they sloppily pour in their ingredients to fill a row of them up (no cum pun intended). So yes, maybe a “degree” (a.k.a. certificate) in bartending can get your foot in the door, but it’s going to get a foot to kick your ass right out of it even faster than you got hired, too. ‘Cause ain’t no preparation for the fuckery of an NY bar other than to start out as a dishwasher (or alcoholic). But what would a “man” who can afford to go to bartending school do that for when he can just flounce in bandying his little certificate? Which is probably still much larger than his little dick.
For the most part, “men” don’t really like to like to include themselves in the “vapidity” of female conversation, least of all when it addresses something icky like periods or rape. But now that they’re all under an extreme line of fire after Alyssa Milano’s friend (who, by the way, should have been credited by name for launching tens of thousands of responses–but that’s one for Missing A Clit) suggested, “If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.” Please note the deliberate use of the phrase “all the women.” This isn’t to say that “men” aren’t and can’t be sexually abused (usually by other “men,” priests or otherwise, because, quite simply, women aren’t predatory fuckfaces). But it is to say that the #MeToo movement isn’t about their “experiences.” And yeah, I’m sure there are a lot of “well-meaning” “guys” who just want women to know that they can empathize, or at least are trying to. Sometimes, however, standing in the wings of the stage called collective confession is best.
We are living in a time of extreme dismantlement of the old guard. A time when the “smooth” lothario type à la Don Draper simply won’t be stood for anymore, whose “it’s all in good fun” behavior won’t be swept under the rug. The list of unmasked predators over the past several months alone–from Harvey Weinstein to ex-Real Estate guitarist Matt Mondanile–is only a small indication of how long this comportment has been permitted to thrive amid the fear of women who have been frightened for one reason or another to come forward. Whether out of being afraid to lose their jobs or of being discredited and made to feel “crazy” for “imagining” such things, it takes a few women’s admissions of being victims for a landslide to gain momentum. That they’ve been able to on the heels of this barrage of “revelations” about “men” in positions of power only adds to the catharsis. So please “men,” for once in your motherfucking lives, don’t make this about you.
“Men” have the natural tendency to come on strong in the beginning of any pursuit, particularly if the woman in question seems arcane and standoffish to him. His feelings of ardor reach a fever pitch the more the object of his affection rebuffs or acts coolly toward him. For it always goes that we want that which we can’t have.
So naturally once a “man” gets it, he no longer wants it, or at least, isn’t half as interested as before. This is the phenomenon most succinctly explained by Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, when he describes telling a girl that he loves her, in spite of the sentiment being transitory–intended only for that split second when he felt it. As he elucidates, “Then, just to show you how crazy I am, when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I’m crazy. I swear to God I am.” At least he admits it, some “men” can’t even do that.
Would that we could all have such passing fancies as “men” prone to love a girl at variable intervals, ranging from three weeks to three years. Devotion and loyalty, however, are concepts invented by Shakespeare and mafia dons who cheat on their wives anyway. So should you find yourself throwing it back in a “man’s” face that he told you he loved you, just remember that he did mean it “at the time,” it’s just that now, that no longer applies since you’ve made yourself so available and have ceased to provide any mystery.
What woman among us hasn’t been subjected to watching Rick & Morty at some juncture during “consistently” banging a “man” of the unavoidably puerile variety living in North Brooklyn? At some point or another, the show is bound to come up–either in conversation or in the morning. They’ll tell you that you’ve simply got to watch it, that you’ll instantly fall in love with the unlovable Rick, alcoholic mad scientist and grandfather to impressionable adolescent Morty. So basically, that you’ll have a better time watching this show than you did having sex with this person.
In your weakened hangover haze, you will oblige because, honestly, it’s way too early to go back out into the MTA-run world and when you see Rick and Morty–or sometimes Rick and Beth–hop through dimensions of the multiverse, you’ll try to tell yourself, “Yeah, yeah. This is way existential. Like Cher thought Ren & Stimpy was.” But it’s, at its core, an abrasive cartoon for the “boys” of Neverland who still somehow condescend to women in spite of sitting at home in the middle of the day smoking weed and watching this lauded show.
Then again, as Rick has said, “Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.” So you do. Because you’ve got to put in the effort if you’re going to get a few subsequent “dick” appointments.
Women are just so vocal these days, it can be more of a nuisance than ever to attempt to engage with them. That’s why necrophilia is an increasingly viable option for “men,” even the ones who didn’t grow up with “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” being played in heavy rotation on MTV. But the “men” who resort to necrophilia, in truth, are the most misogynistic of them all.
Honestly, what kind of person, regardless of appendage attached or not attached to their body, gets off on the so-called delight of being able to verbally and physically abuse a body that can’t fight back? Sure, it’s easy–uncomplicated–to tool around with a corpse you can do whatever you want with (or to), but doesn’t it get boring, being “right” all the time? Having no one to verbally spar with or challenge your views, thoughts and feelings? The “man” content to spend his days with an inanimate shell is, well, probably a serial killer (yes, talking to you, Dahmer) and/or a “man” who simply can’t get any woman to be interested in him due to his bland personality and likely corresponding looks. Is that any reason to punish the dead for the living’s ability to engage in one of the only universal luxuries that money can’t affect: free will? Well, just ask Frankenstein, emblem of homoerotic necromancy and according manipulation.
It’s long been established that the go-to form of terrorism in America is the mass shooting. The Columbine massacre that happened on April 20, 1999 (the perpetrators wanted to pay homage to Hitler’s birthday) is what first brought to major public attention these occurrences with more bombast than ever. Though mass shootings were (and are) nothing new in the United States, the Columbine shooting had the precedent of being executed by high school students that established a very distinct template for subsequent school shootings. Massacres of this variety, however, have been ongoing since at least 1929, when the infamous Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre took place in Chicago. What separates modern shootings from those of the past is motive. In the 1920s through 1950s, these types of events were often centered around outlaw behavior, whereas, now, the intent is to express discontent with a particular group–to upset the political machine with the so-called “revolutionary” act of killing.
Fourteen months ago, the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando had been marked as the record for worst in U.S. history. Now, October 1, 2017 has set an alarming precedent for what it takes to break records for gun-related brutality in America. That the incident occurred at the Harvest Music Festival continues the go-to trend of late of striking at concerts, where the high concentration of people fits the “like shooting fish in a barrel” phrase quite nicely. The shooter in this case, Stephen Paddock, persists in offering another addition to the consistent pattern of what these mass shootings have in common: they are all committed by “men” who somehow see fit to take “justice” or “retribution” into their own hands. They want to threaten and fuck with anyone whose way of life they believe is counterintuitive to their own views, which generally manifest in consisting of the type of shit Reverend Dimmesdale or Albert Fish would inflict upon themselves–that is to say, these “men” are all latently self-hating. And when self-hate has no choice but to be redirected at others, the result is almost always volcanic. But see, in America, the second amendment offers license to the eruption of “men” seeking to punish others for their mental and wang insecurities.
Almost worse than “men” who drink straight up frosé is the “man” who tries to bill his pillaging of a woman’s sole right toward the dainty and femme as brosé. But beyond it being merely a word used to rebrand something distinctly feminine into something slightly more masculine (though, in truth, it might actually sound more effeminate), brosé is also its own form of beer. That’s right, in your very own grocery aisle, you can find an extra special in its douchery form of this beverage.
Those who have capitalized on a trend that has been sanctioned by the oh so appropriate unofficial spokesperson of sucking it down, Justin Bieber, are banking on the mass dicklessness of “men” not just throughout Brooklyn, but all of America. Fully aware of the laxity that has befallen the definition of machismo in the past ten years (even ancient Greeks having homoerotic encounters appear butcher in comparison to the dainty ass motherfuckers currently pervading the scene called “male”dom), beverage companies with the power to turn dicklessness into cash aren’t wasting time. As commented on by The Drinks Business, “An increasing number of male drinkers are embracing rosé in what has been dubbed the ‘brosé’ phenomenon, as rosé shakes off its female-only image and the top examples are taken more seriously as fine wines.” Now if only “men” could shake off their “pussy-only” image while drinking such fare.
Though “men,” for the most part, do all they can to shy away from the paternal (always demanding a DNA test on former trash TV staples like Maury and Jerry Springer), there is something biological that occasionally possesses them to, for no apparent reason, clutch to a woman’s stomach. It can be someone they know intimately or merely an acquaintance in passing. There is no rule for degrees of familiarity that will prevent a “man” from the impromptu stomach clutch.
Whether this is due to a woman’s so-called “ripeness” for pregnancy or because the “man” in question sees something in her that makes him want to father her child is indiscernible. All that’s known for certain is that any sensible woman would do well to keep her midriff area angled strategically from any and all “men” approaching, lest it be grabbed at random and for an indeterminate amount of time. I mean, what if she really was pregnant or something and didn’t want to call attention to it? It’s really enough to make a girl feel absolutely rotund from having to suck it in out of nervousness. Jesus, it used to be all you had to worry about was an ass or tit grab, but now we have to add the paunch to the mix, too? Oh, yeah, and apparently pussy thanks to Trump. Is no body part on the female sacred? Well, the answer to that was already made clear when God or whoever told us all that Eve was crafted from Adam’s rib. If she’s an extension of his body, then why shouldn’t he be able to paw at her as he pleases?
“If I’m a white ‘male,’ that means I’m the oppressor, right? That’s why I identify as gender fluid.” So another nail in the coffin of “heterosexuality” is hammered. That a “man” of the Caucasian persuasion could express this form of deflective logic to avert the bubbling condemnation that women and minorities of all varieties (black, trans, Hispanic–the gamut) that aren’t, statistically speaking, really minorities as they lash out against the Trump juggernaut is telling of the overall callow nature of a person purported to have a dick.
That the white “man” is already a minority in Census Bureau numbers (“population growth is fastest among minorities as a whole, and according to the Census Bureau’s estimation for 2012, 50.4% of American children under the age of 1 belonged to minority groups”) is likely what makes him want so badly to feel apart of something he never can be. For, in truth, there is no one gender and ethnicity like the white “man” in terms of the fact that he feels most guilty of all for being a congenital piece of shit. This is so often the underlying reason for why he puts his assholery on blast in the vein of Hitler. It’s like Taylor Swift surrendering and essentially saying with “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Fine, you want me to be the villain? Then I’m gonna fuckin’ do it to the nth degree since everyone despises me anyway.”
Then again, the other side to the coin is being a spineless little turd that lays claim to “gender fluidity” so as not to offend anyone, cowering in the corner like the dickless worm he is. On the plus side, the type of “man” usually making this declaration isn’t very attractive to begin with and is therefore no real loss to the last of the straight women still taking faint stabs at monogamy.
In these “modern” times, it’s a challenge to find anyone–“male” or female–that dresses on your level. More often than not, you’re lucky if you stumble upon someone who wears anything other than a snuggie-similar garment upon exiting the apartment. But for those who still actually put clothes on that have buttons and zippers, being seen in public with the garden variety schlub that tends to abound in this town can be a constant source of embarrassment. I mean, didn’t New York used to be the only U.S. hub of high fashion?
Further, when taking into account just how fey and feminine “men” have become ever since the term “metrosexual” was coined in 1994 and became a household word as a result of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and David Beckham, one would think that they would at least feel inclined to take greater pride in their appearance. But no, it’s just as Cher Horowitz said: “I don’t get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants, and take their greasy hair—ew!—and cover it up with a backwards cap and, like, we’re expected to swoon? I don’t think so!” This is, however, apparently exactly what “men” expect, making you look as though you’re constantly dressed in a ball gown in comparison to their perpetual frumpery. So until you find your Jareth the Goblin King, you might prefer to walk the streets alone to spare yourself the trauma of being seen with someone sartorially unworthy.