There still somehow exist many “men” that would like the ghost of Reagan to possess–even fuck–them (Jack Donaghy being the most overt example). When considering that we do not, unfortunately, live in the 1980s, and the stock market/Wall Street isn’t some enviable institution to be a part of signifying the promise of wealth and class ascension as it once used to, it really is quite an anomaly. And not the good kind. Like karaoke in Italy or whirling dervishes outside of Turkey.
Rather than being evocative of a “go-getter” or a hard-working “provider,” the “man” who regularly checks his stock app is not only a complete freak (and not even in a way that translates into decent sex antics) but also a cold, soulless being that will stare right through you like one of the graphs or charts indicating financial gain or lack thereof. You might initially get taken in by this type of “male” because you are transfixed by the notion of a person with a conventional job who does not spin you that yarn about relying on the gig economy as a millennial. But this is before you see him actually looking at the stock app. More than once a day. Not only is it a classic case of phubbing, but also a strong indication that if his attention is this focused solely on dollars now, it’s not going to change, and you’re probably not even going to reap the rewards of his fortune anyway when considering he will likely make you sign a prenup. Because yes, white “men” of this “caliber” do still get married, it’s part of the yuppie legacy instilled within them by their progenitors, Reagan, perhaps being one of them.
Of course, you could try to pry the phone from his clammy, dead hands to delete the app, but you might have better luck petitioning to get Reagan’s face on a piece of U.S. currency.
There aren’t a lot of things “men” can do, but what they should be able to is jizz pizza. Especially when handling their own ability to cum as opposed to concerning themselves with yours. The least they should be willing to provide is a delicious sampling of your favorite food in exchange for the pleasure they received, but that you did not.
And if that’s not attainable, then maybe a few alms could at least shoot from his opening so that you have money for the subway back to your hovel, where you’ll wonder why you wasted the remaining fly years your body has left on a “man” who couldn’t give you delight in even the simplest of ways. Not even a “Wow Mandy, your nude husk looks really great and I definitely appreciate the way it looks now versus how it’s going to look long after I’ve thrown you over for someone younger.” Yes, pizza and money jism would be the least he could offer.
In spite of the fact that there are more women in the workforce than “men” right now, it is still an abominable reality that they are paid less. To make matters more unjust, the tendency “men” have toward cheapness is another irksome detail women must deal with when going out with or dating them.
Hoard your money, never get laid
“Men,” who are content to eat slop, will pay $5 on a shitty Oasis falafel over paying, say, $15 for pizza from Fornino (as we all know, pizza encompasses far more nutritional food groups). They will also wear the same plaid shirt they’ve had since junior high as opposed to spending money on something stylish from Rick Owens. Though, of course, they don’t mind accepting lavish gifts of such a nature–they lap up luxury so long as they don’t have to pay for it. The truth is, a “man” cheap in wallet is a “man” cheap in soul. It’s not about being poor. It’s about having money and being stingy with it–hoarding it like goddamn Mr. Burns (you know he’s missing a dick on his yellow groin area). Ponder this next time you take your woman du jour to Vanessa’s.