A “man” who brought us movie titles like Scandal, The Hour of the Pig and Scream could, of course, only be someone as predatory, foul and latently self-loathing as Harvey Weinstein. Yet it is that latency that makes Weinstein believe he is still somehow deserving of mercy after decades of assault and general perversion carried out at the cost of others’ permanent trauma. There can be no denying this is the reason he was conveniently rushed to Bellevue Hospital (a name still commonly associated with lunacy) after the pronouncement of his verdict in Manhattan on Feb. 24th: one count of criminal sexual assault in the first degree and one count of rape in the third degree. Sadly, he was not condemned on all five counts, one of them being predatory sexual assault, which would have led to a life sentence. But alas, women are supposed to be grateful for any legal comeuppance Weinstein has received. After all, something like two percent of “men” accused of rape are ever actually jailed for it. Weinstein, evidently, only wants to be part of the one percent wealthy instead of the two percent of convicted rapists. Surely that’s why he decided to have “heart palpitations” at the convenient moment of when he was supposed to be transferred to Rikers Island.
Instead, he was taken to the prison wing of Bellevue, where discussions centered around whether or not he’s “fit” to go to prison based on his deteriorating health is such a prudent idea. The answer, to be sure, is yes. Justice is always a prudent idea. The problem is, in our society, we’ve become so hung up on this notion of being able to forgive a monster in order to move on that we seem to all have forgotten how satisfying it is to slay a proverbial dragon. Watching it slump to the floor in a heap of defeat in some tower that seems to be a prison unto itself. A once “great” titan now nothing but the scaly sum of his deflated parts. Indeed, one hopes the part of Weinstein that has been his and countless women’s undoing is now forever deflated. Then again, a disgusting being such as himself could probably still get an erection in a cellblock. That is, unless the ultimate karmic justice is served and Weinstein is raped on the regular as the “freshest” prison bitch to arrive. Only then, perhaps, would he understand the same feeling of powerlessness he inflicted upon others for so long during his Hollywood Reign of Terror. Ah, but who is one kidding? No one wants to tap that. What’s more, it’s entirely likely that he’ll manage to weasel his way out of any real, truly harrowing jail time by playing the health card to its utmost potential. Because a “man” like him would surely go the way of Jeffrey Epstein if his sentence was actually enforced rather than given merely as a verbally symbolic gesture of the courts.
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.
Possibly the most distinguishing factor about New York isn’t the bagels, the pizza or the pervasive stench of trash. It’s that, for whatever reason, “men” feel extremely comfortable with singing in public–whether on the sidewalks, on the train or while they’re standing in line waiting for the food and drinks they can’t afford. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with a desire to express happiness or “be discovered” as it might have in the old days of New York when people still actually had talent to be unearthed, so much as the intense need to be noticed by someone–anyone. And that person, unfortunately, is going to be you.
Though you’ve lived in New York for longer than most people ought to while still not risking coming within in an inch of your irrevocable insanity, you still haven’t learned how to tune out the vexatious sound of “men” who sing along with whatever is on their headphones or, worst of all, rap along. Who knows what it is about this “concrete bunghole where dreams are made up” that leads “men” to feel so comfortable with putting their vocal inabilities on blast ad nauseum. All that can be said is that if their bedroom moans sound half as grating, you might want to invest in an array of earplugs for engaging with “men” both in outside and inside environs.
Enough hours have passed since the start of January 21st’s historic protests throughout the nation, and one has seen the gamut of social media depictions of the Women’s March in both New York City and D.C. at this point. That being said, of all the many candids showcased, there are two instances of dick missing that can be easily parsed out. The first, of course, is the “men” in the crowd with leering and lascivious looks on their faces indicating either 1) they’ve been hired by some Trump juggernaut to kill the opposition or 2) they’re on the hunt for impassioned women whose passion they hope translates in bed.
The second type of “man” sans dique at the Women’s March is the one who isn’t really there, but instead simply posts found pictures from other people’s experience and passes it off as his own. Or worse, actually pops in to the Women’s March for a hot second to prove he cares, then dips out just as quickly as he came (this is also a nod to the likely fact that he’s a premature ejaculator). This is the sociopath-type “male,” the one who wants to appear empathetic enough on the surface to still secure some pussy in the future, even though the intelligent woman protesting can see through his veneer just as quickly as he saw with X-ray like vision through her clothes.
“Men” are slimy creatures as a rule. There’s nothing they won’t do to fulfill whatever sexual whim they might be lusting after in the moment. And one of the best ways for a “man” to realize the fantasy he has to see two women being intimate with one another is to go to the NYC Pride Parade–most likely under the guise of wanting to be “considerate” and “express solidarity.”
Chock full of all manner of drunken revelers–including women in same sex relationships–the “straight” “man” in attendance at the parade is always someone of a dubious nature. Sure, he wants to show his support for his “friends” in the LGBTQ community, all the while ogling the two girls in the crowd who just so happen to be “subtly” making out. And, of course, if he’s truly enterprising, he’ll take a stride through the New York City Dyke March. However, those “men” who were able to get a taste of their fetishes this weekend were probably punished with the ultimate “straight” “man’s” boner killer: an appearance by Hillary Clinton.
“I don’t like cities, but I like New York.” So sums up Madonna on the aptly titled song, “I Love New York.” And yet, there are so many “men” who can’t seem to fathom a woman’s love of this objectively cruel city. Unless, of course, they are able to live within the cushion of Williamsburg, where a different New York resides.
Your ire is dickless
Those who live in a less cushioned version of the city, however, will tend to despise the town a bit more frequently. Whether this is because they’re forced to work in a more common “man” sort of way or because they can’t afford a lifestyle that they fancy themselves accustomed to depends on the nature of the “man.” Though, usually, it’s because he’s too fucking dainty to deal with it. Maybe this is the reason the ratio of women to men in New York is something out of a sci-fi novel. Because he’ll never understand your need to be a City Grrrl.
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
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.
As we’ve already discussed, the type of exercise “men” in Williamsburg tend to veer toward is yoga. And, again, as we’ve already established, exercising as a “man” is utterly unnecessary and completely fey. Thus, if you ever see a “man” attempting to better his physique at Brooklyn Airspace, you should probably turn on your heel and decide to perfect your aerialist technique elsewhere.
A woman floats through the air, not a “man”
Not to be sexist towards “men” or whatever (even though, yes, Missing A Dick is all about misandry), but, like, there are certain “sports” you just shouldn’t attempt when you’re relegated to a certain gender. And the “aerialist arts” aren’t really suited to the appearance of being male. Maybe it has to do with women being more angelic or some shit.
In addition to Williamsburg being the hub of dickless “men,” it is also the hub of dickless European “men” (is there any other kind of European “man,” really?), particularly British ones. Like the riddle of the Sphinx, no one can quite decipher how these “men” have enough money to live in waterfront condos–perhaps it’s purely by virtue of being British.
What the average British “man” looks like when you turn around to see them after hearing their alluring accent
In any case, there’s nothing worse than when a British “man” announces himself vocally without first inducting his face into your view. Because then, even if his aesthetic is porcine or lizard-like (which it invariably will be), you won’t be falsely seduced into a certain idea of how he will look when you turn around only to find that his visage has broken your heart as quickly as his accent made it swell.
To be a “man” in the twenty-first century has been deemed a challenge by most males who are merely upset that they weren’t living in the prime of the twentieth century (the 50s) when you didn’t have to be anything other than on time for dinner. But now, “men” must constantly toe the line between being sensitive and macho, while never being overly one of these characteristics.
Women love to watch “men” fall, or rather, fail at being the ideal “man”
That’s why the best possible “man” is a metaphorical tightrope walker, able to balance delicately on the wire between being a sniveling bitch and an asshole misogynist. One must embody just the right amount of sweetness, snarkiness and accommodatingness to successfully please a twenty-first century woman. Unfortunately, Williamsburg and beyond is peppered with nothing but twentieth century “men” still stuck in a mode of extreme sensitivity (1990s) or extreme brutishness (1900-1989).