Men Who Think Their Erection Is Your Issue.

“I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face,” I say as, once again, this “man” tries to insert himself in me even though I’ve already given him the requisite orgasm for the night. That might turn some “men” on as images of most of the plotline for Californication are conjured, but in this case I mean it in the strictly threatening and non-sexually evocative way. The polite protocol, as far as initial sexual encounters go, is to allow the “female” you’ve penetrated to roll over and repose for as long as she sees fit. If she’s generous enough to anoint your dick into her vag in the morning, you may count your lucky stars that she hasn’t simply up and slinked out wordlessly.

What “men” must learn to understand is that they are owed nothing when a woman goes home with them. They must also learn to masturbate in a bathroom–instead of Kevin Spacey in American Beauty style–in the presence of a dormant lady. And sure, a “man” might think that because a female has consented–in her loosened state–to accompany him back to his shared abode that her body is somehow a free-for-all regardless of what level of interest she exhibits after a few unsatisfying thrusts. For yes, she might have found you desirable–endearing even–at the bar, but sentiments and opinions change once the environment does. And to be sure, a girl can tend to feel far more tired once she’s dragged her husk up the multiple flights of stairs leading to your shanty. So please, just because you have an erection and there happens to be a body next to you, don’t assume that said body owes you the alleviation of your boner. Unless you want it bopped on the head like a field mouse. Because nobody–but nobody–fucks with a woman’s circadian rhythm unless it’s the tooth fairy putting some much needed cash under the pillow (not to be confused with on the dresser, where hooker dough is left).

Men Who Milk You of the Best Years of Your Twenties & Discard You Just in Time for Them to End.

“Men” are constantly questioning others about why it is they seem to get such a bad rap, are so frequently vilified by “overly emotional” women. To put it in the sharpest focus, “men” are mongers of youth. Not of having it themselves, but ensuring that those with vaginas around them do. It’s not that they don’t value an occasional witticism now and again for “entertainment” value (as women aren’t valued for their intellect unless it’s repurposed as being what the British would condescendingly call “rather clever”). But what they cherish above all is taut skin, an easily moldable mind–or at least one that can bend easily to his own interests and will–and a pussy that’s index finger girth when tunneling through it with his own pencil thin dick.

A “man” can find this easily in a woman who is circa twenty-four, “catching her,” as it were at just a young enough age to really infiltrate her psyche and fuck her up on a permanent basis if and when he decides to leave her after all those sonnets spouted about loving her always and never dreaming of abandoning her. Two against the world and the world against two, that sort of bullshit. But right around the time twenty-eight rolls around for her, the “man” starts to shy away a little bit–for twenty-eight is an age that’s not too suspicious to kick a woman back into the now much shallower dating pool. Twenty-nine would be far too cruel, leaving her no wiggle room at all for her to pass herself off with the sort of carefreeness that can only come with twentiesdom.

As the closeness she once thought was unbreakable begins to crumble before her, with flimsy excuses in the vein of him needing to “find” himself passing for adequate reasoning in his mind, she will be forced with the heavy reconciliation of being sent into the firing squad of her thirties with nothing to show for it but psychological ruin.

The “man” who has cast her out under the false premise of wanting to “explore” himself (meaning allow his faux dick to explore other vaginas) will suddenly “feel comfortable” being in a relationship soon after–and oh, look at that, it just so happens to be a twenty-four year old again. Must be nice to have that sort of elasticity–in stark contrast to your ex-girlfriend’s now inelastic skin thanks to all the fine years of her prime you wasted only to toss her out like non-reusable refuse.

Men Who Enjoy Documentary Now! & Have Never Seen Any of the Documentaries Referenced.

For some reason, Documentary Now! has a tendency to creep into the arsenal filed under the Netflix and chill category. It’s humorous enough to loosen a girl up and non-committal enough to stop watching when things get sexual. And, of course, no “man” can resist Fred Armisen (Bill Hader, for whatever reason, seems to have less cachet to the straight white “male”). While the “man” who puts on Documentary Now! means well enough–has no idea that his lack of knowledge about documentary film is highly offensive–his decision to do so is indicative of a larger point: he’s a fucking dilettante.

And while, yeah, there are a lot of those in North Brooklyn, there’s no reason to be that way in terms of documentary connoisseurship. There are so few major and important ones, after all–and each of them have been covered by Documentary Now! at this point (even though it’s been renewed for a third season). The worst offense of all on a “man’s” part is having no clue what the first episode, “Sandy Passage,” is supposed to be parodying. While some might argue that no straight “man” can be expected to have ever watched Grey Gardens, it is a behemoth of not just the genre, but film itself. As one of Albert and David Maysles’ masterpieces (ranked also with Gimme Shelter and Salesman), there can be no adequate excuse for any “man,” cinephile or otherwise, having evaded this film, or being unaware of it until Armisen and Hader came along.

Watching it after seeing Documentary Now! cannot remedy the shortcoming and, in fact, cheapens the film as the “man” in question is only watching it because he’s learned about it from the show. But he’s probably already very familiar with “DRONEZ: The Hunt for El Chingon” as a result of watching VICE News “documentaries” on a regular basis. Oh how the genre has deteriorated to such a point as to enable “men” to believe that simply watching Documentary Now! is a sufficient source for their enrichment in the understanding of the medium.

Men Who Make You Feel Invisible When Someone More Attractive Is in His Proximity.

There are many claims in the current “feminist” era on the part of a “man” that a woman’s intellect is a driving force behind why he chooses to “be with someone” (in quotes in that we’re all always alone no matter who we latch onto to try to delude ourselves into thinking we’ve found a “like-minded soul” to mask the total isolation of existence). But, even as stamped out as sexuality becomes à la 1984, the primordial biology within a “man’s” makeup can’t help but respond to the Barbie archetype.

Thus, when you with your witticisms and Valerie Solanas look suddenly find yourself standing with your “man” in the midst of a woman who is, frankly, far more attractive than you are with her big tits, blow job lips and sun-kissed complexion, it’s only natural that he should completely ignore you. Because all “men” are visually-oriented swine that might consider putting their tongues back into their mouths if there was a woman there waiting to guillotine it off. Alas, you are still trapped in the twentieth century concept that being dainty and self-effacing is what makes all the “boys” come to the yard. After enough time spent being treated as invisible, however, you may soon come to realize that the best offense is a good plastic surgeon.

Men Who Sentimentalize Broad City Because They Think Their Ex Is the Only Dame Who Watches It.

Watching a show with a new romantic interest is always something of a big deal, a strong indicator of the turn for seriousness and intimacy things are taking. Sitting with someone in a confined space for multiple hours is, after all, something you’re usually paid to do (see: office worker). That’s why one must be very careful about what he chooses to absorb with his femme de la semaine. Anything from the Criterion Collection is absolutely out of the question as it will be too tailored and memorable–plus, who are you kidding? She knows you don’t give a fuck about high art cinema.

Something too low-brow, however, like Rick & Morty, could send her running in the other direction. No, no–the best thing you can put on is something totally middle ground and universally loved. At least until you’re sure you’re going to be banging on the reg for more than just a couple months (usually the cutoff before the ghosting period begins). For some reason, certain “men” can’t seem to understand that Broad City is an ideal starter kit for dipping your toe into the TV viewing realm with a fresh body–somehow assuming that the girl they were formerly with’s “super quirky!” status makes her special enough to be the only goddamn dame who watches it. As if. The Broad City viewing clientele is a dime (and dame) a dozen. And the “man” who somehow thinks it’s hallowed or sacred viewing material from his previous “serious” relationship best stick to watching Modern fucking Family with this kind of deluded viewpoint. What’s more, we all know Ilana is a fairy godmother of instilling horniness.

Men (Straight) Who Think They Have the Monopoly on Loving Halloween Over Other Men (Drag Queens).

There are just scores of straight “men” who love to lay claim to a year-round relishment of Halloween, and declare that you, too, can enjoy it as much as they do any day of the year. And yet, for those who have any familiarity with a certain drag icon named Sharon Needles (or familiarity with drag queens in general), it makes us wonder if these “men” are not aware of any bombast outside of the straight world. And if they are, do they choose simply to ignore any sect that isn’t their own? Well, it wouldn’t surprise one, considering how insular and oblivious the “heteros” are.

Hence, their declarations about fucking Halloween up the asshole with zeal are, to them, truly pure and genuine, as though drag queens don’t dress up in costume literally every damn day. Where’s the credit for that, huh? The unbridled commitment to everything Halloween stands for–entertainment, drinking and disguise–is exhibited by the drag community. Not little bitch “boy” blancos who don’t even put effort into their costume, instead relying on a supposed enthusiasm for horror movies as their crutch. But as Sharon Needles said, “You think this is a fucking costume? It’s a way of life.” And a way of life isn’t something you merely talk about once a year, assholio. So to the “straights” out there claiming Halloween passion, stick to what you know best: disappointing and abandoning.

Men Who Go to Bartending School.

“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.

Men Who Tell You They Meant The Sentiment “When They Said It”–But Now, No More.

“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.

Men Who Watch Rick & Morty.

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.