You know you’ve seen it. You’re out and about at your favorite local hot-spot, minding your own business, when suddenly she strolls in. The physical goddess with the Ph.D, solid career, BMW 6 Series (because let’s face it, every successful person needs a BMW), and the tiger-blooded combination of intellect and personality. Naturally, this should-have-been-your-girlfriend is accompanied by a boyfriend who couldn’t spell “GED” if you asked him to.
You watch as they make their way to a table. He pulls out his own chair before plopping down and looking over the menu. She asks him what he’s ordering and he tells her how she should stay away from certain foods on the menu because her seemingly flawless physique is starting to get fat. You notice her grimace, and she ends up eating a salad as an entrée while he dines on steak and shrimp. The check comes and he slides it her direction — it has to be the guy’s birthday, right? — and she drops her Platinum card on top of the receipt as the waitress comes to cash them out. He ogles the waitress, staring hard enough to melt his contact lenses, while his girlfriend watches in disgust.
For the women who don’t know, and to the men who are not assholes, this situation is perplexing. Men have been subjected to countless variations of male-bashing anthems over the years; from TLC’s “No Scrubs,” to Beyoncé exclaiming that she could “have another you any minute” in her ode to independence, “Irreplaceable.” Adding insult to injury, we have Oprah specials, Steve Harvey books being turned into record-breaking movies, and an endless string of examples in the media of why its so hard for women to find a good man. Clearly someone is holding women at gunpoint and forcing them to pick Chris Breezy from down the hall.
When did it become so common for men who are skilled at treating a woman like Rick James to acquire a model with a 2400 on her SATs? Does a man need to be emotionally damaged so that he can find a quality woman with a must-fix-everything complex? Should we present ourselves as broken Erector Sets in need of a woman to take us on as her passion project? I can become addicted to something! I swear I can! I could try really hard at least. Get hooked on smack and drain your bank account?
Abso-fucking-lutley. Shit, sign me up right now.
Should we learn how to boss you around? Demand that you only wear a burlap sack in public when you aren’t tethered to our sides? Have that itching desire to be stalked by your significant other? We’re your men! Should we stop striving to be a better human beings, get fired, shake the hell out of you every once in a while like the broken vending machine at work that just ate our last dollar? Should we become monks and join a monastery? Or maybe have sex with every moronic girl along the way while we wait to encounter the mythical “single good woman?”
Should we become better liars, learn how to cheat on you with your female friends, constantly play with your mind like Christopher Nolan? Somebody tell us the secret because clearly we skipped the “How to Meet a Woman Who Doesn’t Desire Douchebags” class in high school. I’m not saying that all women have a predilection for modern day Jack Sparrows. And it’s not like none of my male comrades have settled down with a good woman either. In fact, a few of the lucky bastards have (and I secretly despise them for it.) But, the overwhelming majority of the guys I know have not.
I wonder if women consider that maybe they create the very same assholes they spend countless hours whining about on Facebook and Twitter. Maybe every guy doesn’t start out as a player or a cheater. Maybe some guys start out just wanting to be a good person. To be appreciated and all that jazz. Maybe all men didn’t just shoot out of the womb with a belt to add notches too. Maybe, in actuality, it really isn’t every man’s goal to penetrate as many scantily-clad females as possible. And maybe, just maybe, after being passed over enough times, a good guy just says “Fuck it” and starts whoring himself.
Ah well, what do I know? Carry on, bad guys. Apparently, the Dark Side of the Force is strong with you ass-clowns. At this point, my personal journey toward the Dark Side is almost complete anyway. By the time you read this, I’ll probably be slapping around my newly-acquired nuclear physicist fiancée for not having my dinner prepared by the time I got home from not having a job.
F MY L.