Having had one cunt of a year in 2010, I have established my newest pet peeve: men who act like broads with troubled ovaries. Actually, it’s more than a pet peeve. It’s a No-No, a Never-Again, a Please-Go-Away-and-Die type of a thing. I understand that in this day and age of crying, pouting, indecisive males all over reality TV, my nostalgia for Clint Eastwood as the leading prototype for our men and sons is painfully unrealistic. Yet still, I can live the rest of my life without seeing a man throw a fit that puts the girls of Pretty Wild to shame.
What brought this on? I’m out on a girl date the other day, having a perfectly delightful and stimulating lunch, when the booth in the dangerous proximity to mine gets invaded by a couple with a newborn. Right off the bat, it’s a fucking production: While the formerly attractive woman timidly trots at the tail of the procession, the young father is pointing out the most suitable seating arrangement to the hostess—with his pinky! (I whip out my notebook to jot down my thoughts on this lightweight while my girls get quiet. We are in for a treat!) When the clan is finally situated, our waitress’s every attempt to speak to the mother is rebuffed by this male specimen who has by now untangled his firstborn out of the stroller and slid out of the booth. Without having looked at the menu, he creates the family’s customized lunch order on everyone’s behalf, throws it over his shoulder and walks away from the table, leaving the mother whipped, defeated and most likely suicidal.
From here on, he proceeds to parade through every isle of the joint in order to soothe his non-crying child, so that it would go back to sleep—after it was awoken by being taken out of the stroller in the first place. (Right?!) My head begins to hurt from restraining my eyeballs from popping out of their orbits; but here is where it gets better! After a few rounds, the young father begins to side-step behind the bar stools of other males occupied with a football game on the bar’s flat screens. He literally glides, zigzagging, Apolo-Ohno style (on ice, not Dancing with the Stars) while perking up his lips and holding a terrifyingly prolonged sound of:
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Shush-shush. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
At first, he manages to attract some endeared reactions from a few baby-crazed females on the floor but ends up rebuffing all of their approaches in the same fashion as he’s practiced on our waitress. He ignores all inquiries about the age or the gender of the child (interestingly, the baby is wrapped in all white) and continues to glide ‘n’ shush. So: He is really after the male contingent here, I think. I’m fascinated.
(Where was the mother, you might wonder? She was highly unimpressed, stuffing her face from a trough of sweet potato fries, while all alone at the booth so particularly chosen by her partner. I predict she would be oppressed by loathing her poor choice of a male with whom to procreate if she weren’t so well-medicated for her postpartum depression.)
While I begin to wonder about the nauseated feeling in my gut, my girls attack our waitress:
“What’s the deal with him?”
“I bet he beats the shit out of her!” the waitress scoffs a bit too loudly because the man bitch (who has under-tipped her, by the way!) is now putting on his last act: loading the stroller, barking at the mother and taking the longest exit route, via the bar.
Aha, I think: the Chris Brown Syndrome. Have women finally caught up in their pursuit of equality to breathe down the necks of insecure, incompetent, talentless males who, due to their impotence to compete with other men, reaffirm their strength on their wives and girlfriends? The bitchy, estrogen-pumped specimen of my afternoon adventure had to be lucky enough to land himself a partner more intelligent and attractive than his girly ass; and instead of counting his blessings and praying to her image, he fabricates the ways in which she may need him—often in the name of love and marriage—then makes sure she is somewhat dependent and keeps her under his heel. When in public, then, he has no choice but to overcompensate, because he relies on the sympathy vote to justify the atrocities of his domestic behavior; and when it comes to other men, he flexes via the appearance of his woman or child. Case closed.