Fleekin Floygn

Ok, I had two things that I wanted to bitch about but for the moment I can only remember one, so we'll start with that and see how things go.

So I identify very much as the definition of the GQ Man; socially adept, well dressed, witty, and educated. Well, at least I'm on my way. In any case, I was reading this month's issue and it was fairly fluffy, complete with Jessica Alba in her skankiest glory on the front (while a progressive magazine, they still have the odd habit of occasionally putting a scantily clad woman on the cover. I'm fairly convinced the Jessica Alba is to a certain Amanda C, associated by most of my friends from RWB dancer-invested terminal crabs). Then mid-issue I flip to find a still of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in one the famous scenes from Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolff where he's just tearing her to pieces, and the title is "The One Word That Can Destroy a Woman".

NOWWWWWWWWWWWW, in a magazine that has come to define the modern metrosexuality (as opposed to all those closeted Details 'mos), my expectation would be that the article would list the word (the 'c' word, for those out of the loop) and wax apologetic on the inappropriateness of its modern usage as a weapon of mass distruction for men and perhaps give historical background (apparently C was an ancient godess in some pagan religion according to my friend Emily).

What I GOT however was this paraphrased summary, "It is the one word that you can pull out of your arsenal when you both know it is over that will completely annihilate her. Crass words for male genitalia are almost empowering - you are what you have - fuck yeah! But for women, this word takes away any of her individuality, lowering her to a dirty, base, and most importantly non-unique status."

This isn't untrue, he has so far simply stated a fact- (and experience-)based opinion. What was appaling was that the author was using this not in a "shame on us" tone, but rather "Guys, when she's one foot out the door and you both know it's over, here's one thing that you can, nay should, do to WIN," because in this post-feminist age the author feels that is the only way of reclaiming his masculinity. It's mean, he admits, but you still get to win.

I don't know what kind of motherfucking, scum-sucking, shit-eating, bottom-dwelling, small penis-owning, daddy-never-loved-me issues-spewing, mysogonistic sack of worm turds they are now in habit of hiring over at GQ, but I would simply like to go on the record as saying that I, as a motherfucking man, bear absolutely no kinship with that creature, and that if anyone protesting to be a part of human kind ever uses that disgusting word as a weapon against you, you have my permission as a man, to slice of his balls with a dull shaving razor and shove them up his ass.

Just be sure to take pictures.