You know who you are. For some of you there may have been a moment, maybe even a period of nobility and honor, but you lost it somewhere between the altar and the void of your unsatiated ego. This is disconcerting to me because there’s that notion that when women are unhappy with something they are ten times more likely to spread the news of their bitter disappointment than when they are satisfied. Imagine what that might say about men.
I saw you just the other day. Your fleur de lis-spangled trophy-wife hipping one child while pushing the other two in a grocery cart while you strutted around in your white hoodie, baseball cap askew and potential ass-crack threatening any shopper from behind you, and when she struggled with the giant bag of Coco Crispies, as large as the wriggling child in the other arm, you just stood there playing with your Droid.
And that time at the stoplight while in your power-stroking supercharged compensating turbo diesel you thought it funny to hit the revs and pop the clutch in second belching black exhaust through your six inch diameter tail pipe all over the car beside you. I saw you smile in your mirror. You know what the hell you’re doing. Sorry about your penis, though. That must suck.
It’s been awhile, but it still boils my blood when I think of how you kicked your dog when it failed whatever expectation you had of that canine. You kicked a dog.
Add alcohol and your asshole potential is exponentially exacerbated. That wouldn’t be so bad if you did that while skydiving or working a steel press, but you insist on doing it in social places, in your home, behind the wheel of your car, because somehow you’re impervious to its affects. Booze just adds to your acuity, unlocks your uncanny ability to navigate at high speeds and negotiate your way into pants.
You made it a condition of my divorce that I register with recovery services since by virtue of my gender I have more potential of stiffing my kids on their child support. Thanks to you.
Most embarrassing by association, though, is when you blame the circumstances of your shitty choices on situations beyond your control, like your anger, your ignorance, your entitlement; pretty amazing for someone who otherwise knows it all. Most amazing is when you do shirk responsibility you fail to see or you just ignore the ramifications on those in proximity, your wife, your children.
You are an embarrassment to our gender and yet you know what you’re doing, sloughing it off on some piss-poor excuse exempting you from responsibility, voiding the possibility of what may have been potentially noble and honorable.
My chagrin, the reason I’m venting here, is that somehow you’ve become the stick by which the rest of us are measured, or rather suspected, mistrusted, misgiven a benefit of the doubt.