Ah, the delightful delectability of a night out on the town. Maybe you’ve been cooped up in the crib and need to stretch out a bit. Maybe your boss has had her six inch heel up your ass all week like disturbingly graphic foot fetish porn. Maybe Questlove is spinning and you’ve got the ridiculous urge to watch ridiculously dressed black teenagers do ridiculous dances from a bygone era on ridiculously large screens in a ridiculously inconvenient part of town. Whatever the reason, you want to go out and get your groove on.
Unless you’re suffering some severe mental dysfunction, you realize that this means that you’re going to be in a social setting, i.e. around other people. Presumably, you also comprehend that a significant portion of those individuals will be of the opposite sex. For straight men, that last tidbit is not just an assumption, it’s actually a desired outcome. If we get to a bar or club and the place has more wieners than a Berlin beer garden in October, we will be none too happy. The artist on deck could be the reincarnation of J Dilla, Beethoven and Marvin Gaye all rolled into one, but sheeeit…ain’t no music that fuckin’ good. For men, women are to social events what ketchup is to hood cuisine: they just make everything better. Without them, shit is just shit.
From my experience as a storied amateur sociologist, females seem to have a similar need for the presence of males when they’re out and about. Heck, I’ve certainly been out with my homegirls and heard them complain about girl-heavy parties I’ll affectionately call “coochellas”. If this is true, it would appear that harmonic equilibrium is maintained. But see, that’s where everything actually goes completely batshit CRAY.
Although women certainly want us around when they go out, far too often it seems that they really only needs us to function as a sort of final aesthetic touch. Whereas women are a must-have for any self-respecting man when he’s out to party, no matter if he’s booed up or lustfully single, this is far from the case for the fairer sex. For them, going out with their girlfriends is the process by which they strengthen the bonds of sisterhood through the creation of common memories. Men are only useful in as much as they further the feminine bonding agenda.
If women are our ketchup, we’re just garnish to them. That’s why, nine times out of 10, when a dude walks up to a coven on the dance floor, he’s approaching a Circle of Death.
What this cat sees when he walks up is one fine woman surrounded by two to four less attractive women. (Although there’s a chance that one of the others might also be cute, I’d feel more secure betting on Dr. Dre’s “Detox” to drop before Christ’s return. I’ll get into why this is true in Part II.) What this means is that he’s not only got to overcome any natural obstacles a woman might have to him personally, he’s got to deal with the fact that he just broke up their little Wiccan Beyoncé ritual. And that shit don’t fly. Unless you’ve got the goldenest of tongues, you’re pretty much toast. And not the buttery-and-flaky-but-still-soft-on-the-inside kind. I’m talkin’ about the scrape-the-black-off-it-but-you-gone-eat-it-’cause-we-broke kind. No bueno.
This shit is a travesty and a tragedy, and it’s gotta stop. Not only are you ladies doing us gentlemen a disservice, you’re doing your country a disservice. That’s right. I said you’re being un-American little bastiches.
Cats ain’t got no money to be rollin’ out to spots, buying drinks and whatnot, only to leave with nothing to show for it! Don’t y’all muthaphuckas know times is rough out here in this piece? Every dollar that a man spends paying to get into Black Lion, or Club Cheetara, or Castle Greyskull, is a dollar that could have gone to buying the new PSbox3 console. Every bar charge on his pre-paid debit card is one less dollar to give to Kandi and Kookie, the stripper duo he’s altruistically supporting as they make their way toward University of Phoenix Extended Junior Associates Degrees. Shame on you. Again, I say shame!
Now, before you start bringing up old shit about how this is a free country and all, save your breath. I know that you have the right to live your life as you see fit (until the next time the Republicans control all three branches of American government). If you want to roll out to the spot and get your drink on and party and dance with your girls while you give me and my brothers some analogical, girly version of the Heisman, go right ahead. I’m just saying that if you’d like to gather all your girls together and dance in a circle, sans hommes, you COULD just save us dudes some frustration, stay your frigid asses at home, and have a goofy-ass, manless slumber party.
Or you can join some kind of indigenous tribe. Either one.