07
Apr
11

because i think neo-feminism should mean, “stop doing little girl shit.”

“Jacked her then I asked her, ‘Who’s the man?’ she said, ‘B-I-G,’ then I bust in her E-Y-E (Yo, Big, you dead wrong)…” Notorious BIG, “Dead Wrong”*

When someone determines that she does not believe in something, hers is one of two separate realities.
On the one hand, she actively doubts the existence of said thing. I don’t believe that all black men have big ole dicks.

On the other hand, she is disavowing the proven existence of said thing due to its incompatibility with her own personal credo. I don’t believe in fucking black men with little itty bitty baby dicks.

See the distinction?

It is with this mindset that I make the following bold assertion:

I don’t believe in friendzones.

In any scheme of reality.

At the most basic level, I don’t believe in their existence; they are entirely fictitious in any Fooler-esque conception of the time/space continuum.

However, with a mind’s eye towards the alternative, should friendzones actually exist, I don’t believe in them as a matter of principle.

In the Courtroom of Life, I, the Complainant, move the Universe to enjoin all practitioners of aforementioned abusive exercise from continuing on in such a fashion from this day forward.

Now, before we begin, that we might progress in the spirit of solidarity, I’ll address some ancillary themes/issues/concerns.

As I see it, any and all logic behind a friendzone-favorable argument is rooted in failure.

That’s right.

Failure.

At the most elementary level, the failure is one of linguistics.

So, for the sake of this entry, please allow for the following definitions:

Friend—n. from the Old Eng, freond. A person you care about deeply, with whom you share intimacies. A person you spend time with or talk to on a consistent basis (my friends will turn their noses up at this as I am a reclusive asshole, but, notwithstanding the occasional reclusive asshole, the definition holds).

Friendzone—n. from the Latin, bullshiterus maximus. An alleged place where one puts a “friend” she wouldn’t sleep with. Like, ever.

Great start.

Now, I like to think of my mind, and indeed, its fruit (this webspace), as a place open to exception.

Therefore, I would be remiss, were I not to present several acceptable exceptions to my “No Friendzones” assertion. Here they are:

1. The man is a known or suspected gay.
2. The man is married.
3. The man’s penis is infected with, or suspected to be infected with loathsome disease.

That’s it.

Don’t try to think of any more cause there aren’t any.

On with the show.

There are but two types of women who’d take respite in the notion of a friendzone. We will refer to these women as “Little Picture Bitch” and “Frigid, Selfish Bitch,” or “LPB” and “FSB,” respectively.

Statement, The First: I don’t believe that friendzones are real. But you know who does? Little Picture Bitches.

Friendships start with an attraction.

All friendships.

Person A is attracted to something in Person B.

That something can be as innocuous and unsubstantial as how the other person appears.

Perhaps Person A has heard Person B speak, and likes Person B’s sense of humor.

Either way, all friendships begin with an attraction.

Now, with time, commonality of circumstance, shared secrets, the bond between A and B has an opportunity to grow in value. It is at this critical juncture that we begin to see the divide that separates friendship from fuckship.

It could come about from something as simple and run of the mill as basic sexual preference:

Person A likes Person B. The more time Person A spends with Person B, the more she likes Person B. Person B is a woman. Person A doesn’t like women. The two become girlfriends.

It could come about from a critical misstep of the other party:

Person A likes Person B. Person A finds out that Person B voted for a Tea Party candidate during the last general election. Person A still adores Person B, but now thinks he’s a fuckwad. Person A wants to have babies and can’t make them with a fuckwad. They remain close friends.

Here’s my point.

Notwithstanding prevailing matters of sexual orientation or the three exceptions noted above, where there was once attraction, there is ALWAYS potential for repeated attraction, UNLESS……………………………………..you’re a little picture bitch.

LPB says shit like, “Marcus is fat. We’re real cool, though, for real. But honestly, Chubbs is like my brother, man. I don’t even think of him like that.”

CLASSIC LPB assessment.

Why is she a LPB?

Because she has failed to account for ALL of the angles and potential scenarios.

Let’s return to my definition of a friend: A person you care about deeply, with whom you share intimacies. A person you spend time with or talk to on a consistent basis…

Let’s assume LPB and Marcus really are friends, in accordance to my definition, and not just hang partners, or party homies. Let’s assume they spend real time together, talk consistently, and tell each other the secret desires of their hearts—hopes, dreams, unicorns, Neruda, alla that shit (try not to become overwhelmingly distracted by the obvious fact that Marcus is a hardcore sucker MC if he allows any of this).

You mean to tell me that, on her worst day of all days– LPB has caught her boyfriend cheating, her boss thinks she’s retarded, her mother called for the express purpose of telling her what a big ass she has—on this dark, rainy, cold night she calls Marcus, the one person she can count on for anything, tell anything—and he brings over a bottle of Crown (FACT: ALL dudes named “Marcus” drink Crown), and they drink from the bottle in front of her fake fireplace, laughing her cares away…..

And she cheers up……

And then………………………………………………………..

SENDS THAT GOOD, CHUBBY BASTARD HOME??!?!?!

HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL NAWWWWWWWWWWW.

You are a LITTLE.PICTURE.BITCH.

And you’re lying to yourself.

Know what really happens?

Marcus makes one move to tuck that stray tendril of tear-soaked hair behind LPB’s ear, and overwhelmed by this sweet, understanding, always-there man’s affectionate gesture, in an extreme moment of weakness—LPB gives it up.

And know what Marcus does?

This dude, who has been diligently sitting in the background while you dated chumps, and fed him scraps from your table; this man who has been plotting patiently on this moment for what must now seem like a whole lifetime; this dude, Marcus—-

WEARS YO’ ASS OUT.

Stomps a MUDHOLE in that box. ( © N.S.)

Know what you call a man who listens to your crappy ass dreams by day, and puts a dent in your lower lumbar by night?

“Boyfriend.”

Statement, The Second: Should friendzones actually exist, I don’t believe in them as a matter of principle. But you know who does? Frigid, Selfish Bitches.

While one is inclined to overlook the shortsightedness that is LPB’s mindset, FSB is a horse of a different color.

I have known MANY FSBs in my day.

These women have thought nothing of taking up hours upon hours of poor Marcus’ life, only to send him home at 2 am in the rain.

Now, please note that I am in no way advocating a set of circumstances that gives rise to compulsory sex acts as some quid pro quo tradeoff rewarding good friendship.

I’m just trying to establish a line of demarcation between “homegirl” and “cocktease.”

Lookit.

I very seldom hand out gender-determinate behavioral assignations.

That is to say, “Men do this,” while “Women do that.”

But trust and believe me when I tell you that no man on this EARTH, puts excessive time in with a woman (she could look like a Chow in the face and this still holds true) he’d NEVER sleep with.

Doesn’t happen.

Scientific impossibility.

Marcus might be there for you. He might care about you. He might really want to see you
through your time of sorrow.

But best believe—-he would fuck.

He would fuck and have ZERO qualms about it.

I’m not saying that you have to oblige him, either.

I’m saying that it takes a frigid, selfish bitch to consume that level of his time and commitment, only to shut out even the most remote possibility of romantic involvement.

I’m saying that it is patently disrespectful to Marcus, and his manhood, for you to utter the words, “I would never…he’s like my brother.”

No, bitch.

That 6’2, 250 lb dude sitting on your dirty ass IKEA rug, in the middle of the fuckin’ night, holding your crying, snotting ass, is NOT your brother.

Your BROTHER is at home, asleep, because he knows whatever the fuck is wrong can wait until daylight.

The dude in your living room is a man.

A man who would tear that ass up, if given only half the chance.

Even beyond a lack of consideration, the FSB’s lifestyle is a greedy one; a gluttonous one; one that spits in the face of the most basic economic principles.

That a person would spend that amount of time with someone she couldn’t sleep with when times got hard—in times of Recession—is just wasteful.

We should be achieving the maximum level of use out of good men, either in the present, or on standby. It just makes better sense. Why waste all that time building intimate ties to Marcus, who you wouldn’t sleep with, when you could be investing in Jamie, who’s ten times sexier?

I’ll tell you why—That option’s not available to you. Jamie’s a dick.

Jamie won’t abide your non-stop chatter, only to be ushered out the front door at 9 with nothing more than your well wishes and a frontal lobe kiss.

Women build these one dimensional relationships with the Marcuses of this world, because they can count on them to be too “good” to request anything more; they’ve taken Marcus’ good naturedness for granted.

And THAT, makes you frigid, selfish bitches.

The takeaway—

You don’t have to sleep with ‘em, ladies.

You just don’t have to play them.

*I chose a fucked up lyric, cause this is some fucked up shit.

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11 Responses to “because i think neo-feminism should mean, “stop doing little girl shit.””


  1. April 7, 2011 at 12:42 pm

    Keeping it real if Marcus would have just took his dumb ass to college where the female : male ratio was something sick like a proper 9:2, then he would have had his fill and not be on some crying dirty-foots’ lame Ikea rug trying to console his way into the yahtzee. Brothers have simply got to do better.

  2. April 7, 2011 at 1:31 pm

    Hum…well in that case, I guess I’m a Frigid Selfish Bitch..because oh boy…I have a “Marcus” in my life…I’ve had a few actually. The current “Marcus” has been holding on since 2000. We are older now…but I guess why he stays in the friend zone because he won’t walk his ass out of it. *shrug*

  3. April 7, 2011 at 4:20 pm

    2 posts in 2 days? its like Christmas and my birthday back to back.

    “Friendzone—n. from the Latin, bullshiterus maximus. An alleged place where one puts a “friend” she wouldn’t sleep with. Like, ever.”

    this definition had me rolling. lol

    either way i’ve been friend zoned before and the thing is i know i was being friend zoned. i think both times the women were little picture bitches though. i refuse to believe they were the latter. great post.

  4. 4 Ti
    April 7, 2011 at 7:34 pm

    Ah damnit, I’m a Marcus.

  5. 6 NubianEmpress
    April 15, 2011 at 2:55 pm

    *slow clap*

  6. 7 gannsberg
    April 17, 2011 at 8:10 pm

    I too was a marcus. ONCE, and shall I say it will never happen again! (ok maybe twice–but now I’m married so that’s out the window)…..

  7. 8 LuchiBaybee
    April 18, 2011 at 12:07 pm

    Damn, I’ve been the FSB and the LPB.

    I mean isn’t that Marcus’ fault tho? LOL

  8. 9 Smarter
    April 21, 2011 at 2:47 am

    This FSB TRIED to put me in the friendzone… I played along for a little bit, I won’t lie… But then I realized what was happening, and I cut her ass off. Here’s the best part. Her cousin started hitting me up just a little while ago. And her cousin >>> her.

  9. 10 Donn
    April 25, 2011 at 1:04 pm

    Rule: you give ’em two, two, that’s only two chances to show you you have possibilities in bed. Two MAX.

    She blows them both: flush.

    1. Like, you get her number, and call her, and she talks your ass off the whole time, and no date, she just puts you off and yah yah yah, try one more time. Get direct this time. No date this time, flush.

    2. Like, you do the same thing, yada yada in person, one time, nothin’, OK, if you are a glutton for punishment, go again. Nothin’ that time, flush.

    Special Directness Corollary: you go real direct the first time and get rebuffed, flush.

    1. Like, you ask for her number and she doesn’t give it, flush.

    2. Like, you say, you know, you and me, it’s time we…and get rebuffed, FLUSH.

    Special Marcus Corollary: go direct, Marcus. This is Econ 101. You have paid, girl said so. Nothing, flush. That means she goes finds another Marcus.

    Marcus.

    And brothers, experience says to me, are BAD about not getting this.

  10. October 29, 2012 at 2:33 pm

    I don’t believe in friend zones either. Girls can have dude friends and vice versa. There’s a difference though between having a friend and using someone. Either they’re you’re friend or they’re using you. The end. I also think that feminists have it all wrong. People are people. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can move on.


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