Don't ever look through your girlfriend's phone.

Testicular size wanes with each new generation, and I’m starting to suspect it’s correlated to a crisis of integrity. It wouldn’t surprise me if fifty years from now, the average cumshot fails to fill a thimble. This testicular atrophy, on the rise since the 1960s, is both a physical and physiological problem; indeed, the gonads of the mind are equally essential to one's manhood.

In the past few months I’ve seen several friends snoop through their girlfriends’ phones. Though I kept quiet at the time, it was sad to see otherwise respectable men intentionally stuff their junk into a Shrinky-Dink Oven. Why, why, why do you care about her bumbling cellular bullshit? Men who pack healthy parties of two barely know what their girlfriends’ phones look like, because a woman’s technological broadcasts are duller than Barbie’s tits. (I’ve yet to see a single nipple.)  It’s not about respecting her privacy, either; who the hell cares about that? It’s about respecting yourself.

When you burrow through her Inbox, you say to yourself, “I should be cheated on.” Why else would you winnow through a megabyte of OMGs and superfluous final letters while she’s taking a shit? It’s only you, poor pansy, gazing into the birth canal of your nascent vagina. If you were a real man, you’d know that a girl who cheats on you is retarded. You’d never commit to a bitch who’d fool around; in fact, you’d have a hard time committing to even a fantastic woman, and be shit testing her constantly. You’d be sure you’re first committed to yourself; then, that the woman is committed to you. Afterwards, you might decide to invest something meaningful.

Alas, you’re more obsessed with validating your insecurities than being an apathetic asshole, which is what God intended you to be. This indicates you’re either dating a funky hoe, or, more likely, your self-esteem is garbage. Let’s make it clear: The problem is you. The wussfag who snatches his bitch’s android while she wipes her butthole. Go find a BlockBuster and rent a copy of Honey, I Shrunk my Dick. Director’s Cut.

Phone excavators are factories of paranoia, always finding bullshit that seems incriminating but isn’t. Thought process:  “Holyfuckingshit. She’s sending ‘I love you’s’ to him almost every night... ‘Dad’ must really be a codeword for Dan! That crafty fucking bitch!” Dan ruminations increase your suspicions, and soon, the spying becomes habitual. You log onto Facebook, open her friends list, and pound ‘Dan’ into the searchbar. By 3AM, you know the address of every Dan in the country; and they’re all probably fucking your girl.

And what if you DO find something, huh? What if it’s a video of Dan in a Boston Market uniform screwing your girl in the face? What if he’s sucking mashed potatoes off of her titties while she pumps gravy into her own ass? You’ll probably break up with her -- which you should have done anyway -- and blame yourself.  At least it’s a step in the right direction.

Media vs Men

Sexism against men is a rampant cancer that ransacks every organ of American media. Watch TV for ten minutes and you’re bombarded by hordes of cock-scratching dimwits who scorch Thanksgiving turkeys, set fire to microwaves and fail to comprehend Greek yogurt. The shrewd wife, looking on in smug bewilderment, swoops in and once again saves her pet simian from jamming his boner in the electric toaster. Buy a new Hyundai today! The Y chromosome adjusts its dunce cap as feminists everywhere cream their jeans.

In this commercial we find man in his natural habitat: stupidity. Observe that for ten pitiful seconds he fruitlessly searches the fridge for nonexistent key lime pie. Never mind the assorted yogurts -- which DEPICT the desserts her face hole obnoxiously announces -- sticking out like a lunchlady’s lip mole. (Oh, Lawrence! Everybody knows that men are only capable of noticing pornography and Sports Illustrated.) Nope, he stays clueless as dried glue.  

And listen to this cuntbanshee enunciate her ‘ahs.’ If I were her husband I’d be funneling strawberry Yoplait into my ears by the gallon. General Mills would need to open a yogurt plant next to my studio apartment. Again, this voice is so odious you could use it to castrate a Nigerian pimp. “YAH! YAHSterday I ate some YAHm pudding and it was sooo fucking YAHmmy! My toolbag husband is too dumb to know that I’m YAHmerring on about yougurt! YAH!"  Why is the husband looking in the fridge? Your gun is under the bed, buddy.

Finally the pandemonium is halted. Our vigilant heroine observes her fumbling husband and asks,  “Babe, what are you doing?” Not “What are you looking for,” which is the response of a woman without locusts in her uterus, but “What are you doing?” The sort of thing you’d say to a slave fiddling with his padlock. “Ooooh I ain’t doin nuffin masah, just tryin to find me sum kee lam pie! I show izz sorrah, yessum!” Naturally he won't reply with the sensible “Getting food that I paid for,” or the even more reasonable “Go burn your bra while you’re wearing it, harpy." That isn't his place. He just sulks like he failed to get it up during a lap dance, and another pink harpoon is driven into the mangled corpse of masculinity.

Need more evidence? Here’s something that requires no explanation.

I've got an idea I'm thinking of sending to Samsung. It's called " The Evolutionary Wife." Picture this: A husband comes home from the firm after a particularly tiresome day only to be lambasted by his bathrobbed and moderately overweight wife. (Who's wearing that weird cucumber facial mask.) Our hero dodges a steak knife, reaches into his suitcase, and pulls out an evolution kit. Suddenly, she transforms into a hot, flexible cheerleader he knew in college. You know, the one who gave him a handy behind Denny's but doesn't remember. Oh, wait, Samsung wouldn't air that -- Lee Kun-hee would wake up to find his dick in the Jack Lalanne Power Juicer. If there's one thing Samsung will NEVER air, it's a sexist commerical.