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.