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CinePhillyist
CinePhillyist Reviews... The Men Who Stare at Goats
This week, Return to Sender and Phillial team up to give the men of Philadelphia the hand they so desperately need.
To the men of Philadelphia:
We do not want to date you. It isn't because we have a crush on that cute boy we've been hanging out with, even though we don't think he wants us to date you either. It's because you, the collective men of Philadelphia, appall us.
We like to have doors held open for us, not slammed in our faces. We like to be assisted with a heavy box or suitcase, rather than passed by and laughed at. We like to be offered the chance to cut in the line at the grocery store when we're only buying a gallon of milk and you're exceeding the twelve items or under" limit by two hundred percent.
You know what we don't like, gentlemen? We don't like that you're not really gentlemen at all. We don't like when you sit next to me on an empty bus and proceed to ask if we've "got a name." Doesn't everybody? Didn't Jim Croce even write a song about it? We don't like when you rubberneck as we pass you so that you can both see us leave and watch us go. We don't like when you grunt like a gorilla or groan like you've been shot as we walk by. We don't like to hear about what you'd like to do to me if you got me alone – especially because it's still illegal in several states. The only back door we've ever been interested in was the VIP entrance to the Pink Elephant in New York City.
But you know what we don't like most of all, oh men of Brotherly Love? We don't like that you feel the need to point out to us that we are post-pubescent. We have been wearing bras long enough to know, not only that we have breasts, but what size they are. It's not even possible for us to forget about them: they are attached to our chests. So when we walk past you and you announce to us: "Damn, those some big titties," what exactly do you expect us to say? "Holy shit! Really? When did those get there"? "So glad somebody finally noticed"? Perhaps even: "Wanna touch"? You certainly can't expect the immediate response to be: "Oh, that is so romantic, let's go out for a nice dinner at McDonald's and then I'll be your baby mamma!"
We, the collective female inhabitants of the City of Philadelphia, are not objects. Old-fashioned though we may be, we’re people, just like you – and how would you like it if we objectified you in the middle of the street? Hmm?
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best question – after all, don’t lots of men want nothing more than to be made objects by their lady friends? But we digress.
Behaving in the workplace the way you behave on the street would get you, at best, fired, and at worst, sued for every dime you’ve ever made. We’re reminding you of this because, if you don’t know how to behave on the streets, you probably don’t know how to behave elsewhere. Case in point: once, we were hit on in a bank. By the security guard. Not only did we not feel safe after that (he had a gun), we didn’t feel like doing anything but talking to his manager. We’d imagine that the security guard isn’t working there anymore. But we started using a different branch anyway.
The other night, we were hanging out at a bar with some friends of ours. Everyone decided to leave (the bar was getting boring), and we walked out. A friend had to use the bathroom, though, so we waited for her on the street. A man crossed the street and began walking toward us. “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he said as he approached. “Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm,” he said as he passed (way too close for such an empty sidewalk). After he passed, we turned to look at him, oblivious that he had actually done that. We saw that he was still looking at us. “That’s right,” he said over his shoulder, “it was me.” And then he blew a kiss in our general direction.
This event was disturbing for a couple of reasons. First of all, we happened to be in the middle of the Gayborhood at the time. We usually like to think we’re safe from the men of Philadelphia in said neighborhood, because the ones in that neighborhood usually don’t give a damn about us. Secondly, we were in a large group, mostly of men. Even if you are in the Gayborhood, you really don’t want to risk pissing off a couple of big guys by hitting on their female friend. Thirdly, we’re insulted that you felt the need to explain to us that it was, in fact, you, making the obscene noises as you walked past. Because, clearly, there were so many lascivious men out that night that we needed you to tell us which one you were. Lastly, and most importantly, we are not Campbell’s Soup. Only we, and an elite squadron of allowed men, have the privilege of knowing what we taste like. And although it is, in fact, “Mmm mmm good,” we’re more than a little offended that you decided it was your place to take a guess. Even if you had been attractive, there was no way that you were getting anything out of your actions. You shouldn’t have even tried.
We’re puzzled by something, men. What do you hope to gain by your actions? If you want to get laid, you’ll find you’ll have better odds if you follow Phillial’s forthcoming advice. If you want to find yourself kicked in the balls one of these days, though? Just keep it coming. We’ve got our pointy-toed cowboy boots on, and we know just how to use them.
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