Model United Nations: The Are Two Sides to the Condom Man Story

My mom and I have different versions of the story, but the facts are clear; I gave a speech in Hendricks Chapel at Syracuse University when I was eighteen, and the New York chapter of the Model United Nations was permanently banned from meeting there.


MUN was one of many organizations I joined during my senior year in a last-ditch scramble to get everything I could out of my high school education.  Even now I can't really tell you what it was about.  MUN appealed to me because countries got to pass notes in classrooms while ignoring the speakers, something I'd never done as a studious lad.

It was 1991.  Hendricks Chapel - an interfaith facility on SU's main quad - was filled to capacity.  While High School teachers and curious college professors stood against the walls looking on, high schoolers across New York state got up and pretended to be delegates from different countries.  Everyone got two minutes to speak for his or her temporarily-appropriated country, to talk about what they expected to get out of the two-day affair.  It was an endless parade of we the people of Argentina are proud to stand with our fellow nations and the proud people of Belgium are delighted to stand with you and Chile stands proud with it's fellow countries, all of it delivered in the same hand-shaking, staring at the page monotone.  Every country was happy to be there.  Every country had an agenda.  Every country had hope for the future.

East Syracuse-Minoa was assigned Nicaragua and. . . some other country.  I ended up speaking for Nicaragua because the guy who was supposed to do it chickened out.  Whether he never wrote a speech or destroyed it in his distress, I'll never know.

Somewhere around the H countries, Mr. Parziale came and squatted beside me.  Mr. Parziale taught accelerated Social Studies to tenth and eleventh graders, taught economics and political science in summer school, and was in charge of MUN.  He was smart, humorous, and fair.  He explained that there was no one to speak for Nicaragua and asked if I wanted to give it a shot.  No pressure, because they could always just bang the gavel and move on to Nigeria, it would be great if I could say a little something to let the New York MUN'ers know that East Syracuse-Minoa was in the house.

"Look at them," he said, gesturing toward the lectern.  "You can do that, can't you?"

"Indonesia stands proudly before you, but gratefully among you, as we work together-"

"No problem," I said.

One thing that's important to keep in mind - MUN is run by students.  The teachers guide and educate, but their most important job is getting out of the way.  Mr. Parziale told me to talk about rapid population growth, an issue taxing Nicaragua's healthcare system, environment, and educational system at the time.

I wrote furiously, watching the students drone on.  I had a semester and a half of Drama Club and had represented the school in a Shakespeare Competition.  I could do that, I thought.

Or I wake those people up.

Imagine that picture above filled with high schoolers in suits and dresses, doing their best to reenact a UN meeting.  A lot of navy, is what I'm trying to say.  I walked on stage sporting a mustard, leopard-spotted jacket from Chess King and a vintage, dark brown, gambler-crown, wide-brimmed hat.

Oh, the hat.  The hat's I wore in high school could be a blog in itself, and this particular hat would be a week of posts.  I waited until college to do any drinking or drugs, using eighties movies to alter my consciousness instead.  The result was that I often left the house looking like an eighteen-year-old pimp.   If the beaten western Clint Eastwood wore in Fistful of Dollars fucked the hat Jack Nicholson wore when the played the Joker, you'd get something like it.

Increase the width of this brim by 50%, lose the leather band, and flatten the top.
More importantly, the origin story: my high-school sweetheart's father lived in a mental institution; she loaned me his favorite hat.  I literally wore a hat only a crazy person would wear.
If I could make shit like that up, publishers would be beating down my door.

My speech was a hit because it matched my look.  I leaned over the mic and told the capacity crowd that not only was Nicaragua over-populated, it was under-educated.  We couldn't just throw condoms at them and expect the birth rate to level out.  It doesn't do anyone any good if people are walking around with condoms on their ears or using them as water balloons.  We needed a special committee to travel to Nicaragua, and all the underprivileged nations of the world, and demonstrate proper condom use, over and over if necessary.  This Condom Committee would travel the globe, tireless in its efforts to demonstrate proper condom use.  The Condom Committee would not leave any country unsatisfied.

Over a chorus of adolescent giggling, a girl behind me madly banged her gavel.  I don't know what school she was from, what country she represented, or how many committees she'd "won" to get the honor of chairing the opening the ceremony, but I remember the tremor in her voice.

"Delegate, please bring your remarks to a close," she said.

I paused for a moment.  I'd been speaking perhaps thirty seconds, so I was well within my rights to demand my alloted time.  I let the air grow thick, feeling the waves of panic behind me from people who took MUN way too seriously.  I had no doubt if I tried to continue I'd be gaveled to death, so I made it clear I had only one thing left to say.

"In conclusion. . ."

Behind me, dozens of high school students breathed a collective sigh of relief.  But I wasn't doing it for them, I was doing it for everyone else, for the rest of us who'd had to listen to them all morning.

". . . If you're in an underprivileged country, please walk softly, but cover your big stick."

1,100 formally-bored teenagers overlooked the inherent xenophobia of my speech and leapt to their feet.  The hooting, stomping, clapping, and cheering lasted long after I took my seat.  The only ones not laughing were the students on stage and the adults lined up against the wall.

Mr. Parziale cornered me as the students filed out.

"What are you doing to me, man?"  He asked.  He looked like he'd seen a ghost.  At the same time, he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.  "People are pissed.  Pissed.  One teacher said, 'and in a church, of all places.'  I didn't even think of that."

I was too busy enjoying my celebrity to worry about the fallout.  People stopped me in the hallways to have their pictures taken with me.  Girls who had bussed in from out of town for the weekend-long conference slipped me notes in committee, inviting me to their hotel rooms to practice safe sex.  For one weekend of my torturous adolescence, I was cool.  I stopped being Aaron the loser and became - Condom Man.

Up to that point, it was easily the best two days of my life.

* * *

My mother is a five-foot-eight, silver-haired Mohawk Indian with a voice like a mouse and spine of pure steel.

Don't mess with this woman.

In her version of the story, her youngest son, the only one of her three children to make it to his senior year in high school, was in danger of being expelled.

She sat in East Syracuse-Minoa's Administration office with Principal Santulli and Mr. Parziale.  Syracuse University had already banned the Model United Nations from meeting in Hendricks Chapel, and the MUN wanted me expelled to set an example for any future members.  Mr. Parziale didn't want to do it, but it had to be done.

"I know he's just a child and doesn't know what he did," Mr. Parziale said, "But he went too far."

"That's right," mom agreed.  "He's a child.  He's a child, and you hurt him."

Principal Adams and Mr. Parziale looked confused.

"Do you remember the trip to New York City?" my mom asked.

MUN's biggest conference gathers the best schools from state meetings like the one at SU.  It takes place every year in New York City.  I don't remember the price tag, but it wasn't cheap.  Other parents wrote checks for their children and moved on with their lives.  Despite growing up four hours away, I'd never been to New York.  I wanted to go very badly, but I told Mr. Parziale I couldn't afford it.

I worked more hours in the deli at Leo & Sons Big M Supermarket, but it wasn't enough.  Just before the deadline, my Aunt Jeri stepped in to cover the difference.  I told Mr. Parziale I could go to New York City after all.

He told me that he had limited space for the trip.  I was a senior, graduating in just a few months, and he decided to send a freshman instead.  Over four years, he could groom this freshman to be a real asset to his club.  I told Mr. Parziale I understood, but inside I was devastated.

When Mom told him this, Mr. Parziale's face fell.

"I had no idea," he said.

Ultimately, my speech earned me a two-week suspension.  When I got back, Mr. Parziale apologized for putting me on the spot in Hendricks Chapel, and for not letting me go on the New York trip.


I don't remember anything but the fun part.  When mom told the story last year at Thanksgiving, it was like hearing the plot to a movie that came out decades ago.  It sounded awfully familiar, but I couldn't be sure I'd ever seen it.

I was the type of kid no one ever noticed in life, so when I got in front of a crowd I tended to expand.  Look at me, my behavior screamed, feeding off finally being seen.  I don't believe I gave that speech as some kind of screw you to Mr. Parziale, I was just trying to be funny.  But I didn't even remember being suspended, so how can I know?  More importantly, what did I do with that money I'd saved for the New York trip?  Buy more pimp outfits?

People resent the concept of fate because we like to believe we're in charge of our lives, but what if we don't even need to go as far as Fate with a capital F to see who's pulling the strings, what if all of our actions bubble from some subconscious stew?  What if every accidental sleight or unintentionally cruel joke is deliberate on some level?  What if all the apologizes and smiles between the thought and the deed are just smoke and mirrors, protecting our image of ourselves?


I haven't posted this one because I don't have a shit-hot ending for it.  But some things just end.  This will have to be one of them.

Your Reviews Suck and I Hate You

I’ve gotten into a habit which is sure to give me an ulcer - reading bad reviews of books I love. 

First, there’s Amazon.  When I first heard that top reviewers were getting paid to write good reviews for books before they came out, I was angry but not surprised.  Damn, I thought those reviews were legit!  Followed by, It’s Amazon, what low business practice won’t they do?  

That’s what you get for trusting the internet.  Turns out these top reviewers are “paid” in free books.  Advanced Readers Copies, Uncorrected Proofs, Advanced Readers Editions, these are the pennies, nickels, and dimes with which top-rated Amazon reviewers are compensated.  And me, frankly.  

This is bribery! went the internet cry.  Publishers are trading free books for 5-star reviews!

Actually, they aren’t.  Free books are a publisher’s cheapest form of advertising, but they run the risk of the reader hating it, and putting that hatred online for all to see.

The comments which really irked me said the only way publishers could get 5-star reviews for crappy books was by giving away copies.  

No one knows what makes a bestselling book.  Sometimes authors become favorites and you know they’ll always do well, but the breakout bestsellers vary so much in tone and content that there’s no way to predict what will be next.  But one thing which always helps a good book build sales is word of mouth.  When you have a product you believe in, be it an album, movie, or book, you want it in as many hands as possible.  You especially want reviewers, taste-makers, and buzz-generators to have copies.  

Just because you’re jealous that you don’t get free books, don’t take shots at the practice.

Then, there’s Goodreads, a site I vastly prefer for obvious reasons.  When I got around to adding Darin Strauss’ Half a Life to my profile, I decided to take a stroll through other people's thoughts on the book.  Apparently I’m not the only one reading bad reviews of books close to my heart.  

I don't know Strauss personally and I'm not a rabid fan, I just thought his book was excellent.  I have no idea why I've felt compelled to answer critics for a book I didn't write.  Probably because I can't take the lesson that there are different perspectives in life, and sometimes they are both 100% accurate even though they are different.  

But that's no fun, so I’ve decided to review the review.

I was really surprised this book received any good reviews. It is really about a guy, who on a bad luck day, hit a girl on her bike when she swerved into his lane. He was told it was not his fault, and he went off to college, got married and had two kids.

Losing the first really is really up to you, but the second really is really unnecessary.  Really.  

PS, is “bad luck day” a thing, or are you just too lazy to be coherent?  

Strauss' neuroticism about this "event" is dull, without a sparkling bit of prose, and not well done in the circle around an event mentally technique that Lydia Davis does so well. 

Why is event in quotes?  Does striking and killing someone with a car not qualify?  Perhaps you meant to put the quotes around “circle around an event mentally technique” to clarify that part of the sentence.  

You might also try: “...and not well done in the circle-around-an-event-mentally technique that Lydia Davis does so well."  Or: “...and not well done in the circle around an event mentally technique that Lydia Davis does so well.”  Better yet, take your time, make this two sentences, and ensure that your point is clear.  Or slap yourself in the face.

By the way, Lydia Davis writes fiction.  Fiction is the place for sparkling prose (or sparkly bits), as opposed to a memoir about coming to grips with taking a life. 

I am deeply saddened that someone who is a creating writing teacher wrote a book without any sort of drama or dramatic arc. The narrator dates around, doesn't want to tell people, feels guilty...its like duh...you hit a girl and it is a tragedy, but the real tragedy is your inablility to provide a shred of insight, prose, or humanity to the entire situation.

It saddens me that you teach a memoir class.  I worry your students will never find their own voices because you’ll teach them to sound like Lydia Davis.  Maybe you should teach "creating writing" instead?

Again, fiction is the place for a dramatic arc.  There’s plenty of drama involved in killing a classmate.  In visiting her parents.  In walking the hallways and streets of the community afterward.  In trying to live your life and connect with people while something so life-altering has happened to you at such an early age.  Strauss' humanity and insight is there, presented in simple, straightforward lines.  He doesn't need purple prose to express his anguish.  If anything, the stark language underlines his struggle to cope.  


There are plenty of places to look for beauty in the written language.  Half a Life is a beautiful exercise in self-examination.

I read this light book in a night and was left feeling grossed out by the total solipsism of this book. 

(Which book?  This book?  Okay, got it.)


When you say “light book" I think you mean “slight.”  Or was it physically light?  Or a poor examination of the subject matter (which is pretty heavy)?  Did it give off beams of light?  Be more constructive with your feedback, please.  

FYI, criticizing a memoir for solipsism is like complaining that a detective novel is too mysterious.    

Nice use of “grossed out,” though.  I don’t see that enough in book reviews.    

At some point, an editor or a publishing house should say no, this is not a valid book to publish and spare the audience something that should have stayed in a journal, a therapist's office, a conversation with your wife. 

At some point, you should have realized you can’t look at the book objectively.  You should have spared readers looking for genuine guidance on whether to purchase a book something that should have stayed in your diary, or a text to your BFF, or an overly-loud cell phone conversation on a subway train. 

Sorry, this book just really pissed me off. 

I think I’ll follow your reviews just to read everything you hate. 

You Should Read Wildwood

Signed by the author and illustrator.  Estimated value on Ebay?  $52.6 kajillion.

My favorite Wildwood moment was reading the Bandit’s song.  In a flash I was nine years old again, reading the goblin’s song from Tolkien’s The Hobbit.

Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast 'em!

till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;

till hair smells and skins crack,

fat melts, and bones black

in cinders lie

beneath the sky!

So dwarves shall die,

and light the night for our delight,

Ya hey!

Ya-harri-hey!

Ya hoy!

My arms broke out in gooseflesh.  Of course, when you’ve written The Rake’s Song, a few bawdy rhymes aren’t as much of a challenge.  Still, for me, it was a moment which took the book from good to great.  There’s a lot to enjoy in these pages, but the most impressive feat is how Ellis and Meloy reference past Young Adult epic fantasies without being derivative of them.  The Dowager Governess is a villain as instantly timeless as the Queen from Snow White.  Somehow, in the context of the book, she even manages to be scary (this is coming from someone who’s loved Stephen King for almost thirty years).

I suggested you read Wildwood via The Heat Lightning and I mentioned the Wildwood Dinner in my BEA wrap-up but I didn’t tell you that the first person I met at the Harper Collins dinner was the book’s illustrator.  

I walked into the north dining room upstairs at the Savoy - the white linen tablecloths crawling with flowers and vines (and appetizers!), the plates set with signed artwork and Wildwood Irregulars buttons, the place cards featuring different images and quotes from the book.  I wasn’t intimidated, exactly, just humming with that awkwardness bookish types feel when faced with a pre-alcohol social situation.

A redheaded woman who looked not unlike a Bizarro World Martha Plimpton held out her hand.

“Hi, I’m Carson,” she said.  

I gave her my name and told her I was from Books & Books in Miami.  This doesn’t often get a reaction at book conferences, but then I offered the name which always does - our owner, Mitchell Kaplan.

When she didn’t mention her store, agency, or publisher, I chalked it up to a book-lover’s gawkiness.  When she didn’t react upon hearing Mitchell’s name, I should’ve known instantly that she was not in the book business, so the only thing which could bring her to a dinner for Wildwood is that she’s THAT Carson - illustrator Carson Ellis. 

Well, the penny didn’t drop.  We stood there grinning at each-other and looking around the room for someone who looked chatty enough to fill the space we’d reserved for painful silence.  When the waiter put a glass of wine in my hand, my nerves leapt from my body, wrapped him in a hug, then dove inside the glass.

After we’d ordered but before we’d gotten dinner, Carson Ellis and Colin Meloy got up to talk about the process of creating the book.  Listening to them, I realized that the four of us - Carson, Colin, Becky and I - could have been great friends if we lived in the same city.  We’d run in artsy fartsy circles and drown in an orgy of music, art, and books.  During the talk and while they sat with us, they blew me away with their book knowledge.  

About the highest complement I can pay to any reader is this - Ellis and Meloy could have been booksellers.

I also wanted to crawl under the table because I didn’t recognize Carson Ellis when I walked in.  Not that she expected me to recognize her or anything, but to paraphrase Matthew McConnoughey’s character in Dazed and Confused, it would’ve been a whole lot cooler if I did.

I would have told her that of all the Best American Nonrequired Reading covers, that 2007 was my favorite.  I would have asked if she had any advice on how I could support Becky as an illustrator.  I would have told her how every author site in the world links to Amazon but the fact that she chooses personal conviction over commerce by linking only to independent bookstores, is uncalculably badass.

Oh, well.     

What else?  Colin Meloy was bearded and burly.  It looked like the two of them had a great relationship.  I sat with two cool people from Harper Collins, the editor who worked with Margaret Cardillo on one of Miami’s favorite titles, Just Being Audrey, and Emilie Polster, who put the whole amazing dinner together.

Polster also happens to be working on the next offering from Maurice Sendak, who she insists is not as misanthropic as The New York Times would have you believe.  She also thinks he’d dig contributing to Becky’s arm.

Getting Maurice Sendak to draw Max for Becky to get tattooed?  Name the time and place.  

Incense is Racist

Thanks to Sweet Reader Cass from Syracuse (also known as my sister), who laid this on me on my recent trip up north.  An Indian on a package of incense that smells like Earth, Ocean, Wind, and Fields - ka-ching!    

This hits all the trite notes - the squinting, faraway gaze, the protruding cheekbones and deep clefts around the mouth, the bear claw necklace and ceremonial headdress, the connection with nature, the pseudo-spirituality.  

Ocean seems fine, but what’s the different between Wind, Earth, and Fields?  It’s a miasma; wind blows over the fields, which grow from the earth.  Going by the pictures, you wonder if they didn’t call Fields "Flowers" because they were afraid of losing the male buying dollar.  You also have to ask yourself what clouds smell like.

This ended up at the dollar store because E. Davis International of Watertown, NY lacks strength of conviction.  Once they had the Indian drawn up they should’ve blasted the theme with both barrels - Earth, Tobacco, Buffalo Chips, and Casino.  

Too tough to chemically manufacture “Casino," you say?  Bullshit.  Your olfactory technicians can re-create the subtle shades between the ground, plants growing from the ground, and wind blowing through the plants growing from the ground, and you can’t give me a combination of alcohol breath, industrial cleanser, and soured dreams?  Have faith, E. Davis.

Some words on these posts.  

I keep using the word Indian.  And I will keep using it.  My mother is Mohawk so it’s more accurate to call me Mohawk than Indian, Native, Native American, or American Indian (like calling someone Swedish vs European).  But really, I use Indian because it’s the word my family has always used when our heritage comes up (when we’re not talking about corn, beans, and squash, counting our casino money, or communing with nature, we talk about how Indian we are).  I’m also very comfortable using the word “tribe”.  I know it’s used to classify animals, and a lot of younger Indians who prefer calling themselves Native like to use “Nation.”  I respect that, and I like the fact that tribe is being phase out by a new generation of teachers.  I also don’t plan on feeling guilty for saying or writing Mohawk Tribe.  

Further, when I say that a certain place or object is racist, the reason should be obvious.   If it’s not, we can play the old game of “How would you like it if I put a wooden statue of a Negro with exaggerated features dressed in full African tribal gear outside of my store?” or “How would you like a caricature of a Jew on a sport uniform with a really fun derogatory term for the team?” or “How would you like a Chinaman in a conical hat on an incense package featuring the scents of Green Tea, Sesame Oil, Kung Fu, and High Math Scores?”  

Okay, the last two were a stretch.  How about Small Penis?  Small Penis is a smell, right?  Chinese stereotypes suck.

I’m joking because it’s more fun than walking around pissed off all day, but these images are obnoxious and running into them all the time is tiresome.  When people learn I’m Indian, I always, always, ALWAYS get that look, the weighing one, the one Meatloaf gives Ed Norton in Fight Club when Norton tells Meatloaf he’s a member.

Their thoughts are all over that expression; “You don’t look Indian.”  It’s not hard to discern the meaning because many people over the years have had no compunction about actually expressing the thought out loud.  Next time it happens, I’ll just answer, “Funny, you don’t look like an asshole.”       

I’m not fed up with images like these because the ubiquity of headdresses makes them easier to defile (that’s what it’s called when religious artifacts are disrespected, right?); I know some tribes give out eagle feathers for especially heroic acts and that a full headdress of feathers means your life is filled with some serious shit for which you deserve respect, but I couldn’t tell you if they’re culturally significant for Mohawks.  These images and statues bother me because they make us invisible.  Indians aren't something that happened, we are here, now.  We live.  We go unrecognized because we don’t look the way we’re supposed to, but we’re here.

Our invisibility as a people in the present also makes our current problems - suicide, alcoholism, infant mortality rates, unemployment, sovereignty, etc, etc. - invisible.  When I pose with a pissed-off face next to a Cigar Store Indian, it’s partially a joke.  It’s partially venting some anger. 

It’s also a message - we’re still here.    

Consideration, Bad Haircuts, and Wimps

Yes this looks stupid, but I'll gel it differently next week when it's out of style.

 Recently some coworkers and I were enjoying lunch outside the office, catching this deli at the crest of their lunch rush.  Office folks crowded every table outside.  The thought of sitting outside on a cool day in Miami, especially in April when we know there might not be another one for some time, proved just too strong.  One of us waited outside to shark for empty tables while the rest of us ordered.  Eventually, the lot of us squeezed around a pair of two tops we pushed together to make one big table.  While we ate, a two-top opened behind us and a four-top opened to our left (in restaurant-speak, a two-top seats 2, a four-top seats 4, etc.).

 With his fauxhawk and sideburns, designer jeans hanging just so, with her tank top and flower skirt, eyes invisible behind Jackie-O sunglasses, I took them as college students.  Maybe they had flirted in class or had coffee with groups of friends, but they were alone together for the first time.  They ordered, they took their drinks and the little buzzer that goes off when the order’s up, and they came outside.

 Jackie O’Shades sat at the four-top, crossed her legs, eased back into her chair, and started sidewalk watching.  Faux Hawk, drinks in hand, balked.

 “Shouldn’t we sit over there?” he said.

 O’Shades squinted (at least I think she did; tough to say for sure, behind the sunglasses) at the two-top Faux Hawk indicated with a chin point.

 “Why?”

 “Well, they’re pretty busy,” Faux Hawk said. “We don’t need all that room.”

 “Oh,” Shades said, “you’re one of those.”

 This stopped Faux Hawk in nervous mid-fidget.   She might have called it "a lunch thing" or whatever, but he clearly wanted it to be a date.

 “One of what?”

 “Oh, you know,” she sniffed.

 At this point the conversation at our table bumped up in volume, so I missed whatever she had to say for herself.  I wonder what her response could have been.   Considerate?  Thoughtful?  Kind?  Exactly what was Faux Hawk, and why was she making it sound like a disease?

 Whatever the answer, it must not have satisfied him.  She moved to the two top and he set the drinks down, telling her to stay while he went inside to wait for the food.  She still thought she had a shot.  It was in the arch of her back as she lounged, adjusting her skirt, looking at him over her glasses.  Equally obvious was how quickly he moved her into the “no” column.

 I think, Good for you, Fauxhawk.

 It’s a sentiment I never thought I’d express.

 My hatred for the fauxhawk cannot be overstated.  First of all, I am from the People of the Flint.   A half-breed Mohawk, but still a Mohawk.  From time to time, members of my family have shaved their hair into a Mohawk to express pride in our heritage (or maybe just to see how it felt, using Native Pride as an excuse).  If you’re light-skinned, male, young, a Mohawk is a choice to take yourself out of normal society, whatever that is.  Of course it’s hair.  It’ll grow back.  So it’s a temporary sojourn into a minority that many wear daily.  Being a woman, a senior, wheelchair bound, dark-skinned, these you don’t outgrow.

 That was the point of Punk.  Shave your head and leave a strip of hair or a row of spikes, and that was your hair wherever you went.  Your job, the subway, your home - you were always punk.  It was jarring, shocking, immediately removing you from straight society.

The fauxhawk is the hipster equivalent of the "business up front and party in the back" mudflap, you’re a wannabe punk on Saturday but you can comb your hair flat for church on Saturday.   It’s a hairstyle for wimps.

 I’d like to make a case for wimps as the worst word for weakling we can conjure in the English language.  This is, of course, the dark horse candidate given the preference most people have for pussy (ie, “What are you, some kind of pussy?  Just drink the shot / punch the cop / jump.”

 Pussy became synonymous with weakling because in some men’s minds, a pussy is synonymous with a woman.  Not only is this not true (I have proof), but how either a pussy or a woman became synonymous with weakness is anyone’s guess.   Can we get past this, please?  A pussy is a strong organ. It can take a pounding all night long and still ask for more.  Hell, it can take multiple poundings from dozens of cocks and walk away with a little chafing (I've seen videos).  Meanwhile, where is the mighty cock that can fuck dozens of pussies in one night?  Kick a cock in the balls and watch it wilt.

 In fact, forget wimp and weakling.  Let's go with cock.

 “You won't steal that candy bar?  What’s the matter, you some kind of cock?”

 I guess that just trades one wrong for another.  Turning women’s gender into a pejorative is wrong; that doesn’t make the reverse right.  So why not just leave language alone?  Wimp, weakling, they work just fine.  I think at some point language will evolve past the nonsense we live with now.  

 I’m starting with pussy.  That doesn’t make me a wimp.

Back to the fauxhawk.  If this hairstyle appeals to you, please, by any means at your disposal, step outside yourself for a moment.  You want something on your head that looks like a cock’s comb.   Fine.   You like being different, and I can respect that.  Shave your head into a Mohawk.  Much as I hate people appropriating a piece of my history for fashion or sociological statement, at least it shows strength of conviction.

 A fauxhawk might be fashionable. But it will never, never be cool.  Unlike, say, this guy.

Yes this looks stupid, but at least I have the strength of my conviction.