Are Men Having an Identity Crisis?

Women are emotionally vacant pigs and men are emotionally unstable psychos.

Wait. That's not right.

But it is in so many ways. Welcome to the new millennium, boys and girls, where gender equality means "let's adopt the worst of each other's stereotypes." It's a madcap race to the bottom rung of the sexual identity ladder. Wheee!

Let me put it this way ... what do the following men have in common?

• The overgrown frat boy whose hyper-masculine appearance and gorilla strut is a just vain, cosmetic affectation.
• The sensitive good guy who cries easily, insists on looking you in the eyes while having sex and then never calls you back.
• The coy pick-up artist who borrows his absurd Casanova identity from a book and then rehearses the snappy one-liners he uses to charm the la-a-a-dies.
• The relationship blogger who, albeit devilishly handsome, doesn't know whether women want the frat beast, the sneering hipster, the Xeroxed charmer, the bad boy, or the nice guy, so he sometimes settles for the default setting, shell-shocked douchebag.

The answer? We're all high maintenance. We don't call, we call too much; we never reveal our emotions, we don't stop revealing our emotions; we're filthy slobs, we're precious metrosexuals; all we want is sex, we don't want it enough. You could tell us we're tough, burly, and macho, but we'll totes settle for you telling us we're pretty.

WTF?

I have female friends who tell me stories about the dude who will cry in public, or the guy who wants to snuggle after sex, when all she wants to do is rail and bounce.

Then, apparently, there are the multiple dudes who text constantly, and if you don't respond immediately, he goes crazy, becoming a text stalker, or verbally abusive, or a blubbering slob, or becomes verbally abusive blubbering slob who just won't stop texting.

How about this: a woman I know got pissed off because her date was forty-five minutes late because he couldn't decide on what shirt to wear, and what man stink to spray on. And every time she goes out with her home girls to the tacky masquerade balls we call clubs, this prissy dude texts her every five minutes for fear she's cheating on him.

And the truth is, she probably is sucking face with someone too!

What about the guy who insists you buy him a drink, or who snidely mocks your favorite Facebook pic, or who, and this one kills me, doesn't put out?

WTF, redux.

All fair you say. Centuries of patriarchal oppression, and dudes should be insecure, suffer from poor body image, fret and furrow and breathlessly wait by the phone waiting for her to call.

Heck, women have the right to juggle men, reject them for their physical flaws, and use them for sexual pleasure. They have a right to get hammered, and behave boorishly. To rate men on a scale, and to dehumanize them with nicknames like Mr. Big, or Super Preppy, or Captain-Needs-A-Loofa.

Well, we're all in this identity crisis together. Let's get it together people.

Me? I choose not to live in a world of women-haters and man-haters. The haters are like Tinkerbell (sorry, Tinkerbell, but then again, you were never the best example of a modern woman, just a bitter little stalker) -- if you don't clap, they will die. So stop clapping.