Men Can Only Be Found in the Suburbs, New York Post Tells NYC Women

07/24/2012 9:00 AM |

Your real life will never, ever resemble this.
  • Your real life will never, ever resemble this.

People live in New York for a lot of different reasons. Maybe you were born here and have since been ruined for every other city on the planet. Maybe you want to work in food, media, music or the arts, or something. Maybe you watched a ton of movies as a kid, maybe you heard about our awesome and safe new public pool. Maybe you just really like clubs! Whatever, to each their own.

The point is, if you’re a woman and you live here, joke’s on you, because no WAY will you ever find a man, love, or happiness. Unless — unless! — you use your precious youth and free time commuting to a place where you have actively chosen not to live, but where the men are plentiful and the standards apparently lower. Yes girls, all the boys can now be found in the suburbs.

According to urban relationship bible The New York Post, New York women are now so tired of “immature city men who aren’t willing to commit” that they spend their nights off commuting out to the ‘burbs of Greenwich and Long Island where the men are reportedly less picky more marriage-minded.

“Guys in New York City are constantly emasculated when they have to buy a bottle to get into a club or they take a girl back to their apartment that they share with five other guys,” said Megan Glynn, an East Village resident who regularly commutes to Connecticut for the bar scene. Plus, she adds, “There’s not a lot of attractive females.”

“Ugly guys in Manhattan, they think they’re hot stuff,” one single PR professional concurred. “In Connecticut, they’re just very normal, very sweet, very unassuming. They don’t have game. They’re steak-and-potatoes American. [Ed note: we hear steak is also very popular among men in Brooklyn]. They don’t care about fashion, they’re not metrosexual.”

The Post also asked Millionaire Matchmaker Patti Stanger to weigh in, providing tips including “join the local country club” and “ask the bartender who’s single.”

So, finally, instead of crying into your pillow wondering why the financier with a coke problem and a magnet therapy bracelet never called back, you can grab the bull by the horns and take your search elsewhere.

I’d like to think that somewhere out there, Eleanor Roosevelt and Margaret Sanger are sitting together, gazing down upon all of us and shedding quiet tears of pride. The tears are definitely for pride, right?