Warning: the City of New York is overrun with women who have completely eroded the elegance of femininity into crude coquettishness. Just look around on a Thursday night in Gotham and you can see this new species of women, this u-turning branch of the womanhood, on full display.

Dressed sloppily or scantily or both, with tongues looping out of their mouth like tired dogs, eyes as unfocused as a newborn’s, you watch them plop and flail out of bars like a marathon runner suffering from dehydration. Then, simian-like, you note how they latch onto, with their prehensile desperateness and pathetically low self-esteem, any Tom, Harry or Dick – usually it’s a Dick – that comes along.

I relocated to NYC hoping to espy and entreat some Numinous Girl, but thus far, I have seen, and sickened by such seeing, mostly only the Neanderthalic Gals. This is a sample of what we men deal with in NYC on a nightly basis:

There are women who are obsessed with partying and somewhere in their nonsequitor spewing minds believe that a man who does not drink must be the embodiment of ennui. I do not drink and I am up to a total of seven women who have hard done me because of that. One young lady explained to me, “I am a partier. That is just who I am. This is me. You have to deal with that.” My response: “You are the worst type of cliché – one that doesn’t know that it is a cliché.”

Consider also, that I like poetry, reading, and learning. You run into two types of women when you are like this in NYC. First, you get the knitted eye-browed, post-modern, serial splenetic, inkhorn, logothellus women who think being bright means being a base bitch. She will take your interest in things intellect as an encroachment on her domain of Learning. Talking to these women makes you feel like you are in a Triangular Shirtwaist Factory during a fire, or a sweat shop with a whip-master over you – too ready to discharge a blow on you for any slightly politically incorrect utterance you attempt to dribble out to ease tension and make her, the Gargoyle of the bar stool, laugh. (For instance, I said to a Columbia University undergrad, “I was playing UNO with my Mexican friends, but we had to stop because they kept stealing all the green cards.” I was promptly lectured on the evils of living and dead white men and structuralism, and the wonders of Foucault, and something about me being a modern-day Rudyard Kipling. “Sugar, sweetheart, honey,” I said as 1950s as I could make it, “that was a political joke –not a racist joke – now rest your little head, think about how to cook the meatloaf, and let the men talk politics.” (She didn’t like that one either.) Then, you have the shallower women who scoff that all that “reading and writing and shit,” to quote Chris Rock, is effeminate and unnecessary. In this latter group, one also finds the super attractive girl who speaks of Islam and the Muslim religion as if they are two completely different things (as the kids say, that’s true life).

There is also a plague of women who have achieved a degree of diminished decorum and paucity of propriety hither to known only to the male sex. Women I meet in this city constantly burp, curse, spit, revel in scatological humor as if they were Mozart, and answer cell phones and text in res media, even during the climax of conversation. I have a friend who dated this stone-splitting stunning model. He dumped her. Why? She belched too much.

Sometimes, it is as if the city is one big dyke-softball dugout. And yes: this happens in trendy, hip, bon-ton SOHO just as much as you would expect it to happen on the rotting-beer-smelling junkyard-chic bars of the Upper East Side and their nightly grunge fests.

Then you have your run-of-the-mill sluts – sorry, the word is altogether meet. You see, I do not sleep around. This typically sells well, but there are far too many times that you find you have slept with less women than a girl ten years your junior has slept with men. In many ways, 2011 is the new 1968 – there is no Woodstock, but trust me, these women are stocked up on wood.

And forget being conservative in any format, or running any sort of software program in your mind that supports the military, or tradition, or violence. To like the War on Terrorism and want to kill killers, to insist on paying the bill and being on time, to having little problem shutting down the olfactory system of someone who slaps his girlfriend’s ass – this is “too macho.” Ironically, these atavistic, animalistic women, would rather have a man who can “dissolve conflicts.” What the hell is going on?

I used to look at homely guys with pulchritudinous pussycats and think: how did that anachronistic Cro-Magnon man enchant such beautiful double-Xer? Now I know – it was not money, it was not a certain charisma. Instead, it was probably the fact that he was a drunk, ignorant, nymphomaniac, who, having been castrated by a sharp post-modern and post-structuralism knife, speaks of mediation and meditation in place of militarization and money, and likes and assents to liberality in his and hers sexual liaisons. For all the subpar men out there, this new offshoot of the female homo sapien, is a windfall. But for good men – it is unfair that you women are no longer anything remotely resembling the fairer sex. Actually, you are becoming more like men, and since I am as straight as Euclid and not into men, you are quite seriously depleting the recruiting field. Stop it.