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How Old Is She?


A woman recently uploaded this photo of herself to Craigslist Rants and Raves (DC edition) asking random strangers on a board renowned for its sadistic cruelty to guess her age. (Craigslist RnR is the new American art form.)

The guesses ranged from 38 to 47. I bet those were not the answers she was hoping for. Had she included her face, it would be an open and shut case. This is a classic example of “I’m not grossly fat like 80% of women my age, so guys will think I’m much younger than I am” female game.

I will now explain why this version of female game fails every time. This is what men immediately notice with just a split second glance:


Veiny, saggy, pendulous boobs held in place by super strength, high tensile, steel reinforced megabra.

Half acre areola spread. (Like the ears and nose, the areolas continue growing with age until they consume the entire breast. See: Old issues of National Geographic.)

Flabby triceps. Shapely upper arms on a woman are like a canary in the coalmine — when they start crapping out the total war of age related destruction is right around the corner.

Undulating ripples of flesh along the obliques. The middle-lower back along the sides is quick to betray the effects of fat accumulation, muscle atrophy, and weakening of the collagen/elastin matrix.

Wrinkly wenis. The back of the elbow is a dead giveaway of the ravages of aging.

Stomach pouch. Where’s the joey?


You cannot con the cock. Men have eagle eyes that can spot a woman’s fertile youth from an altitude of 5,000 feet. This is why plastic surgery continues to be such an abysmal failure in this day of rapidly progressing modern capitalistic medicine. The subtle cues of feminine youth and beauty are highly resistant to rejuvenation by the brute force of hatchet, axe, and laser.

To those women who don’t want to believe what I say, think about it like this: As perceptive as you are at ascertaining the betas (sometimes within two seconds before the beta even opens his mouth) from the alphas, we men are just as perceptive, if not moreso, at separating the hot stuff from the has beens.

My goal here isn’t to mindfuck you for my own personal amusement (although that is part of it). I have a larger purpose — to end the dark reign of truth-killing platitudes and feelgood lies of uplift that particularly afflict the weak minds of women and which do nothing to prevent the day of reckoning but do everything to slow progress toward fighting the noble battle against the final judgement. I dream of a world where women remain beautiful for their entire lives, bringing decades upon decades of enjoyment to men like myself for whom beautiful women are one of the great pleasures of life. It is an unholy tragedy that a woman’s bloom should wilt so soon. Aging is a wicked disease, like cancer or Parkinson’s, and must be treated as such. So the next time your older friend asks you if she’s still “got it”, tell her the truth.

“No, your prime years are over. But you’re a wonderful shopping companion.”

You will save her years of roaming the dating wilderness searching fruitlessly for the elusive alpha who would commit to her. Stand tall with pride that you spared the world another deluded mangy cougar. Teach her the valuable lesson of settling.

Ladies, your window is small. Get crackin’!


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