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Alpha Assessment Monday

Sep 14th, 2009 by

This is the first installment of Alpha Assessment Monday, where the readers and myself judge your conversations with women, or the conversations you plan on having with women, for its alphaness. Mockery, scorn and useful advice will be doled out in equal measure.

The first submission is from ATC:

Background – at the time of this interaction we’d been dating for 2 weeks. She’d slept in my bed a couple of times but wouldn’t escalate past 2nd base, despite the fact that I’m pretty sure I felt a Norplant-like device under her upper arm. [editor: ew.] If this is indeed what it was, I think it would be very hard to underestimate her sluttiness (for actual alphas, of course). She’s 23 and divorced (i.e. dumped) her husband a year ago.

Three days after this exchange, she started distancing herself and her texts became more pro forma before disappearing altogether by the end of the 3rd week.

Via text:
Her: Hey some buddies of mine saw me with you last night and they asked if you were my bf haha…people are gossiping now…but I cleared up the confusion.

Me: I’m too badass to be a mere bf.

Her: Hahaha geez…well I didn’t tell them anything [note: contradicting what her 1st text said]. Hmm, do you mean like a super buddy or what?

Me: That’s a label, and I don’t think we’re the type of people who are given to labeling ourselves.

Her: Hmm, I’m not sure I understand, but if what you’re trying to say is that you don’t want to be tied down, that’s ok because you can do what you want and so can I. =)

Me (6 hours later): Hey, guess what I overheard the hairdresser telling her girlfriend about me?

Her (immediately): What? (etc. etc.)

One crucial beta move jumps out — you let a girl sleep in your bed with you without getting any nookie. In other words, she got everything (companionship, sleep, validation, emotional orgasm) and you got nothing except Olympian blue balls.

A few times in my life a girl I had begun dating attempted this “we can sleep together and cuddle as long as you keep your hands to yourself” routine. This magnificent shit test is just about the most selfishly indulgent act of cruelty a woman can foist on a man. If you ever wondered whether women have *any* empathy at all for how a man feels and thinks, the “sleep but no sex” shit test should answer your question: Women don’t have a clue about the male sex drive, and of those that do have a clue they are cunty sadists if they pull this stunt.

I learned my lesson the hard way (quite hard) and ever since have responded in one of two ways:

  1. I left if we were at her place, or I kicked her out if she was at my place.
  2. I molested her all night long until she either relented and we screwed or she gave up on her idea of sleeping in my bed peacefully without sex.

By letting this chick sleep in YOUR BED on HER TERMS, you have stamped your forehead with a big, bold BETA. She now owns you. Don’t be surprised if she pushes the bitch boundaries with you a lot harder and a lot more often than other girls you have dated. Once a girl smells beta chum in the water she will circle your flaccid, bleeding husk for eternity, biting chunks of manhood out of you until your dignity is consumed or she tires of batting you around like a cat toy.

Moving on, the Norplant is a huge slut tell. There’s no other way to put it. Girls with a modicum of intelligence and conscientiousness will choose to take the pill over having a stick buried in their flesh. Seriously, what kind of women use Norplant? Ghetto trash. Impulsive thrill-seekers. Nymphos. Raw dog lovers. Recently divorced girls who plan to live it up with all the random cock they missed when they got married young. If you feel a Norplant in your girl, you’re one small step from double dicking her festering hole with one of the Bang Bros.

On to the text exchange.

Her: Hey some buddies of mine saw me with you last night and they asked if you were my bf haha…people are gossiping now…but I cleared up the confusion.

Total bitch. You like this chick? Her shit tests are smelly and transparent. Is she from a lower class? On the plus side, she’s thinking about fucking you. Girls don’t shit test guys they have completely written off.

Me: I’m too badass to be a mere bf.

A swing… and a miss. The problem with your reply is that you played right into her frame. And her frame SUCKS. It’s rotten to the core. The only acceptable response is a reframe, or genuine, sincere, knock the snot right outta her, ASSHOLE GAME. An example of what I mean:

YOU: [after 8 hour delay] I’m confused. You’re talking, but I don’t see you buying me a beer.

Let’s take a look at your next text.

Her: Hahaha geez…well I didn’t tell them anything [note: contradicting what her 1st text said]. Hmm, do you mean like a super buddy or what?

Me: That’s a label, and I don’t think we’re the type of people who are given to labeling ourselves.

You’re scrambling to catch up to her. She’s leading this bitchy, Norplant-embedded conversation and knows it, too. Your reply sounds like something you gleaned from a PUA guide book and misapplied at the wrong time, when it was too late to have the intended effect.

Her: Hmm, I’m not sure I understand, but if what you’re trying to say is that you don’t want to be tied down, that’s ok because you can do what you want and so can I. =)

Me (6 hours later): Hey, guess what I overheard the hairdresser telling her girlfriend about me?

Her (immediately): What? (etc. etc.)

This was the best exchange with her that you had. You ignored her beta bait, waited an appropriate amount of time (six hours) before responding to a woman of her character (low), and re-engaged with some random observation. That she answered you immediately tells me two things: One, she was still contemplating you as a sexual creature. Two, she’s a fickle drama whore who can’t resist dumbed down gossip. The way to game these types of girls is NOT to feed her world of drama with your own manufactured drama. That road leads to LJBF and more sexless slumber parties. The way to game them is stone cold, one word assholery. These girls love to fill in the blanks when you tease them with brief, erratic discharges from your reptilian brain.

Maxim #30: When in doubt, ask yourself “WWJD?” What Would a Jerk Do? Then do that.

Your Alpha Assessment Score (AAS) on a scale from 1 – 10: 3 (Your instincts are poor, but self-awareness is the first step to alpha status.)

[crypto-donation-box]

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Amish Love

Sep 11th, 2009 by

The Open Borders Journal has an article about the growing popularity of Amish pulp romance novels. It seems women — Amish and heathen alike — are snorting these books like chocolate-covered eight balls.

Most bonnet books are G-rated romances, often involving an Amish character who falls for an outsider. Publishers attribute the books’ popularity to their pastoral settings and forbidden love scenarios à la Romeo and Juliet. Lately, the genre has expanded to include Amish thrillers and murder mysteries. Most of the authors are women.

Beverly Lewis, who sets her novels among the Amish in Pennsylvania, has sold 13.5 million copies of her books.

13.5 million copies. I’ve long said that if you are a man who understands the mind of women you should write hackneyed romance novels under a female pseudonym and CASH THE FUCK IN. Forget the noble goal of writing the next Great American Novel; the money is in forbidden love and hoary cliches aimed at bored middle-aged wives and tweenies experiencing their first gina tingles.

But surely, I need talent to amass such a large audience, you may wonder. Well, let’s take a look at an excerpted passage:

“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, they parted.”

There’s your answer. No one ever went broke underestimating the poor taste of the distaff masses. Of all the “literary” genres, cheeseball romance is probably the easiest to write and, idiocratically, the most lucrative as well. It’s the female equivalent of single position porn and egg white plus yohimbe-fueled money shots under cheap lighting. All you need to know is one simple rule, and then you can count your benjamins: You’ve gotta tap that inner ape core in every woman by appealing to her base sexual instincts. This means having a good grasp of concepts such as:

  • Game
  • Male attractiveness traits
  • Badboy reformation projects
  • Female hypergamy
  • Overcoming obstacles to love
  • Parental intrusion
  • Peer judgementalism
  • Forbidden love
  • Foreplay

It also helps to have an eye for detail and knowledge of colors beyond red, green and dark green.

I think another reason besides the concept of forbidden love that explains the popularity of Amish romance novels has to do with the cultural milieu in which they exist. When the country is going to pot around you (read: it’s getting more diverse and distrustful as people greedily scramble for their slice of the taxpayer-funded pie), you find solace in fictional worlds of order and stability. And what’s more orderly, more mundane, than the Amish? If I’m right, we’ll soon see a literary trend toward traditionalism and small town esprit.

I’ve thought about writing pulp romance under a female pseudonym, but I don’t think I could resist the urge to subvert my readers’ expectations.

“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, she squirted. Her nether furrow drenched in warm moisture, she thought perhaps she had urinated, and ran away from him in shame, her legs shaking the whole way like a dog shitting olive pits. Wherefore this strange new feeling?, she begged to the god whose eyes she felt burning judgement into her soul. Finally home, panting in confusion and ecstatic pleasure, she stumbled across her parents’ open bedroom door just in time to see Papa plunging an unwashed zucchini deep into Mama’s womb — the same zucchini Hannah had harvested that morning while murmuring prayers to Mary Mother of God to give her the fortitude to resist sinful temptations. Frozen in place by shock, Hannah’s bonnet slipped to the floor. Mama looked up, frowned, and threw an oil lamp at her. Papa laughed, the zucchini in tatters in his hand.”

I remember driving through Amish country during the spring, after a soaking rain. In the fields, two boys had hitched a plow-like contraption to horses and were whipping the horses into a gallop as they stood behind the great beasts, getting pulled around at a pretty good clip. Earth was flying up, and both of them were covered head to foot in mud which obscured everything but their wide, happy smiles. What a life, I thought. What boy today wouldn’t find that more fun than another blast em up round of Halo?

So what do the Amish think of Amish-themed porn romance novels?

Ms. Esh said some Amish customers snap up the Amish fiction she stocks, but others tell her they don’t like the way the books portray the community.

“There will always be people who say we’re getting too exposed,” said Ms. Esh, a 48-year-old member of the local Old Order Amish community.

Speaking of exposed, I recall the Amish girls were good-looking. Very fresh-faced and wholesome. Not too many fatties among them. There was the occasional ugly inbred mishap, but thanks to the Amish fashion sense those girls didn’t have to suffer the indignity of hotter, skimpier-dressed peers shoving their ugliness in their faces every minute of every day. Still, even with head to toe clothing covering all but their faces and hands, I was able to make fairly accurate assessments of the Amish women’s looks from many yards away. The power of male discernment of female beauty is a finely tuned instrument, indeed. The hyperjealous harem guarding Muslims know this, which is why they invented the burqa.

Amish mothers hit the wall hard, unfortunately. No MILFs in that community. It’s 30 and stick a fork in them, no exceptions. Living off the land must age a person faster.

Some Amish have nevertheless become avid fans. An Amish woman in Lancaster told Ms. Lewis that “all the women in our church district are reading your books under the covers, literally,” Ms. Lewis said.

Amish men, listen up! You’ve allowed a sliver of the heathen slut culture to invade your oasis. Your womenfolk are reading crass female porn under their bedcovers. And make no mistake, it is PORNOGRAPHY. Cheap thrills to tingle ginas. It’s just a small step from there to Amish women demanding equality in the fields and nagging you to do more housework. Then comes Amish feminism (6th wave? It’s all the same briny crap) and finally Amish bukkake. Give an inch, and they’ll make you yearn for the relative modesty of Rumspringa. If this doesn’t scare you straight, try picturing a guy like me seducing one of your bonnet-wearing daughters, my hand first touching her forearm, then her thigh, a neg lighting up her eyes, and a makeout behind the hay bales as I promise her a world of adventure and excitement.

During a recent visit, Ms. Woodsmall [non-Amish author of an Amish romance novel series] sat on a swing outside the Flauds’ [Amish couple with six children] 133-year-old farmhouse and peppered them with questions for her sequel to “The Hope of Refuge.”

“This is one of those questions I hate to ask,” said Ms. Woodsmall. One of her characters, a schoolteacher, wants to modernize some aspects of Amish education. “What are some things she might want to change?” Ms. Woodsmall asked.

The Flauds’ 13-year-old daughter, Amanda, piped up. “The bathrooms,” she said, explaining that many students at her school wanted to replace outhouses with indoor plumbing.

Some of her inquiries drew a blank. The Flauds couldn’t come up with Amish expressions for the word “quirky” or the phrase “women’s rights.”

The Amish will be the salvation of America, if there is to be one. May they continue pumping out kids at quadruple the rate of the SWPLs, post-integrity equalists, and warlord-wannabes who currently buttfuck themselves on the levers of power.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Tremendous Neg

Sep 10th, 2009 by

If your girl is sick (the Chateau has doubled as an infirmary this week), you have at your disposal a neg so sublime, so devastating, that you would be remiss not to use it.

GIRL: Hey baby, I’m starting to feel better. Give me a kiss.

YOU: Mmm, ooookaaaay, not sure about this…

[You hug her tight and lovingly and give her a kiss with your lips so pursed you couldn’t squeeze a sheet of paper between them. After a second of this red hot passion, lean back, smile warmly, then wipe your mouth on your sleeve and make little spitting noises away from her,… ptui ptui ptui…, like you’re spitting out girl germs.]

GIRL: Really?

YOU: Better safe than sorry. Here, I got you an orange. You need vitamin C.

Another version is to grab her chin with your hand and gently push her mouth away when she goes in for the kiss, then plant your lips all over her cheeks, ears and neck, assiduously avoiding her lips. Afterwards, step back and loudly proclaim “God you are SO kissable.” Say this sincerely. Sarcasm will ruin the effect.

[crypto-donation-box]

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How To Revive A Cold Lead

Sep 10th, 2009 by

Let’s say you’re like me and you forgot to call back in a timely manner one of the leads you number closed. Don’t worry, be happy. You can turn that cold lead around. How? It’s best to illustrate by example. Here follows an actual text exchange (syntax verbatim) between me and a lead that I had allowed to go cold.

******

ME: hey XXX it’s [x] we met at XXXX. i was the incredibly suave guy 🙂 hi! [I sent this text at 1 am on a Saturday night, eight days after I got her number.]

GIRL: [After five minute delay] Hey, nice to hear from you! How are you?

ME: Life is good. i got a fish today. handsome devil. what’s up w you?

GIRL: A fish? Cool. Does it have a name?

ME: It does have a name. “stud” he’s a ladykiller. Just like his dad. 😉 hey when are u free? We’re getting together for a drink.

GIRL: That would be great. we could meet up this weekend or during the week.

[I arrange a time to meet during the week, and tell her to meet me at a lounge conveniently located near my place.]

GIRL: Ok sounds good. So to avoid a potentially awkward situation I need to tell you I am a little younger than you probably think I am. I’m four months to turning 21.

ME: Hm i thought you were mid or late 20s. Ok to avoid carding let’s meet at [non-alchohol serving coffee bar in same location] which is on the corner of XXX.

GIRL: Ok I know exactly where that is. So if you don’t mind me asking are you mid to late 20s then?

ME: 85. Ever since i quit smoking i’ve shaved off the years. I’m probably too mature for you.

GIRL: Probably. So do you still want to meet?

ME: Yes. You don’t strike me as a ditz. You seem smart. I prefer to keep an open mind.

GIRL: Ok, well I’ll meet you at [X] on [X] then.

******

Maxim #12: If you are comfortable with your game being splashed across a JumboTron for thousands of people to read, then you are doing it right.

Do you feel confident enough to put your communication with chicks on this blog? Before you send that text or make that phone call, ask yourself, “Would this pass muster as a blog post entry for millions of knife-sharpening hardcore womanizers and beta haters to read?” If you suspect the answer is “No”, you need to STOP DROP and ROLL off that chick until your senses return.

Which brings me to a new project idea. I call it: Alpha Assessment Monday. Every other Monday (after a long weekend of collecting digits), you the reader will submit your texts, voicemails, or other stabs at communication with women for me to post on the blog. The readers (and myself) will then analyze it to determine if it is adequately alpha. This is the way to grow as a man. You may submit conversations that you have already sent to the girl, or conversations you are planning to send.

*PS: It is acceptable to communicate solely via text with especially young women. I’m generally anti-text because I think it betrays timidity, but the under-25 crowd, and lately even the under 30 crowd, treat texting like phone calling — it’s their default mode. Younger women — the best kind — won’t subtract points like they used to if you arrange dates through text.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Scar Game

Sep 9th, 2009 by

Reader Powers left the following comment:

I knew I looked my best when I broke my nose and looked like a boxer. I predict makeup that mimics scars will become popular among men.

This is a brilliant business idea. It’s true; chicks dig the scar. As long as the scar is something cool, like one caused by a knifing, instead of the pockmarked landscape of acne vulgaris.

I propose stick-on scars for the timid betas, and actual scarification shops for the impulsively brave. Ye Olde Scar Shoppe would feature a licensed thug swiping a butterfly knife just across the eyebrow ridge and halfway down the cheek, which is the perfect kind of scar to tingle ginas far and wide. You would be fully anesthetized of course, unless you want the “authentic” scarification package, where the only pain relief you are offered is a jigger of whiskey and a stick to bite down on. Sure, it’ll hurt like hell, but you’ll walk out of there feeling like a man. As blood oozes through your bandage, girls will gather round in a mass proximity IOI.

Stick-on scars could act like Mystery’s black nail polish — ready to wear for a night on the town and easily removed the next morning before heading into the office. (For a couple of weeks I tried black nail polish. One morning I neglected to completely remove it from all fingers and spent the day explaining to people I had slammed a door on my pinky. The next day it had miraculously healed.)

Some cool stick-on scar ideas:

  • Bullet holes (Not to be mistaken for laparoscopic holes.)
  • Burn marks on the arm or shoulder (Imagine the DHV potential. “Yeah, I ran into that burning house. Who wouldn’t? A baby was crying.”)
  • Cig burns (Only the baddest of badboys would dare cross the mafia. Or cigstache.)
  • An exotic branding (You were captured by Tamil Tigers who adopted you as one of their own. During the initiation ceremony you were branded with the mark of the Shadow Order. Now you roam the earth solitary, a deadly killer with a vague memory of a long lost love.)
  • Missing tooth (“It was five against one. I held them off as long as I could so my ex [Sarah] could run for safety.”)
  • Bite marks in the shape of a great white shark’s jaws (“I punched the damn thing in the nose and fought it off, but not before he took a good chunk outta me.”)
  • Decapitation (If you can pull this off you are a bigger alpha than I.)

Scar game is a subject in which I have intimate knowledge. You see, I have a secret — most of my life I have carried with me a facial scar. I don’t talk about it much because… the memory is too painful… the wound… too deep…

Even now, years later, it’s hard for me to confront the horrible past that gave me this scar as a permanent symbol of my suffering. But the time is right for closure… (deep breath)… It’s a scar from when I was stricken with chicken pox at the age of 9.

Mmm, I can smell your pussy juices from here, ladies. The line starts at the left.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Flowers Of Death

Sep 9th, 2009 by

Every so often I see floral arrangements resting on the ground or tied to a street sign along the DC metro region’s busiest roads — Rockville Pike, Connecticut Ave, Rt 66, the hallway leading to my bedroom. People have died in horrible, mangled car accidents at these spots (excepting my hallway). Some of the impromptu memorials, presumably left by family and friends, have teddy bears or dolls among the flowers.

I wonder if these reminders of instant death from car crash cause people to drive more carefully? I bet they do. I certainly notice them, and the first thing that goes through my mind is how exactly the accident went down. Did the driver’s head cave upon impact with the windshield? Did a child fly out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic? Did the southbound car have a split second to apply the brakes and swerve over the median to avoid a head-on collision?

Someone should do a study to see if the increase of these roadside memorials over the past decade is having an effect on traffic fatalities. Unfortunately, like most things which are effective at influencing human behavior, there is probably a point of diminishing returns with the flowers of death. Maybe flowers every ten miles works well, but more than that and people become inured to them, and resume their normal tailgating/speeding/driving while texting habits.

[crypto-donation-box]

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I Will Not Drink Fucking Merlot!

Sep 9th, 2009 by

There is a group of SWPLs outside on the balcony right now discussing the finer points of wine. They are mocking some mutual friend they know for being pretentious about wine by… being pretentious about wine.

“Oh, like, so X says she had dinner with Napa Valley’s best sommelier.”

“She’s such a wine snob. I swear she brought table wine last month to X’s party.”

Their insipid blather has ruined my pleasant evening of pipe smoking and single malt drinking. I loathe SWPLs. If hypocrisy and status whoring were hellfire their screams of torment would echo through the ages.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Sick Game

Sep 8th, 2009 by

I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.

I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.

Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.

One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.

“So what’s your deal?”

“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”

“Are those your friends over there?”

“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.

I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”

The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.

And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.

Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game, Inner Beauty, Ridiculousness | Comments Off

The Woman Source

Sep 7th, 2009 by

I’ve found day game nirvana. The Paper Source, on M Street in Georgetown, is swimming in snapper. Swimming, Jerry! I couldn’t believe the wall to wall babes in this place, browsing, of all things, paper and paper accessories.

As one Yelp reviewer wrote:

What is it about women and stationary? If a girl ever looked at me with the same look of anticipation, excitement, longing, and joy that you see on the faces of the many ladies walking into this store, I think my heart would explode.

Gentlemen pay attention, should you ever have the urge to be surrounded by a crowd of attractive, giddy women head over to this store on a Saturday afternoon. Loudly announce to the clerk that you would really love some “letter pressed personalized stationary” and whether there is a large selection of styles you can patiently browse through.  Women standing around you will raise one eyebrow appreciatively and check you out.

I have been dragged here a couple of times over the years. What can I say; It sells paper. In a bewildering amount of sizes and functions.  This store proves that women are just more thoughtful and caring then us guys, for they sell a cute little card for every possible occasion.  There is an upstairs, but before having to go up there to see what it was about, I was able to negotiate an early exit from the store by promising to buy the girl I was with dinner; there may be a bar and dumpling store up there for all I know.  Point being, if you come here with your girlfriend, you will have to drag her out kicking and screaming. And probably drop at least $20 on paper. Otherwise, Mie n Yu is close by so you can pop over there for some drinks and wait it out.  

I really could care less about stationery, but because women love this store, and I love women, I dedicate 4 stars on their behalf.

I went upstairs. There was a $112 photo album in a bin. (Photos not included.) Was it laminated in gold leaf? I couldn’t tell. The man-cession deepens while the frivolous woman economy rolls on. For now. Helpful tip: Two floors means consecutive number closes mere yards apart are possible.

Why do women love froo froo stationery? I know why.

  1. Paper is lightweight. Women are lightweight.
  2. Paper is insubstantial. Women are insubstantial.
  3. Paper is a medium upon which trivial thoughts are transcribed. Women are a medium from which trivial thoughts issue.
  4. Paper comes in many soft pastel colors. Women can identify more soft pastel colors than men.
  5. Paper contains an element of danger (paper cuts). Women tingle in the gina region for hidden danger.
  6. Hand-written love notes on high gauge paper harken back to a romantic era. Women love fantasizing about long-gone romantic eras when raw sewage would run freely down cobblestone streets.
  7. Personalized lace-fringed paper, calligraphy, and wax seals show you care. Except that you shouldn’t show you care. Because chicks will ignore you if you show you care. Which is why chicks love things that show you care. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So there you have it. A day game den of estrogen situated in the heart of a day game neighborhood. Bonus day game locale: City Bikes in Adams Morgan. Chicks dig the fixed gear.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Herb Attack!

Sep 4th, 2009 by

First there was this. Then this herb poked his fat head up from his burrow. Then a magnificent specimen of herb was spotted on the concrete plains of a SWPL savannah. Suddenly herbs started springing up everywhere, wearing frontal papooses, inexplicably carrying satchels into nightclubs, and laying their bulbous heads in the laps of girlfriends to be stroked like a pet cat. But none of these squishy shuffling beasts in khaki could inspire the kind of awe, and gag reflex, that the latest discovery has provoked among the world’s top anthropological researchers. Behold… the Mother of All Herbs… the UBER HERB:

herblovesasian

When I first saw this pic, I thought… Will Wilkinson! I mean, just look at their relationship exactness and complementarity. But no, I have been informed that Will does not have an Asian girlfriend. Then I thought… Hope! White and nerdy boyfriend? Check. Wearing healing crystals of Buddharrific transcendence? Nope, not Hope.

A close examination of this blurry photo reveals the embodiment of herbitude — perfect in presentation, flawless in composure, virtuous in cross-legged effeminacy, he is the archetype of the schlumpy herb whose feeble beta posturings are thrown into stark relief (fortuitously for the ninja photographer who risked his serum testosterone level to capture this herb on film) by the annoyed girlfriend stiffly rebuffing his tender ministrations.

The reader who sent this in provides the backstory:

Red Line, Wednesday evening.

This guy was so obviously beta he might as well have had a neon sign on him. He kept looking at her, smiling occasionally. He put his arm around her. He touched her leg the way some shy teenage boy might. He did the talking. He leaned into her. She might as well have been sitting next to a stranger. Her arms were crossed the whole time. Checking BlackBerry. No emotion on her face. When they got up, she got up first, and led the way. She wasn’t even cute; 4-5 at best. The thing was…they were married.

Married! This is what an equalist concept of relationships earns a man — crossed arms and clamped pussies. And this schmendrick looks so shit-eating happy to surrender any shred of manly dominance. I could carve a better man out of a purple saguaro.

OK, you say, instead of pointing and laughing how about some solutions to help this guy? Hey, I aim to please.

I’d begin with the easiest and quickest improvements and work my way up to the more difficult herb-cleansing tasks.

First, style and presentation.

  • I’d have him shave his head. If you’ve got hair like that it’s the only way to go. If his wife protests, even better.
  • NO GODDAMN KHAKI. Ever. Only guys who already possess an understanding of style should attempt khaki. Not herbs wearing high waters.
  • Unbotton the top button on his shirt.
  • Even though this photo is blurry, I can tell his shoes suck. New shoes.
  • Glasses dropped for contacts. Or at least more fashionable eyewear.
  • Perhaps a soul patch to add a hint of edginess. Or a hint of “I’m not a doormat, really.”
  • Tanning booth.
  • Gym membership. Of course, he’d probably gravitate to the treadmill or hip abductor machine. I’d make sure he found his way to the heavy iron.

Next, body language.

  • Uncross your legs, nancyboy. Old men and fruitcups sit like that. Spread em and display the goods. An alpha male loves the thought of impolitely shoving the contours of his mighty package into the viewing angle of scandalized Metro riders.
  • Lean *away from*, not *into*, your woman. A healthy relationship always features the girl cozying up to the man. Egalitarian libertarians like Will Wilkinson who live and breathe in the world of abstraction will never understand this, but women WANT their men to be dominant, despite their claims to the contrary. They WANT to be the ones leaning into him.
  • Stop smiling like an idiot at your girl, especially when she’s not returning your joy. Do you know what your face says? “Oh, I’m wetting myself that I have YOU, my precious flower. Thank you, Asian girlfriend, for blessing me with the exquisite pleasure of your company and tightness of your Oriental vagina. This love we share… wait… excuse me, getting a little choked up… a lone tear pregnant with possibility shouts my love for you. PS You are permitted to walk all over me.”

Finally, we’d move on to LTR game.

  • I’d tell him to pay attention to his wife’s behaviors, and stop feeding her revulsion with counterproductive betaness. So, when wifey folds her arms, scowls, refuses to touch you IN PUBLIC, and generally acts like a bitch, you STOP, DROP, and ROLL the fuck off from her. Pawing at her like a needy puppy isn’t going to help. You know what would help? Flirting with another woman in front of her.
  • Once you’ve figured out how to read your wife’s “you disgust me” body language, you will be tempted in all your glorious betaness to inquire “What’s the matter, honey?”. Resist this urge. You would only be digging the hole deeper.
  • Hey, guess what, it’s OK to tease your wife for being a bitch. “Try not to look so happy, babe. I’m just a man, not a god.”
  • When your marriage is this arid, it’s a good idea to disappear for a week. When you return, act like nothing is wrong.
  • Lead, don’t follow, and don’t “complement”. Your wife wants to step in place behind you, not next to you and not in front of you; stop denying her this fulfillment.
  • Read this blog for relationship game. It may be the only thing that can save you from a brutal divorce theft ass raping.

As I’ve written before, the Asian woman is a white beta male’s dream. Asian girls are guided less by their primitive gina tingles than women of other races, and are more susceptible to the herbly charms of the provider beta, as long as the provider beta in question is a white dude. The white beta male can wallow like a pig-shaped puffed pastry in his desperate, needy, cloying betaness with the Asian girlfriend without worrying so much that she’ll dump him for the nearest bartender. The white beta male would have to settle for a fat white chick to enjoy the same treatment.

But when you’ve become a caricature of a herb, and so beta that your Asian wife is repulsed by you and showing it in public, you’ve got serious problems. You’re one short step down to omegatude and midnight masturbation marathons to Caucasian-eyed anime.

[crypto-donation-box]

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