Feed on
Posts
Comments

June 2009 Beta Of The Month

Jun 30th, 2009 by

June coughed up a bevy of magnificent betas! There were so many good choices, I’ve expanded this month’s voting to a three-way contest.

Before we get to the reader submitted June candidates, it’s time to announce the May 2009 BOTM winner:

Congratulations, Edmund Andrews, reporter for the New York Beta Times (AKA “All The Lies That’re Fit To Foist”), you are our May 2009 BOTM winner! You, sir, are a beta. Hang your head proud, shuffle your feet with joy, you represent the worst of what it means to be a man. May your aged Argentine wife’s future boob job drive you into bankruptcy a second time. May her yoga instructor avoid eye contact with you.

June 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by reader cz. It’s a news report about an heir to a billion dollar media empire in Australia who gets publicly humiliated over and over and over again by Australia’s version of the DC lawyer cunt. A photo of the loving couple practically tells the story:

Ever notice how some women just *look* like bitches, before they’ve said one word? Is it her arrogant, smug mug? Her fuel-injected chin? Her severe hairstyle? Hmm, who does she remind me of… who could it be now?

So what makes Ryan Stokes, the billionaire heir in this story, a contender for betatude above and beyond the call of pity? Is it the fact that his girlfriend snorts coke with a badboy biker and, if I were a betting man, likely has taken his kickstand long and hard up her ass?

MEDIA heir Ryan Stokes has remained in Broome while his troubled girlfriend Jodi Gordon tried to avoid the limelight after she was linked to a cocaine-fuelled bender with a Kings Cross bikie. […]

Police found her in the unit of the suspected Rebel bikie member [Mark Judge], said to be allegedly suffering from the effects of illegal drugs. […]

Judge, a tattooed hard man said to be a member of the Rebels, is serving a two-year suspended jail sentence after pleading guilty to the 2005 assault of a Newcastle man. He faces sentencing on further charges (detaining and occasioning bodily harm on a Llandilo man) later this month in Penrith District Court.

Or is it the fact that his lovely girlfriend has a history of slutting it up and rubbing his high society face in it?

It is not the first time Gordon’s public behaviour is said to have affected her relationship witStokes. In February, The Sunday Telegraph reported the pair had argued after Gordon wanted to continue partying “beyond her curfew” on her 24th birthday.

Last year at the Ivy Gordon was allegedly seen crying before “knocking back” shots and openly flirting with men and women.

Or perhaps it’s that he’s engaged to a whore who has a penchant for hanging out with shady underworld figures?

Gordon is a regular on the Kings Cross circuit, friendly with club owners Dave Evans and Julian Tobias among others.

She often frequents Darlinghurst Rd club The Piano Room, a notorious hang-out for celebrities and underworld figures, where she met with Judge before returning to his apartment.

A Seven spokeswoman denied Stokes and Gordon were engaged, despite Gordon sporting a diamond ring on her wedding finger last Friday.

…and then in typical amoral female fashion, absolving herself via testimonials from friends of any personal responsibility:

“Jodi’s holding up: she’s a strong, stoic girl, but she is also acutely aware of the damage she’s done,” a friend of Gordon said.

“She’s devastated that she’s caused so much turmoil. (She’s) honestly appalled by what’s happened.”

Translation: “I feel bad that people are freaking out about this. It was out of my hands. What was I supposed to do? My gina tingled!”

No, it’s none of those things that catapults Mr. Stokes to BOTM nominee. Dirty, soulless, ballchopping sluts are a dime a dozen. What pushes Stokes into the rarefied atmosphere of truly mythical betas is the fact that he’s a FUCKING BILLIONAIRE HEIR WHO COULD GET HIMSELF A BETTER BITCH TOMORROW if he had ANY BALLS AT ALL. Instead, he suffers his cheating, whoring, lying, floozy girlfriend’s humiliation and begs for more. If you are a man with options, there is only one thing you say to a Jodi Gordon after you discover she’s been in the company of an ex-con biker:

Get the fuck out.

***

June 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by reader db. Drum roll please…

It’s droning commenter cuntrag’s Italian eunuch ex who serves as her personal chef and babysitter!

No I don’t have to cook, one of my exes comes over and cooks enough for me and my son for the whole week. (He’s Italian and loves to cook). As for the cleaning, he does the things I hate like dishes and sweeping but the rest I do myself because I have OCD and am VERY particular about the way things are in my home.

Hm. I see. So let me get this straight. Your ex comes over to cook a week’s worth of meals for you and your bastard child, sweeps your fucking house and does the dishes because those are the chores you hate the most, has to deal with your fucked up OCD issues and Teutonically grating, unfeminine personality, and gets…

NO PUSSY IN RETURN.

Skittles Man laughs at your Italian ex.

Cuntrag, you attract second-rate men into your life. SECOND RATE. Say it to yourself. You are a prematurely aging, BMX biker banging, single mother who has her pick of SECOND RATE low self esteem loser betas.

You’re a winner!

Now of course you will probably protest that your Italian ex is handsome, caring, assists you of his own free will, and can fuck you like a champ, if you so choose to let him. Unfortunately for you, none of that is relevant. All that matters is the fact that Antonio Eunuchio does slave work for you and gets nothing in return but your annoying flapping gums. This instantly puts him in the running for BOTM.

I’m feeling in a generous mood, so I will leave you once again with some valuable advice I gave you in the comments of my blog not too long ago (which, naturally, I don’t expect you to heed):

you [cuntrag] claim you are OK with an assortment of random short term pump and dumps and loveless flings, as long as you have your LIFE and your HOBBIES and your bastard SON and your YOU GO GIRL amen chorus of eunuch omegas and low class allentown high school dropout girlfriends to keep you occupied, but i guarantee that in a few years when your looks have completely cratered and you can’t even find a halfway decent man who isn’t a total beta loser willing to spend the minimal effort to fuck you for a few nights, nevermind willing to stay with you and your unfortunate spawn from a DUI-collecting loser badboy, and when the prospect of love from a good man — deep true amazing soul-nourishing love — is lost to you forever, you WILL feel the cold shadow of desperation trace its gnarled finger down the back of your neck and spine.
and you will shiver, remembering my words.

and as for your breathless contention that as a woman you don’t have to worry that you’ll never get laid again, i have two words for you: quality matters. an aging single mom can get laid, but she’ll only be able to do so by gradually lowering her standards. most single moms manage something like this by lying to themselves and to blog audiences about the steadily declining quality of men they are bagging. i’ve no doubt an arrogant cunt so completely lacking in self-awareness like yourself with do exactly that. right now, it’s low SES bikers and italian eunuchs who orbit your shriveling vagina. soon, it will be urine-soaked homeless bums and david alexander clones.

of course, one day not too far in the future, 5 years or so, your standards will have been forced to bottom out so low that you find it easier on your ego to abdicate men altogether instead of suffering the indignity of laying listlessly through awkward, arid rutting with weaselly sycophantic suckup betas or suffering the shame of spreading for yet another 50-ish drunken lout with a boob tattoo on his chest and a penchant for expressing his rage through cigarette burns on your arm. and then you will tell everyone here how happy you are that you don’t need a man in your life. you are an INDEPENDENT WOMAN.
and no one will believe you.
and when the pain and horror of your life begins to pile up on your psyche like a staten island landfill or the waiting list at the allentown battered wife shelter, not even you will believe yourself.

now, you could follow my advice and do the smart thing before it’s too late:
LEARN TO SETTLE.
but i don’t think you’re that smart, so i’ll just laugh at your pain instead as i twist the shiv of reality deeper into your overtanned prematurely wrinkled patent leather husk.

oh and here’s a very special ps just for you: in fifteen years, when you are 43 and looking 103, you WON’T EVEN BE ABLE TO GET LAID without paying for it or frantically flirting like a sad mangy cougar with the absolute lowest of CHUD-like, shambling losers and male detritus. you can pretty much give up on your dream of forever banging younger betas who worship the floor-length dangle of your labia.

Cuntrag, you once asked why I give you a hard time. The answer is this: I enjoy making an example of you. It amuses me.

***

June 2009 BOTM Candidate #3 was submitted by reader Thursday. It’s an article written by Rod Dreher, syndicated columnist, one-time National Review contributor, and self-described “crunchy con” (read: religious, Luddite hippie social conservative). Rod writes about adultery. His words betray the soul of a beta:

I’ve been thinking a lot over the past day about why I have such intensely strong emotional reactions to news about adultery, comparable to my fierce reactions to news about child abuse. It’s perhaps a bit odd, because I grew up in a family in which no one committed adultery, and no children were abused (a friend of mine, though, suffered through his father’s abandoning his mother and him when he was a boy, and is far more emotional on the topic than I am). The best explanation I can come up with is that I am a papa bear about my wife and kids. I really am. I would give up my life without a second thought for any of them, and I struggle every day to be worthy of them. If my wife ever committed adultery, under most circumstances (i.e., true contrition and repentance), I would hasten to forgive her, not only because I love her that strongly, but also because I would see it as my duty, in love, to do whatever I could to make our marriage whole again, for the sake of the children. That said, I honestly don’t know if I could live with myself if I were unfaithful to my wife, nor do I imagine myself capable of receiving her forgiveness. I know that is disordered, but were I to betray her, I’d also be betraying my children, and the thought that I had done such a thing to my wife and kids is one of the worst things I can imagine.

“Struggle every day to be worthy of them.” “I would hasten to forgive her.” “… my duty, in love,… for the sake of the children.”

These beliefs reveal a rotten, fearful beta core. Yes, I said rotten. Rotten because they show a man who would sooner betray his masculine essence than face up to the truth of human nature, and in particular the amoral nature of women. Fearful because they expose his lack of faith in himself that he could go out and find another woman who would respect his sexual and emotional desires. Rod, here’s a news flash: There is no God, your wife is not a saint sanctified by your love, and she’s not worth your abject forgiveness no matter what she does. What Would Doormats Do? They would do like you say.

Rod, know this: If you discover your wife has cheated once, that means she has cheated hundreds of times. And she LOVED it. She LOVED taking the other man’s cock deep into her pussy, all the way up to the cervix, where the tip brushed with the depths of her womanhood and sent shock waves of pleasure through every inch of her body. Are you visualizing this yet, Rod? Good. Now that you have that image burning your retinas, let me explain to you what a real man does when he experiences the ultimate betrayal:

He dumps the whoring bitch.

No ifs, ands or buts. No appeals to your better angel. No clinging like a barnacle to societally useful concepts like duty, honor and forgiveness. No last ditch leaning on a supernatural being to credit your sacrifice with points toward fast tracking through the pearly gates.

You dump the whoring bitch.

Do you think it helps women… do you think it helps SO-CI-ETY… if all men acted in the honorable fashion you prescribe and forgive their cheating wives? What happens when you REWARD bad behavior? As a conservative, you should know. You get more of it.

And if it’s the children you’re worried about, there are alternatives to handing over your BALLS to a whore in utter, daily humiliation. You could work to change the ri-fucking-diculous divorce laws in this country so that when a wife cheats the children are automatically removed from her and remanded to your custody. Then guess what, Rod? You get the kids AND you get to be single again and chase some new, fresh skirt at Bible study. Trust me on this, Rod, new pussy is AMAZING.

That said, I honestly don’t know if I could live with myself if I were unfaithful to my wife, nor do I imagine myself capable of receiving her forgiveness. I know that is disordered, but were I to betray her, I’d also be betraying my children, and the thought that I had done such a thing to my wife and kids is one of the worst things I can imagine.

Words to projectile vomit to. So Rod would forgive his wife’s cheating, but he might kill himself if he ever cheated. Rod, go back to the visualization exercise I wrote just above. Read it again. Still think that the worst thing you can imagine is yourself cheating?

Jesus Castrati Christ, the main problem with the postmodern West is that so many men have forgotten they have a sack between their legs. And so many more, like Rod, are telling men with any sack left to lop it off for the Lord.

That said, I really don’t feel the least compelled to give up my high view of marriage and family.

That’s OK, with the sanction of the anti-male state, plenty will give it up for you.

We live in a time and place in which the integrity of the family is under constant assault, not least by an egotistical culture that exalts sexual pleasure and self-fulfillment, and casts aside ideals of fidelity and self-sacrifice for the greater good.

Hey Rod, who do you think is assaulting the integrity of the family?

I want my sons to grow up knowing that it is both good and honorable to see women as worthy of utmost respect, and the women they pledge fidelity to before God in the sacrament of marriage to be worth dying for, which is to say, worth living fully for.

What if the woman fucks around? Some women aren’t worthy of respect, either yours or your sons.

I want my sons to carry in their hearts a natural repugnance at the thought of infidelity, not so much because it offends God (though it does), but because it is a defilement of a covenant made in love.

Grand words, but why stop at your sons? Shouldn’t a man hold a cheating wife to the same standard? Or is her cheating not quite as repugnant? I suppose if you take the modern warped view of Christianity you’d find it easier to forgive the dear darling pedestaled princess than to forgive yourself. You’re like one of those beaten cuckolded men who lash themselves mercilessly with the self-taunts “If only I had been there for her. It’s my fault she spread for another cock.”

And I want my daughter to think and feel the same way about marriage — that it requires sacrifice of one’s selfish passions, and the transformation of them into active love for one’s spouse and children — and not to settle for a man who has a lesser view.

The best way to teach your daughter this lesson is to leave your wife should she ever cheat on you. Oh, and it’s probably not a good idea to inculcate an aversion to settling. Family gatherings take on a dark pallor when your daughters and sisters attend as aging cougars.

By the way, don’t think for a minute your marriage will ever be the same after your wife is caught cheating. Unless you have the fortitude and willpower to dump your bad beta habits for a good alpha attitude adjustment, your wife, no matter how penitent, will never tingle in her gina for you ever again. And lest you nurse ignorance about this, a gina tingle is the only moral code that women subscribe to. So really, if you want to enjoy the pleasure of a loving, sexually avaialable wife into your dotage, you have only two options when confronted with infidelity: Leave her, or learn Game.

and how important it is to get it straight in your head from the beginning that once you marry, and especially once you marry and have children, your life is no longer your own.

Yet another reason to not get married.

But breaking a family through infidelity and divorce is a deep wound, and always an occasion of the most profound sorrow.

Admonitions of sorrow are such a beta giveaway.

That’s not how it is with us these days. To quote C.S. Lewis on our moral state, “We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and then bid the geldings to be fruitful.”

C.S. Lewis’ words are pointed like a dagger straight at your own beta heart, Rod.

What I can’t get straight in my head, when it comes to marital infidelity, especially when children are involved, is the difference between mercy and cheap grace.

Mercy is for closers.

***

The voting begins:

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta Of The Year Contest | No Comments »

The Anti-Cockblock

Jun 29th, 2009 by

I was out at an 80s night at one of DC’s popular nightclubs with a couple of women. We had earlier bounced from a lounge to dance the weeknight away in the middle of a crowd dressed in Top Gun aviator suits. Reader “maurice” had assisted yours truly at the lounge when he introduced a cute blonde and her friend. We had a great time, and sparks were flying between me and the blonde, thanks to my incessant teasing. If she had 100 ponytails, my game was the equivalent of pulling all 100 on the playground.

“Maurice” departed when we left for the next club, leaving me to entertain to the fullest extent of my capability the two women in my company. Unfortunately, I was dog tired, so my game was less than sharp. At the club, I took it easy, leaning back and enjoying the spectacle of the crowd, (although not enjoying so much the ear-piercingly loud music). Meatheads were hitting on the blonde in my company all night — I was getting AMOGed (Alpha Male Other Guy) like it was going out of style — but because of my listlessness all I did was smirk from the bar and raise my glass to her as guy after guy came up behind her grinding into her ass. This was maximum aloof game, and it worked because my aloofness was genuine.

After a while, the blonde’s friend, who I had been talking with off and on during the night, leaned into my ear and shouted over the cheesy music that the blonde needed “a lot of attention” and I had to be “really aggressive” if I wanted to have a shot with her. At first, I was skeptical. Don’t all girls “need attention”? But she offered this insider information with such sincerity that I put aside my doubts and decided to shake off my lethargy and march in strong, with Eye of Tiger. I grabbed the blonde, ran my hands up and down her body, danced with her, spun her around, gave her sexy compliments (not too many), and made out. Very nice lips.

The advice was money. It worked. Later, I reflected on the night. The world is full of cockblockers — bitter girls who live and breathe for their chance to sabotage a budding romance between their friend and a cool guy — but once in a while you will have the pleasure to meet an anti-cockblocker. She is the rare woman who truly wishes to help her friend meet a great guy, and if you pass the perfunctory initial tests she will go out of your way to help you.

So here’s to you, cockbuddy, cock accomplice, cockbacker, you make the world a better place, and you made this demon’s heart grow three sizes that night.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Inner Beauty | No Comments »

The Greatest South Park Episode Ever

Jun 27th, 2009 by

Maybe the greatest TV half hour ever. This episode is perfection from beginning to end. The Ring.

There is very little in TV and film that promulgates my worldview. My themes are beyond the pale, which really means the truth is beyond the pale. South Park comes close. The Wire, too. Swingers and Roger Dodger contain elements. In The Company Of Men was brutally clear. I’ve noticed that women who have seen Neil LaBute’s masterpiece universally hated it, when in reality they would be all over the type of men portrayed by Aaron Eckhart’s smooth talking, manipulative alpha character.

A lot of Hollywood’s critically-acclaimed “dark” films aren’t truthful, they’re just subversive, which is not necessarily the same thing. I don’t think unflinchingly candid films stripping to the bone the monstrously human motivations of all the characters, including the sympathetic protagonists, do very well because people don’t want to be reminded of their true, ugly natures. Is there a more powerful cognitive bias than self-delusion?

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Funny/Lolblogs, Videos | No Comments »

Did Michael Jackson Commit Suicide?

Jun 26th, 2009 by

Based on the sketchy evidence that has come in so far, I don’t think this possibility can automatically be ruled out. Will we discover from the autopsy that his body was flooded with a massive dose of the painkiller Demerol? If so, was the overdose intentional or accidental?

What we know: Michael Jackson was 50. For a guy who didn’t want to grow up, turning 50 must have been a hammer blow to his already fragile prepubescently regressed psyche. He was in debt. Did the stress of a new worldwide tour to get him back in the black (innuendo intended) push him to the ultimate despair? He was underweight. As people age, their metabolisms slow and they begin packing on the unsightly pounds. There are only two (natural) ways to stay adolescent-thin as you age: Exercise, or eat a lot less. Michael Jackson didn’t look very healthy. Most likely, he solved the problem of middle age spread by drastically cutting down the amount of food he put in his mouth. Prolonged (as opposed to intermittent) intense calorie restriction can play havoc with a person’s psychological state, not to mention his health. Michael Jackson wanted to be white. No sense pussy-footing around that, it was as obvious as the caucasian inspired reconstruction of his face and skin, and his (very) white-looking kids. Did his living with being black finally tumble over into self-immolation?

Most importantly, Michael Jackson was fucked in the head from his father’s mistreatment. The manboy was robbed of a childhood (imagine having to hear your brothers banging groupies at the age of 11 as you hide under the bedsheets sticking your fingers in your ears). Jackson was a genuinely asexualized, emotionally stunted, and fantasy-prone age-regressed headcase. Did he believe, or want to believe, that he was still an 11 year old boy? It’s possible Jackson really did see himself as a little kid and it felt natural and normal to him to have boys over for slumber parties. Whether his adult-sized id led him to rest his chemically bleached penis in those kids’ hands is an open question, but does the pedophilic sexual urge of an adult necessarily have to be mutually incompatible with psychological self-identification as a young boy?

If Jackson imagined he was a boy, he would have most feared getting old. For him, aging would have been an encroaching horror he was unable to grasp, let alone cope with in the way most humans cope with the slow decay of their bodies — through the liberal use of happy clappy platitudes and a healthy sense of self-delusion. If you wake up and see a creature in the mirror looking less and less like the boy you think you are, it could send you off the cliff edge. Especially when the real boys you like having over for pillow fight parties start becoming more creeped out by “the old man” who wants to play with them.

Add up all the above, and the speculation of suicide as the cause of Jackson’s death seems reasonable.

Thoughts on Farrah Fawcett:

Cancer sucks, but anal cancer is just humiliating. How does one get anal cancer? I can think of three ways. Random misfortune, eating too much red meat, or taking HPV-positive cocks in the ass. The mind wanders…

Thoughts on celebrity deaths in general:

I’ll never get the outpouring of grief by people who have never met their cultural heroes and don’t know them from Adam. I must be missing the gene for abject celeb worship. When Diana died, the maudlin displays of garment-rending anguish reaffirmed my deeply felt disgust for the mass of humanity. Fucking no-life losers.

When someone I love dies, it’s a big deal. When a pop singer dies, I couldn’t give less of a shit. Unless I’m writing a dastardly blog post insinuating everyone’s blessed icon offed himself.

Thoughts on Michael Jackson and Game:

When a get rejected, I moonwalk away from the girl.

I think Virgle Kent could do a funny retrospective on the Gloved One.

‘Beat It’ was my favorite MJ song. Eddie Van Halen composed the guitar riff for ‘Beat It’. Does it matter that Michael Jackson didn’t write any of his songs? As a music snob and hobbyist guitarist/drummer/clarinetist/pianist, I used to be of the opinion that “pop stars” who didn’t write a lick of music were unworthy of stardom, but that’s a limited view. MJ had a distinctive singing voice, he was a great dancer and popularized a lot of innovative dance moves, and he had charisma, however eccentric. His hit songs are catchy and he had a flair for showmanship. Composing music isn’t the only measure of talent.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Current Events, Escape, Music | No Comments »

A Test Of Your Game: The Judging

Jun 25th, 2009 by

Here is how I responded (or would respond) to the game challenges I posed in Tuesday’s post.

Part A

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“I don’t *feel* tardy.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Are you always late for dates?”

You pause. She’s reacting to your lack of punctuality worse than most women.

What do you do?

I stared at her for an uncomfortable two seconds, mentally wrote her off as a date-worthy prospect, and said “The problem is that you came right on time. No DC girl does that.” This reply seemed to mollify the bitch in her. Thinking back, the emphasis I gave to the words *RIGHT ON TIME* implied that she was more invested in the date than I was. I believe this caused a subtle shift in power to my benefit.

Best reader answers

el chief and his classic Asshole game (although I’d just use his second line):

Look around like Stevie Wonder, and say in a German accent: “Mother is that you? I’m sorry mother. I von’t be bad again.” Then laugh. Then order a beer.

If she presses say “Gimme a fuckin break. I thought you said you were fun and easygoing?”

Another version of Asshole game is One Word Game. One commenter suggested answering her pointed question like this: “Maybe.” Short, sweet, leaves ‘em wanting more of your dominance.

I think One Word Game will be the next big thing in pickup science. It is my contribution to expanding the oeuvre. Look at the pros and cons. Pros: It’s mysterious, requires little memorization, saves you from paralysis by analysis, doesn’t smack of try-hard, gets you into her head, and captures the essence of ambiguity that so tempts the typical woman to fantasize scenarios involving your penis in her vagina. Cons: Can be misconstrued.

roosh’s genuine but uncompromising Superior Man game:

“If you’re in a bad mood we can reschedule the date no problem.” Definitely no smirk or smiles. Laser eye contact. If she leaves then you just saved yourself a couple hours of hell.

Brad demonstrates the power of Turn-The-Tables game:

I smile, stare at her right in the eye, HOLD… HOLD… and then say: “You missed me that much, huh? Well, I guess I can understand that..”

Firepower drops funnyman game:

“chill, baby – I’m only late when I’m pulling babies from burning buildings…and, maybe for girls I like.”

I’d dispense with the second half of his response. Similarly, I think a funny answer that could work would be: “Yeah, it was a rush for me to get here, but I had to take my sick mother to the doctor and feed orphaned babies, and I figured you’d be understanding about that. Like, WOW, I’d hate to meet a girl who was against sick mothers and orphaned babies!”

Fenton offered an example of witty game that works (i.e. note the succinctness):

“Well, you’ve been waiting four days, what’s ten more minutes?”

Most of the rest of you gave answers that were too nasty, too defensive, or too clever by half. Your goal isn’t to piss the girl off, nor is it to impress her with your Shakespearean wit. She isn’t worth your effort, yet, right?

To the commenter who wrote that the best reply is the Cary Grant “Big Face” push followed by draining her drink while signaling the waitress to come over for another order, I commend you sir. If anything will set America back on the path of world-bestriding hyperpuissance, it will be the big face.

Cuntrag, as usual, gave the opposite answer of what you should do.

Part B

Your date mentions she reads local DC blogs and likes most of them, and you wonder about bringing up your fandom […]

There is only one acceptable response to this situation. You steal my ideas to use as conversational fodder without mentioning you read me. I am such a fucking humanitarian.

Part C

Same as above, except this time, before you have decided whether to announce your everlasting platonic love, your date mentions she has read and hates him. […]

Your response should be the same as Part B. Don’t reveal you’re a reader, then change the subject. What are you, my eunuch servant who screens concubines for me? If she hates me, she’s masturbating to thoughts of me at night. Why boost my status even higher?

There is a catch in this particular situation. You have the option to play beta white knight to the hilt (see: Keith, Cliff Arroyo, DA, Jessica Valenti’s husband, any random urban liberal SWPL off the street) and say you have read as well and TOTALLY agree with her that he is a foul, bitter misogynist who probably doesn’t get laid and his ideas are all wrong, 1950s Ozzie and Harriet throwback shit and he uses women like a sperm receptacle. Then tell her how you feel privileged to have almost been aborted by your mother, and the biggest injustice in the world is that gay marriage isn’t yet accepted by Afghan goat herders. After you have massaged her ego, you slyly wonder aloud if maybe he is right about this or that subject and suddenly you are having a rollicking conversation with her and your hand is resting too high up her thigh.

I should bottle this magic.

Part D

You are me. You are on the date with the girl from the above story and have been talking with her about the book you are writing. She is intrigued. A little later in the date, she mentions she reads a lot of local blogs. She says there are some she reads that she really hates. You nod again. Then she asks you if you write a blog.

What do you say?

I lied.

She also mentions she ran a triathlon the day before.

Now what do you do?

Go big or go home. Same night lay or number deletion. Chicks who participate in triathlons are almost universally unfeminine. And by unfeminine, I don’t mean her looks, I mean her attitude. These kinds of women are at war with their femininity. It is the essence of yang polarity to take up personal challenges and compete against the limits of one’s endurance and pain threshold. This is what men do. When women do it, it’s unnatural, a big middle finger to the sex she was born as. While women like this can fuck like champs, they will invariably fall short in the areas that matter to men for long term relationships — generosity, nurturance, compassion, submissiveness, alluring coyness, and proper female deference.

I asked her if she was a tomboy growing up, then I ran the digit ratio routine on her. She had a masculine ratio. I told her that meant she was “ambitious”, which is a nice way to tidy up the word “bitch”. I am now going to craft an Andrew Sullivan-like neologism: Ambitchious!

Where’s my Atlantic Monthly paycheck?

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Dating, Game | No Comments »

A Test Of Your Game

Jun 23rd, 2009 by

Pulled from the headlines! A four part installment.

You met a girl at a bar. (Where else are you gonna meet her, tiger? The church social?) She’s a six foot tall, 23-year-old statuesque brunette who would probably intimidate most men, but not you. You gab for twenty minutes and score the digits.

On your first date four days later you arrive at the swank Connecticut Ave lounge ten minutes late, as per your usual routine. Your date is already there, drinking a cocktail. A smile flashes across your face, as much for seeing her again as for the thought that you will not have to buy her a drink. You sit down and notice she is glowering, her legs crossed geometrically. You hope she’ll uncross in homage to Basic Instinct.

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“I don’t *feel* tardy.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Are you always late for dates?”

You pause. She’s reacting to your lack of punctuality worse than most women.

What do you do?

******

You are on the date with the Nordic Amazon from the above story. You are an avid reader and feel he has made your life immeasurably better, and at a cost of nothing! Which, in occasional misanthropic moments, rubs your hero raw. Your date mentions she reads local DC blogs and likes most of them, and you wonder about bringing up your fandom, thinking the wealth of topics about sex and social dynamics written by your Infallible Lord, Master, and Philosophical Heir to the Divine Right of Kings would provide much fodder for rapport building and sexual future pacing.

What do you do?

******

Same as above, except this time, before you have decided whether to announce your everlasting platonic love, your date mentions she has read him and hates him. You mull in the mind whether ’tis more opportunistic to admit fandom and suffer the slings and arrows of angry, yet energetically and erotically charged, conversation about inspired themes, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing or denying thricely Disciple Peter-like the ugly truths he tells the world end any chance of the date imploding in your face like an overmicrowaved burrito.

What do you do?

******

You are me. You are on the date with the girl from the above story and have been talking with her about the book you are writing. She is intrigued. A little later in the date, she mentions she reads a lot of local blogs. She says there are some she reads that she really hates. You nod again. Then she asks you if you write a blog.

What do you say?

She also mentions she ran a triathlon the day before.

Now what do you do?

Test begins… now.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Dating, Game, Vanity | No Comments »

Picking Up Girls Using The iPhone

Jun 22nd, 2009 by

I was discussing the potential of iPhone game recently with a couple of buddies. One of my friends had gotten the new iPhone and was giddily sampling all the apps like a kid at Christmas, when we stumbled across some novel uses for the phone as a tool to satisfy men’s insatiable sexual demands.

There is an app that acts like a lie detector. You speak to the phone (using its voice recognition capabilities) and the app calculates the truth content of your statement. Obviously, it’s not truth serum, but it makes for excellent opener material.

You sidle up to a chick, tossing your monstrous cock over your shoulder and out of the way. “Hey, check this out.”

Chick: “What?”

“Say something about yourself to the phone. It’ll tell you how truthful you are. Here, like this: ‘The girl I’m talking to feels dizzy in my presence’.” You press the analyze button. “Hm, 99% truthful. Do you need to sit down for a minute?”

You can go in all sorts of directions with this basic iPhone game template. For instance, walk up to a set and tell the girls you found a new app that guesses their ages. Then hold the phone up, wave it over them, and put it back down with a worried look on your face. “Hm, must be miscalibrated. Nevermind. I don’t think you guys are cougars, yet.”

Another opener: “I’ve got a new app that tells me which girls like me.” Hold phone up to group. “OK, you guys are gonna have to decide who gets the first crack. I’m a one woman kind of man.”

For the truly advanced womanizer, there is a free app for the iphone from the website Loopt.com described as a “social compass” which allows you to GPS track anyone within the loopt network. Now you can turn all your number closes into coordinates on a map for convenient stalking. You can “happen” to “run into” twenty girls a day for followup game. The sky’s the limit.

The world is moving toward a pickup nirvana, connecting alphas with the hot chicks who would love them. The job, house, marriage and kids never seemed more anachronistic.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game | No Comments »

Quotes Of The Day

Jun 21st, 2009 by

“When women claim to be seeking kindness, respect, a sense of humor, etc., they mean at most that they would like to find these qualities in the men who are already within their erotic field of view. When a man asks what women are looking for, he is trying to find out how he can get into that field of view. Women do not normally say, either because they do not know themselves or because it embarrasses them to speak about it. The advice they do give harms a lot of lonely men who mistakenly concentrate their mating effort on showing kindness and courtesy to ungrateful brats rather than working to gain the things females actually respond to.”
– ‘The feminine sexual counter-revolution and its limitations’, F. Roger Devlin

“Sexual desire is preoccupied with youth, and the progressive influx of ever-younger girls onto the field of seduction was simply a return to the norm; a restoration of the true nature of desire, comparable to the return of stock prices to their true value after a run on the exchange. Nonetheless, women who turned twenty in the late sixties found themselves in a difficult position when they hit forty. Most of them were divorced and could no longer count on the conjugal bond — whether warm or abject — whose decline they had served to hasten. As members of a generation who — more than any before — had proclaimed the superioirity of youth over age, they could hardly claim to be surprised when they, in turn, were despised by succeeding generations. As their flesh began to age, the cult of the body, which they had done so much to promote, simply filled them with an intensifying disgust with their own bodies — a disgust they could see mirrored in the gaze of others.”
– The Elementary Particles, Michel Houllebecq

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Ugly Truths | No Comments »

I Tried The Apocalypse Opener

Jun 19th, 2009 by

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the magisterial Apocalypse Opener, go here to read about it in detail.

Essentially, the Apocalypse Opener is three simple sentences. A description from the link above:

You rock up to a chick and, in a confident, level voice you say

“Hey, how’s it going.”

She will say

“Fine.”

You then say

“Cool. What are you doing later?”

She will say

“I’m not sure.”

You then say

“Do you want to come home with me?”

Then you hold.

Hold.

HOLD………………..

HOLD IT MY SON……………………..

HOLD THE FUCKING LINE………………

Boom. Makeout. [editor’s note: he means a makeout should be forthcoming, not that you should initiate a makeout]

So that’s all I had to memorize. “Hey, how you doing.” “Cool. What are you up to later?” “Do you want to come home with me?” Easy enough, but of course nothing is ever that simple. The real power of the opener resides in your confident body language, casual delivery, and most importantly how well you maintain state control after you say the final knockout line. Again, from the website link above:

The key to making it work is not how you say it, but what you do in the 30 seconds after it’s left your mouth.

Before I talk specifics, let’s state the single CARDINAL SIN of the Apocalypse, which is the ONLY THING that can blow you out.

NEVER BE WEIRD

That’s it. Don’t be weird. You have to deliver the opener deadpan. Like you are talking about the WEATHER. You are not making a BIG THING of it. You’re just ASKING.

You are not MOCKING. You are not JOKING. You are not TOO SERIOUS.

It is NOT PLAYFUL however – it is REAL.

You are REALLY ASKING HER.

If she says no – you only need ONE COMEBACK.

It is this:

“Ok.”

The key to making the Apocalypse Opener (“AO”) work seems to be that you are being sexually genuine without being sexually eager. That means: No creepiness, no giggling, no bashful smiling, no reneging after you’ve uttered the killer line, and no goofball backpedaling during that critical 30 second post-opener window. In sum: NO FEAR. I imagine if the girl reacted poorly, even angrily, to the AO most guys would be tempted to reassure her that it was just a joke.

He then goes on to explain that if she says “No” you just start talking about random shit like you would do with any girl you were being friendly with in a bar. He claims that 50% of the time, a girl who declines the AO will reengage you later in the night, as long as you handled the blowout with supreme nonchalance. He also makes the outlandish claim that the AO will “work” (that is, it will result in a same night lay) 40% of the time.

I had my doubts, so I decided to try it for myself and for the entertainment of you, my readers. The things I do for you people…

I went alone to a bar I don’t normally frequent. If I was going to risk getting a beer poured on my head, I didn’t want my buddies pointing and laughing at me and I didn’t want to cause trouble in a bar where I knew the staff. I decided to make my move before it got too late in the night and crowded with garrulous frat boys that my target could wave over in case the AO failed spectacularly. I also didn’t want to use it on very drunk girls. Almost any bold direct game will work to some degree on drunk chicks, and I wanted to test the AO without alcohol falsifying the result.

I, on the other hand, needed a couple of stiff drinks for this challenge. Although the AO sounds incredibly easy on paper, when you are standing there alone in a semi-crowded bar about to take your first steps toward your target, the lines you have practiced saying by yourself suddenly jam up in your throat. The AO is no ordinary opener; I was feeling intense apprehension the likes of which I hadn’t felt since I sat next to THE CUTEST GIRL IN THE WORLD in sixth grade English class and negged her pink backpack.

I walked up to her. I chose my target well. She was standing by the bar alone. I couldn’t see the AO working on girls in mixed sets. She was a solid 6, mid or late 20s, not GF worthy, but certainly lay worthy. There was no way I was ready to run the AO on a bonafide hottie.

“Hey, what’s up.”

She smiled. “Oh, not much. You?”

“I’m alright. You doing anything later?”

“Um… I dunno. Why?”

I focused hard on sounding casual. “Do you want to come home with me?”

After I said it, I felt a tremendous rush of adrenaline. I think I might have chubbed out a little, too. I kept my eyes locked on hers and a slight smile throughout. I made sure not to arch my eyebrows imploringly.

Her mouth hung open. At first she had a startled look, then amusement, then a darkening seriousness. She glanced down at her feet then back up at me.

“How many women has this worked on?”

“If you’d prefer not to, then that’s cool.”

“I just… I mean, it’s sort of OUT THERE, you know?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe compared to the average guy.”

“Well, um, I have to tell you I’m waiting for my boyfriend to arrive. So I’m flattered, but…”

“Ok, no problem. Catch you around.”

And with that I left the bar.

Apocalypse Opener: FAIL. But of course this was a sample set of one, so I won’t draw any conclusions about its efficacy or the adroitness of my delivery yet. She may have really been waiting for a boyfriend for all I knew.

I suspect the AO won’t work very well if you are an older man hitting on a much younger woman. Large age discrepancies need indirect game. This chick wasn’t much younger than me, but if she had been 19 I think my AO would have gone over like a lead balloon. I’m not a huge proponent of direct game, (and AO is about as direct as it gets), but in situations where you already communicate high sexual status through your looks and fashion sense, the AO will yield more success for you.

Since the AO has such potential for generating humorous and humiliating stories, I plan to purchase a small voice recorder that I will hide under my shirt when I do future AO attempts. Then I will post the audio on my blog for your edification. If you don’t hear any sound after I say the opener, that means I’m getting some.

Posted in Game | No Comments »

Great Scenes Of Game In The Movies

Jun 18th, 2009 by

It’s been a while since the last installment of ‘Great Scenes’. Here is a video clip from the movie ‘The Philadelphia Story’, featuring Cary Grant giving Katharine Hepburn exactly what she needs. The audio has been disabled by YouTube due to copyright issues, but you don’t need it for this scene as no words are exchanged. (Video link sent courtesy of reader Godless Capitalist.)

GC noted that you would be hard pressed to find a scene like this in a modern movie, especially in a movie where the “domestic abuser” gets the girl in the end, as Cary Grant did in ‘The Philadelphia Story’. I agree. You’d rarely see a leading man in a modern movie face-push a woman onto her ass, no matter how deserving she was of it, unless his character was Evil Incarnate or, worse, Beta Maximus. In a movie depicting the latter case, the Beta Maximus would spend the rest of the film wracked with guilt and prostrating himself before the “victim”, begging her forgiveness.

Feminists, their lickspittle SWPL beta enablers, and our PC apparatchiks would have you believe only bitter, creepy losers enraged by a lifetime of female rejection would ever physically confront a woman, but as I have pointed out before on these esteemed pages, betas don’t have the sack to hit or physically confront a woman. Most betas tuck their tails between their legs when a woman humiliates them. It’s the lesser alphas who go in for crude beatdown game, and the apex alphas who do what Cary Grant did in this clip — controlled anger administered in such a way as to maximize the mortification payload.

Notice that Grant pulls back a punch in favor of the face-palm. This was the ultimate alpha move for two reasons. One, he recognizes his power is so much higher than Hepburn’s that a solid blow by his fist would do her serious damage and have unfortunate repercussions for his reputation. Two, the face-palm push is much more degrading than a punch would be to a woman. It’s beating her on her own terms — no egregious violence to embolden martyrdom or incite white knighting, but enough psychological impact to crater her ego. A woman’s most valuable asset, besides the upkeep of her vagina, is her face. Grant’s face-palm is an affront to that asset. It’s basically saying “your face is worthless to me and can kiss my sweaty palm.”

Take a look at Hepburn’s expression as she’s laying on the floor. Guilt, shame… and sweet sweet arousal. Thought experiment: What would be more likely to moisten a woman’s pussy?

a. face-palming her in a moment of angry retribution or

b. apologizing for your misdeeds, true or not, and placating her with a massive princess pedestal campaign?

Women would tell you otherwise, but their wet pussies belie their words. They LOVE to be dominated.

Other alpha moves of controlled anger at your disposal (some examples drawn from personal experience):

Hard wrist grab followed by push onto bed or sofa.
Backhanded slap.
Half grapefruit shoved into the face.
Pin her against the wall by her wrists or throat.
Shoulder grab with a full body spin toss finishing move.
Bowl of dry cereal thrown like confetti in her face.
Beer poured over her head.
Cream-filled pastry tossed in her face.
Spray bottle of cleaning fluid thrown at her followed by the words “Clean yourself off, filthy whore.”
Crucifix thrown at her if she’s playing martyr.
Dual handed breast grab and push backward.
Push wad of toilet paper in her mouth.
Squirt ketchup in her face.

Do any of the above at least once in a relationship and you will never have to worry about her cheating on you or pounding the table yelling “Half!” at divorce proceedings.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Game, Videos | No Comments »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »