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A Test Of Your Game: The Judging

Mar 12th, 2009 by

I purposely chose an example of bad game in yesterday’s post in the interest of seeing how you would salvage a losing situation. And yes, for those who are wondering, the scenario happened in reality exactly as I described it.

I was glad to see so many commenters correctly identify my pickup scenario as an example of bad game and recognize the uselessness of getting an email as a consolation prize. I was also heartened by how many of you recommended “caveman game” as a solution, and your accurate interpretation of her actions as those of a girl who wanted the McLovin sooner rather than later. The lessons here are taking hold.

Here is a selection of answers from the comments:

Chuck (and many other commenters) wrote:

Do nothing. Go find another woman to game.

This cop-out is becoming a little too ubiquitous in the pickup community. Yes, cutting your losses to hit on fresh meat is certainly better than handicapping yourself with the stink of beta by recklessly chasing after a cold target, but are we men of vision or foot soldiers in the long slog through life? Doing nothing is the reflex of a reformed beta — a greater beta. He knows well enough to refrain from humiliating himself. But an alpha is better than that. He will sometimes reach for the brass ring; for him, doing nothing isn’t always the acceptable response. He takes risks; calculated, informed risks, sure, but risks nonetheless.
Grade: B- (for beta steps)

Antonio wrote:

Since you are mis-hearing her email address try making fun of it, loudly

example:

She says:
“tiffanyAmberTheisen@yahoo”

You say:
“tiffanyAfterBacon!?!”

This is an example of Clever Game. I like Clever Game. It’s been good to me. But its application is limited. In a noisy environment with a target on the move (taking steps backwards) a clever riposte is as likely to earn you a puzzled look from the girl as it is her number. Cleverness is the dance of the subtle. In a rapidly fading pickup attempt, you need more oomph. Remember, in her eyes, you passed none of her tests the way she wanted you to pass them.
Grade: C

razorback wrote:

“You can’t walk away from me just like that. I’m (name)..”

There’s good caveman game, and then there’s less good caveman game. The problem with this salvage operation is you have drawn attention to her negative actions. Never remind a girl that she is

a. walking away from you
b. giving you a hard time
c. acting like a bitch
d. ignoring you

It will only reinforce her unflattering impression of you.
Grade: D

DF wrote:

A woman that signals that much raw sensuality is looking to be carried away in the moment. Such coquetishness requires strong masculinity.

Bingo.

Go after her, grab her by the hand, and without breaking eye contact say, “you’re not walking away from me, not like that.” Pause. Wait for her reaction. If she recoils, forget her. If she doesn’t break eye contact, follow it up with, “lets get out of here.”

Drop the first line, stick with the second line. Keep everything focused on the positive.
Grade: B+

manaconda wrote:

Wait until she turns around, then move up from behind and put your hand on her neck. Move it up into her hair, grab her hair, and slowly lean her back while twisting her to face you, and kiss from a position of total control. Then say “let’s go” and move out.

This is the extreme manifestation of caveman game. When it works, your job is done. You may as well begin unwrapping the condom. The problem with any high risk venture are the odds of failure. 99 times out of 100, given the scenario I outlined, the surprise from behind caveman kiss will get you slapped and/or tossed out of the bar.
Grade: A/F

el chief wrote:

massive fail. she ran game on you.

man leaves first. woman asks questions.

you should have been teasing her and making her laugh, to the point where you get the awkward silence where you know to ask for the phone number (or makeout). you should have been the mysterious one, not her.

but, what’s done is done.

maintain face. regain control. “sorry, the judge says I’m not allowed to use a computer for another 90 days. punch your number in my phone. it will be ok.” hand her phone. if she says no, then “aight”, and walk back to your boys.

And el chief ftw. Well done. This is a guy who knows the score. He approaches with firmness of purpose, calls her out on her BS in an accessibly humorous way without drawing undue attention to her shitty behavior, and then leads her to where he wants her to go.
Grade: A+

Cannon’s Canon wrote:

Grab her by the shoulder and spin her around so she’s facing you. Plant the steel toe in her gut so she keels over, then deliver the Stone Cold Stunner. As she writhes on the ground, give her two middle fingers. Make sure your wingman has been cued to break some glass at this point.

Is this the start of a new seduction school of thought? WWE game.
Grade: E for effort

PA wrote:

Why are the new episodes of “Two and a Half Men” having Charlie go lovey-dovey beta over some chick and seeing a ball-busting female feminist shrink and paying her to become more sensitive?

Because our culture overlords sense the gathering storm on the horizon. Like a stuck pig cornered, knowing their time is almost up, they are thrashing out in feral fury. Expect this elite-driven backlash to intensify in the coming years.
Grade: OT (off topic)

Ben wrote:

If you’re looking for strange, forget this one. If she successfully intrigued you, you step forward, take her hand, take off a ring, a bracelet, a necklace and give it to her. Tell her you want it back but only when she’s ready. If she hooks (unlikely) and asks, “Ready for what?” then you just closed mouth smile.

Hollywood called. They’re missing their Judd Apatow movie.
Grade: D-

MarkD wrote:

Call DA and ask for advice?

DA has terabytes of knowledge to drop.
Grade: DA

Ed wrote:

Forget what she says. It is all in the body language. Tell her to forget about the email. Just offer to walk her home with a stupid excuse.

I like the thinking behind this, but offering to walk her home smacks of beta chivalry. And we all know by now how counterproductive chivalry is in 21st century America. A better way to do this might be to say “Hey, I’m taking off too. You can walk with me and keep me entertained, but don’t get any funny ideas.”
Grade: C+

bongojazz wrote:

When she turned away, either she’s seeing if he’s worth a damn or she’s genuinely done. It’s possible it’s a test and she hasn’t made up her mind yet. I figure, hedge bets. Say

“I didn’t catch that.” loud enough so she can hear, and then turn around like you don’t give a damn.

I sort of like this, but in practice it’s only a small step above “do nothing”. Given the unfolding scene, the chance that she will come up to you to repeat herself are nil.
Grade: C-

Rain And wrote:

She’s walking away rudely. Running up to her is weak, so…..

YOU: [loudly] HEY! [if she doesn’t turn her head for this, game over. if she turns her head continue.] GET THE FUCK BACK HERE. [slyly, of course, not pissy. you’re calling her on her shit]

At this point she either ignores you, if she never cared, or comes back if she did care, but just wanted a little ballsy drama instead of boring phone routine.

YOU: I don’t want your email. Email is for work. C’mon… [grab her hand, lead her over somewhere close, perhaps a little more isolated.. no real point, except to dominate the interaction in a mysterious way. more hushed tone, like a secret] Look, there’s somewhere I always go on my birthday. It’s my ritual. I’m not going to tell you what it is, but it’s close. Walking distance. Five or six blocks.

And then you improvise the destination and backstory. Maybe a monument or another bar. Whatever is close. Just a contrived bounce.

This is solid Salvage Game. Beautiful. By amping up the asshole you virtually wipe clean your earlier betaness. Sometimes, when you have gone too far down the beta road, shock therapy is the only thing that will redeem you in the eyes of your target.
Grade: A

tokyobetagrist mewled:

According to the official story, game is all about controlling women and not letting them control you. If that’s the case, the only solution to this test that’s consistent with the philosophy of game is to do nothing. If you’re going to jump through hoops (I mean even more than usual) just to have sex with this one special woman, how are you any different from “betas?” This is the paradox of game, because you’re always jumping through hoops and always being controlled by women, even as you tell yourself that it’s the other way around.

Spoken like a supercilious eunuch who believes that women should fall into men’s laps, and any effort on a man’s part to attract women only sullies his masculinity. TBG, I have some very demoralizing news for you — no man is exempt from the biomechanical forces of sexual selection. Whether you are consciously aware of it or not, you do what it takes to attract the opposite sex, or you sit in your dank basement apartment hovel spitefully masturbating into the tattered sock of your self-satisfied dogma.
Grade: David Alexander wants to bear your lovechild

poonisgod wrote:

Your love declines. You, thinking little lines around my eyes are fallen lashes, try to brush them off.
I do exfoliate.
In this autumn of my being, parts of me fly, like tossed and wintry-blasted leaves.
I don’t regret their passing.
I must work to make a clear and crystal form.
I, alchemist, and I, philosophers stone,
have sacrificed the fat and froth and fur of youth,
to walk through fire, leap in the dark,
swim inward rivers, pray at a wailing wall.
The wrinkles, sags and greying hair are earned.
You mourn like a child with a broken doll.
Only the core of this crone, was ever real.

When I read this poem
I felt it move
First
to the left
Next
to the right
then up!
The throbbing soul of my love
jutted insouciantly from the waistband of my heart
yearning…
pulsing…
dribbling the pre-cum of my will to merge
with the fleeing of your youth
mourn it not
for its memory
will live on
in my digicam
Grade: Gold star on your forehead for the excellent handle

moonrock wrote:

Toss her your cellphone while she’s backing away.

Odds are you’ll interrupt whatever behavioral script is running through her head and she’ll trip over herself trying to catch it.

What if you have an iPhone or a G1? No girl is worth damaging a quality gadget. Plus, girls can’t catch.
Grade: Think this through

Lisa wrote:

Since you aren’t sure you heard her email right the genuine thing to do would be to cup your hand behind your ear to indicate you can’t hear and make a “come back” motion with your other hand. If she doesn’t walk closer to you then then give her a two-handed “what can I say” shrug and turn your back. If she does come back, ignore her telling you her email. Put your finger over your lips if she keeps saying it to signal her to be quiet. I’m a big fan of mirroring so since she’s been smiling all this time some amused indifference would be good to convey. Keep motioning her closer until she’s back next to you and take it from there.

It just seems to me like this is a situation where you demonstrate you’re in charge or you let her go.

This is very good. It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally a female reader gets it right. Points for its nonverbal simplicity and boldness.
Grade: Cooties

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game, Psy Ops | No Comments »

A Test Of Your Game

Mar 11th, 2009 by

It’s time for another test of your game.

You’re enjoying the mild night air on the rooftop of a trendy lounge. In the corner you spot a short-haired, vaguely punkish pixie, with eyes like saucer plates. She catches your look and smiles… lasciviously, under heavy lids. Oh yes, this hellsprite has the right stuff.

A minute later she walks by you. Sensing an opportunity, you interrupt her as she passes: “Hey, what’s making you smile so much?” She locks her eyes on yours, smiles mischievously, and walks right past, slowly, saying absolutely nothing, brushing heavily against your chest along the way. You are intrigued.

Ten minutes later she returns and takes up her previous position near the edge of the roofdeck, seemingly in the company of a mixed group but talking to no one. She is facing outward toward the open night. You move closer to her and order another drink at the bar. Grabbing your fresh drink, you 180 and face the same direction as your mystery girl, standing side by side with her. You are about to say something when she breaks the tension first.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh, really? Happy birthday. Get any awesome gifts?”

“Do you like watching people down below?” She is pointing over the roof edge at a couple crossing the street.

“Only the drunk ones.” Is this girl simply strange, or is she running some kind of female game on you? Whatever it is, you are captivated.

“I live in the neighborhood.” She thrusts her arm up and waves to some imaginary figure on a distant apartment roof. “Over there.”

“Yeah, I do too. Hi neighbor.”

You exchange insights with her about the neighborhood you share. It’s better on the weeknights. People treat their dogs like children. The local coffeeshop is a horrible place to meet attractive strangers. This rooftop has the best view of the President’s bedroom. Not more than a few minutes go by.

Suddenly, she turns to face you completely and rests her hand on your forearm. Silently, still smiling from under her pixie eyelids, she makes intense eye contact. She utters not a peep, nor does she have an expectant look on her face like she’s waiting for you to pick up the conversational slack. Her behavior is incomprehensible to you. You wish she is drunk so you can have a tidy explanation. But, no, she’s in control of herself.

“It’s time for me to go.”

You realize there has not been enough interaction to ensure a solid number close. “Ok. Hey, you’re interesting. Let’s chat again sometime. What’s your number?”

“No, I don”t give out my number.” Her obscenely sensual smile hasn’t dropped and her hand hasn’t left your forearm. “You’re attractive, I think.” The longest three seconds pass. Her eyes are burning holes in yours. “You can have my email.” As she’s saying this, her hand finally leaves your forearm and she begins to walk off.

“What is it?” You don’t have a pen.

She recites her email as she’s taking steps backwards from you. You can barely hear her through the crowd noise, so you’re not sure if you got it right, or if you can remember it later. The moment is disintegrating rapidly.

What do you do?

[crypto-donation-box]

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“My Girlfriend Is On A Billboard”

Mar 10th, 2009 by

I strolled along the crowded streets of the city with Damian and his brother. Girls were everywhere. New York City is day game Mecca; you can acquire one target, talk to her, maybe get her number, and immediately seize upon a new target as soon as you have parted ways. Don’t expect privacy, though. If you can’t approach and chat up a girl on the sidewalk in the company of hundreds of pedestrians, don’t bother gaming in NYC. New York really is like a giant outdoor improv class, with audience, backdrop, and scores of cute female protagonists.

It’s also a city of contrasts. You will see the most beautiful and the ugliest women here. Both capture your gawk-worthy attention. When they stand side by side at intersections waiting for lights to change, the chasm separating their genetic luck of the draw becomes unbridgeably wide. I made a mental note to hate anyone who would oppose preimplantation embryonic screening.

The other thing I noticed: Even on the older women (25+) the asses were firm and round. My eyes didn’t suffer too many flat or droopy asses. Clearly, women are working harder on their glutes, elevating this body part to centerpiece status. We rechristened New York the “City of Ass”. The city so nice two cheeks suffice. All this glute toning is not consequence free — their boobs were less than stellar. Cleavage was nowhere to be found, and in fact many of the hottest chicks sported anthills for tits.

D’s brother is dating a model. She told us captivating stories about her model friends. Well, her stories were captivating once I let my imagination fill in the details. One of her girlfriends is on a billboard. This prompted a deep, philosophical manly discussion.

ME: Does it get any better than “My girlfriend is on a billboard?”

D: It’s a show stopper.

ME: You go to a party and people ask you about your girlfriend. “Oh, she’s a lawyer.” Boring. “She’s a doctor.” Impressive, but not feeling it. “She’s on a billboard.” Oh yeah, now we’re cooking with gas. Every guy who hears that is going to imagine the hottest girl and get jealous.

D: It’s right up there with “My angel is a centerfold”.

D launched into an impromptu street dance.

D’s BRO: Pay attention, you’re missing it.

My peripheral vision caught a fleeting glimpse of a drop dead gorgeous raven-haired beauty. It’s amazing how eagle-eyed I get when a hot babe is in the vicinity. I’m sure my eyesight bumps up to 20/15.

A cabbie almost ran over our feet. D lumbered after it, exchanging colorful insults with the Indian driver who was sticking two middle fingers out the window, leaving the steering wheel unattended. It’s pointless, of course, but I suppose the yelling helps relieve the tension of nearly getting run over. D’s brother’s cellphone rang — the ringtone was the drum intro to “When the Levee Breaks”.

D’s BRO: John Bonham was a better drummer than Neil Peart. He could play any style. Peart [he antagonistically pronounced it Peeeeee-eeeeaaart] couldn’t play jazz or blues. His time signatures were limited.

D: [aroused with indignation] What are you talking about? Peart was FAR superior to Bonham. Bonham played cheesy 4/4 rock riffs. What talent does that take?

D’s BRO: Dude, Peart couldn’t hang with Buddy Rich. Remember that? He was on stage with these great drummers and he fucked up the rhythm. He has no feel. Bonham has demonstrated he can play outside his range.

D: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Peart was technically better. He played a bigger kit and made the most of it. Electronic drums and the blocks and double bass. He has to spin around! Bonham played that stupid kindergarten kit, two toms and a snare. What is that garbage? One bass drum is child’s play.

D’s BRO: Way to kill your own point, doucheass! Bonham punched out solid rhythms on a limited kit. He didn’t have the crutch of hundreds of drums and cowbells to make up for the lack of skills. You can’t get around that Peart sucks outside his comfort zone.

Punctuating his argument, D’s brother began air drumming “When the Levee Breaks”, pointing his imaginary drumstick in D’s face on the downbeat. D answered the taunt by airdrumming the solo from “Tom Sawyer”. No one on the street bothered to notice.

We stopped by a corner eatery. D ordered the $10 chocolate cake. It was the size of a miniature hockey puck. D growled when he saw the tiny dessert and the waitress looked embarrassed. “I love New York and I hate New York.” Nods of agreement.

D’s brother is an actor and a bartender. Later that night we went to his bar on the Upper East Side while he worked his shift. After a day on the streets, and a night in a bar watching the girls parade in, we concluded that New York’s girls blow SF’s girls out of the water. This was based on a scientific survey.

D’s brother mentioned a Polish girl might come in and flirt with him. She had been in his bar before and conveyed interest in him. He told us this because he suggested we hit on any girlfriends she might drag in with her. We weren’t there more than a half hour when an absolute babe of magnificent proportions and stunning natural beauty walked in the door with five other girls. She was cornsilk blonde and around 22 years old — at the peak of ripeness. She sidled right up to the bar and talked with D’s brother, dripping with a heavy Polish accent. He was indifferent, even to the point of ignoring her and walking in the opposite direction when she was in the middle of telling him something. He wasn’t doing this on purpose; he was pretty happy with his girlfriend. Naturally, his supreme aloofness only drove the Polish girl crazy with lust. Her flirting became aggressive, desperate. I vowed to get a part time job bartending.

Meanwhile, D and I took the full measure of which targets were within striking distance. To his right were two girls, one cute and one chunky. The cute one began stripping off her coat and suit jacket like a cabaret dancer. She pulled at her blouse, making “phew” noises. When a girl wants you to open her she makes it obvious by her proximity and her histrionics.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You practicing your stripper moves?”

“What makes you say that!!?” Ugh, grating New York accent. Their one blemish.

“Well, maybe it was the way you threw your coat into your friend’s face.” I looked over at the fat friend and smiled. The cute one laughed and grabbed D by the arm.

“Your buddy just called me a stripper!”

D chuckled. “I’m up for that.”

Cute chick: “You know what else will get you *up*? Tiger balm!” She looked over at fattie and they giggled.

D furrowed his brow. “Tiger balm? What? What the fuck is that?”

Cute chick: “You don’t know what Tiger balm is??!!! Oh, you’re missing out!”

Fattie: “It’s like Ben-gay. Except for… you know.”

I couldn’t believe these chicks weren’t drunk. What was their excuse? “D, it’s a lotion you can put on your junk and her junk and it heats up. It makes the banging hotter.” The girls giggled louder.

“Right, got it.” D looked disgusted. He has a thing against girls who speak crudely. His theory is that girls who talk like sailors have banged a lot of cock and are burned out from all the pump and dumping. The crudity is like a self-defense mechanism to reclaim some control over men.

D paired off with the cute chick. She seemed into him, and my eyes were resting elsewhere. Like a professional wingman, I occupied the fattie. The four of us had been talking for ten minutes when I felt the urge to break off from the group. I can only humor a fat chick for so long before my patience wears thin. The fattie was exceedingly pleasant (aren’t they all?) but if there’s no physical attraction it just feels like minutes of my precious life are draining away, better spent on slender women.

I shifted 180 degrees and opened two women sitting at the bar. They were flirting with D’s brother as he poured them appletinis. I re-vowed my previous vow to take up a job bartending. The girl nearest me was clearly drunk. Not buzzed; drunk. I hate this. Buzzed girls are great to game, drunk girls are less than useless. They can’t follow a sentence halfway through, all they know how to do is shit test, and they inspire the protective instincts of whatever sober girlfriends they happen to have brought with them. Some of them even piss themselves. They’re dead weight. If you manage to get one home and fuck her, she might pass out in the middle of sex. The only thing they are good for is injecting excitement and a fun vibe into a stalled out conversation. Use them strategically.

“Lemme guess. You guys are sisters.” They did look alike.

Drunk girl addressed me first. “OH MY GOD, how did you know that!!! Yes, we aaaarrree!” A shockwave of rancid breath hit me in the face. She smelled like she had vomited earlier in the night. “Guess our age, now!”

I don’t like when women who look old enough (late 20s) to be easily offended if you guess in the wrong direction by more than a year ask me to guess their age. It’s a landmine. So I never make a serious attempt.

“Lesseee… you’re 52?”

“Whaaaat?? Nooo!!!”

“Ok, one more try… 21!”

“Aww, you’re so cute! Does my sister look older or younger than me?”

Christ, an entire family psychodrama was about to play out. I realized if I didn’t lead the convo I could wind up being the catalyst for whatever issues these two wanted to work out.

“You know what, I’m horrible at this. But I can tell you that your sister looks like the responsible one.” I smiled at the sober sister. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You’re the chaperone?”

Drunk girl interrupted with another blast of puke breath. “She’s younger than me! I have to look out for her.” She went to high-five her sister and missed, her open palm jabbing the air ineffectually. “Why don’t you entertain us?” She was touching her chest.

“You’re enough entertainment for all of us.” I turned my back. I had lost all interest in pursuing the set any further. With D tied up and D’s bro busy working the bar, I had nobody to act as a wedge between the sisters. The sober sister was already looking concerned for her drunk sister. Tactically, it was hopeless. If they had both been sober, I could have done something with that.

At closing time (4AM), there were eight women and me and D. Does this ever happen in SF bars? I can’t recall. If you have the energy to go out five nights a week, I can guarantee that no matter how bad your game, after six months in NYC you WILL get laid. There are just too many women in too small an area for you to fail at that goal. You’d have to be a hermit or a leper to remain involuntarily celibate in New York for more than a year.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Lies About Women Who Love Abusers

Mar 9th, 2009 by

Like a dispatched army of obfuscators and purveyors of palatable lies, the fembot foot soldiers were marching in locktstep after news broke of Rihanna’s return to the violently abusive man she deeply loves. The lies, pop culture psychoanalysis and threadbare excuses were flying left and right.

“It’s really hard for a woman to leave an abuser. Where will she go? How will she survive?”

“He’s controlling/manipulative. She was too weak to resist that.”

“He wears down her self-esteem. Eventually, she depends on the beatings to feel loved, and the cycle continues.”

Grade A bullshit. How do I know this? Easy. A simple thought experiment will suffice to aid understanding.

When a woman wants to leave a beta boyfriend/husband who makes her life a misery, is it:

a. hard for her to leave him?

b. impossible because she won’t be able to survive on her own/find a place to live?

c. difficult because she can’t resist his mind control?

d. not going to happen because she depends on his beta behavior to validate her self-esteem? or

e. pretty fucking easy for her to walk out the door/sign the divorce papers?

It’s amazing the verbal calisthenics humans will go through to avoid facing up to a disconcerting truth. Fembots especially; they’ve got so much invested in the prevailing shibboleths that to turn their backs on them now in this crucial matter of why women return to abusers would amount to a repudiation of the holy foundation of dyke dogma — that women are not responsible for their choices, and that a woman’s sexual nature is a moral paragon to ceaselessly celebrate. Rihanna, like so many women, runs back into the arms of her beatdown boyfriend because…

wait for it…

she loves him.

And she loves him more because he hits her. This explains why, despite immense family and social pressure (really, an entire country’s worth of social pressure) to leave Chris Brown, and despite the likelihood of future painful beatings at his hands, Rihanna could not ignore the pull of her heart. Love is too powerful an emotion to be swayed by the blunt tools of shame, reason, or even fear.

Superficially, the red-faced excusers may be describing some element of psychological reality that happens in the heads of women like Rihanna. But they are only teasing around the edges. Full understanding eludes them because they miss the core motivation — the emotional juggernaut — that animates the woman who willingly makes herself vulnerable to a physically abusive lover. They refuse to acknowledge this because in their minds it says something unflattering about women they’d rather not know.

On a related note, I am not surprised that the usual suspects who comment on this blog haven’t come out and condemned Rihanna for rushing back into the arms of Brown. The sound of silence is deafening…

In other news, a British model spoke about a two-year relationship with a man who put her in the hospital for a week.

The Liverpudlian beauty was a teenage model when she started dating her abusive ex, who she has declined to name.

She’s still protective of him. Love will do that to a girl.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Love, Pretty Lies, Ugly Truths | No Comments »

Bad Game Friday

Mar 6th, 2009 by

I was sent a link to this collegehumor.com video (hat tip: “godless capitalist”):

It’s pretty funny, but the bad game demonstrated here isn’t all that exaggerated. We’ve all seen guys do this in clubs. (What’s going through the girls’ heads is probably a bit harsher in reality. Something along the lines of “Loser! ACK, another loser! LOSER! omg, loser again!”)

Beta behaviors illustrated:

Goofy smiling.

Unsolicited hugs.

Bad voice tone.

Maniacal laughing every time girl speaks.

Staring.

Drink buying.

Island buying.

Professions of love.

The fat chick coming out of the loo was a nice touch.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Wed Man Walking

Mar 5th, 2009 by

Commenter Max from Australia made the following observation about Brad Pitt:

Brad Pitt has been totally “pwned” by marriage, he should be the happiest dude in the world, loaded and with great looks. But look at a recent photo, the spark in his eyes has died. In his head the mantra is “get me out of here…get me out of here “.

He’s been cuckolded into looking after 4 kids who arent his, and handcuffed in by 2 kids who are……His own kids allegedly get beaten up by the bigger kids in the “tribe”.

And his wife just keeps getting nuttier and he looks just as beaten down as any married schmuck.

Here is the recent photo of Brad Pitt that Max linked to. You can see Pitt has been “Al Bundy-ized”:

“Peeeeeeggg!”

Eyes glazed over. Not a hint of a smile. We’ve all seen this: The morose married man listlessly shambling around the mall with yapping wife and ungrateful brats in tow; the man who didn’t know what he was getting into and has subsequently had the joy of living beat out of him. Yes, not even marriage to Angelina Jolie, a top 1% woman (for her age), can stop this zombie-fication process. Brad Pitt is marching to the gravesite of his soul. He has lost the fight in him.

***

UPDATE: Turns out Pitt is probably not married to Jolie (though there are persistent rumors of a secret wedding). This is what I get for not keeping up with the latest moronic Hollywood celebrity gossip. I’m so ashamed. Nevertheless, my point stands. Pitt got roped into a multi-adoption, weirdo wife pseudo-marriage. He looks like a married man who woke up wondering what the hell just happened. Substitute almost any 5+ years married man you see walking about town and the truth of my observations becomes indisputable.

***

What women don’t seem to understand is that men could well do without the institution of marriage. We wouldn’t miss it at all. We could be perfectly happy in non-marital long term relationships. Men don’t breathlessly leaf through bridal mags or get jealous when our friends get hitched. We don’t dream of the wedding ceremony starting at the age of four. Married men *may* live longer than single men (though these claims are in dispute), but their psyches, their souls, and their masculine essence die long before their bodies do.

Once the first couple years of childless, lustful flush wanes, the married man becomes the walking dead… unless he revitalizes himself with a young mistress.

Maxim #11: The greater the sexual market value disparity between the husband and his depreciating wife, and the more kids they have, the more life the husband has sucked out of him.

For instance, Angelina Jolie is on the downward slope with the wall rapidly approaching. She is looking more like a man every day. They have adopted kids from all over the world. Nonbiological kids are not loved as much by parents as biological kids would be, don’t let them tell you otherwise. The resentment shows itself in little ways. Brad Pitt is still very much at the peak of his sexual power. He could have almost any 9 and 10 in the world. And he knows it. Instead, he is shackled to an androgenizing, aging Jolie and a zillion kids, only a couple of which are his. And the adopted kids are beating the shit out of his own flesh and blood. He has to be thinking “Why did I sign up for this?”.

I do believe it is time for a handy chart to illustrate the gradual psychological degradation of the married man, as seen in the emptiness of his gaze.

Years                % Sexiness                       # of Kids                 Spark of Life
Married             Remaining in Wife                                            in Man’s Eyes      
0-2                    100                                         0                    sparkling with life
2-5                     80                                         1-2                   serene and stoic
5-7                     60                                         1-3*                          glassy
(one semi-retarded)
7-10                  50                                         1-3*                   1000 yard stare
(one gay)
10-12                40                                         1-4*                       serial killer
(one adopted,
different race)
12-15                20                                         1-5*                         comatose
(one flamboyantly gay,
two adopted,
one autistic,
one hates you)
15-20                5                                           1-5*                           zombie
(one drug addict,
one with gender confusion,
son who throws like girl,
one who looks like Samuel Jackson,
one in jail for filming upskirt vids)
20-infinity       -100                                 Lost count                      Terminator

The evidence is clear. Your best bet as a man is to NOT GET MARRIED. JUST SAY NO. DON’T DO IT. ARE YOU CRAZY?

Don’t emulate Brad Pitt. Instead, be like this guy:

Those eyes are full of life. That smirk says it all. This is the look of a man who knows he made the right decision.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Marriage Is For Chumps | No Comments »

“I think BJs are gross”

Mar 4th, 2009 by

I gently coaxed her head down toward my boner. Her hand vigorously pumped. Handjobs are lame. Most girls don’t do them right, chafing and tugging like maniacs, as if they’re pulling a weed out by the roots. I wanted the mouth upgrade. She resisted.

“No, I’m not doing that.”

“Oh?”

“I think blowjobs are gross. Eww. I don’t like that in my mouth. It’s not the same as going down on a girl.”

She had experimented with women back in the day. I thought for a second about what she said. More gross going down on cock than pussy? No way. It’s the difference between slurping on a hot dog and smearing your face with pubes and mucousy, unidentifiable juices.

“Wow, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

She bristled. “Most women don’t actually like it.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl I’ve ever been with who didn’t like giving head.” I was being truthful.

“Well, they aren’t going to tell you that they don’t like it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But if they weren’t enjoying it, their moans of pleasure sure fooled me.”

“I don’t even like sex that much.”

I squinted at her, growing less aroused with each word she uttered. “Uh, ok.”

“Yeah, it’s not all that much of a turn-on for me. I get off when a guy goes down on me. That’s the best.”

Even though her hand was wrapped tight around my rod, I deflated like a week-old balloon. She spread her legs a little wider and began touching herself. She smiled at me and looked down at her pussy. “Mmm, I love when a guy goes down there. Like he can’t get enough of me.” Her fingers glistened with the proof of her arousal.

I admired her gall in the face of her abject hypocrisy. But there was no way I was eating her out. I have a rule I follow which has held me in good stead for my entire copulatory career: I don’t go down on a girl until she has gone down on me first, assuming she smells OK. Exception to the rule: She’d have to be extraordinarily hot, a 9 or above, for me to be inspired by my uncontrollable horniness to munch away in advance of her putting me in her mouth. And it’d have to be obvious by her writhing enthusiasm that she was geared up for some bigtime raunchy sex and a blowjob in due course.

The reason for this rule is simple. You have to make a girl earn your tongue. That means hummers and fucking first. It may sound calculating, but this is the way girls think. If you give her everything she wants for free, she will have less incentive to bend over backwards (literally) to please you in every way you want to be pleased. Blowjobs will seem like “special treats” in her mind that she blesses you with when you’ve been especially good to her. This is not how you properly train your girlfriend or fuckbuddy. Instead, hold back on the oral sex until she’s proven her worth by meeting your demands.

You always want her in the frame of mind of seeking your approval, pleasing you first, and working overtime to enjoy the breadcrumbs of attention you sprinkle on her. *That*, readers, is the foundation of hot, frequent sex. She *wants* to feel the struggle of earning your prize member, and your pricey love. Give her what she wants by withholding what she wants. As in all things women, the paradox is primary.

There are four reasons why a girl would balk at giving blowjobs.

  1. She’s sexually repressed. These types aren’t too common in DC, but they do exist. I give sluts a hard time, but her twisted sister, the Frigid Ice Queen, is just as distressing. At the first signs you have a sex-averse girl on your hands, run, do not walk, to the nearest exit. Odds are not good that you will unplug the Freudian sludge that clogs her pussy pipe. You may, but you probably won’t. And the worst decision a man can make in his life is to marry an Ice Queen. Worse even than marrying a slut with cheating whore issues. You will suffer endless blueball torment as her parched snapper slowly drains the masculinity out of you and drives you to the brink of insanity. Red flag: Her father is a preacher.
  2. She really doesn’t like giving blowjobs. If you’re like most men and you love getting head, there’s no point sticking it out with a girl like this, no matter how well she cooks. But don’t worry, this kind is rare. It’s been my experience that any girl who is very attracted to you will love sucking your cock. Most girls won’t need to be asked, or have their head pushed into position.
  3. She’s testing you. Some girls will make you wait it out for the goodies, teasing you with a lick on the shaft or a tip in their asshole, until you’ve satsified their need to know you are really into them. These types have been burned by men they loved, and regard your infinite patience and heavy balls as evidence that you love her for more than her body. Avoid her. You don’t want a girl in your life who uses sex as a weapon. You don’t want a girl who views sex as an all-in-one tool for self-validating ego-prop.
  4. She’s atoning for her past slutty ways. Of the four types listed here, this type is the most loathsome. She’s a brazen bitch. A selfish headcase. Damaged goods. She’s been on a merry-go-round of cock since puberty and woke up one morning feeling bad about it. Now she sees it as her duty to make amends for her whorish history, and you are her experimental beta guinea pig. “I’m not a slut!” pleads her shattered, spooged id. “And I’m going to prove it with this guy!” So she refrains from gobbling your cock, or makes you wait past the 3rd date for sex, thinking she can silence the screaming of the slut as a born-again prude. This is new ground she’s on, so she’s bound to be clumsy about it. You’ll hear her say incongruous things like “Stop pressuring me!” as she’s splayed out naked on your bed, legs spread wide, pussy leaving juice spots on your sheets. Her transparent act II psychodrama will infuriate you. What drives a man nuttier than knowing he’s being deviously denied that which so many other men have boffed freely? But what this deluded girl doesn’t know is that you have game. You have no trouble scoring. She can push you one, maybe two, dates more than your three date rule for sex, but she will inevitably push too far. And the bigger slut she’s been in her previous life, the harder she will attempt to atone for it by crushing your spirit. In a Battle Royale between a Rules Girl and a Player, always bet on player. You will walk, never looking back, your dignity flush with victory and your sack spared her wicked games. She can practice keeping her legs shut on another sucker. You’re not her sacrificial slut redeemer.

Maxim #71: When a girl signals that she doesn’t enjoy blowjobs or sex, do not spend one second more with her. Your libido is too important to gamble on such a girl.

Posted in Closing the Deal, Girls, Inner Beauty, Maxims, Misandry, Rules of Manhood, The Pleasure Principle | No Comments »

February 2009 Beta Of The Month

Mar 3rd, 2009 by

The nominees for the February Beta of the Month in the 2009 Beta of the Year contest are in. Keep your submissions rolling in, folks.

February 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by commenter 11minutes. A regular Joe gets cheated on, but what vaults this guy into the rarified stratosphere of Beta of the Month is what he did once the truth came out.

“I read about my wife’s affair in her diary“:

I don’t remember the exact day Colin (not his real name) became part of my life. A fleetingly glimpsed neighbour I’d sometimes nod to, I knew he was a long-distance truck driver and I think he knew who I was. When our paths crossed, he would seldom meet my gaze. I don’t even remember when I first heard his name. A familiar voice uttered it, though: my wife’s. It wasn’t by way of an introduction, although years later I did wonder how that might have gone. “Honey, you’ve seen that handsome man with the blond hair, broad shoulders and light tan who lives at number 18? His name’s Colin.” But no. Rather more mundanely, she referred to him matter-of-factly in conversation. “Colin took the remains of that old fence to the dump for me today, honey.” Or, “Oh, by the way, Colin mended the lawn mower. Then he mowed the lawn.”

As I’ve said before, women are inherently amoral. They are de facto nihilists. They are sociopaths of convenience. So when a wife is cheating on you, don’t expect her to tip her hand so flagrantly. A cheating whore is perfectly capable and willing of fooling even the most advanced male brain lie detector system. That very guy she’s boffing under your nose is the guy who “by the way, mended the lawn mower”.

Ice in the veins. That’s what happens to a woman’s blood when she falls out of love. You have been warned.

Instead, I started to read. The entries stretched back months, detailing their covert liaisons – romantic, practical, but mostly sexual. The descriptions ranged from the relatively tame (“Kissed and cuddled today, it was lovely”) to the kind of things you get in the racier passages of a Mills & Boon novel – nothing too graphic, but surprisingly comprehensive.

Women are amazingly detail-oriented when recounting sexual exploits. Almost clinical. See: Dirty little psychoslut who writes about her anal fissures in lovingly clinical prose. Men are the idealistic romantics. Women are the idealized romantics.

My jaw ached with panic and I felt the sudden flush of adrenaline.

You’d almost think he’d want to kill someone, or at least dump the bitch. But no, if he did that he wouldn’t be a BOTM nominee.

Of course, I confronted her. I wanted to yell at her, but my initial anger was quickly anaesthetised by shock. I felt numb, confused. With tears in her eyes, she said she hadn’t been happy for years and that Colin provided an escape. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say. It was four or five hours before we could sit down and talk.

“Sit down and talk”. This is what hopelessly needy betas always revert to when confronted with the dissolution of their relationships. They think the act of flapping their gums in endless loops of cloyingly empathetic therapy-speak will magically change a whore’s heart. Newsflash: It won’t and it never will as long as you remain the bitchboy beta you are. Your wife has just allowed another man’s giant throbbing cock to penetrate her labia and shoot his hot sticky load deep inside her womb while she screamed in pleasure and you want to SIT DOWN AND TALK?! You mewling pathetic street cur. You cowardly pissant nancyboy. You detachable penis.

Here is what he should have done:

  1. Calmly held the diary up to his wife’s face and then placed it on the dresser in silence.
  2. Threw her shit out the window.
  3. Slapped her hard across the face.  (3b.  Fucked her till she bleeds.)
  4. Kicked her out and excised the cancer from his life.

Number 3 alone gives the guy a better shot at hot sex than sitting down to talk. Put all four steps together and the whore will find herself completely re-enamored with him.

We discussed the usual options, including divorce, but decided to stay together for the sake of the children, make a fresh start.

For the sake of the children, you should humiliate your cockgobbling wife in front of them. I can’t think of a more valuable lesson to impart. If the divorce laws were fair, and this guy was the type who didn’t mind snuffing out his social life by raising kids, he would be able to take the kids away from the whore and leave her sobbing in a crumpled heap on the floor of her grimy studio apartment she rents with the money she makes at her new job waiting tables.

Next day, she told Colin it was over.

Ha! Chump. It may be over with Colin, but it isn’t over. You’d best put a tracking device on her.

This is where the story takes a turn from typical beta lament to event horizon beta black hole.

We didn’t see him for a couple of weeks after that – he’d been driving his lorry on the continent. But Colin never did return. The news that he had gone missing on a ship, presumed lost overboard, was broken to us by his next-door neighbour. My wife’s first reaction was stunned disbelief, as was mine. Then she turned away and covered her mouth, trying to stifle any sobs. Thoughts and emotions more tangled than ever, I tried to comfort her.

Amazing. So the interloper who banged his wife dies at sea, and instead of jumping up and down with joy and laughing in his wife’s face, our intrepid beta heroine reaches out to comfort her in her time of sorrow. The jilted husband just received a taste of delicious karmic justice that most won’t ever have the joy to experience, and he ruins the moment by going beta. Schmuck!

I feel a song coming on…

You got a whore wife and you want her back
But you ain’t got the stuff
She keeps cheatin’ on you night and day
Enough to shrink your nuts
Pick up some game, leave her in shame
It’s time you made a stand
For a fee, I’m happy to be
Your new wingman

Beta deeds, done dirt cheap
Beat deeds, done dirt cheap
Beta deeds, done dirt cheap
…
Tender hugs
Commiseration
Forgive and forget
Done dirt cheap
Gifts and baubles
Therapists
Shoulder to cry on!
Done dirt cheap.
Bwaaaahaaahaaaahaaaaaaaaaa

And now, the coup de beta:

Colin’s death was confirmed by the positive identification of a body washed up on the beach. Some weeks later, my wife asked if we could drive to the crematorium so she could lay some flowers and say her final farewells. It felt strange but, in the hope of her finding some kind of closure, I told myself it was the right thing to do.

Yes, this almighty beta drove his wife to her lover’s grave so she could lay flowers and “find closure”. Sweet merciless Satan, why do you bless me so with these tales of ho? If I can single-handedly alter the destructive course upon which Western civilization currently finds itself careening, it will be on the backs of losers like this. Thank you for your vomitous examples, betas, one and all.

If it was me, I would have driven the whore to the crematorium and then, right at the moment her eyes welled up with tears and she laid the flowers, I’d have whipped out my dick and pissed on his epitaph.

Speaking of epitaphs, what better epitaph to lay at the gravestone of the West than “finding closure”? Have more spineless, craven beta words ever been written?

Here lies America. She found closure.

I read stories like this one and I want the whole fucking edifice to burn to the ground. At this late stage in the game, there is no other way to clean out the liars, SWPL losers, SPLC traitors, tankgrrl nerds, betas, fuglies, dregs, deluded fantasists, bores, mediocrities, backstabbers, weasels, sycophants, sophists, degenerates, dullards, eunuchs, trolls, wishful thinkers, excuse mongers, whackjobs, equalist tards, dumbfucks, obsequious curs, attention whores, suckups, PC toadies, fembots, lapdogs, shitlickers, pity whores, phonyfucks, hypocrites, parasites, stool pigeons, sanctimonious multicultists, diversity sluts, and weak-willed assmunching ankle grabbing bitchboy pukes.

Bring the all-consuming flames.

So where does our betaboy’s story end?

Slowly we tried to put it behind us and his name was never mentioned again. A few years later we had another child and our marriage entered a new, happier phase. I vowed to be a more attentive husband and adjust my work-life balance. But I couldn’t forget the affair, especially how close it had happened to home.

I should have trusted my instinct: 12 years later, my wife ran off with my best friend.

And that kid went Haa Haaaw!

February 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by commenter twiceaday. It’s the emotionally charged story of a man’s Herculean efforts to save his marriage to his loving, supportive wife. A woman of good character, I might add. He writes to an advice column called “Annie’s Mailbox”:

Dear Annie: I love my wife of 30 years, but I’ve had it. For 10 years, I had a great job in which I was well respected and well paid. Under pressure at home to bring in more money, I took a promising position at a startup company. Six months later, I was sacked. Since then, I’ve had to jump on any opportunity that came my way. I’ve had seven jobs in nine years and things have been financially tough. I have made some job mistakes, but still, we’re almost back to where we were nine years ago.

However, whenever any difficulty occurs, my wife rubs it in my face. I try to be a devoted husband. I am the prime breadwinner and still do more than half the cooking, cleaning and chores. Until recently, I was active in church and local community organizations. We have three wonderful children who have excelled academically.

So far, so beta. Man loses job, wife routinely questions his manhood, man attempts reconciliation by shouldering more domestic chores. Nothing to see here, move along.

I rarely buy anything for myself, yet if I spend any money at all, I get a screaming apoplectic display from my wife. She is taking back my birthday gifts because “we need the money.” Meanwhile, we seem to have the funds for her to travel (without me) and refresh her wardrobe each season.

Um, yeah. Let me see if I have this straight. Screaming, bitchy harpy won’t let husband buy consumer goods for himself *with his own fucking money*, he acquiesces to her demands, and she uses his money to…

travel around the world ALONE sucking and fucking god knows how much exotic swarthy cock and reward herself with new clothes every three months.

Does it get any beta than this? Why yes, yes it does.

Many of these arguments occur when my wife has been drinking. She sometimes hits me and says things that aren’t easily forgotten. We don’t have much of a romantic life, either. It’s difficult to be a good lover after being scolded.

David Alexander laughs at you.
By the way, this is a good illustration of why hitting a man won’t have the same effect as hitting a woman for turning on the ol’ heart light. Hit a woman, she drenches her panties. Hit a man, he gets no nookie and his testicles ascend.

I don’t believe in divorce, but if I had any way to leave the marriage and make sure she’s financially fixed, I would. I suspect I am clinically depressed and fear I might lose control one of these days. What do I do?

My advice:

  1. Your beliefs suck. Change them.
  2. She’s fucking a guy named Eduardo. Count on it.
  3. Eduardo is using your hard-earned money to buy your wife lingerie. For him to jizz on.
  4. Forget about making sure she’s “financially fixed”. Once you’ve started visualizing Eduardo’s cock pumping your wife’s squeezebox in and out and in and out, you should have no qualms making sure she’s “financially fucked”.
  5. You’re depressed because you’re a loser. Stop being a loser.
  6. You’ve already lost control. Face it.
  7. Pick up any rudimentary material on game, learn it, go out of the house, pick up a chick, birng her home, and fuck her senseless in your marital bed.
  8. Leave your whore harpy wife AND DON”T EVER LOOK BACK.

For a good laugh, here is the advice the man-hating bitch at “Annie’s Mailbox” gave him:

Dear No Name: You are trapped with an abusive wife and recognize how close you are to reacting violently. Talk to a lawyer about a legal separation, which will enable you to provide financially for your wife while living apart.

See that rhetorical sleight of hand? Classic 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th wave feminist misdirection. He’s got a bitch for a wife but everyone should be worried that he will react violently. Remember this ironclad first order rule of feminism:

Always blame the man. No matter what has happened or has yet to happen.

And WTF is with her advice to him to find a legal separation arrangement that will ensure he can continue providing financially for the shrike? She should be telling him to stop coddling the bitch and dump her for a better woman. Asking too much, I know.

Then get some counseling, with or without her, and contact Al-Anon (al-anon.alateen.org) at 1-888-4-AL-ANON (1-888-425-2666).

I’ve got your counseling right here, cunt.

The voting begins:

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta Of The Year Contest | No Comments »

Anti-Game

Mar 2nd, 2009 by

Damian and I were at a multi-floored historic building converted into a lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city.

Damian bumped my elbow and motioned me to look toward two attractive blondes — a 7.5 and an 8.5 — who were standing near us. Two men had just walked up and engaged them in conversation. Both men were, as far as I can tell these things, decent-looking, over 6 feet tall, and in shape. One was older– late 30s, early 40s — and sharply dressed with a dash of gray around the temples. His buddy was late 20s, early 30s, and dressed more casually. The younger guy had a frat boy-ish vibe, while the older guy struck a more sophisticated pose.

Since all four of them were within earshot, I focused my listening attention on the group, occasionally glancing over, so I could enjoy the spectacle of these guys running whatever game they had on the two blondes. When I see a choice setup like this, I take it as an opportunity to observe and learn or, in the case of men with no game, to amuse myself and gawk at the carnage, while positioning for a flanking maneuver.

Approach

The men went straight in, telegraphing their interest from the word “go”. Opened with “Hey, how you guys doing?” Points for boldness, demerits for shitty opener. Even in socially overheated crowded venues, the best approach is noncommittal — from an angle, over the shoulder. Also, it doesn’t hurt to be a little more creative than “How you doin’?”.

Girls’ Reaction

The poor approach didn’t hurt these guys. The girls welcomed them with big smiles and enthusiastic hellos, probably because the men were reasonably good-looking compared to the average man in the place. The older man looked like he was of means.

Body Language

The men registered the girls’ positive reaction and took the beta bait, amping up their energy levels and enthusiasm. This was my first hint that a pickup attempt disaster was looming. The younger guy began grinning ear to ear like an idiot, and bobbing his head up and down each time the girls talked. The older guy maintained a more aloof body language, keeping his back straight and avoiding any “pecking” or leaning into the girls. He didn’t wildly smile like his fratboy buddy. I could see he had more self-control and experience than his younger friend. His economy of words and body movement made him seem the more confident of the two men. If I noticed that, then surely the girls noticed it as well.

Conversation

The men ran what I call Chit Chat Game. This is the kind of conversation you make with someone when you are bereft of anything interesting to say. “What do you think of this place?” “You guys live in the city?” “Hey, the martinis here are really good.” “You guys like to dance?” “Whoa, you’re from North Carolina?” “How about those Tar Heels!” The fratboy latched onto this subject because it was in his comfort zone. “Yeah, you’re a Tar Heels fan? All riiiiiight!! High five!”. He tried to hold the high five with the 7.5 for a second too long, but she dropped her hand fast.

Yes, the guys were actually talking college sports. I could *feel* the initial attraction drain out of the girls, like a nail in a tire slowly letting out air. Their smiles had turned plastic, and they began gripping their drinks tighter and holding them up higher on their chests. The hotter one made a series of quick sidelong surveys around the room.

The older man wasn’t talking as much, but when he did he had a steadier, calmer cadence than his sports fan friend. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t lead and take control of the conversation when it started sputtering into lame sports talk territory. What he did contribute was of the “business interview” variety. More mature than gushing over the Tar Heels to be sure, but still death for pickup.

Escape

Surprisingly, Fric and Frac managed to stay in set for fifteen minutes. I chalked it up to the niceness of the girls — they were very forgiving of horrid game that would have sent the typical urban lawyer chick into massive shit test, ball crushing mode, after suckering the tools for free drinks of course. These two girls must have been from out of town — way out of town.

The 7.5 delivered the cockblock signal to her friend — a thin-lipped entreaty and an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise — but that was all it took for her to get the message.

“Well, we’re going to go upstairs now. See you!” As they turned and slithered away from the men, Fratboy looked over his shoulder at them and in a sickeningly pleading voice moaned “Aww, you guys are going upstairs?? All right, maybe we’ll see you up there!” The girls didn’t bother looking back.

Denouement

Damian found all this the height of hilarity, but also was overcome with an urge to pummel the beta out of these guys. He believes bad game is more nauseating than eating a spoiled enchilada. It really is like rubbernecking at a particularly gruesome car accident. I enjoy bad game in others because it means less competition for me. This is why I support gay rights. I want as many men as possible to feel comfortable embracing the butt pirate lifestyle and thus removing themselves from hetero circulation.

Fratboy and Boring Gent talked amongst themselves, obviously planning a way to reconnect with the girls. Someone needed to be charitable and interject to explain the futility of their situation, but no man’s ego is strong enough to handle that sort of constructive criticism, especially not in the chaos of the field. Instead, we watched them climb up the stairs to meet their by now long gone girls.

We didn’t have the heart to tell them that the only thing upstairs were the bathrooms.

Rebirth

Later, I bumped into the hotter girl on the first level of the club. I smiled at her.

“So, how did those guys do?”

She laughed.

*********

A lot of losers in love insist that “being yourself” is morally superior to “manipulating and seducing” a girl with game. They have an instinctual aversion to anything that doesn’t conform to the beta script of “boy meets girl and sometimes magic happens in a most satisfyingly natural and unforced way, as God intended”. They believe any conscious effort to make oneself more attractive to the opposite sex is inherently dishonest.

They are wrong. Honesty is recognizing that women have different desires and appealing to that. Dishonesty with yourself is ignoring this fundamental fact of the sexes, and selfishly expecting women to be attracted to your principled obstinacy.

What game-hating beta losers don’t comprehend is that the opposite of Game — casual chit chat — can increase a man’s failure rate with women who would otherwise prefer that he not disappoint them so. “Being yourself” isn’t an ethically or strategically neutral stance; it is an unnecessarily negative obstacle to connecting with women in the way they want you to connect with them. Despite what women claim, they would really rather you run some game on them so they can feel those good feelings that are aroused by skilled practitioners of the art of indulging the female psyche. They just don’t want you to tell them you’re running game.

The two girls were happy to be approached by the two men on account of their style and looks. But Anti-Game quickly eroded whatever attraction was there initially. These guys were being themselves, and it cost them dearly. They were “honest” according to the beta playbook, and they were punished for their honesty.

Anti-Game is the equivalent of being an ill-prepared Boy Scout. Anti-Game is to men what going out wearing baggy pants and flannel shirt, no makeup, and greasy, unkempt hair is to women. Sure, you may be good-looking enough to pull some ass despite your lack of game or your figure-concealing unflattering clothes, but you’ll be needlessly limiting your options.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Game, Pretty Lies, Rules of Manhood, The Big City Life | No Comments »

Shocker! Beautiful Woman Chooses Man Who Beats Her Silly

Mar 1st, 2009 by

And once again the Chateau worldview is vindicated.

The pair have reunited almost three weeks after Brown, 19, allegedly battered the “Umbrella” singer on Feb. 8, a source tells PEOPLE.

“They’re together again. They care for each other,” says the source. The on-again couple are currently spending time together at one of Sean “Diddy” Combs’s homes, on Miami Beach’s Star Island.

Aww, how cute. Rihanna and Chris, the two lovebirds, back together again. POW! She just couldn’t stay away, that girl! WHACK! Sources close to the loving couple say they can’t keep their hands off each other. SLAP! I bet!

Is Rihanna going back to Chris in spite of, or because of, the beatings he gave her? Answer: both.

Consciously, she goes back in spite of. Subconsciously, she goes back because of.

And science is slowly discovering that women’s sexuality can effortlessly occupy both the conscious and subconscious planes simultaneously.

A hit across the face, because it is an unabashed demonstration of male power, will trigger stronger orgasms in many otherwise normal women. I have observed this phenomenon myself. Think of a slap as Viagra for women. Lubed up for a long evening of hot sex!

PS: If you disapprove of this behavior, the way to contain this Pandora’s Box of human nature is to shame the women for freely choosing abusive men. Shaming violent men for striking women will not work as well as long as women continue to reward these men with their loving hearts and open pussies.

[crypto-donation-box]

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