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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?

Posted in Game, Psy Ops | 176 Comments »

“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.

Posted in Culture, Girls, The Good Life | 134 Comments »

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.

Posted in Love, Pretty Lies, Ugly Truths | 752 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.

Posted in Videos | 374 Comments »

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”:

marriedchump

“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:

george_clooney_swimming

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.

Posted in Marriage Is For Chumps | 547 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, Guy Rules, Inner Beauty, Maxims, Misandry, The Pleasure Principle | 259 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:

Posted in Beta Of The Year Contest | 293 Comments »

Anti-Game

Mar 2nd, 2009 by

Zeets and I were at a multi-floored historic mansion converted into a bar/restaurant/lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city. For those locals who have been there, you’ll know what I mean – sweet dushkas! Just more evidence that Russian women are on average hotter than any other ethnicity’s women. If you’re searching for an upside to World War II and proof that men with vastly improved options on the sexual market will choose the hottest babes, there it is.

Zeets 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

Zeets 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 empanada. 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.

Posted in Beta, Game, Guy Rules, Pretty Lies, The Big City Life | 409 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.

Posted in Alpha, Biomechanics is God, Love, Ugly Truths | 153 Comments »

February 2009 Comment Winner

Feb 27th, 2009 by

The comments were bursting with fruit flavor in February.

February 2009 Comment Winner

It’s Satr expressing his thanks for all the good that I do:

thanks for your progressive and humanist blogging and keep making the world a better place

I carry my burden with a happy heart.

Comment Winner Runner-up

Sebastian Flyte answers Freud’s age old question “what do women really want?” in the comments to my post praising the neg as an opener:

This is what women want.  They WANT to feel unworthy of a guy and then win him over.  Attraction is bascially showing a girl you are out of her league.  That’s all.  The neg does this.  I remember a guy in my secondary school who just straight up told a girl to ‘look in her own league’ when approached – he was with her a week later.  Women have a psychological need to feel inadequate before their man.  This must be demonstrated in one way or another, otherwise attraction just won’t burst forth.

Honorable Mentions

Colin Bowel explains how he reverses a flake in my post discussing this important geopolitical matter:

This is like the time I texted a girl saying “whats up sucky mcdicksucker” and ten minutes later she came over and sucked my dick.

In the same post, Tood ventures a guess that Hulk Hogan’s divorce proceedings will be worse than the sum total of blows he received over his career:

The Hulkster needs GAME.

But the divorce laws are brutalizing Hulk Hogan in a manner that 20 years of being pounded, slammed, and clotheslined by Andre the Giant, the Undertaker, Randy Savage, and the Ultimate Warrior cannot match.

It’s true. Most men would rather take a collapseable metal chair over the head than experience the joy of a cold loveless ex-wife on the warpath of revenge.

Commenter Z tells you exactly what kind of women you are likely to meet online in this post:

THIS IS WHAT YOU GET ONLINE FOR THE MOST PART THOUGH:

1) OLDER WOMEN IN THEIR LATE 20′s-thru-early 40′s.

2) Divorced women who are stuck with their kid(s), thus cannot go out at night very often.

2) Women slumming through the week (only go out to bars on the weekends), hoping to meet some guy with money

3) Broke chicks who dont have the money to pay cover charges at bars

4) Women looking for a fuckbuddy with the looks and equipment she craves (Size queens and muscle-worshippers…………oft will ask for pictures of your dick with a tape measure, etc).

5) Gold-diggers (see number 2)

6) Women who dont have any other single gal pals, and dont want to go to bars “alone”.

7) Cheating wives looking for something on the side, but cannot safely get out to bars without being caught.

Numbers 3 and 6 are your best bet for finding a sweet, attractive and mentally stable woman online.

Whiskey boils the battle of the sexes down to one sentence in this post:

Paraphrasing Spengler, Women in the West (where they have genuine choice) get the men they deserve, and create: PUA pump and dump players, man-boy geeks opting out of a losing game for diversions, and angry older bitter losers.

You gotta play the system you’re given.

Howard Roark offers the MOAN (Mother OF All Negs) in my “Neg As Opener” post:

In college I was friends with a true natural, with unbelieveable instincts for game. One time he came up to us in a small group and sat down, there were two cute girls with us. I knew them, he didn’t really. After sitting down, he used a line, and to this day, I’ve never seen one line just dismantle a girl’s entire mental machinery like this:

“Hey [Girl’s name], you know what? You dress exactly like my mother.”

I’ve never seen anything be over so fast; it was like a secret death blow from an ancient ninjitsu manuscript. She freaked out. Is that an insult? Well, if you’re saying MY mom has no style it was. Then she’s asking him if his mom is hot. He’s like what the fuck is wrong with you, I don’t know if my mom is hot. Her panties were all abunch, she was all over him. But she was like a trapped rat. Amazing.

That was the day I learned the power of what I later (10 years later) read on the internet was called a “neg”. It is so sacred a line that I’ve actually never used it. Somebody should.

I have yet to try it. When I do, I’ll report on the results.

Cannon’s Canon tells us how he rates women on the fuckability scale:

The one redeeming quality about the DC slut machine is that she seems to show some moderate calf musculature.  (The huge feet I could do without)  My old lifting partner and I will always ask of each others’ women how big their calves are, to evaluate them as breeding stock for powerful legs.

G Manifesto relpies to another commenter’s description of the perfect date with his formula for success:

“I would take red scarf out to a nice restaurant and then a walk on the beach. Afterwards, I would sit with her on a park bench and watch the sunset while we told each other stories about our families. The next day, I would call her and feel real nervous until she picked up. I would bring her flowers on our second date and take her to a live play or musical performance.”

Good comment.

I would get high off Hashish and Absinthe and swoop her in a Czech Hostel.

Then go on partying.

Readers wonder if the G is real or a grandiose put-on. I don’t know and I don’t care. Just lean back in your Dutailier leather chair and enjoy it like a long smooth puff of a Cohiba Siglo cigar.

David Alexander cements his position as Troll Overlord:

Foul skags are an excellent source of hugs though.

Sara embraces the reality of the sexual market:

Reading this blog has made me realize that men are by and large doing this type of very important mental calculation when they check me out. I have an urge sometimes to go up to them to point out a few flaws they may not have noticed. At the end of it, I’m sure my rating would go from whatever to goose egg, at which point I’d be satisfied that I’d done my best at full disclosure.

Although Sara hates on me with righteous fembot fury, I don’t inflict my sadistic cruelty on her. If you wonder why Sara gets a relatively free pass, it’s because she leavens her hate with feminine charm. You other haters may want to take note.

Racer X feels the pain of those women who cannot have:

The last pic is a fling. Why? Because she is looking despondent, knowing that she will not be able to enjoy forever being plowed by alpha cock on a nightly basis. She is less than standard beauty wise, a little chubby, and not up to his highest tastes. She knows this, hence the look of dejection on her face. She knows that she will be forever doomed to being fucked by the small penises of lesser males than he. She knows she is ruined forever. To have even tasted his cock once and never have it again is fate worse than anything she can imagine. No woman could endure that.

Dick fuel describes how alphas and betas piss in my post on Paul Newman’s alphatude:

betas piss hunched over staring at their itsy bitsy

alphas lean back and arch their stream

This is a surprisingly accurate observation.

Expat illustrates the effectiveness of pithy lowbrow insults with an unintentionally hilarious response:

“You fag!”

What rejoinder are you looking for?  It’s a football-hooligan type conversation stopper.  I don’t quite get your motivation, or your point.  Truly.  I have no concept whatsoever of why you bother being so inane.

Expat, you’re a gold member commenter, I love ya, but that reply was fuckin awesome.

Kthulah confirms her status as a delusional superfreak whose opinions on human sexual dynamics are useful only for mocking:

Anony, most men are hypocrites when it comes to sex, but it’s not unheard of for a guy to “outsource” if something happens to him that he can’t perform.  The worry that pops up for these guys is losing the wife.  If he doesn’t have that worry, it makes things much easier for him…sort of like with my ex.

Once we figured out what his problem was, I actually considered and then looked into having myself reproductively neutralized.  That means a full hysterectomy and clitorectomy.  I’m not a strict monogamist, but the idea of our union possibly being threatened by someone else just because I was horny, was not appealing.

As it turned out, the ethnic situation here takes care of most of that issue.  So he was right not to let me go through with the operations.  He told me to find some young virile guy who respected me well enough, and get laid.

Lunatic fringe… We know you’re out there…

PA, another commenter in good standing, nails the evil of third world mass immigration (and, yes, it is evil) in my post on the justice meted out to a whore wife who cuckolded her beta hubbie:

Mass immigration benefits the ruling elites economically by crippling the middle class and depreciating the price of labor, politically by supplying socialist voters, and culturally by deracinating the country’s core ethnic group.

Mass immigration, particularly of incompatible newcomers, is a classic divide-and-conquer strategy of the ruling classes.

Simply beautiful in its precise and unassailable truth. Well done.

Obsidian compares PUA to Jedis and Sith. How can I not appreciate that?

In the Jedi world, there are 7 official forms, or styles of combat. Each style emphasizes a particular aspect of fighting, and by extension an aspect of its user.

Yoda, who is by his very nature dimunitive, uses a style that takes advantage of this, making him a very hard target to hit (Ataru, Form IV).

Anakin, who is driven by his passions, chooses a style that best reflects a more “raw Alpha” vibe, Shem-Djo, if my spelling is right (Form V).

Obiwan’s style relies a much more passive approach, which makes him very tough to beat, because his defences are so good (Soresu, Form III).

Mace Windu, like Anakin, draws his power from a deep well of passion; his form of combat is both unorthodox and all-emcompassing/overwhelming at the same time. In fact, only a handful of Jedi have ever even successfully used his style, and when they do, they invariably fall to the Dark Side (Vapaad, Form VII).

Dooku’s style, Makashi, is a true fencer’s art; it is a statement about his sense for flair and elegance, as well as for precision (Form II).

Since references to the Jedi are common in the PUA community, I think it might do well for many of its adherents to contemplate things like this as they consider which dojo they wish to draw from. Congruency is the key here. It must be a natural fit for you in order to get the most out of it, and one reason why a lot of guys fail at Game is because they fail to develop their introspective sides of themselves.

When you sit down and think about what I’ve just written above, you’ll see large elements of each Jedi’s principal style in the way they approach Game among known and even lesser known PUAs. For example, he doesn’t strike me as an Obiwan type. More like an Anakin. Style is more Obiwan.

Anakin. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Marvelous Bastard notes a raw ugly truth I’ve written about before:

Women love it when he tears apart the beta boys, but they hate it when he turns it on the ladies.

This solidarity among the sisterhood is creepy.  You don’t see the men in this forum standing up for the betas, but start making generalizations about women and the ladies get defensive.

It’s always amusing for me to corner my detractors when they commit this sin of the human ego.

Welmer explains why women are opposed to paternity testing:

Interestingly, when I did some research into adultery legislation, it was most frequently women who opposed it or suggested it was a waste of time.

To me, this suggests that more wives than husbands cheat, or at least more wives want to keep the option open. What I think is going on is that a few men cheat on their wives a lot, and a lot of women cheat some.

That’s exactly right. Women have more incentive to keep open the option of cheating on their spouse. Like I’ve said before: Incentives matter. Schools should teach a separate class called “Concepts of Incentives”. It would help dispel a lot of pretty lies people bring with them into the voting booth.

Kick a Bitch, doing what he was put on this earth to do:

both are fat, would only let them give me head. i would also try my best to gizz on their face.

granted, this would apply to most women but wth, figured i would toss it out there.

Anon embraces the alpha/beta distinction in my post about Chris Brown:

Ah yes, its beating up on girls is completely Alpha, in much the same way kicking puppies and stealing candies from babies is Alpha.  The rampaging chimp last week that blinded and maimed some poor woman?-Complete Alpha, running the ultimate neg on the woman.  All those victims had it coming, and really deep inside, wanted it.

In human female world, Travis was indeed an alpha. It wasn’t until a human male showed up with a male-invented gun did Travis resume his place in the pecking order.

Welmer wins a two-fer honorable mention for this exceptional exegesis in the Chris Brown post:

It is interesting how these kinds of revelations result in hysteria. You know, I think half the reason women enjoy the concept of a physically combative sexual relationship is that it creates exactly the kind of drama that empowers them.

Men have an unquestionable lust for war, which is about struggle between groups of men for dominance, yet women, too, have their own penchant for violence and dominance. A woman’s most powerful asset is her ability to harness the destructive power of men, and if she can provoke a man to physical violence it is often a deeply pleasurable experience for her.

This tendency is immortalized in the Norse sagas in this Icelandic proverb:

“eru köld kvenna ráð”

“Cold is the counsel of woman.”

This quote follows a woman’s demands that a man who had insulted her honor be killed.

A violent man is a tool of women, and therefore a good mate. If he doesn’t kill her, she is empowered. This, I think, is the evolutionary explanation for attraction to men who have a tendency to lash out with physical force. The enraged man is an extension of her own power, so it is not so much submission that motivates her desire, but rather the power to inflict damage. To possess a dangerous man is the feminine equivalent of male bloodlust.

Over and over we read about the likes of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, yet men are foolish enough to ignore received wisdom. The continued effeminacy of American men will eventually be the ruin of American women, as there will eventually be nobody left to fight for them. I welcome such an outcome, as there is no reason to fight for a woman who offers nothing but treachery in return.

This was Homer’s lesson, and it stands today.

Along the same vein of why women love men who hit them, Shadowexit posts a poem written by a 19 year old girl:

My back against the couch
I enjoy
your power over me
When you throw the condom away
and me too
I feel sick
because I like it
with an asshole like you

There is more wisdom and beauty in this girl’s heartfelt poem than in all the postmodern poetical dreck in the world. And no, I am not kidding.

Expat also scores an honorable mention two-fer with this trenchant observation:

Men try to win the argument in order to win over the group, women try to win over the group, in order to win the argument.

That’s how I know who are the women on this board.

Make it a three-some. The first one ever here at le Chateau. Congrats, Expat!

I’m only slowly realizing why DA brings out revulsion in me.

He is the antichrist.  The anti joy.  The anti life.  The anti struggle.  The anti personal betterment.  He is unholy, like stagnant water.

The antichrist will be a nauseatingly trollish beta. You heard it here first.

Well done, readers. An impressive list of winners this past month.

Posted in Comment Winners | 126 Comments »

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