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Reader Joe T. sent me a link to this story (scroll halfway down) about female obesity correlating with lower pay in the workplace. The study’s conclusion — that fat women suffer a wage penalty because of discrimination — is shaky (for instance, fat women may be less productive than their thinner counterparts due to health issues), but there’s no doubt that employers — male and female, fat and thin – don’t like looking at fat chicks in the office and that this may affect their employment prospects. There is a chart accompanying the report which shows that the percentage of overweight and obese white American women has increased from 12.6% in 1981 to 50.4%(!) in 2000.

That is just so fucking depressing on so many levels. The gravity of this tragic situation had me wondering if the rise in female obesity has indirectly contributed to the concurrent rise in the teaching of Game and the player subculture. I now think it has. The best way to illustrate my point is through visual aids.

This is what happens when you put five thin women of bangable age and reasonable attractiveness and five normal men together in a bar:

thingirls1.jpg

All the penises have found a home. Every woman is at a minimum sperm-worthy so the competition between the men is reduced to a manageable amount unless one of the girls happens to be an 8.5 or better, in which case there is a flurry of chest-pounding as the men jockey for her attention, followed quickly by peace in the land once the betas realize that sex with 6s and 7s isn’t too bad, either.

Now we’ll see what happens when you put three fat chicks, one mediocre-looking thin girl, one hot red-headed girl, and five normal men together in a bar:

fatgirls.jpg

As you can see, the three fat chicks are completely ignored, even though this guarantees that three penises will not find a home tonight, unless the two remaining girls are into sharing. Instead, all five men will descend upon the two skinny chicks and a battle royale will ensue for access to their skinny vaginas. Eventually, the hot red-headed chick will meet her attention quota and go home penis-less but oddly very satisfied. The mediocre-looking chick, who would be a 6 in any other country where the female obesity rate wasn’t over 50%, is suddenly faced with the sexual interest of five men. Being the only sperm-worthy available vagina left in the bar, she vogues and disdains like a 10, enjoying every second of her newfound fame, and throwing the forces of the cosmos into a great imbalance. Her ego jacked up, she too will go home penis-less and emotionally very satisfied, all the while thanking her American sisters for their addiction to cookie dough straight from the tube.

A visual representation of the aftermath of this all-too-real nightmare scenario:

bigegogirl.jpg

Those are the penises trampled underfoot the stiletto heels of the last remaining thin girl in the universe. Her head has grown large from the ego-stroking of all the men who had no other options but to attempt sex with her. Like small mammals scattered out of the brush before a stampeding herd of wildebeests, scampering toward the safety of one golden burrow on the horizon, these men face certain doom.

Which brings me to my theory: Game has been refined, taught and embraced by men in direct proportion to the shrinking pool of attractive thin girls. As the reduced supply of skinny chicks have seen their sexual market value skyrocket, they have adjusted by pricing their pussy out of reach for the average guy. In return, men have sought solutions to this new challenge in the rapidly advancing science of seduction. Where simple courtship worked in the past, it is no longer effective against the deep bunker defenses of the in-demand slender woman.

There has always been an evolutionary arms race between men and women in the quest for sex but now, for the first time in human history, the sheer numbers of fat chicks – in concert with the increase of financially independent women – is accelerating this arms race so fast that many people can’t cope and drop out. The tools of seduction for men become better by the day and the women counter with more impenetrable defenses. The tension is palpable. The whining and bitching is cacophonic. Distrust and dating blogs are at record highs.

If just 20% of fat chicks lost weight relations between the sexes would start to noticeably improve. And there would be more happiness in the world, because a skinny girl with hunger pangs is happier than a fat girl with a sheepdog and peanut butter.

Answer below

herb.jpg

The satchel.

As everyone helpfully pointed out, there are a lot of annoying things in this picture.

But the satchel-wearing herb is the most annoying of them all. Its 1AM and he’s drinking a beer in a loud bar environment that is not conducive to bringing textbooks and studying for an art history exam. Why does he need to wear that stupid satchel? Did mommy pack a midnight snack for him? Every time one of these dorks turns around the satchel knocks over a drink or hits some short girl in the face. Tres gay.

The worst offenders are the guys who wear bulging backpacks filled with, no doubt, threadless.com t-shirts. They occupy enough personal space for two people.

Contest winners are mm, rina and finefantastic. Please claim your winning prize to perform a free naked pole dance in my bedroom before the end of month. Preferably together. Windex will be supplied.

Radiating an aura of being perfectly fucking pleased with oneself is not necessarily the same thing as arrogance. Men who are just beginning their journeys to womanizer enlightenment will often overcompensate for their wasted years of betaness by copping an arrogant attitude. With time will come the wisdom to transcend arrogance and replace it with confidence.

Arrogance is not a good trait, but it is better than wishy washy niceguy syndrome. Despite women’s insistence that cocksure assholes turn them off the asshole will still get more pussy than the niceguy. WAY more. So if you’re on the long road to social and sexual reawakening and are hopelessly mired in niceguy celibacy it would be advantageous to be an utter dick for a while just to get a few calming notches under your belt.

Some important distinctions between the arrogant and the confident man:

Arrogant man – Gets defensive when challenged.

Confident man – Has nothing to prove.

Arrogant man – Sneers.

Confident man – Smiles.

Arrogant man – Childish.

Confident man – Child-like.

Arrogant man – Easily provoked.

Confident man – Undisturbed.

Arrogant man – Insulting.

Confident man – Teasing.

Arrogant man – Sarcastic.

Confident man – Witty.

Arrogant man – Braggart.

Confident man – Can afford a little self-deprecation.

Arrogant man – Aggressive.

Confident man – Resolute.

Arrogant man – Threatens.

Confident man – Mindfucks.

Arrogant man – Thinks a girl playing hard to get is a “bitch”.

Confident man – Thinks a girl playing hard to get is “cute”.

Arrogant man – Domineering.

Confident man – Dominant.

Arrogant man – Takes it personally if his girl doesn’t cum.

Confident man – Understands that she feels her greatest pleasure by pleasing him.

Arrogant man – Juggles girls.

Confident man – Invites them all over for an epic videotaping session.

State Of Mind

i loved that he was so powerful i was nothing.
– O 

What is it that separates those select few men from all the rest? The ones who seemingly have no trouble getting pussy when they want and how they want it? The ones who wield illimitable power to inflame the desires of women?

The key to their power is not money or sports cars or beach houses or post graduate degrees or 50 inch plasma TVs or chocolate covered strawberries on a bed of rose petals or any of that shit. All of that is incidental and is only important to the extent that it improves your state of mind. No, the real source of this power is already within you. It is how you SEE YOURSELF. It is your decision to move through the world without apology, to set aside complaining for decisive action, to let your brass balls do your talking for you.

The quintessential masculine quality women can’t resist is SUPREME UNSHAKEABLE CONFIDENCE. You can be poor, out of shape, stupid, unemployed, addicted to drugs, and meet every one of society’s standards for LOSERNESS but if you radiate those confident vibes that say you are PERFECTLY FUCKING PLEASED WITH YOURSELF you will get laid ALL THE TIME. And the kinds of girls who get wet for such men aren’t just bar sluts. Smart women, women with high self-esteems and MBAs and, yes, even — ESPECIALLY – HARDCORE FEMINISTS will crave the cock of the man who exudes such power and happily take it IN THE FACE and UP THE ASS if it means he will grace her with the pleasure of his company for a little while longer.

THIS is the kind of power that matters. FUCK the normal rules. You make the rules now. They tell you to give give GIVE till it hurts, to do your duty and throw yourself in the blood-soaked grinding gears of the KorporateAkademiaKredentialist Krell Machine in service to society’s great gaping maw and then maybe… MAYBE… one day you’ll be lucky enough to get chained for life to some mediocre pussy and infrequent, tepid sex, whereupon you will work yourself tirelessly to the bone shuffling your ungrateful brats through one societal sacramental rite of passage after another feeding the endless, insatiable hunger of the machinery of the state. And they will pat you on the head for your devotion to the cause with lateral promotions and certificates of exemplary service and announcements in the wedding pages of the local paper and a brand new set of steak knives.

FUCK

THAT

NOIZE.

There’s a dirty little secret they don’t want you to know. And everyone is in cahoots, from the alphas to the betas to the keepers of the vagina. It is this: You don’t need to play by their rules to get what you want! Women will still FLOCK to you if you shit all over everything you were taught you needed to do to earn their love as long as you do it with STYLE and UNWAVERING BOLDNESS and a TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT attitude. Because the simple truth is that the right attitude counts for more than all the material possessions in the world.

The POWER is in your head.

Things I’ve Learned

Pulling up in a cab to a hipster dive bar is a major social faux pas. This was news to me. You see, hipsters have an image in their heads of what guys piling out of a cab on a Friday night look like — either Georgetown clones or A|X wearing K street club monsters — so when a cab pulls up to their favorite hole in the wall eyebrows are raised. Any hipster worth his calculated pose of cynical detachment would walk to his bar of choice since he authentically lives a few blocks from it. I’m pretty sure the doorman laughed out loud when he saw our cab.

Speaking of hipsters, it is now considered retrograde to actually call them by their rightful name.

Me: This place is pretty much hipster central, huh?

Girl: No one calls them hipsters anymore.

Me: So what do you call them?

Girl: Nothing.

Me: OK, then I guess you guys like to hang out in a bar full of nothings.

barelybeer.jpg
Irony doesn’t make it taste better.

I plan to go to the same place next weekend and test their patience by wearing pointy shoes.

Video Of Solid Game

This series of videos from the show Keys to the VIP demonstrates what really quality game looks like. The guy to watch is Cajun, a protege of Mystery Method, because his game does not rely solely on canned routines or elaborate storytelling to raise his status. He throws out a few pre-rehearsed lines here and there (something I do as well, like the “adorable little sister” line), but for the most part his game succeeds on his confident body language and ability to stay cool under pressure. Also notice that he hits on 8s and above, which gives his game credibility.

Check out part 1, part 2, and part3.

First Impressions

Take a look at this photo:

gforfling1.jpg

What snap judgements did you just make of each girl? Don’t think too hard about this, go with your gut. Once you have your answers, scroll down to see if they match mine.

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Girl on left: Cockblock.

Middle girl: Chaperone.

Girl on right: Shit tester.

Hoping to prove to myself that I am a badass nonconformist, I read through all 76 entries to date at the Stuff White People Like blog and tallied up my score to see how many applied to me. I was as truthful in my answers as I could tolerate.

My white person score: 27 out of 76, which rounds up to 36% white.

*More technically, 36% whiter than the average white, since what that blog really describes is the kind of status whoring that upper middle class coastal city liberal whites like to pursue to separate themselves from the masses of unenlightened whites in flyover country.

I’m pleased with my score. It shows that I have just enough taste to enjoy the good life (green tea has anti-oxidants! NASCAR makes no sense to me!) but not so much self-righteous whiter person status posturing that I become the very thing I loathe (no, I really don’t give a shit about raising awareness!).

I’m so convinced that a lot of these things that whiter people like are merely grabs for status over other white people that I have an experiment in mind. According to this entry, white people love to go to ethnic restaurants (not including Italian) that are patronized by non-whites for the “authentic” experience, so they can tell their fellow whites about their new favorite foreign cuisine. This earns them major bragging rights. The more foreign-sounding the food, the better. Listen as they take great pains to pronounce the dish they had in its native tongue.

Now I like Ethiopian food, even though it gives me tremendous gas one hour after eating it. But I wouldn’t stop eating Ethiopian food if suddenly it was served in a bland cookie cutter suburban eatery and the waitresses were not real Ethiopians, like they are in the place I go to in Adams Morgan. I would continue to enjoy their delicious injera bread even if a hundred other white people were sitting around me eating the same thing, and that is because I go for the food itself.

So in my experiment I would take the most popular Ethiopian restaurant in a hip neighborhood in DC, one that the hippest white people rave about, and move it into a vacated McDonald’s restaurant in a 100% white suburban neighborhood, where I would then sell combo meals of authentic Ethiopian food at $4.99 a pop, with a big gulp honey wine and plastic utensils, served at the cash register by a non-Ethiopian, preferably a dour white hipster with a lip ring or a Chinese woman. If whiter people are truly going to exotic ethnic restaurants for the enjoyment of the food as they like to claim they are, then business should remain brisk in my new McEthiopian restaurant. If business slows to a trickle, then I know that the whiter people were only singing the praises of Ethiopian food when eating it had an “authentic” feel so as to score culinary gotcha points in the neverending struggle to reign supreme at the top of the elitist cultural heap.

Stuffwhitepeoplelike in a nutshell: Making fun of the tribalism of people who think they have risen above tribalism.

There are essentially two types of breakups initiated by the girl that the average guy will encounter. Knowing which one you are dealing with is very important as that knowledge will enable you to manage the fallout to your benefit. (Where said benefit is defined as keeping the sex going.)

Breakup Scenario #1:

She’s lost attraction for you. Forget about the reasons why. They don’t matter at this point, and arguing with her about those reasons will only dig your hole deeper. Once a girl’s heart has gone carbonite cold you’re left with one option for releasing it from hibernation. This is your moment in the spotlight to call upon the twin gods of Aloofness and Indifference. No two deities have ever done more for a man’s self-respect and sexual allure. She wants to have “a talk”? Let her. While she’s talking, pick at your toenails. Take a piss. Ask her what she thinks of your new sneakers. Casually interrupt her breakup monologue, saying “Before you continue, did you catch that debate last night? This election is gonna be a squeaker.” When she finally lowers the boom, look bemused and announce “OK, well, take care then.” Make sure to pat her on the knee as you say this. She’ll look at you confused and ask if you have anything to say. Tell her “Nope, you’ve pretty much covered it all.” This will really fuck up her final act script. She wants confirmation that she’s going out on top and denying her that will ensure those old feelings flood her loins again. One week later expect a surprise call from her. Tip: It helps to rub one out just prior to a breakup talk. The calm state afterwards will give your aloofness the feel of authenticity.

Breakup Scenario #2:

She hasn’t lost attraction for you. She’s calling it quits because the passion started to fade and she was feeling unsure about your commitment to her. Again, the reasons don’t necessarily matter, and even if they did it’s pointless to ask a girl why she wants to break up. The female brain is incapable of straightforwardly answering that question. If she tried, she would sputter and pop gears like a robot computing a logical paradox. However, in this scenario your best response is NOT aloofness. Since she still harbors feelings for you what you need to do is amp the drama. Give free rein to your raging, untamed masculine essence. Pound the wall. Yell and swear with abandon. Chew her out. Grab her squarely by the shoulders and hold eye contact for a minute, lowering your voice to say “I’m not letting you go this easily. If you don’t love me then say it now. Say it! I dare you! … That’s what I thought.”, then passionately kiss her. If necessary, recreate a famous dramatic scene from a movie that girls love. If she calls you out on it and says “Hey, isn’t that from Casablanca?”, tell her to “Shut up and kiss me.”

Of course, knowing ahead of time which type of breakup she plans for you is more of an art than a science. If she says she has bad news with tears in her eyes and she’s jabbing a finger in your chest to punctuate her laundry list of grievances, assume you are dealing with breakup scenario #2. If she tries to break up over the phone or text, it’s guaranteed to be breakup scenario #1. If she breaks up with you face to face wearing old sweatpants, three layers of thick cable knit sweaters, and a scarf indoors while sitting as far away on the opposite side of the couch as possible, you are definitely the victim of breakup scenario #1. Try to french kiss her just for the funny reaction you’ll get. (I’ve done this.)

This past weekend at a loungey club I attempted a number close at the end of the night when the staff was flipping the lights on and off to signal closing time. Acting quickly before a gang of dangerous hipsters in white Hanes t-shirts and superbly chiseled body fat hustled me out I moved to wrap up the conversation I was having with a slightly above-average girl. It went like this:

Me: We should hang some time. Let me get your number. Here, type it in.

Her: Sure, sounds great! [types her # in my phone and hands it back to me]

Me: [looking at the number with no name attached] So… how do you spell your name?

Her: How do I spell it? It’s a simple name, there’s only one way to spell it!

Me: Yeah, but you may spell it the hippie way, with extra vowels or something. Maybe your parents were hippies.

Her: You forgot my name, didn’t you?

Me: Well, hey, I bet you forgot my name too, so we’re even.

Her: No, your name is [my name].

Me: Hm, wow, that’s pretty good. But actually I think I told you my name was [minor variation on my name].

Slightly above-average girl walks off without giving me her name. Mission unaccomplished.

******

This is a prime example of what can go wrong during a pickup when the girl you are talking to is not hot enough to keep you mentally focused on the task at hand. You get sloppy and let your mind jump ahead to thoughts of mashing her tits together. Had she been better looking I would not have forgotten her name. But even if I had, I would’ve answered stronger and saved the number close:

Her: Sure, sounds great! [types her # in my phone and hands it back to me]

Me: I have a confession to make. Our conversation was so intense and I got so into the things you were telling me about your life that I forgot your name.

Her: Ravage me!

If you are constantly forgetting girls’ names, you are probably aiming too low.

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