Archive for the ‘Escape’ Category

A reader emailed a heartbreaking story to the Chateau. I reprint it here in the full because there is so much in it that could serve as lessons in life, alphaness and fatherhood. As you read it, prepare to cringe. Do you see a little of yourself in the father? In the son?


I really don’t know who else i could write to about this.

Today i was out for lunch with my dad. Sushi, as it was. My father isn’t the most assertive man, I’ve come to realize. but when this half-baked early 20′s asian in skater jeans and ray ban corrective glasses doesn’t bring us our food until we ask about it a half hour later, and still gets it wrong, and then continues to delay most of our food we have to leave before we get to eat the half of it. I was ready to get in the face of the woman at the register, but i thought it was my dad’s place to do so, since he was buying and he is my father. but he bumbled up to the counter,

“um, excuse me, our food was late and we didn’t get to eat it all…” He trailed off. The woman behind the counter looks up with her eyes glazed over, and gives him the bill.

“no, no, i don’t know if i should pay full price…”

she points to the bill which says (10% off -2.59)

so he paid the 30 dollar bill with his two dollars off. i was thoroughly embarrassed. but it was worse. as i’m trying to ignore him, hoping he makes a bigger stand, he touched his hand to my face. it took me a second to realize that this was a playful slap.

“what was that?”
i knew what it was. he had such repressed aggression that he needed to let it out through momentary displays of dominance over his 18-year-old son.

“i just hit you.” he said in a goofy snorting voice, looking at the ground. still in front of the cashier. this was all to win the approval of a 5-foot asian woman in a tank top because he couldn’t stand up to her.

and then there’s my mom, the opposite. imposing, commanding, domineering, unbelievable condescending. she’s a executive director of a research facility. she actually says the only way to get along with her is to say you understand what she’s saying and leave it alone. of course, she can’t see that that’s batshit crazy.

They’re divorced of course.

The issue is, I’m their child. They’re both too deep in their own delusions to even notice that they’re destroying me. and so are my friends. I feel like I’m getting sucked into it. im submitting to my mom, when i used to make her laugh when she was trying to tell me what i’ve done wrong. I finished high school, with no motivation to continue my education. i spend most of my free time in front of a computer. I work a shitty job that I can’t even focus at. I haven’t had sex in months. when i’m at a party i’m more self conscious than i’ve ever been in my life. I can’t hold a conversation like i used to.

my friends suck,
I’ve had sex with girls i don’t actually like, and it’s boring as hell.

I’m losing my wit, i’m losing my figure, im losing my ability to be extroverted, i’m losing my will to live.

how do i stay afloat? why should i stay afloat?
A sea of bullshit smells just as bad when you’re on the top of it.

how can i stop this death spiral when there’s nothing i want to hold onto?

I’m hoping for words of wisdom, but putting my long-winded whining in its proper place could be just as helpful.


Brutally bare. You’ve just had an insider’s look at the sordid details of a beta father’s life, and the wake of destruction such betaness leaves on the psyches of those around him — his son, his ex-wife and himself, not to mention the automatic disrespect it engenders in strangers. If you are a man and this story doesn’t reach out and punch you in the sternum, you have no life experience and no heart. A better advertisement for learning game to overcome beta weakness I can’t imagine.

Betaness isn’t some grand scheme or bodily disorder. Betaness manifests in the little things, like a father’s inability to square up to a waitress for bad service or his repressed anger played out in subtle dominance moves over his son. When we speak of game being a lethal tool to lift a man up from betaness, we mean it is the little things that game fixes. Forgetting this leads one to easily scoff at game as some kind of magic elixir or cult hypnosis. But focus on the tiny details, fix them one by one, and suddenly a new man appears before you, almost like magic.

If you are a father and you don’t approve of game as a means to pick up women, at least recognize its transformative power to improve your relations with your wife and children, particularly any sons you may have. Your son looks up to you as a leader and a masculine icon, almost despite yourself. When you renege on that implicit promise, he becomes disoriented, even self-loathing. If you are divorced, your son’s time with his cunty domineering single mother will only worsen his state of mind. As the country veers into a dystopia of single momhood and lonely, sackless beta divorcees, expect to see more sons with stories like the one told above. Nothing good can come of it.

Knowing this, learning game is practically a vital imperative. Maybe you can live with yourself as a sniveling little beta shit who can’t chew out — or at least neg — a young asian chick who deserves it because you get all flustered in her presence, but can you live with the pain and embarrassment it causes your son?

Readers generally fall into two camps with regards to the ability of the typical man to understand and apply game. Some believe attractiveness to women is a genetic bestowal, while others believe game, i.e. charisma, can be learned by any man. The answer is somewhere in the gray middle. Yes, some men are born with an incipient natural charm and others are born with the requisite intelligence to parse game concepts, and these men will excel at learning game far beyond what an omega will get from it. Yet there are thousands, maybe millions by this point, of men who have seen improvements in their love lives and their family lives accrue from the blessings of game. These men did not start out with Class A genetic endowments. Their very existence proves that sheer willpower — the will to mold their environments, and themselves, to their advantage — can mean the difference between being the father in this young man’s story and being a better man his son would be proud to call dad.

Stories like the above show that betaness is not solely, or even primarily, a genetic curse. A father’s actions have real repercussions on his son’s trajectory in life. The father in the story acted horribly beta and his son was aware of it. His low status behavior left a lasting imprint on his son’s soul, and as a result the son’s self-conception has been altered, and now careens down a darker path, into deep thickets and waist-high bogs bubbling with doubt and anger. This is one way in which generational betaness is passed on, from father to son.

Imagine a different scenario had played out. A GAME scenario.

Today i was out for lunch with my dad. Sushi, as it was. My father is a serene man with a well of righteous dignity, I’ve come to realize. when this half-baked early 20′s asian in skater jeans and ray ban corrective glasses doesn’t bring us our food until my dad asks if there’s a kitchen fire holding up our order, and still gets it wrong, and then continues to delay most of our food we have to leave before we get to eat the half of it. I was ready to get in the face of the woman at the register, but i thought it was my dad’s place to do so, since he was buying and he is my father. He strode up to the counter, chin high and chest out:

“I won’t be paying this bill today. Our food was late and we didn’t get to eat it. If you have a problem with that perhaps I could let the other patrons here know how incredibly poor your service is.” He motioned to the diners seated neraby. The woman behind the counter looks up with worry in her eyes, and offers to give him a free meal and a 50% reduction on the bill.

“My son might come here to eat another time. I expect him to be served respectfully.”

As i’m beaming with pride for my father, he puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me out of the restaurant.

“I got you the waitress’s number, son. Don’t forget to make fun of her glasses.”

Impossible? One weekend reading this blog and that father could have saved his son’s soul that day. He might even have saved his marriage, but judging by the description of the mother, I’m not sure he’d have wanted to once he figured out that game gave him the ability to date more women. And better women.

The only advice I have for the young man who emailed me is the following:

1. Stop beating up on yourself and acting so goddamned melodramatic. You have much insight for your age. Your intelligence will take you far. Now what you need is calm and wisdom.

2. This too shall pass.

3. The big picture trumps the little picture.

4. Stay away from your mother as much as humanly possible. She is damaged goods for you. Single moms, even your own flesh and blood, are poison for your growth as a man and a ladykiller.

5. For that matter, stay away from your father. Unless he is willing to change, he will only continue to infect you with his beta loser stench. Harsh words, I know, but your well-being trumps all.

6. If you are not ready to give up on either of your parents, then show your father this blog. Tell him to read from day one. Enlightenment is a mouse click away.

7. Show your mother this blog too. Expect hysterics.

8. Stand up to your mother. From what you have written, she sounds like an emotional vampire who demands payment in obeisance and comes to loathe those who give her what she wants. Fuck that noise. Get back to the cocky/funny that you used to be around her.

9. If all the above fail, consider physically moving away from these parasites. Friends, family, everyone. Gather your savings, quit your job, and move to a new city or even a new country.

10. Someday you will die. But that day is not today. Now is the time to live.

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Game is, above all, about options. It is a toolkit and a psychological mindset that increases the number and quality of women available to you, and strengthens the attachment that women feel toward you. For the keepers of the societal cog assembly line, this is very bad news indeed, because men with options are men willing and able to put off or even entirely forego marriage and kids.

Options = Instability

For the typical man, game is probably the most powerful weapon in his arsenal of seduction that he has at his disposal. Few lifestyle changes can expand the pool of available and willing women as definitively as a concerted effort to learn game. A sudden infusion of wealth or fame, or a miracle of plastic surgery for the uglier men, would have a greater immediate impact than game, but for most men most of the time for whom fame and wealth are out of reach or would require decades of hard work to achieve, nothing gives a bigger bang for the bang than game.

This increase in sexual market leverage does come with a cost, depending on your philosophical view of the inherent tension between individual aggrandizement and societal well-being. As new vistas of poon open wide to the man who accepts the carnal word of game into his life, the context for the choices he makes and the big stages of life he is expected — worse, obligated and duty-bound according to some whiny women — to navigate are irrevocably altered. He no longer feels the pressure to accede to custom, to accept his lot like a good provider beta gear in the machine, or to join the herd of those corralled in claustrophobic pens of restricted options.

Such a man who possesses facility with attracting the opposite sex subconsciously regards his girlfriend (or girlfriends) with a utilitarian eye. He knows that should something go wrong, should she grow — heaven forfend! — bored with him, or he with her, he can find a replacement woman of equal or better quality with a few weeks effort. This self-awareness of his options, based in the reality of his experience, colors every choice he makes. And, more importantly, it instills in him a discreet take-it-or-leave-it demeanor that is unmistakeable, and unmistakably alluring, to women. It is the attitude of sex panther.

The man with options often decides, with justification, to say fuck it to marriage and all that soul-sucking suburban indentured servitude. Thus, knowledge of game and the larger selection of women it offers to the practitioner play a substantial role in the direction his life takes.

Reader Rum comments:

Getting a good grasp of game DOES disrupt the (supposedly) normal progression of life events. Indeed, it makes it dramatically more likely that you at 47 will get lascivious attention from “in-appropriately young” women. But, the thing is, with ordinary luck, you will be getting the same kind of vibes from that same chicks mother. (Its weird the way they smell the same).

So you will have to make a definite choice. Choose without thinking too much. Then pretend the mom thing never really happened. It might work.

This is no doubt true, as any man who has reaped the benefits of game will tell you. The socially-approved timetable of life stages is simply wiped clean, conventional expectations are brought to heel, and the horizon of choice pussy extends along every compass point.

The normal, 21st century progression of life events for the average beta bear who knows nothing of game looks like this:

- hit puberty
- masturbate for ten years
- attend sex ratio-skewed college full of slutty women and get lucky once or twice, despite social awkwardness
- enlist in cubicle farm, ogle sexy co-workers at sexual harassment seminar
- manage to land a 4 or 5 girlfriend through drunken social circle
- date her for two years until she dumps him
- drown sorrows for one full year torturing self with repeated viewings of ex’s Facebook relationship status updates, (“Currently in a harem!”), including make-out pics with new biker boyfriend
- meet an “amazing” 5.5 chubby girl with “more to love”
- propose 1.2 years later
- get married, have kids
- watch as his soul drains away from enforced monogamy and ingrate spawn
- surprise divorcebuttsecks!
- pay half for the lingerie ex-wife buys to titillate her new succession of fly-by-night lovers
- contemplate killing self
- work self to bone for a corporate behemoth’s bottom line
- after ten years being single and paying alimony, meet a 45 year old divorcée lawyer with saggy tits and flat ass
- “court” her, or a reasonable facsimile thereof
- suffer the indignity of pretending to enjoy kissing her as her hot daughter traipses around the house in short shorts
- live out waning days accompanying hag second wife to arts and crafts boutiques
- get sent to nursing home by “compassionate” children for sweet deliverance from the prison of wrecked flesh that holds the last vestige of his faintly man-like soul

Ok, now here’s the 21st century progression of life events for the man who knows game and uses it to successfully meet women:

- hit puberty. If a born natural, begin fucking “underage” (it’s all relative) high school girls. If not a born natural, learn from naturals, mimic them, and discover the crimson arts
- have a sweet sixteen girlfriend (or two) he will never forget, and who he will always compare, usually favorably, to future lovers, to keep those future lovers off any pedestals he may be inspired to erect in their names
- fuck like a rabbit in college if early start. Otherwise, fuck like a rabbit for the next twenty years after college
- somewhere along that timeline, meet a great girl who he rationally tells himself would make a good wife
- reminds himself that marriage is an irrational choice. Then reminds himself that he loves flirting with the cashier at the supermarket, and he marvels how easy it would be to snag her number
- laughs to himself at thought of proposing. (“Bended knee, my ass!”)
- good girl dumps him for wasting her prime years. In his sorrow, he responds by traveling and banging a couple of international hotties
- his divorced and financially raped male friends glom onto him. His harried married male friends secretly envy him
- work is just another word for lifestyle enabler
- spend waning years dating relatively younger and younger women, watching the age gap widen and his married chump friends waking up to the realization that they are shackled by law to wrinkly old bags
- society hates him. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t give a shit
- die post-coitus from a heart attack. Leave the world alone to enter a void of nothingness, no different than all those married schlubs who toiled for years to nurture and raise a legacy of strippers and delinquents

Any questions?

Oh, yeah, there is one question I have. I understand the Chateau has been mentioned as an outpost of loathsome, bowel-shaking truth in Kay Hymowitz’s new book Manning Up. Dearest Kay, please tell the Chateau readership…

What exactly does marriage offer to guys like us who have the tools to meet, fuck and love women?

It’s not like marriage by its very nature isn’t a raw deal for men. Even the supposed health benefits of marriage for men are a lie. Assuming the law was fair and not the man-hating femcunt swamp of legalistic ass-rogering that it is today, marriage would still be a bigger sacrifice for men than it is for women, simply because men are more naturally promiscuous than women and thus have more to lose by cuffing themselves to a legally enforced institution of monogamy. But now throw in the divorce industrial complex, the house, the kids, alimony, a washed up pussy distended from riding the cock carousel during her lean years and all the rest and that just makes the case against marriage even more airtight than it was before.

PS: Any appeals to nobility or honor will not count as a valid answer. Instead, they will be seen for what they are: a flagrant, flailing attempt to shame men into making choices that further feminists’ interests while undermining men’s interests.

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Most women want marriage and children. I do not. Given that mutually satisfying and loving sexual relationships have nothing to do with marriage, the game plan of women to get hitched and pregnant can often be postponed for years while their hearts are swaddled in the glow of love. However, it is inevitable that in the course of a life full of marriage-free relationships a few good ones will be lost. As captivating and addictive as I am, I have lost some women to the dictates of their particularly strong attachments to the marriage and kids initiation sequence. I miss them all.

This is a price every ladies man who disavows marriage but who loves women will pay at one time or another. Consider it the cost of doing business. And the loss will never be without pain, as a woman under such circumstances must betray her deepest feelings in order to leave you and pursue her marriage goal anew with another man who is open to the idea.

Blame social conditioning or genetic compulsion, it doesn’t matter. Most women will, after some great time has passed, begin to clamor for an overpriced rock and a legal claim to half of your wealth and property. As I am not one to cave to such ultimatums, they have had to make decisions whether to stay with me on my terms or break it off to find a sucker husband. Some have left, and I am sure to this day we still ache for each other.

And this has hardly anything to do with principle. It is strictly a calculation of self-interest on my part. Modern marriage and kids by their nature tame men and render them less powerfully magnetic than they were as unmarried men. This may be good for molding a new army of drones to serve the perpetual consumption society, but it is bad for relationships. Because female sexuality is designed to respond to masculine power the woman who corrals a man into marriage is condemning herself to fuck a man for whom she has lost a measure of respect and sexual desire.

Marriage makes so little sense that it would take an exceedingly devious woman to bait me into the marriage trap. So far, none have managed the trick, and the few who were devious enough to manage it chose instead to follow my lead or tearfully say their goodbyes.

So I tell you men who have renounced marriage: prepare for loss. It will happen, and you will have to be ready to accept this inevitability.

But there is good news. A nontrivial number of sexy women have no interest in marriage, or are ambivalent about the enterprise. These women, despite media brainwashing to the contrary, do exist, and you can find them. It will require a little more work by you to screen for them, but the effort is worth it. The other strategy which you can employ, and which I not only highly recommend but follow in my own life, is to date young women. The marriage bug doesn’t really start to bite until a woman hits 28 or so, especially in the big cities where peer pressure and status whoring delay the age at which women seriously entertain the prospect of marriage and kids. So you can avoid the hassle of ultimatums altogether by dating early 20s and mid 20s girls.

You can also date washed up cougars who have lost all hope that they’ll get married, but really, why would you want to do that?

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When her head nestles in my neck
and her fingers graze my ear
and her sleepy breath whispers hymns
my worldly worries disappear.

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Trumped-up Charges

Women love to bitch and moan about their men. It’s in their blood. But it matters not, most of the time. As long as you smite her heart with your heraldic war pike of forged steel alphaness, her bitching and moaning will waft into the ether, having no influence whatsoever on her desire to cling to you. In fact, bitching and moaning is often a sign that the woman is deeply in love, for such a powerfully debilitating emotion ushers forth a fusillade of half-hearted complaints as a grounding mechanism to steady her so that she can make at least semi-cogent rationalizations why she can’t get enough of your assholery.

There is, however, a time and context when the complaints carry more weight. This is usually right near the end of a relationship, when she has already checked out and is now trying to wriggle free without confronting the real reasons why she feels no tingle. You will know this is happening because complaints you rarely heard before suddenly come out of nowhere, and with increasing frequency. Her bitching, too, will take on a serious cast, and the playfulness with which she needled you before will be gone, replaced by a somber recounting of grievous faults. You will almost picture her wearing a green eyeshade as she ticks off your bothersome habits that, for reasons unclear to your formulaically analytical male mind, she finds irredeemably annoying what once she thought charming, and evidence that you are unsalvageable as a boyfriend.

“You’re late all the time.”

“I hate they way you kiss with the side of your lips.”

“You never got me anything nice.” (You’ll notice girls using an out-of-place past tense when you have been mentally demoted to ex-lover.)

We here at the Chateau know the reason why she has morphed into a human resources department assistant manager: you lost your alpha mojo. Her complaints, more often than not utterly baseless trumped-up charges, are simply mediums through which she contextualizes your emerging betatude. She cannot fathom the subtleties of character deficiency and behavioral emasculation that turn her off, but she can wrap her frazzled hamster around the one time you were ten minutes late picking her up from the train station. And since a woman’s memory for trivial details rivals a quad core CPU, you can expect that she will remember retroactive annoyances from five years ago that today serve as convenient nitpick fodder to justify the torrent of hypergamous preprogramming that propels her away from your domesticated ass.

Happily for you readers, the Chateau is a one stop shop for all your relationship management needs. We don’t just diagnose the problem; we give you solutions. So what do you do when the end is nigh and the bitching has evolved into a stone cold staff meeting? Whatever you do…


Women are probably capable of some rudimentary logical thinking in a pinch, but it isn’t their default mental algorithm, and they won’t like having to be logical when they could defer to their insanely precocious feeeeelings instead. So when you engage a woman logically, assaulting her with the facts and bolstering your case, you are actually signing your own notice of dismissal. In the court of love, fairness is a fleeting proclamation and evidence an obstacle to be tampered with on the way to the Siberian celibacy camps.

“You’re late all the time.”

“No, I’m not. Once or twice, maybe. But do you remember me being on time for the house party last week?”


“You’re late all the time.”

“You would be too if your ten other girlfriends were constantly bugging you.”


“I hate the way you kiss with the side of your lips.”

“I don’t do that. You’re just making shit up.”


“I hate the way you kiss with the side of your lips.”

“Next time I’ll aim for your ear.”


“You never got me anything nice.”

“Sure I did. What about that cashmere sweater I got you for your birthday?”


“You never got me anything nice.”

“Fuck you. That bag of Skittles cost me an arm and a leg.”


The above are merely suggestions for dealing with the red flags of rationalization bitching. Many game strategies are available to you, and all are good in their own way. The point of this post is that under no circumstances should you ever take a woman seriously in relationship matters, unless she is waving a small white stick with a pink tip in front of you.

Even then, proceed with caution.

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Escaping The Friend Zone

Many men will nod with understanding when reading the following LJBF account from a reader:

I was just on the receiving end of the fastest friend zone in the world. It usually occurs after orbiting a girl for a while and then having her reject a move. This happened before any actual moves.

- Met this girl through a female friend when the 3 of us went to the cinema
- Got her number the same evening, she was very warm and enthusiastic towards me, we exchanged some messages later
- Called her 2 days later and had a chat where she was again the same towards me. Tried to schedule a drink at Thursday, she was busy but offered Saturday instead
- 15 minutes later I get this text from her: “I’m really sorry, I’m not really up for going out, I was in a long relationship until recently. It was very nice in the cinema with you, you’re really pleasant and interesting to talk with, but I understood it only as friendship.”
- My reply 15 minutes later: “Fair enough. I appreciate you telling me, I went through something similar. If you’d like that interesting conversation, feel free to call.”
- Her reply 2 minutes later: “Ok. I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way, I didn’t intend to.”
- My reply 2 minutes later: “Don’t worry, I didn’t propose to you or something ;-) Brave of you to tell me. Enjoy :)”

I tried to signal in my replies that it didn’t really matter because I didn’t do anything except chat with her, but wasn’t going to hang around as a friend. On the other hand, since she was so direct (honest), I didn’t feel the need to counter with bombs like “What, you thought I was hitting on you?” or attempt to salvage.

I guess that even though I approached with no pressure she knew that no guy asks a girl out unless he intends something, and doused it. Whether it was because of her real recent breakup or just a polite way of telling me that she wasn’t interested, I’ll never know. Maybe I should just be proud of putting out enough of a sexy vibe in one hour after the movie, eh?

Regardless, that’s the fastest friend zone I’ve ever seen!

Did this story raise the hairs on the back of your neck? Did you identify with the emailer? The friend zone is like a huge pussy planet with a mighty gravitational pull; your escape velocity needs to be very fast to avoid getting sucked into receiving warm hugs with three pats on the back and listening to boyfriend stories not involving you.

The best way to dodge the friend zone is to refrain from putting yourself in a position in which befriending is possible. That means making it clear to a girl early on that you see her as a sexual conquest waiting to happen. Once befriended, it is very difficult to change her opinion of you to one of potential lover. An ounce of sleaziness is worth a pound of conversion.

If it’s a bang you want, it’s a friendship you don’t want. There are only a few circumstances under which it is feasible to be friends with a girl.

This is not to argue that befriending girls in order to later get in their pants can’t be a successful hookup strategy. If you have the patience of a saint, the fortitude to endure painful blue balls, and the willingness to undertake a high effort endeavor with a small chance of reward, then the friend zone to fuck zone plot ploy is for you. Most men, however, don’t feel they have ten lifetimes to devote to this long-view strategy. Plus, there is the matter of preserving one’s dignity.

The emailer made his move quickly, but without being there to observe his body language and the tone of his conversation, it’s impossible to say whether he made an early impression as a sexual man or as a good-natured friend of a friend. In addition, the context was not ideal for pickup. A girl who meets you through a mutual girl friend is going to mentally box you into the friend zone by association. This is especially true if your girl buddy talked about you in private with her girl friend as if you were the bestest male buddy in the world a girl could hope for. And don’t you just want to squeeze his chipmunk cheeks!

Obviously, when the emailer tried to schedule a later date, she clued in to his intentions. It’s possible she may have known his intentions from the first meeting, but it’s good policy to never underestimate the ability of girls to misread a man’s romantic pursuit. As a defensive measure, girls are adept at missing male sexual overtures. Since most men are on the prowl most of the time, it would make sense for women to behave as if they notice nothing that could shake their coy repose. This is why the best seducers are men who take action to get what they want, rather than men who passively wait for love to fall in their laps.

If it’s true the girl recently left a long relationship, she would likely have welcomed the attention of the emailer, if only for a platonic date with friends. Thus, she may have misled him into believing she was available FOR HIM. (Despite what women say, recent breakups are no impediment to hooking up with a new man if he is an alpha.) It’s a common mistake for men to enter contrived social scenarios (as this emailer’s was) and attempt to capitalize on the good fortune of being thrust into the company of an attractive girl. But quick pickups rarely happen that way, unless you are obviously higher value than your target. Girls don’t like going on dates with men who take advantage of infrequent forced social arrangements, particularly if her friends are watching. A few days later, she may have even felt some resentment toward the emailer for assuming she would be interested just because he’s a friend of her friend.

It is also possible, although not as likely, that she was turned on by the emailer and stomped on the brakes before the flirting spun out of control. Some girls don’t trust themselves after a breakup; sex is a quick and dirty way to rejuvenate the ailing female ego. But this is more of female rationalization than anything else. There are too many women who will monkey swing from one alpha cock to another to buy into that line of thinking.

Once she knows you’re interested, there’s no backpedaling without making yourself look like a tool. “You thought I was hitting on you?” will sound pathetically transparent to even the stupidest girls. The emailer avoided doing that, but his chosen responses weren’t much better. “Fair enough” is beta mincemeat. Where is the teasing? The cocky attitude? “Fair enough” is what you say to your neighbor when you are arguing over a property line assessment.

Better reply (a few hours later): “Wow, you sound like a soap opera. Drama queen!”

Or don’t reply at all. There’s nothing like a non-reply to rev up a hamster in distress.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t suggest she call you “if you’d like that interesting conversation”. She just blew you off and you’re rewarding her with your time? For crying out loud, dude. Sack up!

Also, whenever a girl says “I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way” (and let’s face it, men, these words are like fingernails on a chalkboard to us), the worst response is “Don’t worry.” Why let her off the hook with exactly what she wants to hear? Play with the condescending bitch a little bit. Better answer: “Oh LORDY my heart… it is exploding! However shall I go on?!”

“Bravo of you to tell me”?!? *gag* RTFA.

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They’re coming. And sooner than you think.

A YouTube commenter writes:

the day humans will stop existing is just around a hundred years after the first realistic sex robot hits the market.

Unless reproduction is industrialized and severed from the mating market after the appearance of that first lifelike sexbot, this commenter is likely correct. Here is an older post about the probable ramifications of sexbots on human society and dating.

When sexbots become realistic enough to compete with attractive human women in the bedroom, then what you will essentially see is a sex ratio that is numerically skewed in favor of men. Basically, the world will become one giant liberal arts college campus. Men will stop running traditional game and instead run “present and accounted for” game.

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The reader who sent this in wrote:

It’s kind of amazing how much one image can totally capture everything that is wrong with wedding culture and how warped the meaning of the institution has become.

I thought it might be useful for your readership to see, and perhaps if a few were dating chicks with this kind of ring idolatry (and other similar, unsavory tendencies) they might sharpen up their game a bit before they, too, were rendered faceless.

Can you name all the ways this photo is a metaphor for the crumbling state of modern marriage? There are at least four emblematic American woman plagues that are apparent to the trained eye.

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I’ve gotten more emails to write about this Duke slut Karen Owen than I have on any other topic. I wasn’t interested at first, having scanned the notorious Powerpoint (also at this link in case first doesn’t work) and concluded that it was just another story of a whore riding the (alpha) cock carousel who happened to forego discretion and publicize her sluttery, nothing to see here move along dystopia down the hall and to your left. But a closer inspection of Owen’s tell-all reveals a river of scorned subconsciousness that the mainstream feminist bloggers have predictably failed to notice –

this chick was rejected by each and every one of these high status men she banged.

“But how can that be?”, some of the duller among you will ask. “None of the men turned her down for sex.”

Don’t you know it’s different for women? Failing to get laid is not how women are rejected; they are rejected when they don’t receive romance, love, and long term commitment from the men who fuck them. Most women under 25 with a slim and healthy 17-23 BMI profile have no trouble getting laid from the men they find attractive. Given that most young women can get sex fairly easily, falling into bed with a man, even high status men such as the Duke athletes targeted by Owen, is not much of an accomplishment. It’s like giving a trophy to a dog for being able to lick its own balls.

Now convincing these fly-by-nighter men to date, romance, introduce to their friends, spend money on, and marry the women they screw… that’s the real trick. And it is the measuring stick we should be applying to skank hos like Karen Owen. For by that metric, she and many others like her fail miserably.

For example, here is her write-up of the man (a tennis star) she rated the worst:

Note this man’s utter dismissal of her as a potential long term prospect. “Did not bother to kiss more than a few seconds”. “…after which he simply walked out”. “…did not return”. “‘I will leave them outside of the building for you’”.

And Owen’s reaction?

“1/10. Seriously.”

That is the tersely bitter send-off of one pissed and deeply wounded woman. Don’t let the whimsical snarkiness and slut empowerment pose fool you — even the raunchiest cockgobblers have a heart inside that beats for a man to love and cherish them above all others. The love of a man, true and loyal, is the slut’s white whale.

But what about the men she rated highly? Did they stay with her? Here’s her write-up of the man she rated the highest:

What did the first place man do differently than the last place man? He catered to her female need for signs of romance and commitment (which, in the end, weren’t forthcoming. And that kid went HA HAW):

“…intense level of eye contact”. “‘…if I get lucky you’ll wake me up with a kiss in the morning’”. “Him refusing to allow me to leave before noon”. “…how important it was to him that I got off as well”.

So when PUAs talk about leaving women better than you found them, this is what they mean — treat your pump and dumps like girlfriends and in the ego-assuaged haze of their pleasure they will forget that you haven’t actually committed to them beyond offering the half-eaten burrito in your fridge.

Unfortunately for Miss Owen, this story with ÜberMan #1 does not have a happy ending. After that amazing night together, this is how the following rendezvous meetings went down:

I saw him out briefly at Devines the Tuesday after, but since we had only just seen each other [ed: "seen" = "fuck" in chickspeak. GSS Fail!]… I did not even approach him, only making sure that he saw me in passing. [...] I would have liked to have hooked up many more times than two, but he was tired and I needed to graduate the next day.

Long term romance fail. When a girl is careful not to talk to a lover in public for fear of creating an awkward moment that might kill the budding romance, you know you are dealing with a slut shooting way out of her league and, in the big picture, a dating market beautifully arranged to the maximum advantage of alpha males. This truly is the golden era for single men with game who have wisely avoided the trap of marriage. Conversely, it is the hell matrix for betas who now have nothing to offer but the pitiful consolation prize of being willing to wear ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ t-shirts in hopes of copping a pity fuck from a short-haired hippie chick on a five hour bender.

The whole Powerslut Powerpoint reads like the above. Owen snags another Duke alpha athlete (implicitly she has studiously avoiding snagging any computer science students on campus), has her sex, and then never sees the guy again except at beer pong parties where they exchange knowing glances if she’s lucky, or unacknowledged quick exits if she’s unlucky. Then she writes about it with a dash of humor and self-awareness to exorcise the demons tormenting her broken heart and chafed vulva, and sends it to a couple of girlfriends, her male-oriented brain assuming the girlfriends would be loyal to her and not pass it on to the wider public. Big mistake.

Probably the stupidest commentary on this affair was by that cougartown fembot Penelope Trunk, (the hypocritical conniving cacklepuss stalkercunt who harassed a man and his family in real life for having the gall to sneer at her feminist boilerplate), who in her infinite perspicacity managed to turn it into a treatise on, color me surprised!, sexual harassment and female empowerment via the magical art of spreading your legs for chaste men who only have sex once every thousand years when Jupiter and Saturn are aligned.

So what makes these slides so fascinating?  I think it’s her spunk and self-knowledge and enthralling sense of her own power. I wish I had had that when I was her age. I am twenty years older than Owen, but she inspires me to be brave, takes risks, and let my creativity get the best of me.

So what’s stopping you? Oh, that’s right. Twenty additional years (forty in female years) isn’t good for the bangathon business.

Jesus, what a buffoon.

Here’s some real insight for ya, Penelope and assorted Jizzabelers — Karen Owen has royally fucked up her chances to extract marriage from a good man thanks to her intemperate decision to write about, share and, consequently, archive for the masses for all eternity her insatiable hunger for a variety of lacrosse cock. Try to turn down the knobs on your psychologically-cemented female projection modules for a moment and put yourself in an alpha male’s shoes. What man worth his yarbles in character, money, career, looks, charm and/or social status is going to use Karen Owen for anything more than a hole in which to dump a perfunctory fuck? What high status man would marry a slut with a tap sheet a mile long, her every clitoral flutter registered in loving detail in ASCII, jpeg and png for his friends to read and laugh at?


Naturally, the double standards crowd will pipe up that Owen was just doing what men do all the time. Congratulations! You just figured out double standards exist and life isn’t fair. First prize, a group hug from fellow knobbobbers. Second prize, a beta with few options. Third prize, you’re still a rancid slut.

The impolite fact is that a man who wrote an Owen-esque fuck list would not suffer much, if any, penalty in the dating market *or* in the more tightly regulated social market for his promiscuity. Sure, a few femtards would wail at the objectifying of women and the unfairness that ugly but SMRT broads are passed over for alpha bimbo sorostitutes, but in the crucible of real life most normal heterosexual women would be uncomfortably drawn to such a man, and would work for his affections. I’m sure the athletes who are a part of Owen’s fuck list are high-fiving their pounding of Owen’s sperm cavern when they’re not fucking a hundred other groupies scrambling for their attentions.

Bottom line: a male Karen Owen would actually see his sexual market value *rise*, while Owen’s value as a girlfriend and potential wife has undoubtedly fallen. This — plus the raw hypergamy on display by her choice of sexual partners and her ability to effortlessly fulfill that limbic impulse — is the underlying message of Owen’s cutesy confessional. And it’s the message that the legacy media, the middle-aged vicars of vicariousness, and the feminists are trying hard to miss.


A few other points of note. Duke is also the site of the infamously racist false rape accusation by a black stripper against white lacrosse players. The mass media and fembots had a glorious communal orgasm over that one until it was discovered the whole thing was a lie. Funny how now, with another Duke scandal wafting in the autumn air, those same media mavens and feminists can’t be bothered to string up Karen Owen for her objectifying of Duke’s male students. Instead of a wail, admiration for her journey of self-actualization is shared by all.

Hypocrites, liars and filthy cunts, the lot of them.

Karen Owen herself looks masculinized. Check out her manjaw, beady eyes and heavy overhanging brow (on the left):

The photo of her lends evidence to my theory that women with high serum testosterone, or women who have been prenatally drowned in single mamma’s high T syrup, are more likely to slut it up with a platoon of men. These kinds of women are also more likely to value raw looks in a man, whereas more feminine women tend to downgrade male looks relative to other attractive male traits such as humor, charm and social acumen. It is possible that Owen’s masculinization gives her the male-like capacity to absorb to a greater extent than most women a series of repeated romantic rejections from crudely inattentive one night stands.

Last thought. What I’ve written above is based on the assumption that Owen was honest with her Powerpoint. It isn’t a guarantee that she’s telling the truth. The internet is the place where people make shit up. (Case in point: I could be making everything up as well. Every story I write could be a total lie. It isn’t, but it could be. You’ll just have to take my word for it.)

Owen could very well have made everything up for shits and giggles, or she could have been cruelly rejected by an alpha lacrosse player and this was her weird idea of getting back at him and those like him. It’s not unheard of that women will lie, in both petty and grand ways, about the men who have hurt them in a vain attempt at exacting vengeance, nor is it unheard of that they will fantasize out loud about having sex with alpha males. For purposes of discussion, we’ll have to believe the story as reported: the hookups are real and she only meant to send her fuck list to a few (formerly) close girlfriends.

I’m sure the Duke lacrosse players are crying in their red cups. [/sarcasm]

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Reader Andy writes:


I like the blog and have picked up some tips. Thanks.

I have a great tip for you based on a recent post. You talked about how “it’s complicated” is a great answer to a majority of shit test questions. It’s OK, but I have the mother of [all] responses. [Editor: MOAR!] You have to use it sparingly though to make it most effective.  I was taught this in sales training many years ago.

When someone askes you a question you might not want to answer (for whatever reason, or no reason at all) you respond with “why is that important for you to know?”.

It totally moves them from aggressive to defensive.

If you’re an older guy and a chick asks “how old are you?” you say immediately “why is that important for you to know?”, what could she possibly say in response? If you think a chick is a gold digger, when she inevitably askes “what do you do for a living?” and you answer with that, what is she gonna say? “because I’m a gold digging bitch and don’t want to waste my time with a loser”. Nope. She’ll get all flustered and give you some answer and feel like an idiot. Perfect time to close.

The actual success rate of this sly evasive maneuver is less salient than the frame shift it accomplishes. If, for instance, a girl asks what you do and you don’t want to tell her, saying “why is that important for you to know” won’t necessarily budge her from trying to find out at some point, but it will put her on the defensive. And a girl in the defensive crouch is a girl giving birth to gina tingles. When you induce a girl to explain her fascination with you and your goings-on, her avaricious hindbrain will be tricked into registering your status as higher than hers, and from thence intimacy may commence.

“It’s complicated” and “Why is that important for you to know?” are two MOARs every aspiring Casanova should have in his arsenal of seduction.

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