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Game Is Real

Occasional testimonials of the awesome power of game are useful for new readers. Via Vox at Alpha Game,

Small example: I recently ran into a girl I’d been very interested in a couple years back and never really gotten over, but our conversation went very differently than it would have even 6 months ago. She’d effectively friend-zoned me a long time ago (or more accurately, I’d clumsily friend-zoned myself), but at one point after I said something that surprised her, I saw unguarded respect in her eyes. That’s a feeling I’ll not soon forget, and in an instant it confirmed more of what’s been said here to me than 100 logical arguments could.

The result was that I’m no longer friend-zoned, and I’m also no longer interested.. funny how when you change from responder to initiator you start seeing people differently. Now of course an Alpha will find all that amusing and a silly thing to call a victory, but that’s fine. It’s progress. Some guys have to start bench-pressing with just the bar, but they don’t have to linger there for long.

That “unguarded respect” is what I like to call a “Surge of Tingle”. It’s that feel women get when shocked by a blast of alpha-tude from a man whom they never expected such a blast. The Surge of Tingle sends lustblood to her physical and cortical extremities, and the perceptive man will notice it most clearly in her eyes, where the dull sheen of boredom with the world’s mediocre masses of beta males is swept away by a lively, shiny, moist expressiveness roused to ocular attention by a charismatically challenging man.

Sometimes all it takes is a few words that are different than all the words you have spoken in your life to women before. A path formerly untravelled, but rich with promises of breathtaking scenery, if you will only take a step forward on it. You have a license to charm. Use it. When you do, the reality of game will materialize like an obelisk from the retreating fog, and you’ll finally have your understanding.

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Would you call this man smart? I would.

He jams, drinks, surfs, lounges beachside all day, and eats lobster on the public dime. Oh sure, he doesn’t have a lot of material possessions (but how’d he get that car?) that define the accomplished SWPL life, but when you’re banging hot southern Cally girls, (and I bet you big bank he’s tapping more sweet ass than a hundred Apple employees turning six figures are buying dinners for), the urge to bust your balls hunched over a computer screen 50 hours a week so you can acquire the latest iteration of some useless gadget and pay taxes for your active dispossession kind of fades away. The Dude abides his new perspective.

Poolside in America is the nation’s 21st century battle cry. And why not? The country is sinking fast under mounds of debt, unemployment, and alienation. The government pushes propaganda and policies that undermine the very concept of a nation, so no wonder growing numbers of Americans are jettisoning any feeling of duty toward their homeland like so much gassy ballast. Social atomization and the sheer massive scale of a bloated 300+ million population of competing races, ethnicities, behaviors, and temperaments herded like cats under ever-tightening rules and regulations and surveillance drones doomed to fail are splintering hard-earned loyalty and severing bonhomie. Obscene inequality of wealth and the total abandonment of noblesse oblige by the ruling classes has emboldened the leeches and parasites and sociopaths and hedonists and nihilists and clear thinkers. In the land of the left-behind, the poolsider is king.

Toward the end of the video, the interviewer asks RattLife Surfer if he feels guilty for taking advantage of Obama’s removal of restrictions on qualifying for food stamps, and helping himself to $200 of “free” money every month. He says no, and I believe him. It would be strange to feel guilt for sucking a pittance of Danegeld from fat cats helping themselves to ungodly profits from arcane financial transactions abetted by a cognitive firewall between the masses and the gated 0.1%ers on the hunt for ever-cheaper labor imported from shitholes. RattLife has made a very rational decision regarding his well-being: He has looked at the world he inherited, at the immense chasm between the haves and (relative) have-nots, and has figured that slaving away in a cube farm or a grimy sweatshop on a stagnating wage to serve a smaller and smaller cadre of super wealthy and femcunt HR schoolmarms is no life at all. What is the point of busting your hump when the brass ring has moved from your fingertips to Alpha Centauri?

“My job is to make sure the sun’s up and the girls are out.”

Now that’s radical.

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Spot The Alpha

The evidence:

Man in the back left can hardly contain his joy. Or his perforated ulcer. His fingers grip his super-sized prize like a rock climber dangling from a cliff face with no rope. He’s not about to let her tip over and capsize into her friend. After all, what is better in life than a fat chick with no tits?

Man in the back right is more composed, and maintains a firmer grip on his ballast. He seems fairly aware of the load capacity of his lumberjack arms and cornfed quads, and glows with the inner peace of a zen master who has touched the face of a semi-cute chick with his peen without ever having to touch her porky wet hole with it.

Girl in the front left is straining under the weight (heh) of her phony smile. She despises her reproductive partner, her grotesque starch bomb body, her life. But she loves her BBBFF who always makes her feel special and loved and free to be Princess Gluttony. Her dress sparkles because she knows how to attract the attention of horny military boys with alcoholic astigmatism.

Girl in the front right smiles naturally, smokes and drinks from a red solo cup. She has stuffed her carcass into a slinky cocktail dress meant for women half her size. She exudes self-confidence. Clearly, she is American. She likes her man and has taken many of his loads betwixt her fat girl ta tas. She is destined to cheat on him with a black man.

The conclusion:

The girl in the front right is the alpha male. Remember what the alpha male signifies: He is the man with options, who is dating “out of his league”, according to conventional metrics of date worthiness. Judging by this photo, the man who has made out like a bandit happens to be a woman.

And isn’t that modern society in a nutless-shell? An alpha male woman smothering the life out of a man who can do better, but won’t.

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This reader is very proud of his text game,

I just had a text exchange I am so proud of that I couldn’t help but share it with you. Feel free to post it if you’d like, but please don’t use my name. Thanks.

Girl: Level of disappointment from a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the break up of the beatles and and 1 being the break up of the spice girls

Girl: …of me possibly rescheduling our rendezvous to next week

Me: Is this a trick question? I loved the spice girls

Girl: Nevermind.  Ill see you Thursday

How alpha is this reader’s text reply? On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being STEVE MOTHERFUCKIN MCQUEEN alpha, and 1 being Hugo Schwyzer situational alpha which fails the second he walks out of a roomful of deranged feminist coeds, I would rate his reply an 8.

An 8 means the reply is more than serviceable; it actually boosts his alpha cred a little. But what prevents the reply from reaching the exalted heights of 10dom is the springboard from which it was launched. You see, a truly alpha text message is one that careens out of nowhere, takes a girl by surprise, and instantly moistens her cortical ham for further romantic interaction. But this reader’s reply came on the heel of a very turgid message from the girl; a message so long-winded and carefully constructed that a third party reading it would come to the easy conclusion that she already harbored strong feelings for this reader.

Evidence shows the reader was operating from a position of prior alphatude, a fact which docks a couple points from the alpha score of his text reply. It was a fine reply sir, but like virtue free of the temptation of vice, alphaness is easy when it isn’t being tested by female aloofness.

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AMOG Tit Grab

A reader passes along a quickie anecdote that you don’t hear everyday:

I would like your take on this situation that arose with my GF. Been together about a month.

Went to a pub, I brought a friend, its kind of her turf so she runs into coworkers and friends there a lot. Two dudes she used to work with come in, she hugs them. She is pretty bad for introducing me to people…often she says hello to a group, I wait a minute then introduce myself. She follows up by saying I’m her BF, etc, but she leaves it to me to break the ice.

Once again no intro, this time I didn’t care much to say hi, so me and my friend went for a drink. At last call, her and I are chatting, I see another friend and go say hi, she sees these two coworkers again. I come up to do the introduction, and one of the dudes grabs her tit when she moves in for a hug. She shoves his hand away but laughs and hugs him. I’m literally over this dudes shoulder, she knows I saw it.

What’s the alpha play here? (I walked away, she chased after me asking why i was running away…fully aware of the reason)

1. One month is not long enough to call any girl your “girlfriend”. Not even if you’re banging her six ways to Sunday. Already I sense your mentality is beta, for only a beta male would count his chicks before they’ve latched.

2. It’s a very bad tell when your “GF” doesn’t introduce you to people she knows. She either doesn’t want them to know the full extent of your relationship with her, or she’s not sufficiently attached to you and easily forgets you exist. Third option: She’s a sperg with naturally bad social skills. But that’s a low probability option.

3. The AMOG dude obviously felt comfortable enough to grab her tit without fearing retribution, from either her or you. Therefore, he either knows, through her, that she’s not that into you, or he’s actually fucking her on the downlow. Her reaction — or rather, her barely concealed joy — strongly hints at the latter.

4. The alpha play is to never talk to her again. Seriously. She’s a lost cause, even if she didn’t technically “cheat”. Yet.

5. But if you just want to keep the sex going for as long as possible, give it two weeks, then re-engage. Treat her like absolute dirt. I figure this strategy will net you three more months of hungry blowjobs.

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Nigel Havers, a British TV actor, has some choice comments about the nature of female sexuality.

TV heart-throb Nigel Havers says women ‘never learn’ when it comes to men – because they cannot stop pursuing ‘cads’. […]

[Havers] finds out that his maternal great-great-grandfather, David Couch, had an illegitimate daughter with a 19-year-old servant girl.

Havers, 61, told the Radio Times: ‘You can’t help but think you’ve inherited some of their qualities. David was a bit of a cad, which is the sort of part I’ve played.

‘I made The Charmer in 1987, which was dangerous for me because I didn’t think viewers would warm to such a ghastly character. And yet the opposite happened. However evil he was, people liked him.

More precisely, men wanted to be him, women wanted him.

‘Throughout history women tend to like cads. They want to mother and change them. It’s exciting, but always ends in tears.

‘They don’t learn, do they? I don’t mean that in a sexist way. Some women prefer a stable life, but others love danger.’

He goes on to say that men love dangerous women, too, but that’s just CYA equalist squid ink, meant to appease feminist shrike censors. Men love hot women, and if they happen to be bitches, well… men won’t turn down a romp in the sack with them, though they will think twice about committing to them, and they certainly won’t rationalize their bitchiness like so many women rationalize the caddishness and assholery of jerks and terrorist bombers.

Women go out of their way to locate, identify and seduce jerks. Men do not go out of their way to locate, identify and seduce bitches. (Men will go out of their way to target sluts, nice or not.) Women love jerks *because* they’re jerks. Men will occasionally love hot bitches *despite* their bitchiness. If you need scientific evidence to corroborate everyone’s personal observation and age-old wisdom, the CH archives are filled with links to relevant studies.

What about the theory that women want to mother and change cads? There is something to this, but it’s not the primary urge that drvies women into the arms of unsavory men. The female love for jerks is, translated, a love for dominant men who, in the state of nature (and equally in the state of modern society), can protect them from invaders and sire sons who will inherit the same badboy pussy-collecting genes.

It’s helical imperatives all the way down.

But women also possess a compulsion to domesticate men who fall within their long-term seductive purview. It makes sense from an evolutionary perspective that women would serve their fitness-enhancing interests by cutting the nutsack off their conquests, lest valuable testosterone-y goodness is diverted to the project of further pussy plunder and away from amassing resources for her growing family.

But betas don’t inspire this womanly desire to geld, because betas already come packaged with nuts sold separately. Only cads and d-bags, nuts present and accounted for, send women swooning alternately between depths and heights of ecstatic submissive lust and egocentric lion taming. The lesson for the inveterate womanizer with love in his heart should be clear: Let her change only that about you with which you were already willing to part.

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Dan readied his stick and plunked a ball in a side pocket. Relishing his fleeting achievement, he raised his eyes to check if Nadine had bore witness to his excellence. She hadn’t. Gruff, caustic Robert, his misshapen nose and squirrel’s nest hair coaxing annoyed leers, was directing to a general audience of three girls a crack about drunkenly seeing twelve holes and the improvement to his game that was sure to bring. Nadine was one of those girls, and Dan squelched a perturbation of despondency when he saw Nadine’s eyes shine for Robert’s boisterous wit.

Nadine was Dan’s project. He met her, he welcomed her friends, he introduced them all to his friends, he slept luxuriously fitful nights imagining Nadine warming to him and reciprocating his feelings. Kind, pretty and, lately, eager to hang out with him and his buddies, Nadine was unassailable. Dan allowed renewed confidence in the value he offered her. Soon, he would ask her out. He just needed a private moment. They’d been out together as a group enough that Dan believed Nadine was hoping he would lurch at a pretext to corner her alone and deliver the magical words she’d been secretly anticipating. Dan occasionally wondered if the moment, when it came, would be so flush with spent resolve that they would seal the agreement with a passionate (but endearingly tentative) kiss.

Dan: “D’ja see that bank shot?”

Robert: “That bank shot wasn’t good…”

PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT

Robert: “…that bank shot was GREAT.”

Nadine: *laughs*

Dan: *smiles weakly*

Robert: *touches Nadine’s chunky girl friend with chalky side of stick*

PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC REACTION

Chunks: “Hey! Not nice!”

Robert: “Blame Dan. He bet me I wouldn’t do it.”

Dan: “No I didn’t.”

Robert: “Come on, Dan, you’re always causing trouble. Don’t try to hide it.”

Nadine: “He doesn’t look like the one causing trouble here.”

Dan: “Thanks, Nadine.”

Robert: “I knew there was something between you two!”

Dan had always taken to understand that he was a handsome, if aesthetically understated, man. He certainly saw nothing in Nadine’s limpid gaze to suggest extended exposure to his countenance irritated her. If Dan were to count up the hours spent in Nadine’s company, (an exercise which, in point of fact, he did one evening while nervously fiddling with the bracing decision to text her one mere day after they had spoken by phone, the nerve!), the sum of their unspoken love would add to a considerable investment of life energy.

And so it was with naive expectation that Dan foresaw no interference, nor any of the usual social rifts that erupt when the sexes mix, issuing from Nadine & company’s enfolding. He was therefore emotionally denuded when Nadine’s redirected attention usurped his blueprint of steady bonding. A sickening awareness jammed his guts as he recorded the mounting toll of Robert & Nadine’s wet glances, slithery torso feints, forearm grazing entreaties, and joyously faux indignations, each a sharper dagger than the last. He sunk his last shot, and excused himself to “make a call”, which no one heard, nor needed to hear.

Seven years later, Robert would be married to a svelte, head-turner blonde, and they would reside in a charming suburb. Dan would have moved to another corner of the country, met an uninspiring but trustworthy woman, and married as well, settling in a jurisdiction not known for its disruptive temptations, but not mattering anyway. Government statistics would show that Robert worked in a high-stress field and had one child with his comely wife, and that Dan was a productive contributor to state coffers and had two children by his wife.

Acquaintances who knew Dan would say if asked that he was a happy, well-adjusted man. A real stand-up guy, a normal guy. The sort of guy who had everything going for him.

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