Visualizing Herb

Oh man, this picture of a herb doing what comes naturally is almost too gruesome to contemplate:

[For this post we have a guest appearance by the judges from ‘American Idol’]

Simon: Paula, your thoughts.

Paula: I think they look cute together. He’s different, he’s unique. I like him.

Simon: [rolls eyes] Randy?

Randy: Dawg, this herb is doing his thing.

Paula: The chin cradle shows real love. [starts to cry] What the world needs are more herbs like him.

Randy: [addressing supine herb] I’m feeling ya, dawg, but dawg, maybe you could, you know, tone it down a bit, you know what I mean dawg?

Simon: Well, I think this herb is dreadful. His puffy face, his soft plush body of a woman, his chipmunk cheeks… just horrible. If I wanted to see something soft and cuddly lay down in the fetal position and rest its noggin in a woman’s lap to be stroked and petted I would get her a fluffy bunny rabbit. The rabbit would probably have bigger balls.

Paula: Simon! That’s mean.

Randy: [to herb] You know, he’s got a point dawg. In the hood, guys like you would get turned upside down by our bitches for your pocket change.

Simon: Randy speaks for the hood about as much as I do.

Paula: [to herb] I think you look fine. You are doing what two people in love do.

Simon: [to Paula] But does he make your gina tingle?

Paula: Simon!

Randy: That’s a “No”, dawg! [Randy high fives Simon]

Simon: [to herb] Look, a word of advice. If you want this girl to stick around, you need to stop acting like a bowl of Jell-O. That means stop planting your face in her lap like a cat. Man up! Her face should be in your lap, nibbling your knob. Especially in public, for god’s sake!

Herb: [fat cheeks quivering with anger] Simon, you suck. I love her, and that’s all that matters. Not everyone has to fit into your alpha-beta categories!

Paula: You tell him, herb!

Simon: [herb’s girlfriend crawls out from under the table by Simon’s chair, wiping her mouth] I’m sorry, I was busy. What was that you were saying?

Ryan Seacrest: [to herb] Congratulations, you’re going to suicide watch, my friend!

***

There are only two ways a man can act like this herb without suffering the consequence of major beta heartbreak over and over again:

1. Date an Asian girl, or

2. Date women less attractive than himself.

For those of us who prefer to grab the brass ring and date good-looking girls who have options in the sexual market, nauseating herbitude of the type shown in this photo should be avoided as much as possible. At the very least you shouldn’t snuggle up like an albino Smurf into your girl’s lap in public.

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The Church Of David Alexander

David Alexander, frequent blogosphere commenter, extraordinarily successful troll, and often self-contradictory advocate for the supposed virtues of the celibate omega male way of life, has started a church — The Church of David Alexander — and a new religion, Davidalexanderism.

Here is his First Article of Faith:

Article The First: Betas must not reproduce or impose themselves upon women. These women are unwilling, only wishing to steal your money perhaps or shower you with contempt.

Hey, if enlightened liberal SWPLs can invent a new cult religion worshipping Gaia and Her only begotten Sons, Anthropogenic Global Warming and Free Range Sea Salt, I don’t see why it’s any less irrational for David Alexander to have a church in His name where His flock goes to worship the greatness of His supernatural omegatude.

“I am the beta and the omega, the second from last and the last, the living end and the dead end.”

“I am beta am.”

“Go, be fruitless and masturbate.”

(Church of David Alexander website courtesy of reader Bhetti.)

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The Self-Made Beta

Leaning against a pole as the train lurched forward, I noticed an older man, late 40s and clearly marked with the curse of the herb, standing with his young daughter by his side. He was talking with a curvaceous, big bosomed woman in her early 20s who looked like pre-meltdown Britney Spears. She was quite stimulating to the eyes and crotch. The man and Britney were having an energetic and friendly conversation which, when my ears were tuned to the words coming out of her mouth, was about the man’s daughter’s soccer team. Britney’s wide, C-shaped smile indicated she was enjoying this harmless herb’s company, while the herb’s studiously affected flat facial expression and stiff nodding movements suggested a swell of discomfort with his arousal that was threatening to lumber awkwardly through the polite veneer of their phony interaction.

I observed them for a few minutes, until the train reached my stop. A wave of bilious disgust curled my lips. I thought to myself that I never want to be that man who is so inoffensive — that man who has relinquished the last faint hope of his masculinity — that hot co-eds feel perfectly at ease shoving their bountiful breasts and plump, juicy flesh in my face to prattle on about the daily trifles of their lives or to chatter cloyingly about my kid’s soccer practice, taunting by their estrogenic proximity the ape-shaped contours of my cockcentric desire as the beast rattles the bars of its ganglial imprisonment, begging for release.

Only men know men. Women have no conception of the mind of man and what it is thinking at any given time. I know what was going through that family herb’s head. He was hearing her words but inside he was pawing her ass cheeks, his tongue flicking up the length of her vulnerable neck, his pudgy sausage fingers squeezing her tits then prying apart her legs to stroke the folds of her labia, his cock dribbling the pre-cum of urgency as it poised itself before the entrance to her womb. Straining against the silent symphony of his horniness and the feelings of uselessness and shame for the void with which the young women around him now perceived his once dangerously virile sack, he would shuffle home, shoulders sunk, to masturbate despondently in the bathroom. I imagined the wife he would go home to is the typical American fat, nagging sow. No doubt this brief platonic conversation with the cute young woman standing before him was the sad highlight of the last fifteen years of his life.

Did Britney know this was on his mind? Such a capacity for self-delusion women possess!

Here is my call to arms. I believe it is every man’s duty to impolitely flirt and pass sexual judgement on each attractive woman who crosses his path. I believe it is every man’s right, no matter what his age, to refuse to apologize for his natural desires, to make no excuses for his deviant wants, and to grab any opportunity to hit on women in his field of view. I believe it is every man’s mission statement at birth to disturb a woman’s banal self-satisfied sanctuary — her cultivated immunity from unsettling intrusions of the psychologically erectile form — whenever she cavalierly insults his primal urges with naive overtures toward tepid, desexualized friendliness. I believe in all this because a man is happiest when he is demonstrating by his actions a proper respect for his masculine prerogative. I want there to be no mental safe haven for sexually enticing women in public places where men are present. I want them forced to confront what men are truly feeling and visualizing underneath their threadbare civility, and to understand there is no walling off the ever-encroaching predatory chaos of the jungle. I want them to be psychologically groped, everywhere there are men like me at ease with our voracious sexuality.

If I were that herbly father figure, as soon as she attempted to box me in with bland, asexual chit chat I would have negged her.

“Hey you look like Britney Spears. Later years Britney.”

This would have made her go quiet, if it did not shake her into a tremor of attraction, and by the lascivious smirk on my face she would grow suddenly uncomfortable with the realization that I was seeing her as a sexual creature to be plundered. She would then gaze downward at the ugly carpeting, and scurry through the sliding doors when her stop arrived, reminded as she was of the crude fuckworthy animal object she ultimately is to this one man at least.

And I would walk out proudly, head held high, dignity intact. A victory for my balls. A defeat for polite society.

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#1 Herb

What do herbs carry in their satchels that they need convenient access to whatever is inside while at nightclubs? Grapes? A back issue of Wired? Naomi Wolf’s ‘The Beauty Myth’? E tabs? An Obama-shaped buttplug? Scientists are baffled.

Other trademarks of the species herbisaurus maximus:

He goes straight to the leg press machine at the gym because he has no upper body strength. And it’s easy to stack a lot of plates on the leg press without actually exerting much effort.

He only exudes confidence around women when he’s already in a relationship. The herb will turn into an unstoppable and slightly creepy parvenu of flirtatious banter when he knows he has a girlfriend to fall back on. If his practice target reciprocates, the herb will suddenly get nervous and start babbling about having to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy his girlfriend scented tub stickers.

Related to the above, the herb is happy when in a relationship, morose when single. A herb who has been in a rut for longer than six months will sweat droplets of pure estrogen.

The herb constantly white knights, subconsciously hoping it will lead to sex. It never does, and the herb never learns. This white knighting instinct can be particularly annoying to the herb’s buddies. Try it and see for yourself. Example: Herb’s friend negs girl. Herb intrudes, “Hey, man, that’s not cool. Her shoes are fine.” Friend loses pickup momentum as herb monopolizes convo with girl, emoting furiously about the latest indie band.

The herb is more flexible than most female gymnasts. He does 1,500 Kegels a day, inadvertently.

The herb is not gay, but sometimes wishes he were, because he is that open-minded.

Herbs are vegetarians. Super herbs are vegans. Meat eating herbs will indulge in private, away from scornful female peers. Almost all the herb’s peers are female LJBFs.

Herbs have never — not ONCE — acquired a girlfriend by picking her up. All the herbs in the world met their girlfriends through social circles.

There are many subspecies of herbs, but the one thing they all have in common is lumpenbeta passivity. Not only does the herb have no concept of game, he will be actively repelled when you try to explain it to him. He doesn’t understand why men need game because he is happy with his chubby 4 girlfriend.

Now there are Japanese herbs! The herb has gone international!

Typically, “herbivore men” are in their 20s and 30s, and believe that friendship without sex can exist between men and women, Fukasawa said.

The term has become a buzzword in Japan. Many people in Tokyo’s Harajuku neighborhood were familiar with “herbivore men” — and had opinions about them.

Shigeyuki Nagayama said such men were not eager to find girlfriends and tend to be clumsy in love, and he admitted he seemed to fit the mold himself.

“My father always asks me if I got a girlfriend. He tells me I’m no good because I can’t get a girlfriend.”

Midori Saida, a 24-year-old woman sporting oversized aviators and her dyed brown hair in long ringlets, said “herbivore men” were “flaky and weak.”

“We like manly men,” she said. “We are not interested in those boys — at all.”

It can no longer be denied; I have my finger on the pulse of trends in first world decay. What will be the next meme to capture the world’s imagination? Stay tuned!

No herbs were harmed in the writing of this post.

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Washington Post Fembot Tells Cuckold ‘Suck It Up’

A diligent reader emailed me a ‘Beta of the Month’ submission about a guy who fears he may have been cuckolded and who turns to a Washington Post advice columnist for support in his time of need. I read the article and decided that the real value to be gleaned was not in the unearthing of stupefying betatude (after all, at Chateau Heartiste where the better angels of humanity are handcuffed to bedposts and repeatedly gangbanged by their demonic cousins, mewling cuckolds are mere run of the mill betas), but in the reply to the beta chump by Carolyn Hax, a Washington Post Style columnist.

I reprint the column in full along with my remarks, so that you may glimpse the true face of woman.

Here is the original cry of anguish by the man who believes his child is not of his beta loin:

Hi, Carolyn:

I’m writing to you because I don’t know who else to ask. My wife and I have been happily married for six years. We have a beautiful daughter, age 2. For about the past six months I have suspected my daughter isn’t really “mine.” I have never suspected my wife of cheating on me, but for a number of reasons I cannot quiet my suspicions about the baby. I have not confronted my wife because I know that might devastate our marriage. But I have to know. What should I do?

Suspicious

If a man suspects his wife has cuckolded him, the odds of his child not being his rise to 30%. The general nonpaternity rate is around 4%. Low confidence “fathers” are right to be worried. Cuckoldry is serious business because it is the female form of rape.

So by the second sentence I know this guy is a Natural Born Beta. It’s always the guys getting most screwed by their wives who persist in believing they are “happily married” seconds before she’s caught with her boss’s dick in her mouth. Another telltale sign of the beta: If he cajoles tepid sex out of his wife once a month he thinks that is proof the marriage is full of love. If you want to know how well a marriage is doing, don’t look at the husband’s face for hints of marital bliss; look at the wife’s face.

Now we’ll examine the Style columnist’s family counseling advice. You may want to prepare a crucifix and garlic.

Give careful thought, please, to what you “have to” know.

This is going to be good. The first words out of her mouth are a slopbucket of shame aimed straight at… the man.

When just seeking the truth could change your life in dramatic and irreversible ways, it’s best to start not by actually doing something but by inviting each possible truth into your imagination as fact.

What the fuck does she mean here? This is postmodern therapeutic age gibberish squared. Nonsense on stilts. “Invite each possible truth into your imagination as fact”? Screw action, just imagine everything is true. Embrace the female way: Wallow in your psychodrama while getting nothing accomplished. It’s no wonder the newspaper empire is crumbling with the third rate hacks they have writing for them nowadays. I spewed more sensible shit after a 12 hour dorm room pot and Milwaukee’s Best bender.

That way, you can figure out the way you want your life to look before you start saying things you might regret.

Wait, did I miss something, or did Miss Hax Off Your Balls just guilt trip the guy who got cuckolded?

If your life were a physical structure, this would be the “blueprint before sledgehammer” approach.

Translation: If you just take a breather and don’t let your anger and pain get the best of you, you’ll find that life as a beta provider for an alpha’s kid isn’t so bad. Your wife will love you for your measured approach and self-sacrifice, and the most important thing is to keep your wife happy, right? Right? At the very least…

…do it for the children.

If your “number of reasons” points to infidelity, for example, then you need to imagine the worst, and assume your wife did cheat — Imaginary Scenario 1 — and then you need to decide whether you’d want to stay in the marriage or leave.

I’d think the decision would be self-evident, but hey, we’re talking about spineless betas and amoral women here, so everything is up for grabs. Bizzaro America!

If the answer is to stay (Scenario 1a), then you need to ask yourself, is that outcome better served by not digging into the past?

If the guy decides to stay and prove to the world what a pathetic sap he is, then I suppose he deserves the indignity of having his worthlessness as a man rubbed in his face every time his non-kid is in the same room with him. If he’s that low on the self-esteem pole then he might be able sack down and survive eighteen years without once mentioning his wife’s whoring and the kid who doesn’t look anything like him. I can imagine the thoughts going through his head, when years later our protagonist is coaching his daughter’s soccer team: “Wow, she’s so athletic and assertive. And so attractive, too. Maybe it’s for the best that my genes weren’t passed on. Life is beautiful!”

If the answer is to leave (1b), are you ready to challenge your paternity — or have it challenged by your at-that-point-estranged wife?

1b? Is this superfluous numbering system supposed to make her sound scientific? Maybe it’s just my male logic, but if the guy decides to leave the marriage on account of strong evidence — say, oh I dunno, a paternity test — that he is a cuckold, then it wouldn’t much matter if his cheating whore of a wife is estranged from him or challenges what he already challenged.

If, on the other hand, your suspicions are based solely on your child’s appearance, then you need to ask yourself if you’re being irrational; genes are a lot more complicated than the “She has a cleft chin and therefore can’t be mine” parlor games would suggest.

More shame. You starting to notice a pattern? This is what women do when they have nothing left to fall back on but hollow arguments. Fact: Babies look more like their fathers than their mothers. This is an evolutionary adaptation that ensures fathers will stick around to care for the infant. “Cleft chin” red herring notwithstanding, if the guy thinks his kid doesn’t look like him and therefore could be the cable guy’s kid, he’s got a 30% chance of being dreadfully right.

But let’s say instead you have an unshakeable gut instinct that this is someone else’s child. If you’re right, then the percentages would be obviously (and heavily) in favor of infidelity, which loops you back to Scenario 1.

Still, you can’t entirely rule out the rarer than rare, yet not unprecedented, hospital error — Scenario 2 —

She’s flailing.

so you also have to imagine your way through to the conclusion of a different worst-case altogether: If the baby turns out to be neither yours nor your wife’s biological child, would you still love this baby?

Alpha answer: No.
Beta answer: No, but I’ll say yes because it’s what’s expected of me.

Want to raise her?

Alpha answer: Hello, orphanage drop off box!
Beta answer: My wife said she’ll stop giving me biannual handjobs if I don’t say I’ll love the child as if it were my own.

Want to find your biological child and switch?

Style columnist Hax either has a weak grasp of human nature, or a weak grasp of rhetorical devices.

In other words, would it make a difference if this were error vs. deception?

No. If it was a hospital error, then the wife should be equally pleased as her husband to know the truth. Their marriage would remain strong, or at least viable, as they made arrangements with the hospital to find their true baby and swap kids with the other victimized family who mistakenly got their kid.

If it was deception, then their marriage (hopefully, but you can never know for sure with these congenital betas) will dissolve, but the cuckold will have spared himself the humility and genetic metadeath of providing for another man’s legacy with his sweat and tears while his own sad seed withers to dust.

If you decide you’d want this child no matter what, then the question becomes, again, why you’d want to risk everything to scratch even a torturous itch.

Is the idea of robbing a man of eighteen years of his life and a chance to bear and love his own children meaningless to this Style columnist? Here’s an analogy, Miss Hax, you could try wrapping your twisted cancerous soul around: A man getting cuckolded is the moral equivalent of a woman getting secretly implanted with another woman’s fertilized egg, giving birth to it, and raising it for eighteen years.

Is any of this getting through to you? Bitch?

And finally: What if you started digging, wrecked your marriage and learned your daughter is “yours”?

Q-tip swab of the kid’s cheek while the wife is away takes two seconds. He can have the sample tested with no one the wiser. If the kid is his, hey, he can sleep easy at night and feel good about helping his kid with her homework. The proof of his paternity might even motivate him to go down on his wife. If the kid isn’t his, the marriage was wrecked long before he “started digging”.

I urge you to imagine your way down every painful avenue here, best cases as well as worst.

Translation: I urge you to find it in your heart to put aside your doubts for the good of your wife and bastard child.

Then, once you’ve figured out what you can live with emotionally, please, if you’re considering any action at all, have a lawyer vet it legally.

Vet? Vetting is beta. Get the paternity test done before consulting any lawyers, and when you do get a lawyer with test results in hand, make sure your wife doesn’t find out about any of it until you slap her with the divorce papers. You don’t do battle with a whore by playing nice.

Only then can you be confident whether truth-seeking serves your interests — and your family’s — or smashes them to bits.

Shame! It’s what’s for dinner! Gotta love her admonishing a cuckold — the victim, remember? — that he needs to serve his family’s interest along with his own. I guarantee every woman reading this Post article nodded their heads in agreement with the author, and probably quite a few limpwristed faggy SWPL betaboys agreed, too. A better illustration of the second class status of beta males in society — as foretold by our evolutionary heritage — would be hard to find. Women are simply assumed to be moral paragons and Vestal Virgins, and betas are… there to be ransacked.

Give, betas, give till it hurts. And when the hurt begins, don’t bitch and moan about your endless torment. Just keep giving. While you’re paying the last ounce of tribute in self-respect, here’s some porn to keep your senses dulled.

***

Whenever I read articles by women attempting to grapple with the evil of cuckoldry, the impression I am always left with is one of fear. I can smell the fear in their words. It emanates from every ill-conceived shaming maneuver and transparent rationalization. The emptiness of their amoral excuse-mongering is beyond lame.

“If you confront your wife over her cheating your family will shatter.”

If she cheated the family is already shattered.

“You have to suck it up for the good of the child.”

She should have thought of the child’s welfare before spreading wide for the alpha interloper to blast in her pussy.

“What good will come of the truth?”

Good has got nothing to do with it. But justice and dignity do. Not to mention the Darwinian prime directive.

Finally, my favorite of all the cuckoldry excuser tactics:

“Be the GOOD MAN and take one for the team. After all… *wink wink*… it’s not like you’re gonna find another woman.”

To which a man should answer in the only way acceptable: FUUUUUUUCK YOU.

The fear coming from women when the spotlight is on efforts by men to expose cuckoldry is perfectly understandable. Humans fear most the loss of mating power, and the prerogative of women to get impregnated on the sly with an alpha while foisting the bill on a beta is a hardwired preference millions of years old. Any threat to the established order, especially an existential threat as game-changing as DNA paternity testing, will send women into involuntary apoplexies of hair-raising moral myopia. The beastly decrepitude of their animal souls will lay bare for all to see.

Hallmark doesn’t make cards for moments like these.

The first Sexual Apocalypse was heralded by the death song of the following Four Sirens: the Pill, No-Fault Divorce, Economic Gender Egalitarianism, and Misandrist Laws. But a new era is upon us. As I see it, the future of humanity will radically change once again with the coming of the Three Horsemen of the Second Sexual Apocalypse:

Widespread, accurate and accessible paternity testing.
The male Pill.
Realistic sexbots.

Paternity testing alone is enough to alter women’s sexual behavior in a big way. Mandatory paternity testing is already on the docket in some legislatures. There have been hopeful signs of justice being served. It’s not enough to say “Well, only 3-4% of women cuckold their husbands. So really, not much will change.” The impact isn’t in the marginal loss of cuckoldry as a mating strategy, but in the *perception* of loss by *all* women. Even the most faithful, loving wife has the corrupt core of a cheating whore buried deep in her hindbrain. Blasting rays of sunlight on her gnarled, caged id won’t be met with good cheer. I predict very few fertile-age women will be emotionally invested in men’s paternity rights, and in fact most of them will advocate against it. Pussywhipped beta males and opportunistic alpha males sufficiently sequestered from the negative consequences of their decisions will likely defend the women in hopes of short term gain in payment of sexual favors. If you think alpha males of middling resources would vigorously support mandatory paternity testing, remind yourself who benefits the most from cuckoldry.

Here is Miss Hax’s contact info:

Write to Tell Me About It, Style, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071, or tellme@washpost.com.

It would be fun if my readers sent her a link to my post under the ruse of fan mail. The goal isn’t to change her mind — no, that will never happen — the goal is to drive a chainsaw through her soul. To make her hurt. To sear her ego with the harsh, ugly truth. Sadism is an exquisite pleasure for those practitioners trained in the art of administering it.

***

A final note: I will play therapist for a moment and give proper counseling to Mr. “Suspicious”:

Q-tip. Swab. Paternity testing clinic. The rest is commentary.

And because I am a gracious and good man of charitable inclination, I also give my tender and supportive counseling to Miss Hax:

“Please, Miss Hax, take a seat on the couch over there. Yes, that’s good. Ok… now… tell me only the bad things that come to mind when you hear the word

C  U  N  T.”

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Three Macbooks

I’m sitting here in a coffeehouse and to my right are three people — a black man, a white woman, and a white man — sitting adjacent on a couch. All three are haughtily typing on Macbooks propped on their knees.

I stare at them, smiling. “Ha, you guys look like a commercial.” I point my finger at each Macbook. A woman seated across from me suppresses a giggle.

The black guy and the white woman grin at my perspicacity. The white guy does not smile. He furrows his brow at me, clearly displeased that I have made a mockery of his lame SWPL status whoring. I smile at him in return.

There is no escaping tribalism.

Lenovo Thinkpad. That’s a real man’s laptop.

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Game Will Help Ugly Guys

I was lounging in placid contentment on a sofa in a local lounge like a proper post-history, citizen-of-the-world nihilist enjoying the flume ride down the rump of American decline when I spotted a somewhat unkempt man with awkward mannerisms take a seat at a small table to my right. He was a little more homely than the average man, nearing 40, and bereft of any fashion sense. (For those who need the catharsis of another 800 comment thread on race, he happened to be black.) He moved in an ungainly way, as if hobbled by a long-ago hip injury. I watched bemused as he tinkered about his table, moving his chair in and out, fussing with napkins wedged between the ketchup bottle and salt shaker, and generally projecting an air of Rainman-like social unease.

A minute later, a woman approached him for what appeared to be a first or second date. Looks of recognition led me to believe they had met before. He clumsily stood from his chair, his motions so quick and jerky that the chair made a loud screeching noise as it was pushed back violently from the table. She was a black woman, in decent shape (read: not fat), and a point or two higher than him on the cross-gender physical attractiveness scale. He took a couple steps toward her and held his arms out for a hug, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I surveyed her facial expressions. She was clearly not enthused about being there. She walked tentatively toward him, a crooked smile perched on her face, and prevented him from achieving his goal of a full-contact hug by arching her body away from his and giving him the long-distance “two pats on the back” pseudo-hug.

“So great to see you!” He blurted out the words like a burp and maneuvered for a tighter hug and kiss. She deftly evaded his sneak attack and left him stranded, kissing the air a few inches from her right cheek, his lips pursed outward in puffy, parched hunger for soul-nourishing reciprocation that would not come.

Impatient with his bumbling overreach, she snippily replied, “Ok, let’s sit down.” He vigorously nodded his head and mumbled “Ok, ok” and they both sat at the tiny romantic table next to the window that would not be able to works its magic that evening on this couple. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of their slo-motion heart wreck any longer.

******

Game could have saved this man.

Pulling up in a Ferrari would not have helped him. Receiving a standing ovation by the staff and patrons when he entered the eatery would not have closed the deal with his date. She would have raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his Ferrari or his mini-fame, her loins would have briefly stirred, but she would still be left sitting across a man with crippling beta mannerisms. Her smile would have rapidly decayed to disgust. Her disappointment would have been palpable.

But had he not jumped up from his chair when she arrived; had he not lunged desperately toward her for the hug and kiss his demeanor suggested he hadn’t gotten since his Mom saw him off on his first day of school; had he teased her humorously about the scarf she was wearing on a mild spring day; had he moved slowly and gracefully with the practiced insouciance of a wanton Casanova used to bedding women much hotter than her; had he been dressed with a little more care; had he stopped smiling like a vapid goofball for two seconds; had he qualified her about her worldliness and sense of adventure —

— he might have gotten the lay. Maybe not a 100% guarantee of getting the lay, but a damn bit better than the 0% chance he had BEING HIMSELF.

Recently, the Audacious Epigone challenged Game as egalitarian wishfulness. He, like so many others who have yet to delve deeply into the world of Game for themselves, claims that game will only help those who are already gifted by genetics with good looks or income-boosting and social adaptability-enhancing high intelligence. Now I am not one to shy away from the ugly truths, so there is merit in what he says; given equal facility with game, a good-looking man will do better than an average-looking man. A rich man will trump a poor man. A witty man will pull more than a dull man.

But rarely is skill with game distributed so equally. As I mentioned in the comments to Audacious’ post, excepting fame and vast wealth the most powerful lifestyle change the typical man can make to improve his lot with women is to learn game. The psychosocial dominance and alpha mimickry that game teaches is worth a garage full of Ferraris. Give a beta a Ferrari and he’ll look alpha while driving. Give a beta the self-confidence and swagger of someone who drives Ferraris and he’ll look alpha all the time.

Realistically, homely betas wielding the power of game won’t bang dime pieces (much). But they will begin to experience the pleasure of banging chicks 1 to 3 points higher on the looks scale than what they are used to scoring. And for most lifelong betas, that nontrivial step up the pussy ladder will feel like nirvana.

It is no exaggeration to say that game would have elevated the status, and hence the pussy-lubing power, of the clumsy, homely beta at Busboys far beyond his natural no-talents. And for a mere fraction of the cost in time and energy than he would have spent raising his status in more conventional, and socially-approved, ways.

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