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Archive for the ‘Escape’ Category

A reader sent me this link pointing to a pdf about two Tennessee Democrats introducing a bill to mandate paternity testing before the putative father’s name is entered on the birth certificate:

Regardless of the relationship between a child’s parents, a genetic test shall be administered as provided in § 24-7-112 to confirm the paternity of the child before a father shall be listed on the birth certificate. In order to provide genetic testing for those who are financially unable to pay for such testing in whole or in part, the department of human services shall be responsible for payment for testing for parties financially unable to pay, in whole or in part for the purpose of providing evidence of paternity. The requirements for financial inability to pay shall be established by the commissioner of human services. The commissioner shall take into consideration the family income, the number of dependents in the family, the probable total cost of testing and the other financial responsibilities of the family.

( ) If the results of the required paternity test have not been received, or if the results have been received and showed the purported father was not the biological father of the child, no name shall be entered as the father on the birth certificate until such name can be established by genetic test. In such cases, the certificate shall be amended to include the name of the child’s father upon receipt of the results of a genetic test establishing paternity.

This is sweet sweet music to all men’s ears and a long overdue blow for justice and the American Way. Unsurprisingly, the rearguard feminists are squealing like stuck pigs:

It’s an adventure to live in a state in which so many of our legislators come from the perspective of assuming that all women are liars and all men are idiots and if the state doesn’t step in to protect said men, we’d just be out fuckity-fuck-fuck-fucking whosoever we could get our vaginas around and ruining their lives.

Tell it to this guy.

Their opposition to such a common sensical bill, if it were to pass and become law, is understandable once you realize that feminism is not about gender equality but about gender power. We all want a leg up in the genetic race to procreate, and for women the prerogative to fuck around with an alpha under any and all circumstances and have his kid while duping the beta husband or boyfriend to foot the bill for raising it is one they will not surrender without a fight. The discretion to cuckold goes straight to the core of a woman’s sexuality, so a law created to impede that powerful urge will be resisted — and probably resisted harder when she is ovulating.

Widely utilized DNA-based paternity testing — like the Pill and condom before it — will radically alter the sexual landscape. When a husband is legally permitted to walk away from a marriage and any financial responsibility for a bastard child, habits will change. I predict that women will have slightly fewer affairs than they do now, but that the real change will be their diligent use of contraceptives when they do decide to have affairs. I also predict that marriage rates will fall even farther as women think extra hard about marrying those borderline betas whose seed will monopolize their wombs.

On the flip side, those 20% of alpha males who tempt women to affairs and one night stands will be a lot more careful about rawdogging it.

Many women will say that mandatory paternity testing, like pre-nups, undermines love and marriage because it assumes that women can’t be trusted. In the words of the Great One: Trust but verify. The cold facts of human nature assures that no one is immune to vice or a vessel for virtue — we all are at risk of doing things that violate our principles. In the scheme of vices, adulterous women are a far more serious threat to family stability and social cohesion than are adulterous men. This is a double standard, deal with it. No one said life was fair. A guy can fuck around and leave nothing behind but a stain on the ceiling bedsheet; a girl can fuck around and saddle her husband with a kid that’s not his.

I bet Hillary would be against this bill. Someone should ask her.

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I don’t normally feel bad when I have to reject a woman, but this time I did. I had a deaf woman come onto me in writing. She stared at me hard from a few feet away, and I stared back, which in hindsight was a mistake because she didn’t meet my minimum attractiveness threshold. I should have done the right thing and looked away in mild disapproval, but her flagrant violation of American girl flirting norms with the extended eyeplay piqued my curiosity.

She tapped my arm and handed me a small notepad and a pen. On the pad were written some words in red ink, the color of love. She wanted me to write something in reply. I have reproduced the gist of our ensuing notepad conversation.

Her: Hi.
Me: Hi back.
Her: I’m from San Diego. Where are you from?
Me:
{lame opener. another girl with no game.} I’m from XX.
Her: What do you think of this bar? It seems snobby.
(she turns her nose up with her finger.)
Me: It is. We’re all hipster snobs here.
Her:
(laughs without actually making the laughing noise.) I think u r 2 cute.

At this point I realize I have led her on and need to find a way to extricate myself before I waste more time entertaining a woman I am not interested in banging. But she is persistent, and her disability has prevented me from cutting off our written communication abruptly.

Me: Thx.
Her: Do you live around here?
Me: Yes.
Her: I’m staying with my two friends over there. They live nearby.

I looked where she was pointing and saw two attractive girls signing each other, then kissing. (!) Sensing what was going through my mind, my deaf woman quickly scratched out a note.

Her: They are girlfriends and don’t sleep with guys. They approve of you.
Me: They have good taste.

Meanwhile, this guy is loudly telling me to write down a request for a threesome and anal sex and to draw a sketch of a blowjob in her pad. The girls can’t read lips so even though they are standing right there they suspect nothing.

Her: I’m only in town for this weekend then I go back to San Diego. Would you like to come back to my place?
Me: I’ve sorta been dating a girl for a month who I like and I’d feel guilty about it.

This excuse was partially true. I was seeing a girl for a month and I did like her, but I wouldn’t feel guilty enjoying an easy one night stand with another woman.

Her: That’s OK. I have a boyfriend in San Diego.

I looked at the notepad with knitted brow. I didn’t know what to write. She grabbed it back.

Her: I’m only here for this weekend then I’m back home forever. You’re completely free after that. What do you say?

Her handwriting was getting sloppier.

Me: I really like this girl I’m dating. You’re great, but it wouldn’t be fair to her.

She glanced back at her two lesbian friends and they exchanged a few frantic hand signs. There was no subtlety. Although I can’t read sign language, it was easy to see her friends wanted her to wrap it up so they could go home and scissor. They even made the universal scissor sign with their fingers. Horny deaf woman gave it one last shot.

Her: You’ll never meet another woman like me.
Me: That’s true.
(weak smile)
Her: This is your chance to sleep with a deaf woman.

Suddenly I was intrigued. Despite my many adventures, I don’t have a deaf girl notch. I decided to reconsider her offer. Her body was tight and lean — definitely fit enough to arouse me if it was attached to a different face. I squinted my eyes to see if it improved her looks. It was too dark in the bar. I needed better lighting for a final binding assessment. I leaned over to write my response in the notepad by a candle nearby and motioned for her to lean toward me to read what I wrote, hoping to get a good look at her face in the illumination of the candlelight.

Disappointment. She had the beginnings of jowls and regrettable crows’ feet. There was just too much age for me to put the hard work in to passively let her close the deal and rape me back at her friends’ place. Had she been only one point higher on the 1 to 10 facial scale, I would’ve gone for it. Having sex with a deaf woman is the kind of thing I would tell my grandkids as they sat in my lap.

Me: I would if things were different. But no.
Her: Really? You won’t meet many other deaf women.
Me: I know, but I can’t.
Her: OK. It was great to meet you.

A long lingering hug followed. She would use this hug later to masturbate.

It was too bad. I’m left to wonder if deaf women make funny moans at the moment of orgasmic release. And to think, no post-coital chit chat. Nothing but golden silence.

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Also known as the brozenge.*

Here it cums!** Well, almost. If it does happen, here are my predictions:

Market Penetration – deep and wide.

Condoms are everywhere. So will be the male pill. Except for the CVS in my hood where they will be locked behind bullet proof glass and only accessible via an embarrassing request to the pharmacist, an East Indian middle-aged woman who will glower at you with the stink-eye as cute shoppers stand nearby and suppress giggles while they scan you up and down wondering if your package really is as massive as the magnums you just bought and extrapolating the quality of girl you are banging based on the swagger with which you make your request. Be sure to throw them a sly smile as you grab the box. They’re curious. You know they’re curious. They know you know they’re curious. Game on.***

Firmness of Adoption – vertical prominance.

Not only will many men avail themselves of the brozenge, they will also be repeat customers to the exclusion of all other contraceptive methods. Fact: condoms suck. A latex sheath is a total pleasure killjoy. The female pill is far superior to condoms but no man should ever trust his health, freedom, and reproductive rights to a woman’s whims. The male pill solves this problem. I’m avidly pro-choice.

Cultural Eruption – premature idiocracy.

The male pill will accelerate already ominous demographic trends. Stupid men, just like stupid women, will be less than diligent taking the pill to prevent pregnancy. With two kinds of pills, irresponsibility on the left side of the bell curve is twice as likely because one partner will assume the other partner is taking the necessary precautions and thus find a reason to slack off. “I thought you were on it!” “But I thought YOU were on it!!” Condom sales plummet. End result: a massive dumbing down of America. Say goodbye to bridges that don’t collapse.

In a male pill future, three types of men will contribute to subsequent generations.

  1. Feminine men. The kind of guy who WANTS children is more feminine than the average guy who’d rather be poolside. Even betas prefer sex to childrearing, so there will be a natural selection for children born to womanly uberbeta fathers. Their future boys will play house with Barbies and jerk off to soft-focus, plot-driven porn.
  2. Wealthy super alphas. At the very top there will be those men who don’t mind impregnating their wives, the wives of the uberbetas, and their mistresses because they can afford to dump the responsibility of raising them on an army of imported nannies. Their ability to live for fun won’t be compromised. The super alphas’ daughters will go on to become ballcutting lawyers who sue for laws that emasculate the sons of the betas even more.
  3. Dumbasses. Lots and lots of dumbasses. See above.

Expect a future of sex that feels good, societal disintegration, and cognitive stratification as the very smartest shield their 1.2 kids in gated communities and prep schools from the mass of semi-retarded kids born to the losers falling further behind.

*trademarked, bitches.

**Oxford English Dictionary approved spelling. Pip pip.

***condom game is highly underrated.

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Role playing is an effective method for bonding with girls. I like to role play with my dates, whether it’s preplanned or spontaneous. The act of assuming different personas and creating impromptu storylines seems to strike at a very primal core in women, making them giggle and light up with waves of pleasure. It’s like women crave this secret world you are inviting them into, a world of heightened sensation and exaggerated drama, as an antidote to their humdrum daily lives of pushing papers at work and emptying the litter box.

The better you are at improv, the wetter she will get. Docter/nurse, cop/speeder, teacher/disobedient student, pimp/hooker, CEO/secretary, irate manager/shoplifter… the pattern should be obvious.

On one date, I gave the girl a guided tour of an old (and very colorful) Russian Orthodox church, complete with ad libbed biographies of the various saints painted on the walls and ceilings. In my best wizened elder priest voice I pretended to welcome her into my confessional as she instantly caught on and slipped into the role of a naughty teenage girl who wished to confess her sin of indulging prurient thoughts of me. I called her “my child” a lot and she answered “yes, father” in lip-bitingly sweet girlish squeaks.

Another time, we went go-kart racing and play-acted a James Bond car chase scene through the narrow streets of Rome. She blew me a kiss as she sideswiped my go-kart into the rubber track wall. My British accent was horrible and her Italian accent left something to be desired, but it was the thought that counted.

But the best/worst role playing date I ever had was one that was more real than imaginary. As we were walking up the ave we stopped in front of the Church of Scientology building. Feeling mischievous and morbidly curious, I told my date we would be disillusioned D-list actors looking for enlightenment from alternative spiritual sources.

When we approached the door a bald, middle-aged man opened it a second before I was about to knock. He welcomed us in and as we stood in the foyer admiring the cartoonish portrait of L. Ron Hubbard hanging on the wall my date and I launched into our spiel about seeking spiritual fulfillment away from the “oppressive dogma of organized religion”. The guy’s face lit up like a home pregnancy test. He gave us the guided tour, enthusiastic but in a carefully measured speaking voice. Like a good salesman, he avoided scaring us off with the hard sell too early, instead asking us questions about ourselves and our search for meaning.

He asked if we had cameras (I lied) because apparently they have a no picture policy when people are present. We walked slowly around the main foyer peeking into each room while our guide spoke of the wonders of Dianetics (oddly, he never mentioned the E-meter which I wanted to try). The first room appeared to be an old study of thick, gnarled mahogany and floor-to-ceiling rows of bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes. There were a few library-style desks with reading lamps at which four men were seated, all of whom wearing green accountants’ eye visors and poring over books, brows furrowed in deep concentration. When we looked in, none of them glanced up from their books to acknowledge us.

At this point my date started to feel weirded out. Why? Because besides the green eyeshades, all those guys were dressed in the same clothes — white shirt, blue slacks, dark tie. And they seemed a little too engrossed in whatever they were reading.

The next room reminded me of that scene from A Clockwork Orange where they pry the guy’s eyes open with a metal contraption and force him to watch an endless montage of violent and pornographic video clips. It was a couple rows of neatly aligned empty chairs placed a few feet in front of a small movie screen. Nothing else, just that. If we were in any other residence, I wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the haunted vibe emanating from this mansion made me think of the worst scenarios. I tried to snap a picture of the room by cradling the camera in my palm and holding it tight by my hip, but our host wouldn’t stop looking directly at me.

While our scientologist friend blabbed, my date’s expression changed from giddiness to discomfort. She was no longer a D-list spiritually-deprived celebrity. She had had enough. The cultish vibes were beginning to accumulate. I cut him off and said we had to go, and he shoved some pamphlets in our hands. Stepping outside felt relieving.

The mood was ruined. I didn’t get a kiss from her at the end of the date. Scientology had cockblocked me.

I wonder if this is how normal people felt during the inception of the world’s major religions. Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, egalitarianism… they all must have struck naturally skeptical people as cultish and absurd when they first began. Only when enough time has passed do religions acquire a veneer of respectability and deference. Enough time has not passed for Scientology to hide its cultish essence under somber rituals and literary texts.

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This article lays out pretty thoroughly just what a raw deal marriage is for men. Divorce is twice as likely to catch husbands by surprise as it is wives.

In a 2004 poll by the AARP, one in four men who were divorces in the previous year said they “never saw it coming.” (Only 14 percent of divorced women said they experienced the same unexpected broadside.)

In divorce, it’s men who suffer more financially:

The divorce system tends to award wives custody of the children, substantial child support, the marital home, half the couple’s assets, and, often, heavy alimony payments.

This may come as startling news to a public that has been led to believe that women are the ones who suffer financially postdivorce, not men. But the data show otherwise, according to an exhaustive study of the subject by Sanford L. Braver, a professor of psychology at Arizona State University and author of Divorced Dads: Shattering the Myths.

[…] social scientists ignored men’s expenses — the tab for replacing everything from the bed to the TV to the house — as well as the routine costs of helping to raise the children, beyond child support. Even the tax code favors women: Not only is child support not tax deductible for fathers, but a custodial mother can take a $1,000 per child tax credit; the father cannot, even if he’s paying. As “head of the household,” the mother gets a lower tax rate and can claim the children as exemptions. If the ex-wife remarries, she is still entitled to child support, even if she marries a billionaire. Indeed, every year men are actually thrown in jail for failing to meet their child-support obligations. In the state of Michigan alone, nearly 3,000 men were locked up for that offense in 2005.

The stark realities of divorce paint a picture overwhelmingly tilted against a man’s interests. Here’s an example of just how bad it can get for a beta provider who thought if he was the good man the gods of fairness would reward him with steady sex, a faithful and loving wife, and a stable family:

They’d started going on expensive vacations in Europe and Hawaii, and he figured she’d be pleased at the prospect of taking more trips together, or at least at the prospect of seeing him around the house a little more, and not buried in his basement office. He had met her in graduate school over a quarter century ago, and they’d had their ups and downs, but he was still crazy about her. And he thought that, with a little more time together, she’d be crazy about him again too.

But no. She scarcely listened to any talk of retirement, or of vacations, or of anything he had to say. She had plans of her own.

“I want a divorce,” she said.

Paul was so stunned that he thought he must have misheard her. But her face told him otherwise. “She looked like the enemy,” he says. He started to think about everything he’d built: the thriving business, the wonderful family, the nice life in the suburbs. And he thought of her, and how much he still loved her. And then, right in front of her, he started to cry.

That night, he found a bottle of whiskey, and he didn’t stop drinking it until he nearly passed out.

Things turned sh—- very fast. His wife took out a temporary restraining order, accusing him of attempting to kidnap their youngest son. The claim was never proved in court. Then, with the aid of some high-priced lawyers, she extracted from him a whopping $50,000 a month — a full 75 percent of his monthly income. Barred from the house, he was not allowed regular access to the office he used to generate that income. (On the few times he was permitted inside, his wife did not let him use the bathroom. She insisted that he go outside in the woods.)

Paul is a very wealthy man, an “alpha” by most men’s definitions (though not by my definition) — he earns over $65,000 per month — yet his high financial status ultimately did not shield him from his wife’s dr. jekyll mrs. hyde act. In fact, it may have hastened her merciless decision. Paul is a classic beta provider, and after his wife had extracted the last penny of tribute from him to raise the kids to a self-sufficient age and live the life of a bon bon eating oprah watcher, she disposed of him with the cold-hearted cruelty of a despot dispatching his enemies by firing squad. His wife is likely a Hillary supporter.

Maxim #13: When the love is gone, women can be as cold as if they had never known you.

If that isn’t enough to convince you of the high risk gamble that is marriage, here’s another horror story:

Long before his wife came along, a frame-store owner named Jordan Appel, 55, had built a fine house for himself atop West Newton Hill in one of the fancier Boston suburbs. He loved bringing in a wife and then adding two children. “It felt so wonderful to say ‘my wife’ and ‘my children’ and feel part of a community.” He volunteered for the preschool’s yard sale; his wife took up with a lover. Sometimes she slept with him in Appel’s own house; in time, she decided to divorce Appel. As these things go, he was obliged to leave the house, and, as it happened, the community too. Money was so tight that he ended up sleeping in a storage room above his frame shop two towns away. His ex-wife works part-time on the strength of Appel’s child custody and alimony payments, and spends time with her boyfriend in Appel’s former house. She lives rather well, and he has to make $100,000 a year to support her and the children, which amounts to 70-hour workweeks. One day, he went back to his house and discovered many of his belongings out on the sidewalk with the trash. “My body feels like it’s dissolving in anger,” he says. “I’m in an absolute rage every single day.”

Now of course, many of you will say “but this guy Jordan is a total beta letting his wife take advantage of him like that!” and you’d be right. But regardless of his personal failings, his congenital betatude is no reason to accede to injustice codified by a discriminatory legal system. Either the laws change (and I personally favor elimination of no fault divorce as a start) or men should heed my advice and stay clear of the altar. Since I am not going to lift a finger to agitate for new laws that have a zero percent chance of happening in my lifetime, I follow the second option.

Maxim #8: Marriage is a social mechanism designed to exchange sex for indentured servitude.

So why are women now the eager instigators of divorce? What changed in the culture? Four things, primarily: the pill, easy divorce, women’s economic independence, and rigged laws that make divorce a good financial prospect for women. The four sirens of the sexual apocalypse together have created the perfect sociological storm where a woman has every incentive in the world to ditch a husband to follow the whims of her heart once his usefulness has been exhausted.

Listen to me — skip all that shit and learn to get the sex for free if you don’t already. All the positive loving benefits you can get out of marriage can also be had within an unmarried relationship.

Later in the article, the question is asked what can men do to avoid divorce?

One way, of course, is to avoid marriage.

The CH method. So elegant, so simple. So effective!

[…]husbands might be wise to pay attention to the essential ratio that — according to John Gottman, PhD, a world-renowned researcher of marriage stability — governs marital success or failure: five to one. That means husbands (and wives) should direct at least five positive remarks or actions to their spouses for every negative one. Any less and the marriage is in trouble.

Dr. John Gottman, five to one you are a dumbfuck. Glorifying their wives and putting them on pedestals is exactly what cost these hopeless betas their marriages. What they need to do is challenge their wives, not kiss their expanding asses with a stream of compliments. Cockiness, humor, turning the tables, not taking her shit, flirting with other women while wifey is watching… these are the improvements in character that will keep a wife’s love for her husband strong. As long as men are following the advice of these “social scientists” they will never unlock the mystery of what attracts women to men and they will suffer the consequences.

Here is an excellent quote from the article which vividly illustrates how badly the system is rigged in favor of women:

“A father could be sitting in his own home, not agreeing to a divorce, not unfaithful to his marriage vows, and not abusive, and the next thing he knows, the court has taken his house, his children, and a lot of his money, and then forced him to pay his wife’s legal fees and even her psychologist’s fees. And he can be threatened with jail time if he resists.”

To recap:

  1. divorce theft
  2. monogamy
  3. second class spouse under the law
  4. sex once a month TOPS with the same old pussy

So.

Where’s the upside?
image001.jpg

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It was a late night at a new grimy club in the too-cool-for-school section of DC. I was chatting up an OK-looking chick made cuter by her sexy accent, youth, perfectly round ass, and the strong possibility of pulling a same night lay. But not a girl I’d consider long-term material.

An hour later I made the requisite bounce with her to another nearby dimly lit hipster hole in the wall (venue changes = compressed dates into one night engendering false feeling of intimacy). Couples were going into the bathrooms to do bumps off keys and grope against piss-splattered walls. On the “dance”floor (more like swayfloor) I saw a girl I knew. She was shitfaced and way too happy to see me. My mind started to race. Switch targets? Make the other girl jealous? Attempt threesome?

As I’m ignoring my first girl, my wingman leans in and barks “Focus!”

I focused. Back to the original plan. With renewed purpose, I felt myself entering the zone. The Zone is when you are taking the lead on everything, being the man, enveloping the girl in the musky shroud of your masculinity, and you are not apologizing for any of it. You are a stalking leopard about to pounce. And she is following without hassle and you can see the deep attraction in her eyes. She will put up token resistance, sure, but you’ve been here before… you know it means nothing. It is the resistance of a woman who is secretly happy to surrender to forces beyond her control. The outcome is preordained.

It is the second-best feeling in the world.

The next morning all I could think was how to hustle her off without hurting her feelings. She roused herself from sleep early and, after a blowjob reveille, looked at me with a serious face.

“I’m leaving to go back home to [insert faraway foreign country here] this afternoon.”

Godsend!

“Wow. Wow. Well, that kinda sucks. I’ll walk you to the Metro.”

One more flag added to my flag count, and 90% of them were gotten within five blocks of my place in DC.

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How I Break Up With Girls

I don’t lower the boom or pull the band-aid off quickly. In potentially high drama situations, I simply don’t trust a lot of the girls I dump to not come at me with a carved wooden swordfish. (It’s happened.) Nor do I break up like a beta through text or email. Nope, I just let it fade. Taking the easy way out has its virtues. No muss, no fuss.

So I kind of let the end sneak up on her. I gradually see her less. Whenever she wants to do something I say “Sure… I guess.” I don’t return calls promptly. I make a big production of NOT being chivalrous. I spend even less money on her than I normally do. Eventually, a whole week goes by where I haven’t seen her, or more than a day passes before I’ve returned a call, or she gets hit in the ass by a revolving door that I’ve barreled through first, or I’ve started recycling my “free date” options where I get to do the things I wanted to do anyhow (like sample all the Fenders in Guitar Center) and she gets to be a spectator. It’s at this point that she scratches her head and wonders “Wow, I think we’re broken up. What just happened?”

That’s my MO. I’ll know I have succeeded when I can get the girl to ask herself “What just happened?”

What just happened is you have crossed paths with the poonhound.

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