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Spot The Alpha

The alpha of a mixed group isn’t always the man. Sometimes, the men in attendance are such feeble representatives of their sex that they are eclipsed by the stronger presence of the women. Here is a photo sent by reader Desant who wants to know if the male specimen on the left is alpha.

Although this celebratory feast may not showcase our declining nation’s best and alpha-iest, don’t underestimate Corky’s alpha potential within his social circle. The claw hand and elbow symbolically muscling out his only other male competition is certainly try-hard and awkwardly propped, but he brings game with a stylish display of peacockery — the bulky statement watch, the unusual pendant, the ironically nerdy and retro glasses leash, the bold cerulean undershirt — and an imperturbable facial expression of stone cold confidence mingled with a hidden capacity for dispatching foes with extreme ruthlessness. He is 20 years old today, and he is NOT to be trifled with, motherfucker. Not on this special day. Not when he’s the star of the show. With the precision of a Call of Duty-trained warrior and the passion of a Downs freakout, this guy will rain upon your cursed head thunderous tard blows with his windmill arms before you have a chance to stop laughing long enough to defend yourself from imminent death.

But that’s not all the evidence we have for his alphaness. Admire his overall body language, which is open and taking up lots of manly space. I would not be surprised if he was straddling the bench cowgirl style. His manboobs are thrust toward the camera assertively, as if to say “I dare you to purple nurple me. Do it. DOOOO IIIIIT!! See if you get your hand back.” And that linearly clamped unsmiling mouth from whence no tooth can interrupt his studied coolness says one thing — “My birthday is serious business”. Where is his other hand? Cradling his colossal sack, natch.

(An alpha is in love with his genitals; kneading, fondling, cupping, caressing, complimenting, filming or otherwise drawing attention to them at every legal opportunity.)

Finally, what may be the best evidence of Corky’s status as group alpha is the simple fact that he is the honored guest. What woman can resist swooning for the man of the hour? Birthday boy, military hero receiving a Medal of Honor — it’s a difference of degree. A man gets few moments in the sun in his life; he is wise to capitalize on them when they happen. Corky is capitalizing with a vengeance.

What’s worse than a douchebag? A douchebag wannabe. Thus, the man behind Corky is a strong alpha contender.

Sunkist Tits is without a doubt the alpha female of the group. She is sitting in the Queen’s throne, at the head of the table. (Studies have shown that the best spot to sit at a corporate meeting is directly across from the CEO/speaker, as that is the next most dominant seating position after the head of the table. The most beta spot to sit is adjacent to the CEO. You’ll look like a lapdog.) Sunkist Tits may even be the primary alpha if the two guys are desperately horny beta orbiters, but we can’t tell that from this photo. Her tits are magnificent. I even forgive her manly shoulders for them, because clearly the broad shoulders are needed as a cantilever to support her juicy melons, lest she tip over and capsize.

The girl to the left of Sunkist Tits — a plain looker who cannot inspire me to grace her with a nickname — slouches in defeat while in the presence of a hotter girl. Her face flickers with self-doubt. Her manly chin hints at a closet full of sluttiness.

Green Bag Girl rivals Sunkist Tits in cuteness, and her teeth glow with artificially enhanced whiteness. She slouches too, but that is probably from taking it up the pooper by a black man.

Salem Witch Girl is not bold enough to go full goth, nor self-aware enough to go to a dentist. Unfortunately for her, there is not a man alive (except maybe a lying blog commenter vainly trying to score a stupid debate point) who would rank her higher than the other three girls. Therefore, low value men will swarm her with propositions, figuring she will be quicker to put out. Paradoxically, this means she may in fact receive over the course of her fertile years more male attention than Sunkist Tits, because the world has a lot more low value men seeking the path of least resistance than it does high value men with the balls to approach hot chicks. This knowledge explains her happy face. So while Sunkist Tits gets the pick of the litter, she gets millions of Corkys vying for her hand in pre-marital blowjobs.

VERDICT: Douchebag Wannabe is the alpha of the group.

Reason? Corky may be a cocksure alpha nerd, but he’s still a nerd.

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No-Call Game

Fed up with having to decide when you should call a chick after getting her digits? Tired of phone tag while managing the ever-present annoyance of flaking? Baffled whether to leave a voicemail or send a text? Wondering what kind of message to leave?

You can stop beating yourself up! Jack Goes Forth writes that he has discovered a loophole which he dubs “No-call game”:

My new game: The ‘no-call’ game. You still have to get a girl’s number but during the exchange you pull the ‘text me your number and I’ll hit you back with mine real quick’, then appear to be busy and get the fuck out of dodge. Then you simply never call them. Ever. Even if they call you, you don’t pick up, or reply. You never, ever, call a girl…or really anyone for that matter. In fact even if you meet a girl you really like, you definitely don’t call her. Don’t even call her back. Actually don’t ever see her again unless it happens by chance. I think when you get to this point of game where it really means nothing at all to you to completely lose touch with every girl you meet, for some reason the laws of nature will reward you. You may wonder how you would ever meet up with a girl and put yourself in a position to bang without ever speaking to them, and I can’t answer that. It’s like a jedi-mind trick thing. That’s why this game will only work for only a handful of men.

Through a combination of having girls throw themselves at me while I’m bartending, my hatred of speaking to people over the phone, overwhelming laziness, and a lack of concern for anyone’s feelings but my own, I’ve somehow found myself with 10 different options at a time, all the time. I cheat on the girls that I’m cheating on my girlfriend with. It’s sad really…but I don’t care, which is the whole point of the exercise.

I’m aloof to the point of comatose…. I barely even speak to girls when we’re on an actual date, which I don’t go on. Bartending at a youngish (21-28) party bar has spoiled me for the rest of my life.

I may have found my ‘end game’ (RooshV).

This email was not a joke. I believe in my system.

No-call game is the ultimate expression of aloof and indifferent Uncaring Asshole game. We all know how much hot chicks moisten up for a self-absorbed man who doesn’t take them seriously. (Ugly chicks moisten up, too, but they are smart to realize that an attentive beta is in their best interests.)

No-call game isn’t for everyone. A few things have to be in place for it to work.

  1. You need to collect a lot of numbers. No-calling one chick means there is a 99% chance you will never bang her. No-calling 100 chicks means the chance you will bang any one individual chick just tripled. There seems to be a mysterious “law of large numbers” that takes effect when you are no-juggling lots of girls — opportunities begin to present themselves with little effort on your part.
  2. You need to collect the numbers of chicks who live, work or play near you. No-call game relies in part on future chance encounters — let’s say at Trader Joe’s or on your street — so that when the girl bumps into you she starts chasing you because your no-call raised your value well above hers. Jack is a bartender, which satisfies the “she must play near you” condition.
  3. You need to have ice running through your veins. When that no-called chick runs into you with desire in her eyes she is likely going to shit test the hell out of you for not calling her. Steady on, governor. You’ll need to remain as aloof in her company as when you were not calling her. Hint: act like she is the one with the problem.

You may think this post is a joke, but I can confirm it’s not. Ask any man who is swimming in pussy and he will tell you in so many words that the fruits of no-call game form a big part of his life. Quite simply, in-demand men forget more chicks’ numbers in a day than you will get in a year. And how do those forgotten girls reward them? You guessed it.

Of course, being a bartender helps. A friend with a high status day job in Chicago called to tell me he had taken a side job as a bartender. He sounded excited, so I asked him how it was. He said he’s quadrupled the number of bangs he’s gotten since bartending. He concluded that bartending is a higher status job for men than any societally approved career. But no-call game will work even if you’re not a bartender. Let’s say you meet a girl at your local coffee shop and you game her like you would any girl. You exchange numbers and take off. You never call her. Two weeks later, you see her at the coffee shop again and sit near her.

HER: You never called!

THE DEVIL U WILL ALWAYS FORGIVE: I hate talking on the phone. Funny, we met right at this exact same spot last time.

HER: That’s not cool. You could text.

THE DEVIL U WILL ALWAYS FORGIVE: [shaking head] Big thumbs.

HER: [stifling laugh] You’re one of those guys, huh.

THE DEVIL U WILL ALWAYS FORGIVE: Good to my mother? Yes. [proceeds to game her as if they just met for a surprise date]

Although a girl will act superficially offended that you didn’t call her, underneath her angered and shamed exterior she is bristling with arousal and curiosity. She wants more than ever to know about the man who couldn’t be bothered to follow up for a chance at tapping her cute ass. When meeting girls for sex becomes an afterthought, or even a bother, is when the sex will flow freely like a river.

Also note, as Jack mentioned, that laconic game beats verbose game any time. When in doubt, say nothing with confidence.

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Ass Game

Being a soldier is no guarantee of alphaness. Take a look at this photo sent in by reader keirin:

This is very beta body language. The ass is clearly turned off by this man’s approach. The leaning in is the obvious tell; he’s all up on that ass while the annoyed ass is about to tip from avoiding his overeager one-arm hug. Nothing will kill a pickup faster than forcing a phony chumminess on an ass. Except ass rape.

Also note his feet and how his toes are pointed inward. The pigeon-toed stance is a leading indicator of awkward betaness. The ass’s hooves, on the other hand, are assertively pointed outward. Powerfully alpha. It’s as if the gender roles are completely reversed, and the ass is the alpha male here. The soldier’s helmet propped at a jaunty tilt is a little bit douchey. This might work on Jersey shore asses, but not Afghani ones. What he’s doing right: his left hand is holding an imaginary drink at the proper, waist-high level. His sunglasses and flak vest are acceptable peacock gear, but his smile is try-hard. I hope he at least approached from the right angle. A surprise approach from behind could result in a swift kick to the nads.

The ass is not smiling and looks pissed at having to pose for a photo with this beta. The ass scans the valley for a Taliban cockblock savior, or perhaps a stray mule. Judging by the colorful blankets and entitlement complex, this ass is an attention whore, and thus not worth anything more than a barnyard pump and dump.

Conclusion: No ass for you! Next!

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A great way to build a love connection with a girl is through the subtle mockery of the absurdity of others. Chicks dig social dynamics and speculating ad nauseam about the backstory of couples or groups of people that they see walking around, particularly people who stand out from the crowd. Thus, it is a valuable component of your game to speculate along with her, demonstrating your mastery of quickly ascertaining social group relationships through incisive observation. It is, in short, another example of seducing women by co-opting their mode of thinking.

To that end, you should not shy from analyzing couples that you see while on a date with a girl. It’s great fun to spot an unusual couple, or an offbeat group of mixed men and women, and mischievously nudge your date to redirect her attention to the spectacle as you openly ponder “what’s going on there?”. Bonding in this fashion should not be underestimated.

So imagine you are walking through a park or an outdoor festival and you and your date come across this sight (leaving aside for the moment any third party observational bias caused by the presence of a photographer):

(Pic courtesy of Peter)

How would you analyze this snapshot in time such that you demonstrate your superior knowledge of human relationships?

Three possible scenarios jump out.

Scenario One: it’s a prank! The girl in the ratty blue and white striped shirt, at the instigation of her cackling chubby American friends, sidled up to the ugly fat man to pretend she was his girlfriend, or at least to pretend to flirt with him, to the great amusement of everyone but the mark. You can surmise by her left hand deep in her jorts pocket and her knowing glance of collusion toward the laughing girls that she is not his date. Also, her right leg is bent at the knee, suggesting she is ready to dash back to the safety of the pig pen should the prank be discovered. Meanwhile, fat boy’s smile is likely the goofy grin of a guy who is happy to mug for the camera with a cute girl by his side, who doesn’t realize he’s being tooled. His raised red cup of piss water is an auto-toast to his doltishness and omega ranking on the mate value scale.

Scenario Two: it’s a player! What you see is an actual couple on a date. They may even be in love. He hoists his plastic tankard in celebration of his good fortune. His grin is the shit-eating variety of the man of confidence boffing a much hotter babe than people expect of him. His slovenly appearance is not the dress code of the fat quasimodo nerd, but the devil-may-care fashion statement of the bad boy who does not need the crutch of stylish clothes to pick up hot chicks. What about her? Well, she’s leaning into him slightly, which implies she is happy to be with him. Her clothes and hair drape with the disheveled insouciance of a girl who has recently received a powerful rogering from a very fat man with tits bigger than hers. She has turned to sheepishly acknowledge the three single piglets chortling at the ludicrousness of her boyfriend. Her smile is the leftover glow of a shared laugh she had seconds earlier with her humorous, portly Casanova, but which has morphed into a teeth-clenched grin of discomfort reflecting her unease with the laughter directed at her and her lover by the tri-lambchop sorority sisters.

Scenario Three: it’s pedestrian! All five of them are friends and are laughing about something happening in the distance behind the photographer. Or they’re just posing and laughing because they’re drunk. Sixteen Miller Lights can make a fart seem like endless high comedy.

Your turn. How would you describe this scene for your date? Reaction time counts toward your final score.

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Great Zing

In the comments section to an article in The Daily Mail about the gilded weaponry of Mexican drug lords, Bill from Richmond, VA responded to an effete glove slap from an Englishman.

“Its so comforting to know that our American friends have so much time to concentrate on the finer things in life such as part and model numbers of guns… keeep it up chaps!”
– Peahead, Hebden Bridge

Well, Nancy, the next time the topic is part and model numbers of the latest purses, we’ll be sure to ask you.
– Bill, Richmond, VA

Ya gotta hit em where it hurts. And with the Euroweenies, that’s just about everywhere.

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How great would it be to have this cheery, mischievous, right of center womanizer as our il duce? Naturally, the Frenchman Sarkozy gives Silvio a run for his money in the beauty appreciating ogling department. Sarkozy, as befitting a leader of the land of S&M, looks like he’s about to give the broad a swift but loving kick to her keister. Silvio looks more focused, like he’s going to march over and hike up her skirt.

Obama looks… uninterested. And tightly wound.

PS Silvio has the best fitting suit of the group. Viva Italia!

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0:57 lmao

0:43 nose smoosh

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