Girl Screws Tucker Max, Broadcasts Her Sluttiness

I stumbled across a truly unintentionally hilarious tell-all. Some college chick banged Tucker Max during his promotional bus tour for his movie and she wrote about it on the internet.

I Slept With Tucker Max, the Internet’s Biggest Asshat

The fun starts before we even get past the title! The author’s name is Courtney, but here at the Chateau she’ll be known by the moniker “Suzy Semeneater”. Here’s some advice Suzy S.: Banging a guy and happily announcing it on the internet isn’t the best way to drive home your point that the guy is an asshat.

Tucker Max is a blogger-turned-author-turned-movie-producer who’s basically famous for drinking to obliteration and having sex with girls whom he later savages in graphic detail on his site, TuckerMax.com.

This reminds me of all those SWPL chicks who infest the blogworld claiming, every time they stumble across a game related blog, that chicks don’t really want assholes, and that insisting they do is just men making excuses for wanting to treat girls like shit. Yet here we see Suzy S. willingly fucking a guy she admits “savages” women on his blog.

You get what you give, ladies. Give your pussies to assholes, you’ll get nothing but assholes in return.

By the way, I am a huge proponent of asshole game for the reason that, in my observation and in the observation of men who aren’t satisfied with banging beta-settling fatties and fuglies, most women of fuckable quality (i.e. higher than 6, lower than BMI 23, and under 30) respond Pavlovian-like to assholes. And I kinda enjoy being an asshole sometimes.

It was a Monday night, about a quarter to 11, and I was watching TV with my roommates. I’d asked a few people to go out but no one was feeling up to it. Then, I got a text from my friend Steph: “If you want to meet Tucker Max, come to Cafe 210.”

I was a longtime fan and I’d been dying to meet him, so I got dressed as fast as I could and ran out the door. It was only the second week in school, and in my apartment I was already getting teased for my promiscuity. My roommates laughed as I left and told me to make sure to bring him back! “Yeah, like I’m gonna have sex with Tucker Max,” I thought.

Maxim #26: If a woman says the word “sex” in conversation with you or about you, no matter the context, it means she’s thinking about having sex with you.

I was expecting a huge line at the bar, but when I showed up, it was totally dead. I asked the bouncers if they’d heard anything about Tucker Max coming there. “I hope not,” one of them replied. Inside, I found some of my friends and some girls who were clearly Tucker’s tour groupies assembled. We waited a little while, and just when I thought he wouldn’t show, Tucker finally arrived.

“And then a seismic tremor swept through my san vaginus fault!”

Immediately a drunk girl latched onto him, hugging and kissing and falling all over him. She was cute, and I was just about to sigh, “Well, he’s already got his hook-up tonight,” when my friend Rosie snarled, “That’s pathetic. Who wants to be that girl?”

Maxim #27: Pussies are more pliable in the company of competing pussy.

Game tip: You’ll improve your odds of scoring by attending events that feature male celebrities. Counterintuitive? Maybe, but here’s what happens. The celebrity can only take home at most a handful of girls in attendance. The rest will be left with their meatflaps quivering for cock. A roomful of horny chicks, jealous and lubricated, is easier pickings than a roomful of egotastic bitches with sandpaper between their legs.

Regardless, we worked our way into the crowd surrounding Tucker, until we were face to face with him. I shook his hand, and told him I was a huge fan. His response? “Will you f–k a virgin?”

Tucker Max has tight cocky/funny asshole game.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll f–k anyone.” Big mistake.

This is the female verbal equivalent of parting her pussy lips and inserting a speculum for ease of access.

Tucked yelled for his friends to go get some kid, apparently the aforementioned virgin, because he’d “got one” for him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “Is he cute?”

“No,” said Tucker. “He’s fat.”

I replied that I had standards; Tucker replied that I was a whore.

Naturally, Max’s minor celebrity status allows him to get away with stuff that a typical beta couldn’t. But then I’ve seen plenty of non-famous guys playfully call girls whores and watched as their eyes lit up with lust. If the typical beta first achieves the goal of ridding himself of bad habits that betray his low sexual status, he too will find that calling girls whores works like gangbusters.

Finally, Steph handed me her camera and suggested that Rosie and I ask to take a picture with him. We did, and this time, Tucker blatantly looked me up and down.

How many women’s mags (and men’s mags for that matter) advise men to be discreet about checking out the goods on a date? All of them? The truth is that making it obvious you’re checking out a girl is good game. The trick is to do it with a critical eye, instead of a drooling mouth.

“34 C?” Tucker asked.
“32 C,” I replied, “but good guess. What, are you trying to touch them or something?”
“Oh, I know I can touch them,” he said. “But I like to guess first.”

Here’s a question for my readers. In what context would “34 C?” work as an opener? Your answers will count towards your final score.

When I went back to sit with my friends, they’d been joined by a couple of Tucker’s tour guys. Eventually, the man himself showed up.

“So,” he asked, scooting in next to me. “Are you coming back with me tonight?”

I’m on the fence about describing this as Apocalypse Game. Max’s threshold for apocalyptic pussy prying is naturally lower than it would be for a man who isn’t enjoying a measure of fame.

I have two options. One: dignity. Two: a good story to tell later. So I snuck off and texted my best friend, Matt. Should I f–k Tucker Max? His response: You will be a GOD in my eyes.

Matt: Beta of the Month candidate.

It’s done. Around 1:30, I told Tucker that I would, in fact, go home with him. “Oh, I know,” he replied. “We have a cab waiting, let’s go.”

Han Solo game is getting overexposed.

We got into the cab with everyone at the bar waving and giving the thumbs up. The best part? I didn’t even know most of them.

Your parents must be proud.

Tucker took me back to the Hampton Inn where he was staying, showed me his tour bus (which was pretty sweet) and I met his dog, whom he talks to like an somebody’s aunt talking to a baby, except that he told him, “Say hello to the new slut!”

Some of the best sex I’ve ever had was with girls I utterly degraded.

Finally, in his room, he wasted no time getting completely naked. Like, no foreplay at all. Well, girls? Here’s everything you wanted to know about Tucker Max: His body is nice, but a little too hairy. He’s a great kisser. He screws like he’s jackhammering a sidewalk. I faked orgasm to get him to stop. After he was finished he told me we were going to do it again in the morning. Great! I should have gotten up and left, but then he wanted to chat.

What, no mention of his penis size? For a girl to write about banging an asshat celebrity and not mention anything about his dick, true or not, means one of two things:

1. She enjoyed the jackhammering, her protestations to the contrary notwithstanding.
2. She’s totally OK with being used like a convenient receptacle.

I agree with Max and Roosh that there’s no reason to concern yourself with giving the girl an orgasm, particularly if you intend the girl to be nothing more than a one night stand. If you’re alpha enough, she’ll happily go on banging you no matter how sexually unsatisfied she remains. Only milquetoast betas with high-pitched womanly voices like A.J. Jacobs (who was on the Elliot in the Morning radio show today talking about his article which I excoriated) tenderly and diligently work to assure their lovers’ orgasms until their tongues go numb.

We talked about normal things, like how he eventually wanted to get married and have kids, which was a shock.

I like to tell cheap lays that one day I plan to open an orphanage in Calcutta, because I have so much love to give.

He said that he wasn’t interested in being in relationships, and I told him I liked being in them, at which point he totally misunderstood me and proceeded to tell me that we couldn’t date.

At which point she wanted to date him even more.

“You’re not a real person,” I replied, by way of explanation. I also told him about this guy I was kind of hung up on and he was surprisingly nice and insightful, telling me that I was a cute girl and that I shouldn’t pin my hopes on some dude at my age.

😆

Has there ever been a better advertisement for being an asshole to get what you want from girls than the things girls tell their asshole lovers the morning after? Hey, dude, if you’re reading this, your angel was jackhammered by Tucker Max. No need to treat her to dates. A little grabass in the bar and a beeline to your futon should do the trick.

The next day, he woke me up for sex, as promised. It was worse, because he was panting this time, and when he was putting his clothes on, he farted loudly, multiple times. I called a cab, and he gave me 20 bucks for the cab which I gladly took. (Hey, I’m in college.) He hugged me and said, “I’d totally hook up with you again. Call me if you’re ever in L.A.”

Secret society.

Eh. I think one episode of stunt sex is all I’ll ever need.

Translation: “Eh, I think one episode of hot sex is all I’ll ever get from him.”

(If you want to read Tucker’s account — which is slightly different from mine — you can read it here.)

In Tucker Max’s version of the pickup (which is amusingly, and unsurprisingly, much shorter than Suzy Semeneater’s) he describes her as being “very cute”. Here’s a pic of the girl:

Mmmm… nyah.

Writer and student Courtney A. attended Penn State University, where she accumulated lots of stories.

Any guy who marries this girl is a fool. Any guy who meets this girl and doesn’t fuck her on the first night is a fool.

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Alpha Male Cage Match

The winner of the first alpha male cage match was Silvio Berlusconi, by a whopping margin. 72 years old and still chasing skirt without apology.

On to match #2.

VS.

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The World’s First “Hot Chick With Douchebag”?

Peacocking head accessory? Check.
Overindulgent Roman guido (the original!) necklace? Check.
Cheeseball earrings? Check.
Hours in the gymnasium building neck muscles? Check.
Tunic unbuttoned down to navel to display sprouts of chest hair? Check.
Thousand yard stare of stupidity? Check.
Deep Mediterranean orange tan? Check.
Chick is a slut? Check.

Historical accuracy confirmed. The world’s first hot chick with douchebag!

(Link and association provided by commenters Lucifer and Ruby. Great JOOOORB guys.)

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The Romans Didn’t Like Fat Chicks Either

More evidence that thin has always been in. (Hat tip: Reader SB7.) The fourth century Romans of the Villa Romana del Casale and the surrounding town of Platia created mosaics of slender babes well within the optimal 17 – 23 BMI range frolicking in bikinis while playing outdoor games and generally looking cute.

Not a BBW or chubster in sight!

I feel the spirit of Dr. Seuss move me.

Do you like
chicks shaped like ham?
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.
I do not like
chicks shaped like ham.

Would you like them
now or then?

I would not like them
now or then.
I would not like them ever again.

I do not like
chicks shaped like ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Would you like them in your bed?
Would you like them giving head?

I do not like them
in my bed.
I do not like them
giving head.
I do not like them
now or then.
I do not like them
ever again.
I do not like
chicks shaped like ham.
I do not like them,
Sam-I-am.

Would you eat them
in their box?
Would you poke them
with your cox?

Not in their box.
Not with my cox.
Not in my bed.
Not giving head.
I would not poke them
here or there.
I would not poke them anywhere.
I would not poke chicks made of ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

I’ll be in all zee veek!

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Herb Attack!

First there was this. Then this herb poked his fat head up from his burrow. Then a magnificent specimen of herb was spotted on the concrete plains of a SWPL savannah. Suddenly herbs started springing up everywhere, wearing frontal papooses, inexplicably carrying satchels into nightclubs, and laying their bulbous heads in the laps of girlfriends to be stroked like a pet cat. But none of these squishy shuffling beasts in khaki could inspire the kind of awe, and gag reflex, that the latest discovery has provoked among the world’s top anthropological researchers. Behold… the Mother of All Herbs… the UBER HERB:

When I first saw this pic, I thought… Will Wilkinson! I mean, just look at their relationship exactness and complementarity. But no, I have been informed that Will does not have an Asian girlfriend. Then I thought… Hope! White and nerdy boyfriend? Check. Wearing healing crystals of Buddharrific transcendence? Nope, not Hope.

A close examination of this blurry photo reveals the embodiment of herbitude — perfect in presentation, flawless in composure, virtuous in cross-legged effeminacy, he is the archetype of the schlumpy herb whose feeble beta posturings are thrown into stark relief (fortuitously for the ninja photographer who risked his serum testosterone level to capture this herb on film) by the annoyed girlfriend stiffly rebuffing his tender ministrations.

The reader who sent this in provides the backstory:

Red Line, Wednesday evening.

This guy was so obviously beta he might as well have had a neon sign on him. He kept looking at her, smiling occasionally. He put his arm around her. He touched her leg the way some shy teenage boy might. He did the talking. He leaned into her. She might as well have been sitting next to a stranger. Her arms were crossed the whole time. Checking BlackBerry. No emotion on her face. When they got up, she got up first, and led the way. She wasn’t even cute; 4-5 at best. The thing was…they were married.

Married! This is what an equalist concept of relationships earns a man — crossed arms and clamped pussies. And this schmendrick looks so shit-eating happy to surrender any shred of manly dominance. I could carve a better man out of a purple saguaro.

OK, you say, instead of pointing and laughing how about some solutions to help this guy? Hey, I aim to please.

I’d begin with the easiest and quickest improvements and work my way up to the more difficult herb-cleansing tasks.

First, style and presentation.

• I’d have him shave his head. If you’ve got hair like that it’s the only way to go. If his wife protests, even better.
• NO GODDAMN KHAKI. Ever. Only guys who already possess an understanding of style should attempt khaki. Not herbs wearing high waters.
• Unbotton the top button on his shirt.
• Even though this photo is blurry, I can tell his shoes suck. New shoes.
• Glasses dropped for contacts. Or at least more fashionable eyewear.
• Perhaps a soul patch to add a hint of edginess. Or a hint of “I’m not a doormat, really.”
• Tanning booth.
• Gym membership. Of course, he’d probably gravitate to the treadmill or hip abductor machine. I’d make sure he found his way to the heavy iron.

Next, body language.

• Uncross your legs, nancyboy. Old men and fruitcups sit like that. Spread em and display the goods. An alpha male loves the thought of impolitely shoving the contours of his mighty package into the viewing angle of scandalized Metro riders.
• Lean *away from*, not *into*, your woman. A healthy relationship always features the girl cozying up to the man. Egalitarian libertarians like Will Wilkinson who live and breathe in the world of abstraction will never understand this, but women WANT their men to be dominant, despite their claims to the contrary. They WANT to be the ones leaning into him.
• Stop smiling like an idiot at your girl, especially when she’s not returning your joy. Do you know what your face says? “Oh, I’m wetting myself that I have YOU, my precious flower. Thank you, Asian girlfriend, for blessing me with the exquisite pleasure of your company and tightness of your Oriental vagina. This love we share… wait… excuse me, getting a little choked up… a lone tear pregnant with possibility shouts my love for you. PS You are permitted to walk all over me.”

Finally, we’d move on to LTR game.

• I’d tell him to pay attention to his wife’s behaviors, and stop feeding her revulsion with counterproductive betaness. So, when wifey folds her arms, scowls, refuses to touch you IN PUBLIC, and generally acts like a bitch, you STOP, DROP, and ROLL the fuck off from her. Pawing at her like a needy puppy isn’t going to help. You know what would help? Flirting with another woman in front of her.
• Once you’ve figured out how to read your wife’s “you disgust me” body language, you will be tempted in all your glorious betaness to inquire “What’s the matter, honey?”. Resist this urge. You would only be digging the hole deeper.
• Hey, guess what, it’s OK to tease your wife for being a bitch. “Try not to look so happy, babe. I’m just a man, not a god.”
• When your marriage is this arid, it’s a good idea to disappear for a week. When you return, act like nothing is wrong.
• Lead, don’t follow, and don’t “complement”. Your wife wants to step in place behind you, not next to you and not in front of you; stop denying her this fulfillment.
• Read this blog for relationship game. It may be the only thing that can save you from a brutal divorce theft ass raping.

As I’ve written before, the Asian woman is a white beta male’s dream. Asian girls are guided less by their primitive gina tingles than women of other races, and are more susceptible to the herbly charms of the provider beta, as long as the provider beta in question is a white dude. The white beta male can wallow like a pig-shaped puffed pastry in his desperate, needy, cloying betaness with the Asian girlfriend without worrying so much that she’ll dump him for the nearest bartender. The white beta male would have to settle for a fat white chick to enjoy the same treatment.

But when you’ve become a caricature of a herb, and so beta that your Asian wife is repulsed by you and showing it in public, you’ve got serious problems. You’re one short step down to omegatude and midnight masturbation marathons to Caucasian-eyed anime.

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A Jaunt Around The Internet

Many readers have sent me this UK tabloid story about a tacky British slut (redundant?) who asks the sex advice columnist (there’s a 21st century New Girl Order occupation of pointlessness) Rowan Pelling whether she should reveal to her boyfriend the truth about her, uh, comprehensive sexual history.

I’ve been with my boyfriend for six months, we’re both 34 and I am fairly sure he’s The One. The other night we ended up having a conversation about how many lovers we’d had. He told me he had slept with eight women and suddenly I felt nervous about confessing the truth  –  I had a lot of flings at university and in my first job at an ad agency, so my tally is closer to 40. But I found myself saying ten and even then he looked horrified. I hate being untruthful with him, but don’t want to be judged either. What should I do?

Here’s my advice: Lie your whore ass off. We all know, thanks to the “Double Whatever Number She Claims” rule, that you’ve banged 80 cocks, 40 of them probably swarthy immigrant cock. This means that there is no chance your boyfriend is “The One” since it’s impossible for a woman to make a soulmate connection once her gina has tingled over the four corners of the earth. More precisely, you have found “The One Last Hope” that could save you from spinsterhood. You are walking on thin ice what with your advanced age and bedraggled labia, so the last thing you want to do is fuck it up by giving your boyfriend a justifiable excuse to dump your rode-hard flat British ass. “But why would he do that?”, you whine. I think you already know why, otherwise you wouldn’t be fretting about what to do. You have demonstrated by your inability to be more discriminating with your womanly wares that you are a potential cuckold/infidelity/divorce theft risk. Men have scientifically and observationally valid reason to avoid commiting to skanks such as yourself, so recognize this reality of the male psyche and hope he doesn’t find your All Male Revue Facebook page.

That’ll be $200.

Now here’s the advice Rowan Pelling “sex columnist” gave to her:

To be honest, if your man really loves you he should be able to take the full tally with equanimity. But then that would presume that he’s secure in his own skin and, as we all know, a great many people aren’t. What you perceive as censure may well be old-fashioned male insecurity. […]

Having said all that, I think most lovebirds should steer clear of going into the minutiae of previous conquests.

And if a man is unwise enough to ask a woman how many lovers she’s had, can I suggest the following response: ‘Let’s just say I won’t wear white at the wedding.’

Naturally, her advice is retarded. I expect nothing less from 99.9999% of women writing sex and relationship advice columns. The male insecurity trope is the “Get Out of Self Examination Free” card, and is readily whipped out by the Slut&Skank Syndicate and the Fatass Feminist Fatwa whenever their wishful thinking collides with the immutable force of male nature. To make it as clear as possible for them: Men pump and dump party time pussies, but they don’t marry them when more chaste options are available.

To put it in terms that cater to women’s self-absorption, is it old-fashioned female insecurity when women balk at sleeping with plush, niceguy betas? Are women insecure in their own skin when they hesitate to marry unemployed men? The question answers itself.

By the way, a woman who sneeringly tells her fiancee she wouldn’t be fit to wear white at their wedding is just begging to be dumped like yesterday’s trash. However, it is a clever shit test. Any man INSECURE enough to stick around after such a cackling, sordid revelation has proven his beta bonafides.

******

Another reader sent me a link to fashion model tryouts in Russia. He knows this blog well. After perusing the photos (fully unclothed perusing) I composed this Ode to Russian Women:

Oh Sweet Russkie
Your beauty is like vuuudka
To incapacitate my mule
Your chiclet teeth like pearls
To chomp my borschty tool
Your round pushed-in face
Makes my ballsack quiver
When I shoot my load
In your mouth, it’s a river
Just one thing to note
Before I end this ode
Best to get you as a teen
After 30 it’s babushka load!

The description by the event organizers on the website is classic alpha Russian. And by alpha Russian, I mean they know how to BS without veering too far into neutered, politically correct Conor Friedersdorf territory.

Beauty is assessed in a different way.  Various cultures praise various features and traits. It is not  easy to find the diamond.

The desire to be at the podium and be admired is inside every girl. But only those models who succeeded can tell us how many worries and obstacles they had to overcome. The way to fame is paved with hard labor and constant work over oneself. Beauty is especially valued in the modern world. For many this is a chance to be noticed to get to more serious sphere than just unsteady fashion and beauty industry.  In the effort to achieve the aim, the girls are looking for their happiness at the beauty contest. So today we would like to have a look at the stage before the contest, so you are invited to the casting in Minsk. The National School of Beauty in Minsk is going to hold the International Beauty Contest Miss Intercontinental.  This is a beauty pageant known since 1973. What criteria will the jury follow  first of all? This is natural beauty. When asked, the jury was not able to describe the portrait of potential winner, but still accented that the main thing is the inner beauty of the girl.

My favorite part of the website was the link to the Russian meat market girls:

Mmm, that is a fine looking cut of meat.

******

In other news that won’t surprise anyone who isn’t a hermit ignoramus or a feminist, science has once again proven a core tenet of Game: The concept of social proof is real.

The most striking result was in the responses of single women. Offered a single man, 59 per cent were interested in pursuing a relationship. But when he was attached, 90 per cent said they were up for the chase.

Men were keenest on pursuing new mates, but weren’t bothered whether their target was already attached or not. Attached women showed least interest and were slightly more drawn to single men.

You know that typical female lament “All the good men are taken”? It needs to be accurately rendered for the Darwin Generation: “All the taken men are good.” Mystery nailed this ten years ago: chicks dig preselection. The first thing you must do when going to a bar alone is befriend a chick. Start off low and work your way up to the hotties.

******

Over at The American Scene, I read another lame white knighting attempt by our favorite house beta Conor Friedersdorf to grapple with the eeeevil of the neg. The article was the usual misrepresentation of game and umbrage over the fact that men like sex with a variety of women that I’ve come to expect from the chipmunk-cheeked traditionalist conservative crowd, but Steve Sailer did leave a couple of worthy comments that deserve a second look:

The point of “game” is for guys who are stuck in subordinate positions to other men at work to learn techniques to pretend to women in bars that they are dominant over other men during the daytime (at least until the woman figures out that the guy isn’t making alpha male bucks at work).

So, many of the game techniques are ones that dominant men use on subordinate men at work, such as negging.

Consider the relationship between George W. Bush and Karl Rove. Obviously, Rove was smarter and harder working than Bush. So, why was he subordinate to Bush? In part, because Bush carried out classic dominant male behavior of alternating between praising Rove, holding out the vision of how far he could go as Bush’s subordinate, and negging him, calling him “Turd Blossom” and the like, to undermine his self-confidence. Bush always negged Rove with a smile on his face, but neg him he did.

The really interesting question about game is this: if some percentage of subordinate males can actually, through practice, can start fooling women in bars into believing they are dominant males, why not use the same self-improvement techniques to fool men at work? After all, if men believe you are an alpha male, then you are an alpha male. And if men think you are an alpha male, and give you money and power like they think you are an alpha male, then women will think you are an alpha male, too.

So, if these techniques really work, why restrict yourself to getting just Women when you can get Women, Money, and Power?

He’s half right. Some game techniques, like DHVs, compliance, and alpha body language, are mimickry of nonverbal and verbal dominance signals that men employ over other men, but many game concepts are not. For instance, social proof and kino escalation (layman’s term: progressively intimate touching), would get you disdain, envy, or a black eye if used on other men. But they work great on women.

This is why my definition of the alpha male is so elegant. It doesn’t rely on male dominance over other men or male dominance over women, for which those two phenomena overlap to a great degree anyhow. Instead, it quickly cuts to the chase and defines the alpha male by how hot are the women he can attract, how strong is that attraction for him, and how many of those women find him attractive.

Note for the dumbass betas: An alpha male is *not* necessarily the man who sleeps with a lot of women. He is the man who *could* sleep with a lot of women if he so chose.

As for Sailer’s poke at the end, who says Illuminated Men aren’t using game tactics in other areas of their lives? And for those who aren’t bothering to use game to achieve things of monumental importance in the corporate grind, perhaps they prefer the pussy path of least resistance. Not a sermon, just a thought.

Sailer writes another comment:

Negging is essential behavior in the formation of all-male and all-female social spheres.

Females tend to form small cliques and make catty remarks to drive away lower-status females.

Males negging other males can lead to violence, but it’s often less vicious than female negging. It can go on pleasantly for a lifetime: watch how four retired buddies insult each other on the golf course.

The main function of male vs. male negging, however, is hierarchy building. It’s a test of dominance to see who has the personality to be a leader. Leaders encourage it in social settings to check out which younger males have the attributes of quick-wittedness and aggression to become subordinate line managers within his hierarchy, and which would be better suited for staff roles.

The question, therefore, remains: Why not use Game not just in the bars but in the boardrooms to win not just women, but the power, money, and prestige that naturally attract women as well?

Presumably, Pick-Up Artistry works best for aggressive, quick-witted men who have flaws that prevent them from becoming leaders of men (e.g., laziness, need for instant gratification, and so forth).

It’s true that the men who take most quickly to the beauty of the neg are those who are already blessed by genetics with assertiveness and a quick wit, but all this means is that less-gifted men have to train harder to improve their lot with women. Like playing an instrument, it is possible for a man with sufficient practice to get better with women.

******

Dennis Mangan has a post up about game and social collapse. The comments section is ablaze. Take a look. I have been branded a desolate impact on civilization and a representative of the lowest moral order. *preen*

Here’s a clue, chipmunk-cheeked conservatives: If you wish to change the behavior of men, you first must change the behavior of women. The penis parades to the pussy tune, not the other way around. Your chivalry and paeans to honor and duty do nothing but fuel the decline. Guys like me laugh at your sacrifice.

And for those who continue troubling themselves over the conceptually useful and reality-reflecting definitions of alpha male and beta male, let me help clear up the matter. Alpha/beta isn’t a dichotomy. It’s a gradation; an attractiveness bell curve that is somewhat weighted toward the left hand side due to women’s propensity to “date up”. There are plenty of betas who do manage to get laid and find a woman to marry, but the devil is in the details. As you go down the beta scale, you find more men shut out of hot sex with women in their salad days (teens and twenties) and settling later in life with used-up cougars-in-waiting. The further leftward you descend, the more involuntarily celibate lesser betas and omegas you’ll see. The further rightward you ascend, the more happy alphas with their choice of poon dominate the sexual landscape.

******

On a more serious note, apparently Lady Laddie Gaga is a hermaphrodite. She gotta ween! Check it:

She’s a man, baby! David Alexander: “It moved, Jerry.”

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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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