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Archive for the ‘Funny/Lolblogs’ Category

The last comment winner was back in July because you guys stunk up the place in August and I couldn’t choose a winner for that month that met my standard for excellence. But you pulled through in September.

So here it is, the September 2008 Comment Winner. Dinamo Kiev gives his insight into Russian women and the Slavic sexual market in the comments to this post, funnily enough, the February 2008 Comment Winner:

First off, it’s nuts to think that an EE woman would naturally prefer an American man.  Since when did women become big risk takers?  The World’s greatest explorers, first big waves of migrants, etc. were all men.  Adventure is in a man’s blood, but women are conservative.  All things being equal, they’d rather find someone with high status in their own society, rather than move to some other country.  You want a Russian girl?  Move here and bring all your money.  EE was bad enough 10 years ago that any American man could have come here and been a god and then taken a girl home.  No so anymore.

Most of the dudes I saw in America with Russian wives had no idea that their girlfriend/wife was fucking some Russian guy behing their back.

Game is for American men in America.  You don’t need game in Eastern Europe.  You don’t score points for witty banter here.  You gain points for being tough, macho, solid, and rich.  And not fake tough, like in America.  You’d better be ready to knock out immediately anyone that gets in your way, as a minimum.    How do you think the Russian oligarchs got rich?  By being nice guys?  They are all bandits and murderers.  And guess what?  Their girlfriends and wives don’t care that they are criminals.  Sad, but true.  Criminality doesn’t carry the sense of shame that it does in America — it doesn’t make a man here untouchable.  They were tough in an alpha sense, ruthless to everyone, and made the big bucks.  Everyone here is an Alpha — i.e. there are no Betas in the sense that someone is too shy to approach a girl.  The difference between Alpha and Beta here is: how much are you willing to push around other men and stomp them into the ground to get your way?

Your hot Russian girl will be grabbed and approached by no less than 15 men a day here, and half of the men will probably physically grab her and not accept no as an answer.  There’s no room for subtlety here.  There is no need for “approach” or “opening” here.  See a girl you like?  “Come sit with us girl.”  “Come ride in our Mercedes with us, girl.”  That’s it.

American men who come here get gamed so badly by the women, it’s amazing.  These idiots pay for dinners, Louis Vuitton bags, new clothes… and more than half of them aren’t even getting laid!   

You want a beautiful Russian girl?  Find one that is 27+ and bring her to America.  At that age, over here, she’ll be scared to death that her sponsor and/or husband, if he’s rich enough, will be looking to replace her with a younger and more beautiful model, preferably around age 19.  She’ll realize she can find some American sucker that will love her for the next 20 years, even after her beauty fades.    She can continually Diva him and turn him into her slave.    You can’t do that to a Russian man.  He’ll just turn around and say, “Next!”

All Russian girls know instinctively that they can not compete beauty wise with the new generation of girls that comes up every few years.    How do you think charming and beautiful young Russian girls turn into such bitter hag babushkas?  Because when your time is up here, your time is up, so might as well get bitter about it.

Women here are beautiful because it’s a Darwinistic society.  They know men go for looks, so they all compete on looks.  If you’re over 50 kg and a young woman, you must lock yourself in your bedroom and not leave until you’ve lost the weight.    American women are quite ugly, but I think it’s mainly because they are fat and dress poorly.    Subject them to the same kind of pressures they’d face here and I’m sure they’d gain 2.5 points of beauty within a few years.

As a side note, I’ve witnessed no less that 6 American women having nervous breakdowns here, usually at cafes talking to some male coworker, saying things like “I can’t take it here anymore!  The girls are such sluts!”   

What she really wants to say is: “I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t compete on any level with these women.  I was so popular with men in America even as a warpig, but here, not only do all Russian guys ignore me, but all the American men can’t be bothered either.”

I hear there is a term in Iraq for American women working in the green zone.  “GFB — Good for Baghdad.”  And that these women have the same kinds of nervous breakdowns upon return to America, when even the guys they were dating in Baghdad, that were so attentive to them there, no longer pick up the phone or respond anymore.

Of course America is a more civil place and a much better society, thanks to all the beta people, of course.  If you’re past 30, it’s much better to live there than here.  But if you want to see human nature at its basest, stripped of all subtleties:  to see what people really want — there’s no place better than here.

Don’t flame me girls, I’m just reporting it as I see it.

Well said, Padawan Kiev. I like his advice to fat girls to stay locked in their bedrooms starving themselves until they’re fit to be shown in public. Call it environmental activism; you don’t want your vista ruined by unsightly mounds of garbage.

As for his claim that all Russian men are alpha, I don’t buy it. But I relish a challenge, especially one involving beautiful women. My Russian trip will be like a safari to an exotic land where no one’s heard of PC or feminism or Gossip Girl, and where the women have a decent grasp of reality.

The Runner-up September 2008 Comment Winner award goes to Kick a Bitch, for his trenchant observations on the social interplay between man, woman, and flip-flop:

i like it though… i’ll have to use it sometime soon. i’ll even be so bold as to use it despite the fact that i’m also wearing flip-flops. i can already smell the musk that will accumulate from the juices of my prey’s vaginal canal as i spit forth the hypocrisy.

Sara just came.

Finally, a very strong Honorable Mention goes to Cynizen for her(?) comment on the post Top Two Rules For Dating Younger Women:

Men like you do not have any intention of a monogamous relationship and take advantage of the stupid, reckless girls with low self-esteem and bad taste. Yeah, that’ll add plenty to the gene pool should you slip up or your old balls produce enough over-eager swimmers. Men like you use pseudoscience to promote your agenda, yet ignore the advantages children  have if their fathers are not assholes or aged. 

While age differences do not inherently bother me, people who make age a fetish and those who exploit others are disgusting and are obviously overcompensating for their small dicks or latent homosexuality.

I regret finding yet another shitty blog that makes me despise people.

Stupid girls with low self-esteem falling for game? Check. Small dick compensation? Check. Latent homosexuality? Check. It’s oddly comforting to see my incredulous foes sticking to the script.

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I got roped into a baby shower for an acquaintance. I’d never been to one of these seminal events, though I’ve heard about them. It was as bad as I imagined, maybe worse. Between the pink ribbon-wrapped gifts, blankies, snugglies, baby bouncies, belly-rubbing, earnest discussions of contractions and labor, and torrents of sympathy sludge, I felt like I would suffocate on the maternally estrogenic fumes.

GIMME BOOB MILK!

GIMME BOOB MILK!

I saved my mental health by fantasizing what it would be like to make gentle love to a third trimester pregnant woman. This is a mountain I’ve yet to climb. It couldn’t be any more challenging than this. Or this.

The best gift by far was two small jewelry boxes. One was engraved with the words “My First Tooth” and the other with “My First Hair Curl”. This was a great gift because it put a smile on my face as I pondered the milestones that a bunch of my own engraved jewelry boxes filled with mementos of my past conquests would have celebrated.

“My First Forgotten Panty” — It’s pleasantly surprising waking up the next morning, after she has left in her drunken state, to stumble across her panties lying on the floor that she forgot to put on. *sniiiiiff*

“My First Hidden Video” — You never know, she could become famous. And you’ll need masturbation material for when you’re 80. Watching yourself fuck your girl in the bloom of youth >>>> internet porn.

“My First Period Fuck” — Put that bloody used condom or red-stained towel in the box, champ! You’ve earned it.

“My First Threesome” — See: “My First Hidden Video”.

“My First Close Call” — In here you put the abortion clinic receipt.

“My First Anal” — Awkward. You don’t want anything smelly in your box. An audio recording of her yelping in pain is acceptable.

“My First Russian Anal” — An audio recording of her yelping in pain in Russian. (It sounds like this: “Aye, aye aye, Ee ee yi yi yi!”. Music to my ears.)

“My First Raw Dog” — Take an after photo of your cock crusted in dried vaj juice.

“My First Facial” — Tough one to document. Wipe her face with a towel to capture the jizz and makeup in a Turin Shroud-like imprint. Put in box and pray to nightly for the blessings of future facials.

“My First Virgin” — See: My First Period Fuck. You might need a biohazard hymen container for this one.

“My First Fat Chick” — Empty.

“My First Psycho Bitch” — Restraining order.

“My First DC Lawyer Chick” — One silver bullet.

“My First Bartender” — STD fact sheet.

“My First Cunnilingus” — One gnarly pube.

Darwinianly-speaking, women huddle like pinkiron midwives around the expectant QB mother to fulfill a deeply subconscious group coherence bonding mechanism that works to assist the tribe raise its young. Since most women are going to get pregnant at some point in their lives they don’t worry about exerting effort helping out another woman’s child. Men don’t have the luxury to waste resources like this; they could easily lose out on the chance to pass on their genes if they spent time and money on a rival’s kid.

I walked out of that baby shower feeling grateful for being a man.

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37 year old woman: “So you just got out of prison? For killing a guy? Ha ha, that’s all right. I’m cool with that. I’ll buy dinner this time, and maybe you can get next time? Or not, I could just get it next time, too. Aren’t we having fun?? Fun fun fun!! Me and my three eggs are having the best time!”

It’s funny cause it’s… no, no, wait. It’s not funny at all. It’s just sad.

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From the archives:

Girl: Hey, how are you! I saw you upstairs and wanted to say hi. We met already. Remember me? Sarah?

Me: [scanning her face… thinking… thinking… drawing a complete blank.] Yeah! You do look familiar! Hi, it’s nice to see you.

Girl: You too! I know we kind of left it off in a weird way. My life was really hectic at that time and that’s why I didn’t get back to you. I really was in the middle of a big move. But everything’s back to normal now.

Me: [remembering now] Oh yeah! I remember you. [shaking head] I thought that was an uncreative excuse.

Girl: No, it was the truth!

Me: You know what this means… You owe me 20 drinks and lots of flattery for hurting my sensitive feelings. You’ve got some catching up to do. You’re already in the hole, behind, like, 100 points.

Girl: Haha. Well, we’ll see about that. Anyhow, just wanted to say hi. [looking expectantly at me]

Me: Hm, I suppose now that you’re settled in we could take another shot at meeting up for a conversation.

Girl: Do you still have my number?

Me: I’m not sure. Lemme check. [SLOOOOWWWLY scrolling through my phone list, like I’m going through a thousand numbers] Here we are. Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve got a few Sarahs in here. Don’t worry, some of these are old numbers from weeks ago. Let’s see if I get the right Sarah on the first guess. XXX-XXX-XXX?

Girl: Yep, that’s my number!

Me: OK, go back to your friends. I’ll give you a call sometime. Bye.

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Also from yesterday’s post, commenter Sebastian Flyte highlighted women’s natural inborn revulsion for beta males with the example of the fun bar game Marry Shag Kill:

Another aspect I’m increasingly seeing – WOMEN ARE PITILESS ABOUT BETAS. 

Most gamers who run the routine “murder, marry, shag” quickly realise this.  For those who don’t, you and the girl point at various people around the bar and state whether you would murder them, marry them, or shag them. 

Sometimes I point at wallflowers and guys with no game. I normally just feel bad for them, there-but-for-the-grace-of-god and so forth, me a year ago, he just needs to learn… but women_are_brutal.  Murder of course, but they embellish it further with unflattering observations on their penis size, acne, relationship history, masturbation habits… the vitriolic hate they have for these guys, it’s scary.  If a couple of alphas walked in and started ripping on the betas, women would join in.

I have noticed the same thing with women when I play Marry Fuck Kill with them. After an initial hesitancy, they get comfortable playing and suddenly the claws and fangs are out, revealing in high definition surround-sound glory their barely submerged joyous hate for the hapless beta male.

The nicer ones might try to think of alternate ways to dispose of the losers.

“Uuumm… yeah I guess I would kill him [pointing at rumpled shirt herb]. Do I really have to kill him? Ew, yuck, could we just have him shot into space or something? Or moved to China?”

If the guy is really emanating the stench of loserness, her killing instinct sharpens:

“Yeah, kill him. Oh god, yes, just kill him.”

You have to understand why women have this curdled reaction to betas deep in their bones. If a man spills his seed in the wrong woman, no biggie. He can still bang other women and fulfill his genetic programming. If a woman gets her eggs polluted by the feeble seed of a beta, she’s stuck for nine months, and probably longer.

This is why Marry Fuck Kill is an excellent litmus test. I now use the game to screen for women with good character. If she is *really* uncomfortable killing off men she doesn’t want to fuck or marry, and refuses to pull the trigger, I know she’ll be more likely to want to please me and less likely to cheat. I put her in the “long term prospect” mental bin. If she chooses to marry what I consider marriage-worthy men (and I pick sample targets for her with my screening process in mind) I give her an extra point. If she chooses to fuck the dude wearing the skull and bones bandana with tribal tattoos on his arms and a perpetual sneer, I subtract points from her and put her into the “short fling” mental bin.

Marry Fuck Kill does not work the same for men. When the girl plays the game with me, and I haven’t yet fucked her, I have to be careful how I answer.

“Her? [looking at the fat girl she picked] Hmm, I dunno… If she was good to animals I miiiiiight marry her. I guess I have to kill someone here, eh? Maybe that chick over there. [pointing at the hottest chick in the bar] She looks high maintenance.”

If I simply told the truth and chose all the hot girls for fucking and marrying and killed all the ugly and fat chicks, occasionally with unbridled glee, she would become self-conscious and never agree to be videotaped during sex.

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Exhibit A:

Is it smarter to spend $20K on an engagement ring or just get your fiancee’s name tattooed on your ring finger?

tattoos are forever.

tattoos are forever.

Exhibit B:

Is it smarter to get knocked up at 17 with many more years of fertility and tight vagina left, or spend $28K a month on fertility treatments at the age of 42 in hopes of giving your rich mother a long shot at one non-downs syndrome grandchild?

the touching end of a genetic line.

the touching end of a genetic line.

one and counting...

one and counting...

Maybe these lower middle class proles aren’t as dumb as yuppie ironic hipster SWPLs believe. Levi saves $20K by not supporting the diamond cartel and can probably scrounge up enough money working the oil fields to buy a starter home in the wide open spaces of Alaska for his new family before he hits drinking age. He could glorify his genetic heritage with ten more kids by the time Bristol reaches 30, still looking good.

Meantime, Martha Stewart’s haggard 42 year old divorced upper class careerist daughter cries herself to sleep at night in the gravity boots hoping the intracytoplasmic sperm injection will find a garbage egg still clinging to usefulness and insert itself in romantic union. She probably haughtily scoffed at Bristol’s teen pregnancy and “low class” lifestyle.

Ask yourselves — who is really smarter? Whose lifestyle would you prefer? When you wake up in the middle of the night, divorced, childless, with nothing but memories of your wild sexcapades, your Pier 1 furnishings, and your color-coordinated cat to keep you company, and you feel a chill go down your spine and the hair rise on the back of your neck not knowing why, ask yourself my leetle questions once again and see if maybe… just maybe…
you had it all wrong.

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Zeets on game:

Me: [while helping him set up a new TV I belch loudly] BEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLCCCCCHHHH.
Zeets: Was that a neg? [imitating me approaching some girls] Hi, I’m… BEEEELLLLCHHH… haha hey girls that was a neg! You like me now!

Zeets on long distance cockblocking:

Me: So there’s this girl who lives in another country who loves me. She told me a guy hit on her last night and she turned him down by telling him she had an internet lover.
Zeets: Wow, that guy must’ve felt like shit. Cockblocked from afar!
Me: Yeah, it’s one thing to get cockblocked by another guy in the bar, but to get cockblocked by an internet dude… humiliation!
Zeets: A girl who rejects someone by saying “No, I’m in love with a guy on the internet” is a lot worse than “I have a boyfriend.”
Me: It’s like saying “Your physical presence can’t even compete with an IM”.

Zeets on blogging:

Zeets: Everyone’s got their little blog now. Get up at 1 in the afternoon, trundle to the store to buy organic hipster meuslix, come back and blog about it. [makes exaggerated typing motion with his hands] Blog, blog, blog. Blogging piglets!

Zeets on the consumer culture:

Zeets: Help me carry out this TV. [we were leaving Best Buy with his new 1,000 inch LCD TV purchase]
Me: This is gaudy. You’re rolling out with the biggest package in the place.
Zeets: Notice how all eyes are turned towards me. The women are aroused by my display of materialism. [looks over at a middle-aged woman and winks] A big purchase will make you feel like a man and boost your testosterone major.

Zeets on herbs:

“I WANT TO CRUSH THEM ALL.”

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