Archive for the ‘Game’ Category

I have a shirt that is Pure Shitlord Energy. Its pec-framed artistry is set to maximum triggering; no fatty, frump. or fug SJW can see it without shaking violently on the inside. I wore this shirt recently at an outdoor event filled with the libbiest libshits, and every SJWhale and problem glasses fishmouth snarled as I passed by them. But the hotties….woowee they smiled and loitered in my vicinity. The beauty of the shirt is in its humor. The message is in-your-face antediluvian alphatude coated with a soothingly humorous shell.

Shitcocking serves three useful purposes:

  1. It filters the noxious cunts from bang consideration
  2. It attracts the curious cuties
  3. It provokes curious cutie shit tests that allow you to demonstrate your grace under pressure

It seems the HSMV girls relish the triggering. They get a kick out of a man who triggers them; this is a stark contrast to the puritans and schoolmarms and twatalitarians who can’t tolerate dissent from their straitjacketed, dreary world view, and frown and scowl at any man who dares mock their prudery.

The catch is that if you’re gonna shitcock, you had better be fearless. The second you disclose through word or body twitch the slightest doubt and discomfort with your chosen form of shitcockery, the girls will eat you alive. Even the once-curious cuties. But if you are overflowing with overconfidence, the girls worth your attention will reel from sudden blasts of arousal. They will poke and prod, but it will all be done with a presumption of your attractiveness. Poking and prodding is a good thing; it’s when they frown and look the other way that you’ll know you rubbed their hindfur against the grain.

Mass triggering a large public gathering of shitlib cunts is one of life’s finer pleasures. But doing so while feminine fillies flirt with you, and your un-wipeable smirk steals the show, is a sensual shiv incomparable. If you’ve got the cahones, one mesmerizing shirt can substitute for one hundred cold approaches.

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Trump delivered a vivisectionist’s neg of Emmanuel Maricon’s granny wife with this slow-acting venom of a backhanded compliment:

Trump, to Brigitte Macron: “You’re in such great shape!”

A plausibly deniable shiv that is at once flattering and ego-deflating. A perfect teasing set-up to have a woman swoon for your attention all night, and then to dream of you for months afterward.

What Trump executed here was the context-dependent neg. You can’t tell a young hottie she’s in such great shape without it backfiring on you. It sounds supplicating, and compliments on a hot woman’s physical assets are generally poor form if bedding her is your goal. But if the context is right — say, the “girl” you’re addressing is the much older wrinkly wife of a closeted globalist gay man — then telling her she’s in great shape is the kind of subcutaneous unctuousness that implies one is surprised to see such a body on such an old lady. From that neg, the cratering of her self-perceived SMV will open a wide target to your seductive aims.

It also helps if your much younger and hotter wife is standing next to the granny, throwing the contrast in stark relief.


Related, Monsieur Maricon and Trump had an epic handshake battle that has the lib rag phag wags agog:

I’ve said it before, and this is further evidence confirming my suspicion: Maricon is a closeted homo (no straight man with options marries a woman who could be his elderly mother) who is way too try-hard about AMOG-ing the natural alpha male Trump.

But, biomechanics being what they are, Trump does respect a man who shows some strength, even if it’s precociously try-hard. Only two world leaders have shaken Trump’s hand with gusto: Maricon and Putin. And word is that Trump likes both men. He’s practically had a bromance with Maricon during this recent Parisian adventure.

The alpha male respects strength and despises weakness. The weak male (and female) is perceived by the strong male as a disloyalty threat, a rat, a snake, someone who would push their own White grandma under the bus. Maricon with his handshakes and vigorous mano-a-mano parrying with Trump has earned the God Emperor’s affinity. Is anyone surprised that Maricon, so obviously in gay homosexual love with Trump and eager to share his melodramatic masculine ardor with him, had recently dropped some realtalk about the exploding African population problem and how the West simply can’t let the dark continent hordes into their nations as a solution?

Either Maricon is a globalist shill working through some sexual identity issues, or he’s secretly /ourguy/ and the unlikely savior of France from the merchants of borderlessness. Time will tell. For now, enjoy the spectacle of the great man Trump single-handedly clothes-lining the Nü World Order.

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Gaming The “Nasty Woman”

As American girls are getting progressively more belligerent and screechy, a man should assume that on his sojourns into the dating trenches he will occasionally have need to parry an out-and-proud “nasty woman”.

mendo explains,

And we can dodge all the cunts wearing [the Nasty Woman] shirt.

Though I wonder if some will be snarky and try to bait a guy into a shit test (but I repeat myself) by bitching about men not manning up and liking nasty women.

No doubt many of these nasty women are generic sluts just looking for another faddish edge to shit test men and, in the course of playing the anti-coquette, inflate their girly egos. If you really want to hate fuck a woman wearing a Nasty Woman t-shirt, you could play along assuaging her ego while lacing your charm with enough bite to preserve your masculine dignity.

Nasty Gashy: “Real men like nasty women.”
Fashy Gatsby: “Depends where she does the nasty.”

FYI I’ve found that talking about a woman (whom you are directly addressing) in the third person is an amplifier of sexual tension. It subtly demeans her social status relative to yours, and it provides rhetorical room for sexy, sizzling teasing without crossing the anti-slut defense threshold that would shut her down to further sexploration.

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A cheeky wag commenting on a blog post titled “The Five Stages of HBD” offered the Game version of the post’s subject:

Stage-1 (Denial): “What is this cavemanish-sounding “Game” of which you speak? Actually, I’d rather you didn’t answer that.”

Stage-2 (Anger): “SEEEXIIISST!!!”

Stage-3 (Bargaining): “… but even if Game is real, it doesn’t mean anything, does it? You know, women like soft cuddly fat guys, right? Game only works on a certain kind of girl… (or something).”

Stage-4 (Depression): “Who could possibly have imagined that reality was so evil?”

Stage-5 (Acceptance): “Feminism really has been a mountain of dishonest garbage, hasn’t it? Guess it’s time to learn Game or die lonely in Mom’s basement playing World of Warcraft…”

Interestingly, that post was from 2013, so the Rude Word of Game has been percolating through the blogocultural consciousness for a while. Le Chateau Heartiste may be a world wide web outpost, but its ideas have traveled the globe enlightening minds and engorging…souls….from a time when the red pill was still a Matrix movie gimmick and not a manosphere or alt-Right buzzmeme.

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Now this is how you own the Kiss Cam. Pay attention at the 0:07 mark when he kisses his “girl”.

I laughed. She did too. That’s how you keep a girl hooked on you for the duration.

  1. defy her expectations
  2. be a charming jerkboy
  3. don’t be a boring beta

How does Beer Man compare to the previous Jumbotron master Ice Cream Alpha featured here on this blog?

It’s interesting to compare the two, because there’s a lot going on that’s similar but also differs, yet the reactions of their girls are the same (tingle torrent).

Beer Man is more try-hard. It’s obvious he’s hamming it up for dramatic effect. But try-hardness doesn’t hurt a man if his efforts are to amuse himself (and in this case the public) rather than appease the girl. Ice Cream Alpha is less acting out than reclining in the plush luxury of his assholery. He’s not putting on a show, he’s just chilling and playfully taunting his girl with the least amount of effort. (Playfully? Eh, maybe not so much. He looks dead serious about protecting the perimeter of his ice cream.)

That’s the main difference between the two men. The similarities though are obvious and go deeper than their chosen method of executing a triple lindy jerkboy maneuver. Neither man caves to public pressure. Neither man is interested in signs of approval from his girl. Neither man gives a crap what the watching world or their women think of their antics. Both men blast through their girls’ expectations, mixing unpredictability with cheeky teasing. By pushing their girls away, they have pulled their girls closer to them.

Abundance mentality is the right term for it. So is outcome independence. When you think you can score at will, you’ll act like the type of man who does score at will.

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A poem.

Trump’s Dread Game
Flirts on camera with cute dame
Balls of ZFG
Melania peeved?
No, that’s aggrieved betaboy steez
Melania cleaved
Later that eve
thunderous Trumpian marital glee
her still-smoldering flower reaved
And somewhere in a mood-lit bedroom
escapes a squeaky peep
a self-administered clit sweep
to put a reporterette to happy sleep.
Dread Game
It works!

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If you see a girl you find attractive flirting with another man, don’t assume she’s out of your reach. Not all female flirting is the same. I’ve noticed that women will flirt to satisfy three emotional compulsions:

  1. To directly signal sexual availability to a man she really likes. This is authentic flirting, and it’s easy to discern because the girl won’t break eye contact with the object of her flirtation. An aroused girl who is happy to be swept up by a man’s attention will flirt hardcore with him, because she won’t want him to miss her interest and have him decide to break away under the false assumption she’s not open to her seduction by him. Authentic flirtation is, in this scenario, used by women to increase sexual tension, and help drive the courtship toward a culminating bang, but only if the man is capable/alpha/experienced enough to deduce her intention and successfully parry her flirting.
  2. To release sexual tension. This is different from Flirting case #1, even if it sounds superficially similar. A girl who’s all wound up with sexual tension will seek a man (or men) into whom she can dissipate her stored sexual energy if her preferred mate choice isn’t available. This urge to release sexual tension will manifest as flirting when it isn’t resolved through actual sex or making out. Despite sensational press releases to the contrary, most women have an instinct to protect their precious eggs and guard against indulging wanton sexual escape. For a woman, flirting serves this purpose as both tension reliever and firewall against cumming down with Sudden Meaty Intrusion Syndrome. The man who is the recipient of this kind of female flirting doesn’t necessarily have to be on the girl’s radar as a potential lover; extraverted BPD girls are particularly prone to flirting with men for whom they have no sexual desire. Any earport in a tingle storm will do. NB: Beta males should be wary of this kind of flirty girl, because they are often exploited as earports and likely to misconstrue the girl’s harmless flirting as real sexual intention.
  3. To coax a third party man to bust a move. In this instance, the one under consideration here and practiced by the girls to whom I refer as Flirt Fatales, the flirting is a means to an entirely unexpected end: inviting a different man than the one with whom she is flirting to come over and meet her. The Flirt Fatale’s objective is to incite jealousy in the man she truly desires, and she does this by openly (and often sloppily) flirting with another man in the hopes that it will trigger the “hurry up and conquer” instinct in the man who is her primary interest. You can easily identify the Flirt Fatale by how she’ll frequently break eye contact with the pawn she’s flirting with to cast darting, sidelong glances at the rest of the room, or directly at you. NB: A man who suspects he is the true target of a girl’s flirtation with a beta prop should be ready to pounce after the girl is finished cockteasing her sounding board. I like to go in and open with the line, “Looks like your flirting didn’t work on that guy.” This is both a disqualification of her as a primary target of your affection and a cheeky challenge to her feminine allure.

In sum, if you see a girl flirting with another man, and she’s in your vicinity, check for darting eyes that betray her real purpose. If her eyes are locked on the flirtee, don’t bother. If her eyes sweep the veldt for your predatory gaze, prepare to approach once she’s detached from her pawn.

The neophyte to the world of women may ask, “why won’t the Flirt Fatale just go up to the man she really wants and flirt with him instead of going through this convoluted proxy beta?”

Sure, women do that. But not always. Not even very often. The reason Flirt Fatales like to play this game is because they want to maintain the illusion of their feminine allure, and that illusion creaks under the strain of any active moves she makes to capture the attention of a man she wants. Directly flirting with a man, to these women, is like giving too much of their game away. She relinquishes power with every aggressive move that betrays the essence of her feminine soul; an essence which is vulnerability and submission to a powerful man who takes what he wants. So she plays these flirty games with the unwitting aid of third party beta dupes to preserve her self-perception of passive sexual power which overwhelms desirable men to throw caution to the wind and risk her rejection on a direct approach that hasn’t been green-lighted by any overt flirtatious invitation she could easily send their way.


It almost goes without saying, but another psychological need of the Flirt Fatale is to satisfy her urge to play the “let’s you and him fight” game of male social dominance that helps her identify which men are strong enough to enjoy her chute fruit. Inciting jealousy through manipulative flirting with a proxy beta pawn gives her the giddy high of watching a second man enter the field of battle to oust the first man for her romantic favor.

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