Softening Your Negs

In relationships, the neg has to be toned down. A girl in love with you will easily misconstrue negs and teasing in the worst possible light.

For example:

COCKY YOU: “I like your hair style. There’s beauty in imperfection.”

HOT SINGLE GIRL: [open mouthed stare] “Haha, I can’t believe you said that.”

***

COCKY YOU: “I like your hair style. There’s beauty in imperfection.”

GIRLFRIEND/WIFE: [genuinely butthurt, verge of tears] “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you saying?”

Negs are one of the most vital parts of game, and yet they are also the most misunderstood, and consistently misapplied, part of game. Aspiring PUAs tend to mistake negs for insults, and to use them on the wrong sorts of girls. Recap: Negs are primarily meant to be used on girls who meet at least two of three of the following criteria:

1. She’s a 7 or higher (8 or higher if you could conceivably intimidate girls upon first meeting them. 6 or higher if she’s an Entitled American Chubster living in a big blue state city).

2. She’s under 25, or under 30 if you are an older guy.

2. She’s not in love with you.

Once a girl has fallen deeply in love with you — the kind of love that means she has surrendered her ego and much of the insufferable female caprice that goes with it — she no longer needs daily affirmations of your higher value, something which the neg wonderfully fulfills early on when you and her first start dating. The Woman in Love (WIL) needs something else foremost; she needs validation. Validation that you love her back; that her love for you isn’t going to waste in a one-way mission. The neg which works so well to attract new women that you meet can backfire on you if you use it on an LTR who already loves you, because a WIL is psychologically groomed to overanalyze any word out of your mouth for evidence that you aren’t 100% emotionally committed to her. A woman in this state is fragile, ready to splinter into a million tiny glassy shards of sadness at the slightest provocation.

This is not to say that negs have no use in LTRs. Quite the contrary. The neg, and its generalized cousin flirty teasing, are never abandoned once an LTR is established. Any man who turns his back on the game which got him the girl is tempting the fate of a low down dirty breakup. The difference between pickup game and LTR game is one of degree, not kind. All you will be doing is lessening the intensity and the frequency of your negs and teasing once you have landed the girl, and throwing in a few more sincere compliments than you otherwise would with any girl you haven’t been dating for long.

Remember, the blissful state of ego-less love that a woman will experience with a man (and what a great time this is!) only lasts between six months and two years. Four years if you don’t have kids. So, yes, you can ride out this love bubble as a regressed beta herb who has virtuously forsaken the crimson arts and suffer few ill consequences, but the more beta you are the quicker you hasten the day when the love bubble pops, and the girlfriend or wife who couldn’t get enough of your love slowly finds herself annoyed by your kisses and cuddles.

An LTR gives you a larger margin of beta error, at the cost of insidious complacency. You can be more beta with a woman who loves you, but the downside is that you will be less likely to notice when you have reversed the sexual polarity and her feelings begin to assume a darker cast. A WIL won’t have a sudden conversion to lovelessness. What will happen instead is that your betafication will annoy her once a month, then once a week, then once a day, and finally every second she is with you. She won’t know why it’s happening — to her, you still look the same, still pay her compliments, and still shuffle off to a job every day — but something about your behavior which she can’t put her finger on is pushing her away. The anger inside her will compound because she’ll hate you for making her feel anhedonic resentment toward you, and for making her feel like she’s the bad guy. No woman wants to be with a man who makes her feel bad.

Zero game = woman formerly in love feels bad that she despises you.

Overgaming = woman in love feels hurt that you might not love her.

Like baby bear’s pickup porridge, find the right balance of game, (not too hard, not too soft), and you can extend the useful love life of an LTR beyond what most couples accomplish.

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Cutter Lover

We were laying down side by side on her bed mid-afternoon. It was muggy in her small and untidy bedroom because her window unit A/C wasn’t working properly. She was naked and I was resting my left hand on her mons pubis, as if it were the lacquered mahogany end of an arm rest. This was the first time she exhibited her naked body to me under the shadowless light of daytime. Every dimple and flaw she no doubt imbued with outsized importance was freely visible to my appreciative eyes. Before this moment, sex was a nighttime activity only.

As we lied on the bed staring at the ceiling and her collection of carved giraffes on her bookshelf, my hand wandered down her thigh. A geometric pattern of tiny raised obstacles tickled my palm. I looked over at her leg where my hand was perched and saw three thin reddish-purple lines, barely a millimeter in width but each more than three inches long, carved into the flank of her thigh and hip like claw marks from the angry swipe of a cat.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, these?”

“Yep. It looks like a cat got you.”

She steadied her gaze and paused, an odd hesitation that told me she was quickly weighing the options of lying or telling the truth. “I… they’re cut marks.”

“Cut marks?”

“Not from anything. I did them to myself.”

“You cut yourself? With a razor blade?”

“Yeah, I use a blade from my leg razor.”

“Oookay.” I moved my hand away and focused on her slim vulva and then her face. “That’s strange. Why?”

“It helps when I’m feeling crappy. I get into these moods, and the only way I can feel better is by cutting myself.”

“So hurting yourself makes you feel better.”

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. Don’t be a judgy jerk about this.”

“It is crazy. Why not try running to lift your mood? Or alcohol? It won’t leave scars.”

“There are no scars. I make sure not to do it too deep to leave a scar.”

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“No, just you. Although my mom once saw the marks and I lied to her about them.”

I fingered the congealed blood of the narrow cuts. “You do them on parts of your body that won’t normally be seen in public.”

“Yep.”

“And you’ve been doing this a long time?”

“Since ninth grade.”

“Are you depressed?”

“You know I get depressed sometimes.” She waved a hand at her superficial wounds. “This helps me cope.”

“We need to find you a new coping mechanism. I like your skin to stay silky smooth.”

I never talked about the cutting with her again. Fact is, it didn’t much bother me. We were together for another nine months or so, and the sex was always hot. She was up for it anywhere, anytime. Like me, she especially liked doing it in front of mirrors. She had an incredibly high libido even for a crazy chick. I briefly wondered if it was the inherent drama in our relationship and my flirtatious ways with other women which caused her to cut, but she never did it again while we were together, as far as I could tell. (The possibility exists she found a harder-to-locate patch of land somewhere in the nooks of her body to hide her cutting from me. But I’m pretty thorough when it comes to exploring the savannah of a lover’s body.) I believed her when she said she cut to feel better. As a man, I can understand the impulse. We men often relish the pain of crunching blows from fights or sports or body blows from self-discovery adventures gone awry. Testosterone makes us men want to feel life for all it’s worth, and there’s no better mental stimulant than the physical stimulants of pain and sex.

But not too much pain. We’ve got our pretty boy faces to keep in mind.

Pain takes us men out of our minds, away from debilitating introspection and toward living in the moment. Maybe for some women, pain from cutting performs a similar psychological analgesic for them, taking them away from worries and stress and into their exquisite bodies where their truest womanhood resides.

***

Do women, then, cut because of negative emotions filling their hearts? A study states it is so, drawing relevance with ancient religious practices of self-flagellation to cleanse the soul of impurities.

Psychological scientist Brock Bastian of the University of Queensland, Australia and his colleagues recruited a group of young men and women under the guise they were part of a study of mental and physical acuity. Under this pretense, they asked them to write short essays about a time in their lives when they had ostracized someone; this memory of being unkind was intended to prime their personal sense of immorality—and make them feel guilty. A control group merely wrote about a routine event in their lives.

Afterward, the scientists told some of the volunteers—both “immoral” volunteers and controls—to stick their hand into a bucket of ice water and keep it there as long as they could. Others did the same, only with a soothing bucket of warm water. Finally, all the volunteers rated the pain they had just experienced—if any—and they completed an emotional inventory that included feelings of guilt.

The idea was to see if immoral thinking caused the volunteers to subject themselves to more pain, and if this pain did indeed alleviate their resulting feelings of guilt. And that’s exactly what the researchers found. Those who were primed to think of their own unethical nature not only kept their hands in the ice bath longer, they also rated the experience as more painful than did controls. What’s more, experiencing pain did reduce these volunteers’ feelings of guilt—more than the comparable but painless experience with warm water.

According to the scientists, although we think of pain as purely physical in nature, in fact we imbue the unpleasant sensation with meaning. Humans have been socialized over ages to think of pain in terms of justice. We equate it with punishment, and as the experimental results suggest, the experience has the psychological effect of rebalancing the scales of justice—and therefore resolving guilt.

Guilt is one emotion that can be absolved by the self-administration of pain. I wouldn’t be surprised if pain lessened the burden of other negative emotions as well. My cutter lover may have felt guilt about spending the best years of her life with a man who gave no hint of driving the relationship toward a marital resolution, and being unable to extricate herself because of her attachment to me. Or she may have just been a naturally depressive person, inherited from some long ago depressed ancestor, and cutting was her cheap Prozac.

The most important lesson I took away from that relationship was that cutters are a great lay. I now look for the telltale signs on all first dates. If the cuts are on her face, I know she’ll be wearing no panties underneath her skirt and will be ready to fuck in an alleyway before we’re even halfway home.

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Potential Rapist Syndrome

A crooked-faced atheist chick has set the net aflame with a tragic tale of threatening elevator courtship that could rival Caylee Anthony’s death by single mom. According to her, an inept atheist nerd propositioned her in a hotel elevator, which caused her to nearly faint with an attack of the vapors, like any equalist gender-normed feminist would do. In brief, a man entered the elevator with her at 4AM after a “skeptics” conference had ended, and proceeded to awkwardly and nervously ask her out to coffee, which she declined.

Yep, that’s the whole story. Riveting stuff, ain’t it?

But the important thing to understand is how Indignant Atheist Chick FELT. To use her words, she felt

Uncooooomfortable.

Poor dear. And then right on cue a chorus of feminist commenters chimed in with accusations that the awkward elevator man was a potential rapist.

For a replay of the characters involved, here’s a withering rundown of the sordid affair, including links to limp-wristed nancyboys who couldn’t wait to jump like little doggies begging for table scraps from approving feminists.

Potential Rapist Syndrome is a mind virus infecting the brains of put-upon feminists all over America and Sweden. The slightest effrontery by a man not immediately deemed a charismatic alpha male by the woman victim causes the virus to multiply rapidly, resulting in flawed reasoning that imputes the worst possible motives to innocuous, if unattractively nerdy, male behavior. Using the illogic of this mind virus, any action that a man takes in attempt to pick up a woman is potential rape as long as she feels it is.

Did he make her feel uncomfortable asking her out in the park? Potential rapist.

Did he make her feel uncomfortable asking her out in a bar? Potential rapist.

Did he make her feel uncomfortable asking her out here or there? Potential rapist.

Did he make her feel uncomfortable asking her out in a house? With a mouse? Potential rapist.

Did he make her feel uncomfortable asking her out in a box? With a fox? Potential rapist.

Richard Dawkins was right. This is female hamster-fueled solipsism to the nth degree. The growth industry of Entitled American Bitches is feeding this female martyrdom indulgence in believing the Western world is out to get them. Only a foul bitch so full of herself, so enamored of her precious biological cargo, could wilt at the imaginary prospect that any man who awkwardly asks her out is itching to rape her before the elevator stops at the next floor. Hey Indignant Atheist Chick, Hogwarts called; they want their magical thinking back.

PRS is very similar to PMS in its symptoms. Women lose all logic and reason to a flood of hormones and emotional hysteria, rendering them unsuitable conversational partners until the episode has passed. Do not under any circumstance try to comfort a woman in the throes of PRS, or otherwise try to redeem your “inappropriate” behavior to make her feel better. She will simply lash out with increased rage, incoherent to everyone but herself, other sufferers of PRS and thimble-chubbed beta wankers hoping to sneak in their pants under cover of empathy. A woman experiencing PRS hates the mass of bumbling men for not knowing how to properly satisfy her desires for interaction with an aloof and charming alpha male. Like the PMS victim, any attempt to assuage her irrational torment will be met with an icy stare at best, and thrown objects at worst. Pointing out the flaws in the PRS sufferer’s anti-logic will be perceived by her as an act of psychological war, an imposition of your rigid male sexuality upon her enlightened female vulnerability and purity. Proceed with indifference.

Maxim #48: The feminist loathing of male desire is at the root of all their complaining about men and the dating scene. Feminists, in their hearts, despise the freedom and longevity of male sexuality. And they particularly despise that freedom when lowly beta males attempt to exercise it.

Thus ends the cultural dissolution portion of today’s lecture, and begins the game portion. Given the above, it will surprise some of the readers that this blog holds little sympathy for Inept Elevator Nerd. Asking a woman out for coffee before you’ve won her interest is bad game. Asking her out in an elevator at 4AM when she has nowhere to escape is bad game. Doing all of it with the nervousness of a beta herb who hasn’t had any for years is ZERO GAME.

Direct game of the sort that elevator dude “ran” is best used in open spaces where the woman won’t feel cornered. It’s good pickup strategy to give a woman the feeling of being able to freely excuse herself if she finds your hard sell lacking. A woman is more likely to allow her intrigue to flower if the man who approaches her with directness knows that she values an easy out should she need it. It’s an implied understanding that only men who have experience bedding women will know, and women know this.

Indirect game is better for enclosed spaces like elevators where the first goal is to make the woman feel comfortable in your presence. (Some pickup artists have successfully run direct game in elevators, but it requires a healthy dose of charisma and cocky humor, as well as the social savvy to defuse the inherent tension of small spaces. For example: “Oh, wow, an awkward elevator ride, just like in the movies. I’m getting off in three floors, so I’d better make my flirting count!”)

A man who directly approaches a woman in a context that offers her an unmessy exit is, in the woman’s hindbrain, a confident man unafraid of potential rejection. This is a tacit demonstration of higher value that will immediately set the tone of the pickup in the man’s favor. In contrast, a man who directly approaches a woman in a context that affords her no quick, polite escape is, in the woman’s mind and likely in reality as well, a desperate beta who needs to corner a woman to win an audience with her. She will easily and seamlessly rationalize this awkward behavior on his part as the machinations of a rapist’s mind.

Whenever you worry that the principles of game will become too well-known and overused by men, just remember Inept Elevator Nerd. The world is teeming with men like him who have zero clue how women work. Your worries that game will increase the competition above and beyond what female obesity is creating for the few remaining slender chicks in existence are unfounded. Inept Elevator Nerds continue to roam the plains in vast, undifferentiated numbers.

When in doubt about the goodness and righteousness of game, remember the fundamental rule of female magical thinking, gentlemen:

Beta = Potential rapist.

Alpha = It just happened!

No further explanation needed.

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Winning Back Pissed Off Ex-Girlfriend

A reader asks:

How do you win back an ex girlfriend when she’s pissed off and not speaking to you?

You win her back by not trying to win her back.

I know that sounds cryptic, but it’s true. As soon as you make an effort to “win back” an angry ex, she’ll resent your obsequious groveling (which is what most “winning back” strategies that men employ amount to).

However, I will say this, it’s better to have a pissed off ex than an indifferent ex. Indifference, not hate, is the opposite of love. An angry ex can be gamed into a hatefuck, but an indifferent ex is already hopping on fresh cock. You are yesterday’s news.

So how do you “not-win back” an angry ex? See here. Executive summary: Avoid at all costs any post-breakup “talks”. Cut off all contact for two or three weeks, when she will be at the peak of missing you. At about that time you have a couple of options. Either call to say hi in your most nonsexual, friendly tone, and end the conversation before she does, or send a non sequitur text and she if she bites.

A lot of times, angry exes will come back to you on their accord if you just lay off them. Is she angry because you cheated on her or because you acted like a beta one too many times? If the former, she’ll rush back, vaginally itching to forgive you. If the latter, she’s already forgotten you.

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Marilyn Monroe Was Skinny

I really love these posts that rip feminist mythology to shreds (a fun and easy sport even the kids will love!). You can just imagine their porky forehead veins throbbing with rage as they read the following article by Virginia Postrel:

We should never again hear anyone declare that Marilyn Monroe was a size 12, a size 14 or any other stand-in for full-figured, zaftig or plump. Fifteen thousand people have now seen dramatic evidence to the contrary. Monroe was, in fact, teeny-tiny.

The 15,000 were the visitors who turned out over eight days to oooh and aaah at the preview exhibit for the June 18 auction of Debbie Reynolds’s extraordinary collection of Hollywood costumes, props and other memorabilia.

The two comments heard most often in the crowded galleries were (to paraphrase), “Wow, they were thin” and “It’s such a shame. These things should be in a museum.” […]

The auction’s top-ticket item was Monroe’s famous white halter dress from “The Seven Year Itch,” the one that billowed up as the subway passed. It sold for almost $5.66 million (including the buyer’s premium) to an unknown phone bidder. Sharing a rotating mirrored platform with Hedy Lamarr’s peacock gown from “Samson and Delilah” and Kim Novak’s rhinestone- fringed show dress from “Jeanne Eagels,” Monroe’s costume was displayed on a mannequin that had been carved down from a standard size 2 to accommodate the tiny waist. Even then, the zipper could not entirely close.

But that’s just one dress. Perhaps the star was having a skinny day. To check, you could look across the room and see that Monroe’s red-sequined show dress from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” was at least as petite, as were the saloon costume from “River of No Return” and the tropical “Heat Wave” outfit from “There’s No Business Like Show Business.

In fact, the average waist measurement of the four Monroe dresses was a mere 22 inches, according to Lisa Urban, the Hollywood consultant who dressed the mannequins and took measurements for me. Even Monroe’s bust was a modest 34 inches.

That’s not an anecdote. That’s data.

The other actresses’ costumes provided further context. “It’s like half a person,” marveled a visitor at the sight of Claudette Colbert’s gold-lame “Cleopatra” gown (waist 18 inches). “That waist is the size of my thigh,” said a tall, slim man, looking at Carole Lombard’s dress from “No Man of Her Own” (a slight exaggeration — it was 21 inches). Approaching Katharine Hepburn’s “Mary of Scotland” costumes, a plump woman declared with a mixture of envy and disgust, “Another skinny one.”

The pattern she noticed was real. At my request, Urban took waist measurements on garments worn by 16 different stars, from Mary Pickford in 1929 (20 inches) to Barbra Streisand in 1969 (24 inches). The thickest waist she found was Mae West’s 26 inches in “Myra Breckinridge,” when the actress was 77 years old.

The average waist size of American women in 2011?: 34.5 inches.

The insistence by fatty fat fatty apologists and the misfit motley crew of “cultural conditioning” feminists that Marilyn Monroe was a plump woman, a chubby chick, Rubenesque, zaftig, or, (my personal favorite), cuuuuuuurvy is nothing but the oinks of lying propagandists who want you to believe that men have since been somehow magically programmed by… who, exactly? Government agents? Hollywood? Frat boys? Stuxnet?… to prefer anorexic chicks over their true preference for supposed chubsters like Monroe.

For a long time this claim went unanswered; one, because no one bothered to fact check its self-evident PC truthiness, and two, because loudmouthed, ugly femcunts have cowed journalists and pundits into abject submission. But now the facts are in: Marilyn Monroe was a SLENDER BABE. There wasn’t a BBW bone in her skinny sexy body.

Women REALLY WERE thinner back in what the feminists call the bad old days. There wasn’t some fairytale fatopia in the 1950s when the men lusted for rotund mamas, and women were real women with curves and meat on the bones. Nope, women of the past were definitely thinner, and they were even thinner than what we would consider a thin girl today! That’s how warped our professed standards in female beauty have become. Men and women alike have drunk the feminist Koolaid, and coupled with the inability to avoid the sheer numbers of fat chicks rumbling over our frappuccino plains the result is a grudging, deflating acceptance that bigger, fatter, heftier women are here to stay, and baby you better believe they are HOT STUFF. A lot of men, seeing how few options they have when 9/10s of their prospects roll with a mushroom cloud top, are gonna revert to the one face-saving ploy in their arsenal: sour grapes.

“Hey man, I don’t want some anorexic bag of bones. Fat-bottomed girls make the rockin’ world go round. A whole lotta woman needs a whole lot more. Big girls you are beautiful!”

Nice try, JoeBob, but I know what you’re really thinking.

(Ever notice how gay male rockstars love to sing the praises of fat chicks? Wazzupwitdat?)

This is all part and parcel of a cultural plumping up of the American woman over the last half century to go along with her actual plumping up. Dress sizes have changed to accommodate the tender egos of the lardasses thundering around clothing stores now, so that, for example, what once was a size 10 dress is now a size 6 dress. What was considered a really fat chick in 1950 might’ve worn a size 15, but today the typical fat chick is so much fatter than her 1950s counterpart that she slips into the equivalent of a dainty size 38 number.

You can’t blame the retailers and clothing manufacturers, though. They just want to turn a profit, and if that means giving fatties an artificial high from being able to claim they wear a smaller size than they really do, then they’ll minimize dress sizes forever. If present trends are indicative of future results, a size 0 dress will soon be able to double as a mosquito net.

The fattening of American women is a goddamned fucking TRAGEDY. It robs the country of beautiful women, and thus robs American men of tactile sexual pleasure and aesthetic visual pleasure. A direct analogy would be if the nation’s men all decided to quit their jobs, shart on first dates, act like nervous dweebs and change diapers for a hobby. Yeah, don’t sound so hot, does it ladies? Now maybe you can grasp why every evangelical equalist effort to normalize expanding waistlines and rolling waves of blubber is a sin committed against beauty, and thus, against truth.

Game isn’t so much about being able to play the field in perpetuity as it is about navigating a shrinking dating pool of sexy slender chicks getting squeezed by an advancing army of fat chicks. It’s been written here before: as the expendable sex, men react to conditions in the sexual market; they don’t create those conditions. And right now conditions are Code Well-Fed, mothafuckaaaaaa.

PS I’d like to start a new advocacy group called the National Association for the Advancement of Half-Weight Women. God bless those half-weight women we’ve lost to the tidal wave of sugar and midnight snacking. Boners unite under the banner of Half-Weight Women! Raise your flag and smite the enemy Double-Weight Women! Smite them with a cupcake avalanche!

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Is Female Careerism A Form Of Infidelity?

Reader Sidewinder writes:

While some degree of the female fascination/obsession with credentials can be explained as projecting onto themselves what they find desirable in men, I think there’s more to it than that. Not all, but a sizeable percentage of intelligent women become obsessed with their school or work. Maybe its just self-centeredness, but many women place their “career” to such a high level of importance that it almost becomes the primary component of their identity. Having read a good deal of marriage therapy literature the past year, some therapists have classified this female career obsession as a form of infidelity to the family and marrage. And its no coincidence that the vast majority of female infidelity takes place in connection with her workplace.

I wonder if in addition to projection, this obsession stems from an unconscious recognition of their declining attractiveness. Its like the 40 year old women at the gym: while they know that men aren’t especially attracted to muscular, hard-bodied women, its really the best option for them considering the alternative of sagging cellulite. Maybe girls latch on to school and work in their 20s because they feel its the only thing they can do to try to mitigate their inevitable declining looks as they approach their 30s and 40s.

Paging Penelope Trunk…

I agree that there is something “off” about women who are excessively devoted to their careers and to obtaining an acronymic parade of pointless credentials. Careerist shrikes are some of the most unpleasant, unfeminine women to be around. They must have more androgen receptors than normal women to be so grating to the male sensibility. Sure, they can fuck like Viagra-laced male pornstars, but as soon as you relieve yourself in them you will feel a second powerful urge to escape their aggro nastiness.

Sidewinder hits on an angle not much discussed in the media (obvi). Women who place their careers front and center are committing a kind of betrayal of their sex’s biological and psychological imperatives. It’s like a big middle finger to everything that distinguishes the feminine from the masculine, the yin from the yang. It’s quite possible that the worst offenders — the 14 hour day lawyercunts and the graduate school hermits — embrace the male-oriented rat race and achievement spectacle because it offers a welcome distraction from either spinsterly loneliness or boring beta male partners who, while intellectually are rationalized as good matches, do not viscerally excite them.

Maybe, too, these careerist chicks see their jobs as a way to enter the world of the alpha male, to have a taste of what it would be like to be part of his life. The office cubes and doormen and glassy skyscrapers have given legions of plain janes the daily stimulation to mentally masturbate fantasy romances with the alpha males who run their companies or the alpha salesmen who greet them at the front desk with a twinkle in their eyes.

Perhaps, as Sidewinder also noted, female careerism presents the illusion of a safe harbor from the approaching wall. When a woman’s SMV inevitably craters in her 40s, her career might be all she has to lift her spirits, especially if she has no husband she loves, no kids, or even just one kid who spends most of his time playing CoD or robbing convenience stores. Women with larger families don’t seem to dread the coming apocalypse of their beauty as much as the quasi-barren SWPLs seem to do, who start using expensive anti-wrinkle creams at age twelve.

The dumbfuck feminists will naturally ask, “Why doesn’t this same theory apply to men? Aren’t they escaping sad love lives by retreating to their careers?”

Don’t you know it’s different for guys? Unlike women, men are evolutionarily programmed to be resource providers for women. It is not a betrayal of a man’s innate purpose in life to ambitiously pursue achievement and accolades. In fact, just the opposite; it’s an affirmation of that ancient purpose. A man turning his back on raising his status is akin to a woman letting herself get fat and slovenly.

The women for whom career success is their comfort and their purpose are some sort of weird, monstrous amalgam of man and woman, halfway between both worlds, their sexual polarity askew. These types tend to attract either intense short term flings with alphas or plodding marriages with dweeby, effete kitchen bitches.

Additionally, it can be argued that a sexual market which favors easy sex (for alpha males only) and a marriage market increasingly against men’s interests pushes women into the careerist mindset, because subconsciously they realize that the guarantee of a strong male provider that was once their birthright is now a sucker’s bet, and one they have convinced themselves they don’t even want. Women, sensing the change in the rules, have responded by storming the state college citadels to earn their communications and women’s studies degrees by the boatload.

Of course, as I always remind the women reading here who complain about the change in the game…

Ladies, you get the men you created.

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The Most Unattractive Trait On Women

Ass hair.

More than a few women, particularly those of Levantine extraction, have fluffy furrow forests. There’s nothing as boner-instakilling as doing a girl from behind, spreading her cheeks for a glorious vista, only to find a wispy patch of dark anus fuzz greeting your arrival.

Ass hair is, and should be, the domain of men. No exceptions. Women, grab a mirror and inspect your nethers. Does your pussy hair continue past your taint like a growing moss? You’ve got a big problem. Get rid of it, fast, if you don’t want to lose that perfect man after the first date. (Second date if you’re Amish.) I don’t care what it takes or how much it’ll hurt — wax it, Nair it, zap it, dip it in an acid bath — just grit your teeth and think of how pleased your 15 year old remedial math student will be.

It’s hard to believe in this day and age there are women out there who don’t fully grasp the importance of their looks on how men perceive them. You can be a 10, but a thatch of ass hair will immediately deduct 5 points. It’s so unattractive, men will actually try to avoid having sex with you in favor of gazing at your pretty face and listening to you blab about Gossip Girl.

Even worse? When the pussy juice mingles with the ass hair, transforming it into an oily slick of matted seaweed.

Is any of this getting through to you?

This has been a deliberately disgusting and effectively shaming PSA.

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