When historians ponder the fall of the Roman Empire, they point to the multicultural Germanicization of the legions and the outsourcing of military affairs to barbarian mercenaries. When they reflect on the causes of Mayan collapse, deforestation is fingered as the culprit. When future revolutionary historians on the fringes of polite society offer reasons for the implosion of the American Empire (coming *very* soon to a booming multiplex theater near you), they will hold up this photo. And heads will nod in unison. Mutterings will be heard: “We saw it coming.”
What’s wrong with this picture? Let us count the ways. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume the hairdresser is swisherrific. I mean, just look at that belt buckle. Would we be able to win WWII if we had to fight it over again with the current crop of American men? Or would we chastise the fearful warmongering Americans for antagonizing the millions of moderate Nazis? Phony umbrage and secular piousness are the cheap and easy virtues of a soulsucked people. So easy, you can do it too! I’ll get you started. “Xenophobe!” Congrats, you’re now better than Jesus.
The assistant has a foreign name. East European. She has that cute, scrunchy apple face so sexually arousing in the Slavic women, but unfortunately her Old World charms will be lost in a matter of weeks, due to exposure to the froo-frooiest of American culture from working in a hair salon that caters to a dying breed. (And I’m not referring to the dog.) I do not envy her boyfriend who will wake up one morning to the realization that his beloved has become fully Americanized. Home cooked dinners and surprise blowjobs will be nothing but a sweet memory.
When a free nation is invaded by a foreign force wthout lifting a single weapon to defend itself, when it puts itself in hock to a Communist overlord, when it has 152 varieties of color protecting conditioner on its store shelves, the doomsday clock has moved a minute closer to the midnight hour.
Then there’s the woman getting the queen bee treatment. Yenta! It’s not just an electric car. Her smile may be a mile wide, but her eyes betray infinite sadness. By the way she is smothering her dog with affection I safely assume she is childless.
And of course, the dog, a term I use loosely to describe the shitting Roomba sitting on her lap. Is that a flower tucked in its head fur? No wonder the dog’s face says “Shoot me please.” Normal dogs are not coddled and pampered like substitute children. A normal dog’s face says “Bacon? Bacooooon!!”
Examine this picture. You should feel a foreboding deep in your gut. You won’t know why exactly, but it’s there. Best not think too long about it, there’s another mp3 to download.
On my post about lying for sex, “notaloser” recently left this comment:
I would NEVER lie to a woman in any way to get sex. NEVER. I respect women and know that lying to them impedes their ability to make good decisions for themselves. Nobody ever has the right to take that autonomy away from anyone under any circumstances … the very idea of lying to a woman to fraudulently get sex is appalingly misogynist. Lying to a woman to get sex is very emotionally/sexually abusive to women and has lasting effects … ask any women. Your desperation is hardly an excuse to proceed with what constitutes sexual misconduct. You have a lot of problems, dude, and this lack of awareness is probably why women don’t want to sleep with you in the first place.
Do you hear that? NEVER!
“notaloser” is a classic white knight of the particularly noxious variety — besides the hypocritical nature of his misplaced chivalry (it’s a lie to assert you will NEVER lie to a woman), his pious posturing perches poon on pedestals so prominently that no woman would ever be able to see him as anything other than a bootlicking servile sap. His is the sort of blushing indignation that, if freely and sincerely expressed and acted upon, would absolutely kill his chances with any girl except fat desperate closeted dykes.
Lying to girls for sex is perfectly fine, because it is not the man’s job to simultaneously seduce women and help them make good mating decisions. Women are responsible for screening their prospects; it’s called personal accountability. Only feminist men who believe women are emotionally underdeveloped children think like notaloser and want to protect women from men’s libidos.
In some ways, lying for sex is win-win for men. If it works, he gets sex, and if his lie is eventually discovered, she will be likely to forgive it if she has fallen in love with him. If it fails, and she finds out that, for example, his real job is less prestigious than the job he claimed to have, and she leaves him because of that, then he has successfully screened out a whore who views him primarily as status candy.
I don’t recommend lying on practical grounds, but as a moral matter it’s a dead end. Men and women lie all the time to get the best deal they can on the sexual market. To illustrate the absurdity of believing otherwise, I’ll re-word notaloser’s comment:
I would NEVER lie to a man in any way to get love. NEVER. I respect men and know that lying to them by wearing make-up, getting nose jobs, or playing coy about my age or desire to marry a man who makes more money than me impedes their ability to make good decisions for themselves. Nobody ever has the right to take that autonomy away from anyone under any circumstances … the very idea of lying to a man to fraudulently get love is appalingly misandrist. Lying to a man to get love is very emotionally/financially abusive to men and has lasting effects … ask any men who wake up next to a disturbing morning face. Your commitment desperation is hardly an excuse to proceed with what constitutes emotional misconduct.
“notaloser” is probably a woman pretending to be a man who has been hurt by an asshole boyfriend in the past, because no man, no matter how much he claims to believe in the feminist agenda, could possibly write such a beta comment with a straight face. “Fraudulently get sex”? “Sexual misconduct”? A man would have to be psychologically castrated and/or flamingly gay to make such blubberingly pussboy assertions. I suspect it’s a biting beaver sock puppet.
Note: Many of you are wondering why David Alexander did not get recognition for the most beta comment ever left on this blog. This is because DA does not write beta comments; he writes trollish freakboy omega comments. That is a different world of loser altogether.
An anonymous reader sent me this photo with the following message: “gets more tail than all the herbs and betas on this site”.
What’s going on here? Clearly, Wolfman has a genetic mutation. Some things we know:
Chicks dig gnarly mutations.
Chicks especially dig gnarly mutations that confer a measure of fame upon the sufferer.
Chicks dig testosterone overload.
Man fur is a leading indicator of big balls swollen with testosterone.
What we don’t know is whether these cute girls* are banging Wolfman or if they’re just posing with him because of the novelty. *(I can’t tell if every girl pictured is the same girl. You know how it is. All look same.) Assuming this is his girlfriend(s), and that banging is going on, you have to tip your hat to the guy. He’s doing better than 70% of hirsutely normal betas whose faces girls can see.
In related news, Roosh rubbed his thick facial carpet while exclaiming “I’m not worthy!”.
I think I will start a new series called “Being A Beta Is Worse Than…”. The comparisons are limitless!
The Open Borders Journal has an article about the growing popularity of Amish pulp romance novels. It seems women — Amish and heathen alike — are snorting these books like chocolate-covered eight balls.
Most bonnet books are G-rated romances, often involving an Amish character who falls for an outsider. Publishers attribute the books’ popularity to their pastoral settings and forbidden love scenarios à la Romeo and Juliet. Lately, the genre has expanded to include Amish thrillers and murder mysteries. Most of the authors are women.
Beverly Lewis, who sets her novels among the Amish in Pennsylvania, has sold 13.5 million copies of her books.
13.5 million copies. I’ve long said that if you are a man who understands the mind of women you should write hackneyed romance novels under a female pseudonym and CASH THE FUCK IN. Forget the noble goal of writing the next Great American Novel; the money is in forbidden love and hoary cliches aimed at bored middle-aged wives and tweenies experiencing their first gina tingles.
But surely, I need talent to amass such a large audience, you may wonder. Well, let’s take a look at an excerpted passage:
“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, they parted.”
There’s your answer. No one ever went broke underestimating the poor taste of the distaff masses. Of all the “literary” genres, cheeseball romance is probably the easiest to write and, idiocratically, the most lucrative as well. It’s the female equivalent of single position porn and egg white plus yohimbe-fueled money shots under cheap lighting. All you need to know is one simple rule, and then you can count your benjamins: You’ve gotta tap that inner ape core in every woman by appealing to her base sexual instincts. This means having a good grasp of concepts such as:
Game
Male attractiveness traits
Badboy reformation projects
Female hypergamy
Overcoming obstacles to love
Parental intrusion
Peer judgementalism
Forbidden love
Foreplay
It also helps to have an eye for detail and knowledge of colors beyond red, green and dark green.
I think another reason besides the concept of forbidden love that explains the popularity of Amish romance novels has to do with the cultural milieu in which they exist. When the country is going to pot around you (read: it’s getting more diverse and distrustful as people greedily scramble for their slice of the taxpayer-funded pie), you find solace in fictional worlds of order and stability. And what’s more orderly, more mundane, than the Amish? If I’m right, we’ll soon see a literary trend toward traditionalism and small town esprit.
I’ve thought about writing pulp romance under a female pseudonym, but I don’t think I could resist the urge to subvert my readers’ expectations.
“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, she squirted. Her nether furrow drenched in warm moisture, she thought perhaps she had urinated, and ran away from him in shame, her legs shaking the whole way like a dog shitting olive pits. Wherefore this strange new feeling?, she begged to the god whose eyes she felt burning judgement into her soul. Finally home, panting in confusion and ecstatic pleasure, she stumbled across her parents’ open bedroom door just in time to see Papa plunging an unwashed zucchini deep into Mama’s womb — the same zucchini Hannah had harvested that morning while murmuring prayers to Mary Mother of God to give her the fortitude to resist sinful temptations. Frozen in place by shock, Hannah’s bonnet slipped to the floor. Mama looked up, frowned, and threw an oil lamp at her. Papa laughed, the zucchini in tatters in his hand.”
I remember driving through Amish country during the spring, after a soaking rain. In the fields, two boys had hitched a plow-like contraption to horses and were whipping the horses into a gallop as they stood behind the great beasts, getting pulled around at a pretty good clip. Earth was flying up, and both of them were covered head to foot in mud which obscured everything but their wide, happy smiles. What a life, I thought. What boy today wouldn’t find that more fun than another blast em up round of Halo?
So what do the Amish think of Amish-themed porn romance novels?
Ms. Esh said some Amish customers snap up the Amish fiction she stocks, but others tell her they don’t like the way the books portray the community.
“There will always be people who say we’re getting too exposed,” said Ms. Esh, a 48-year-old member of the local Old Order Amish community.
Speaking of exposed, I recall the Amish girls were good-looking. Very fresh-faced and wholesome. Not too many fatties among them. There was the occasional ugly inbred mishap, but thanks to the Amish fashion sense those girls didn’t have to suffer the indignity of hotter, skimpier-dressed peers shoving their ugliness in their faces every minute of every day. Still, even with head to toe clothing covering all but their faces and hands, I was able to make fairly accurate assessments of the Amish women’s looks from many yards away. The power of male discernment of female beauty is a finely tuned instrument, indeed. The hyperjealous harem guarding Muslims know this, which is why they invented the burqa.
Amish mothers hit the wall hard, unfortunately. No MILFs in that community. It’s 30 and stick a fork in them, no exceptions. Living off the land must age a person faster.
Some Amish have nevertheless become avid fans. An Amish woman in Lancaster told Ms. Lewis that “all the women in our church district are reading your books under the covers, literally,” Ms. Lewis said.
Amish men, listen up! You’ve allowed a sliver of the heathen slut culture to invade your oasis. Your womenfolk are reading crass female porn under their bedcovers. And make no mistake, it is PORNOGRAPHY. Cheap thrills to tingle ginas. It’s just a small step from there to Amish women demanding equality in the fields and nagging you to do more housework. Then comes Amish feminism (6th wave? It’s all the same briny crap) and finally Amish bukkake. Give an inch, and they’ll make you yearn for the relative modesty of Rumspringa. If this doesn’t scare you straight, try picturing a guy like me seducing one of your bonnet-wearing daughters, my hand first touching her forearm, then her thigh, a neg lighting up her eyes, and a makeout behind the hay bales as I promise her a world of adventure and excitement.
During a recent visit, Ms. Woodsmall [non-Amish author of an Amish romance novel series] sat on a swing outside the Flauds’ [Amish couple with six children] 133-year-old farmhouse and peppered them with questions for her sequel to “The Hope of Refuge.”
“This is one of those questions I hate to ask,” said Ms. Woodsmall. One of her characters, a schoolteacher, wants to modernize some aspects of Amish education. “What are some things she might want to change?” Ms. Woodsmall asked.
The Flauds’ 13-year-old daughter, Amanda, piped up. “The bathrooms,” she said, explaining that many students at her school wanted to replace outhouses with indoor plumbing.
Some of her inquiries drew a blank. The Flauds couldn’t come up with Amish expressions for the word “quirky” or the phrase “women’s rights.”
The Amish will be the salvation of America, if there is to be one. May they continue pumping out kids at quadruple the rate of the SWPLs, post-integrity equalists, and warlord-wannabes who currently buttfuck themselves on the levers of power.
I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.
I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.
Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.
One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.
“So what’s your deal?”
“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”
“Are those your friends over there?”
“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.
I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”
The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.
And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.
Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.
I received an email von Markovic (the pickup artist who goes by the pseudonym Mystery) in response to this post I wrote. I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the email, but the writing style and splendid vanity on display do sound like Mystery’s voice. I won’t reveal the email address from which this was sent in the interest of privacy. Anyhow, this stuff is kind of insider-y, so if it bores you you can go over to Andrew Sullivan’s blog and read about Beta of the Month Candidate Conor Friedersdorf’s continued fascination with game and yours truly.
Several points of your article are in err.
1. The mother is not, nor has she ever been, a stripper. She has been in Maxim UK tho. I continue to offer monthly seminars on picking up hired guns which include exotic dancers (and Maxim models).
2. My daughter is not yet 3, to speak of her getting sarged is in bad taste, hell it puts a shit taste in my mouth. Her continued privacy (safety) is my priority. Please refrain from playing with shit.
3. Deadbeat dad talk: it’s as if you have never met me yet speak as if you have. She lives in England with mom yes – close to family. I lived there around the time of my London bootcamp, then traveled to Toronto with them so we could all spend family time there for a couple weeks – we roasted marshmellows with my brother, sister, mother, etc. Then baby and mom returned to the UK while I did my SF bootcamp, LA bootcamp, some pitch meetings for a couple new shows, and a thing for comedy central. I move into my new place in the Hollywood Hills Sept 1. Mom and baby move 30 min. away with nanny (a gay guy) in a month. It’s difficult to be away from my daughter for sometimes weeks or more at a time. We video-skype to stay close – like living in the future. I do not live with mom presently, tho I’m having them living much closer to me.
4. My hair is gorgeous! 🙂
5. My nails look fine. Never had nail fungus, this is plain silly. Haven’t painted my nails black in a couple months tho I reserve the right to do so in the future. Or maybe even red.
6. Matador’s hair: yeah he’s had work done: he highly recommends the technology to those students who would benefit from it. Saying wig? Looks like someone wants his face punched in by a man bigger, stronger, and with more wealth than you.
Preselected: When I say I understand women (a mother, older sister, two nieces, a daughter), it means I get it. I get it.
Leader of men: don’t worry, while Matador would press you through the floor, I’m the guy in his ear saying, don’t do it he’s not worth it.
Protector of loved ones: my daughter is not yet 3. Keep her out of your marketing in the future please. What movie is, “fuck with my daughter and I kill you” from?
Willingness to emote: I’m hurt by your silly comments. As if I’d never read them personally. Such time spent will preclude you from playing with the big kids.
Successful risk taker: I may take risks with my career (notice the operative word: successful), but never with my daughter. She is safe and happy. Where did you come up with your conclusions?! Nail fungus? Deadbeat dad?
All this aside, pleasure to meet another person interested in the PUA. Mystery.
What do I do with the text I wrote, send it just to you or send it to my double opt in mailing list? I wonder how big the list is today.
Mystery – Sent from My iPhone.
I don’t know if he meant it, but for some reason I found his email really humorous, and even touching in a twisted way. It’s over the top, it’s all over the place, it’s… an emotionally charged powerhouse. Some of his points are strange (nail fungus?) but I think he was responding to comments left by my mischievous readers.
I would just add that, yes, you do have gorgeous hair, Mystery. And whatever Matador had done to his hair, it’s a work of art. Maybe he should shill for his hair restoration doc. Also, any pressing through the floor that Matador wishes to do should be redirected to superomega David Alexander. A good, solid pounding (face, not ass) would be the best thing for DA.
I don’t have any future marketing plans, but sometimes I wish I did. Rest assured, any marketing will not involve your daughter. 3-year-olds and moms wouldn’t be my target audience.
PS I highly recommend that all the new and befuddled readers who are coming from sites like Larry Auster’s and who seem to fall on the traditional conservative (read: beta) side of the ideological spectrum get up to speed by reading Mystery’s seminal work on the science and art of game. You may also want to read Magic Bullets by Savoy. Then maybe you’ll be equipped to discuss matters for which you seem to have zero understanding to date.
PPS On a personal note, Mystery is of my generation. We grasped the nature of women about the same time in our lives. For this reason, I feel a sort of kinship with him and his mission in life.
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:
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.”
The Most Beta Comment Ever Left On This Blog
Posted in Beta, Comment Winners, Ridiculousness on November 4, 2009| 193 Comments »
On my post about lying for sex, “notaloser” recently left this comment:
Do you hear that? NEVER!
“notaloser” is a classic white knight of the particularly noxious variety — besides the hypocritical nature of his misplaced chivalry (it’s a lie to assert you will NEVER lie to a woman), his pious posturing perches poon on pedestals so prominently that no woman would ever be able to see him as anything other than a bootlicking servile sap. His is the sort of blushing indignation that, if freely and sincerely expressed and acted upon, would absolutely kill his chances with any girl except fat desperate closeted dykes.
Lying to girls for sex is perfectly fine, because it is not the man’s job to simultaneously seduce women and help them make good mating decisions. Women are responsible for screening their prospects; it’s called personal accountability. Only feminist men who believe women are emotionally underdeveloped children think like notaloser and want to protect women from men’s libidos.
In some ways, lying for sex is win-win for men. If it works, he gets sex, and if his lie is eventually discovered, she will be likely to forgive it if she has fallen in love with him. If it fails, and she finds out that, for example, his real job is less prestigious than the job he claimed to have, and she leaves him because of that, then he has successfully screened out a whore who views him primarily as status candy.
I don’t recommend lying on practical grounds, but as a moral matter it’s a dead end. Men and women lie all the time to get the best deal they can on the sexual market. To illustrate the absurdity of believing otherwise, I’ll re-word notaloser’s comment:
“notaloser” is probably a woman pretending to be a man who has been hurt by an asshole boyfriend in the past, because no man, no matter how much he claims to believe in the feminist agenda, could possibly write such a beta comment with a straight face. “Fraudulently get sex”? “Sexual misconduct”? A man would have to be psychologically castrated and/or flamingly gay to make such blubberingly pussboy assertions. I suspect it’s a biting beaver sock puppet.
Note: Many of you are wondering why David Alexander did not get recognition for the most beta comment ever left on this blog. This is because DA does not write beta comments; he writes trollish freakboy omega comments. That is a different world of loser altogether.
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