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Cock And Awe

Recall a time when you noticed something you needed from across a room, and then, focused on the object or person, you beelined with urgent purpose toward your target when, upon approach, you also noticed that an attractive woman happened to be situated near the thing you were walking quickly toward, and that her face lit up and her eyes widened into a sudden spasm of delight, arousal, and a little fear as you neared her and you realized she probably thought you were moving in her direction to hit on her (you weren’t, but she didn’t know that…all she had to go on was your purposeful stride to where she was sitting/standing).

Unless you have never left your vidjafapatorium, you will have seen something like this in your life. Take the lesson to heart. Chicks dig the bold approach, no matter the discrepancy between her SMV and your SMV. The positive, tingle-betraying reaction of women to a man’s unintentional bold approach is proof that an intentional bold approach — see your mark, move in on your mark, do not deviate from your mission — will have the same effect. Call it Cock and Awe; home in like a pleat-seeking missile and drive through crowds, splitting them like an icebreaker, and drop your ordnance right between her fore- and hindbrains.

Girls love powerful men, and very few actions in this world communicate raw masculine power quite as unmistakably as giving less than zero fucks and blasting through the fog of humdrum daily life to impose yourself on a girl and make her feel like a vulnerable, sexy minx again.

FYI, the above scenario reveals one way to get over approach anxiety. Instead of approaching girls, tell yourself instead you’re approaching someone or something next to the girl to chat up that other person/check out that intriguing thing. Then, when you’re right next to the girl, you suddenly “notice” her and “decide” to talk to her because she looked like she needed the company.

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A crying, whimpering, or otherwise despondent female whose body isn’t encased in layers of blubber is an irresistible opportunity for white knighties and betaboys to prove they are the ones to ride to her rescue. The beta male lives for those moments he gets a chance to comfort a distressed or depressed girl, because the beta male is under the grossly self-defeating impression that comforting words and a shoulder to cry on are the stuff of pussy tingles.

See, men project their experiences with distress onto women. When men are distressed, it isn’t (usually) an act. Life in general is tougher for men (in the parlance of Cunt Wave Feminism, men shoulder a greater burden of “emotional labor”). So distressed men will sincerely welcome a helping hand or a word of encouragement, and will especially appreciate those things coming from a pretty girl. Oftentimes, distressed betas fall instantly in love with a girl who gives them the tiniest morsel of sympathy.

But it doesn’t work this way for women. First, women get distressed all the time, and mostly for ridiculous reasons. It’s very rare that a hottie will be depressed for legitimate reasons; more likely is that she is just venting a toxic build-up of emotions that have accumulated from her roller coaster relationship with a jerkboy, and the act of venting and brooding is itself very pleasurable for her. So pretty girls won’t truly welcome sympathy from men except as a springboard for the girls to play up the damsel in distress angle to extract bennies from betas.

Second, women are sexually put off by men who come on strong with the Sympathy Game, reasoning (rightly) that these men are chicken shits who are trying to weasel their way into women’s panties by role-playing as asexual therapists.

If you see a pretty girl who looks depressed to you, #resist the urge to comfort her. Instead, be the jerk chicks dig and tell her crying’s not allowed unless her dog or her mother died. Then offer her a hanky embroidered with a photo of your smirking face.

***

Apropos of the theme of this post, a relevant text exchange between Peter Strzok (beta) and Lisa Page (ugly strivercunt):

LISA PAGE*: “[Trump’s] not ever going to become president, right? Right?!”

PETER STRZOK**: “No. No he won’t. We’ll stop it.”

First, thanks for tipping off everyone in America to your coup de tat against Trump! Very informative. Second, Peter, you dumb pencil-necked herbling, an aggrocunt tankgrrl like Page doesn’t want your captain save a ho act. It turns her off to know she has you wrapped around her manfingers. Petey, you were never on top, were you? How often was she behind you, enacting the male role with a strap-on?

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Jim Christian writes about his life, contrasting the seeming generational decline between his time and the time of Millennials in accumulated life experiences and accomplishments,

I don’t owe young men anything, but I’ll offer in this informal setting, my experiences and impressions of the day. If rooting for the end of the world, they better think twice. They take a lot for granted, including their own experience and capacity to fight back and do murder themselves. For a morsel of food. Because that’s what the end looks like. Doods bad-ass enough to cope in THAT end-game situation ain’t sitting here raving about Baby Boomers. Millennials are creeping up on thirty or thirty five now? Time to finally grow up kids. Jesus, I’d done 10 years sports, cutting grass and working at McDonalds as a kid, then 51/2 years aboard flight decks, 200,000 miles on motorcycles, a marriage, two houses, a kid, a divorce, and two or three or four careers and dozens and dozens and dozens of chicks by 35. And that was just getting started. Most of us have similar lists of “accomplishments’ by such an age.

But then, we didn’t have ‘smart phones’, liberal-based CATV and 16 years of SJW training, K-12 and 4 at college like a Millennial. Maybe that’s where they’re hamstrung and THAT I can’t help them with other than to say to throw off the yoke, don’t get married and get a motorcycle. That would at least be a start.

Millennials are both the most narcissistic American generation in recent history, and the generation with the least accomplishments and real world life experiences that don’t require viewing through a screen.

What happens when you combine pathological narcissism with an absence of the experiences and accomplishments that would justify the narcissism?

No worries. This is all about to change with the blitzkrieg of Generation Zyklon.

Via PA, a Millennial millennializes,

A good comment by a Millennial few months back:

I’d say that Millennials are the generation of escapism. Stockholm Syndrome is just a subset of that. Our generation was presented with a world that was entirely a lie (and was apparent to us as such), but with no alternative leading to the truth. So as a generation we avoided reality. Many did this by embracing the lie, such as the Stockholm Syndrome group you mentioned. Others escaped into video gaming. Others obsessed over their childhood such as Harry Potter, and many live with their parents.

The strength of conviction of the Millennial progs is not because they truly believe, but is born of their desperate fear of reality. For Millennials, reality is too terrible to face.

If you don’t acknowledge reality, reality automatically works against you. Escapism is a short term alleviation that will create a more painful long-term reckoning. Some Millennials have it in them to fight against their own generation’s current, but it’ll be Gen Zyklon which has to deal with the reckoning and it will mold their character and make them stronger than they now know.

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You don’t need to be perfect with women, you only need to make poon split. Commenter K Young shares the positive romantic outcomes he’s had from learning and practicing Game well enough to elicit desirous reactions from women and ultimately, to improve the quantity and quality of his dating life.

CH: “With experience and the right attitude, the quips become second nature

Yes! Im proof. Or at least proof that your brand of game can change with practice and disregard while morphing. I hope the following is helpful for someone!

When I was 20, I usually got the girl I wanted, but I was raised by single mom and steeped in morrissey and depeche mode. But also outgoing, voted funniest male in a large high school etc. It was charming and self effacing. Effective but with a side of beta.

Now Im 45. Ive been on testosterone replacement, and lifting weights heavy for 10 years. I have this dominant daddy look almost. Very different on the outside. So I essentially *had* to change. Women dont want me to be self deprecating; It was weird for me, but Ive come to accept that they crave cocky!

So I say things now that I would have considered extreme douchey in the past. Examples I can think of from this week:

(Crucial: delivery is dry and immediate)

From a young HB8 coworker, regarding another coworker who recently quit:
Her: “I think you were her favorite”
Me: “Im everyones favorite”
Her: stunned deep laughter

HB7 barista at coffee shop…
Her: “I cant believe I remembered your name.”
Me: “Its because Im so special.”
Her: near gasp, taken aback, smile, red face, intense eye contact

They just work. File under females-are-like-children. Its audacity and “[Poon Commandment] XI.  Be irrationally self-confident”. If this isnt your style, try for yourself! Enjoy!

The truth is that this style — call it cocky jerkboy — is almost universally applicable and attractive to women of all ages and stations, and there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t benefit from being more like this and less like every other boring beta.

Genetic constraints matter, but that doesn’t mean practice has no utility. Practice at anything will improve one’s skill with that thing, and this goes as well for Game as it does for playing the violin or throwing a ball. The typical beta male may not reach the heights of charisma that “naturals” seem to intrinsically possess, but he can learn and practice the crimson arts and become a better, sometimes a much better, man than he was before he set his mind to the task.

The men who swear up and down this is impossible are usually the men who daren’t try. Fear of success is as strong in the human condition as is fear of failure, because success, unlike failure, sweeps away the refuge of excuses and rationalizations weak men flee to for comfort.

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WS has a complaint I hear often from a certain demographic of men: he believes it’s unrealistic to expect a man under duress to have charming quips at his disposal.

Her: you’re friendzoned!

Him: I love a girl who plays hard to get.

Him: YESSSSSS! I’m single again! FREEDOM BABY!

Him: Yeah, we’re just friends…with benefits lzzlolzlol!

It’d be great if life was like an 80’s action movie where you could just fire off one-liners that utterly defeated your opponents but, realistically, the guy probably handled it the only way he possibly could have without burning his life to the ground.

This pessimism betrays a lack of experience hanging out with male friends who do well with women, or who are generally favored guests at any party. I know many men who are adept at firing off those tingle-inducing one liners under pressure. With experience and the right attitude, the quips become second nature.

Experience: women don’t tongue-tie you. They aren’t mysteriously opaque creatures you have to wrack your brain to figure out what language they speak. You have bedded them before; you are confident you will bed them again. You know girls enjoy getting teased, and over time you’ve learned how to tease for maximum quimpact.

The Right Attitude: You have outcome independence, an abundance mentality, a self-assured entitlement complex that permits a charming familiarity and ease of communication with women you’ve just met. Your interactions are lucid, compact, comfortable, and friendly. You don’t strain for words because deep in the pit of your gut you don’t feel a need to impress any one particular woman; if this chick isn’t charmed, the next one will be. Teasing one-liners are your go-to bantz formula because you are more interested in not boring yourself than you are in not boring the girl you’re chatting up.

A buddy I occasionally hang out with is a master of quips. When we’re shooting stick, he’ll pause mid-strike to accost a passing cutie with a jerkboy mofo one-liner. He rarely regurgitates one liners verbatim because his humor is all contextual and situational. (His one liners do share a common theme, comedic element, timing, and tone, though.) Neither does he bother with “deep thoughts” or monologues; the man is a wrecking ball of pussy-parting pith. The girls lap it up like hungry kitties starved for cocky asshole affection.

One time I met his dad, and discovered he had the same facility with teasing quips as jerkboy jr. This confirmed for me something I’ve always assumed based on personal observation: those men who have mastery of in-the-moment quips that beta males insist are the stuff of scripted TV sitcoms are in fact very real and move among us. And some of them learn their craft at dad’s side, watching him charm the ladies and soaking up the lessons. This is another reason why fatherlessness sucks; it deprives many developing young men of mentorship in the ways of charismatic seduction.

What I’m saying is that these quips and the skill to use them in high pressure situations are often a generational artifact: granddad to dad to son (the inheritance continuity possibly broken by the phaggiest generation ever — the millennials) passing on the same or similar one liners they used on grandma, mom, and today’s tatted monstrosities. Quips — and male charisma in general — are cultural memes: the original meme machine before /pol/ exploited the executable and weaponized transmission of tingle-gushing cadquips into soul-killing cogdis weapons against the Shitlib Left.

Dads are only one source of charisma transmission. Many “naturals” learned the art of the quip by having as friends coolasfuck dudes who had the gift of gab. Men also learn by watching unfamiliar men successfully flirt with cute girls, and by observing the girls’ reactions to the torrent of monosyllabic teasing. Unwittingly, these beguiled girls show bystanding men the jizzropes.

The point of saying all this is that you don’t have to be that hapless beta pastry on that TV game show, flustered, despondent, and butthurt by your oneitis’s cold shank, reduced by the cruelty of her surprise attack to muttering lamely and garnishing your emotional pain for the viewing audience to feast upon. You CAN learn charisma, and the art of the quip, and learn it well enough to make it a regular and spontaneously summoned feature of your SMV-projecting conversational habits.

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Some women, either through malice or naivete, have the worst timing and execution when dropping the LJBF bomb on their longtime beta male orbiters. Like this ballcutter:

An experienced man would never find himself in this situation, but most men aren’t experienced with women, so they are easily victimized by emotional and resource objectifying women who use them for attention and gibs without having to provide sexual release in return.

Some say the video is staged; I don’t think so.  Both of their reactions seem spontaneous and authentic to their sex (the female recklessly indulges cruelty and the male is surprised his ardor isn’t reciprocated). We’ll proceed as if the clip is the real deal.

Right after she cackles murderously and chirps “we’re friends!”, you can see the moment that her poison-tipped shiv strikes beta ventricle (around 0:07). It looks like this:

At 0:16 our soulkilled beta tries the “It’s complicated” line (maybe he read about its usefulness at a PUA blog?), but it falls flat because the context was all wrong (it can’t be used effectively after one is freshly castrated) and the girl nonetheless yammers incessantly over the top of his voice, “I’m single. I’m single guys. I’m single”.

She had to remind the pool of alpha males in the studio audience THREE TIMES that she’s single. This wrecked herbling went SIX MONTHS thinking he and her were an item. You see, it’s all fun and games for the beta orbiter-exploiting cutie until the day comes her obedient pet gets uppity and publicly airs his romantic assumptions. Whoa, big fella! she thinks, curb your enthusiasm! And that’s her cue to publicly shear the last wispy locks of his manhood.

Those eggs won’t tolerate the slightest incursions by beta orbiter seed. Impudence like that must be snuffed in the crib, before a REALLY awkward scene erupts and he cockblocks a jerkboy she wants to meet.

At 0:19, our defenestrated beta can’t sustain the grinning rictus concealing his shredded dignity any longer and the already transparent mask slips completely off. “What?!”, he yelps, anguished.

Maybe she finally notices the hurt on his face, because she jumps in to console him…by reminding everyone again “oh no no, we’re really good friends”, as if saying it the tenth time will somehow make the castrati oil go down easier. After all, what man wouldn’t love her for a friend? She’s teh awesome (vagina not included)! And then to punctuate her compassion, please note at 0:22 the little shove she gives to his shoulders, pushing his incompetent seed away from her golden eggs.

He looks back at her forlornly, and all she can do is break into tension-relieving laughter. What’s so funny? Well, his humiliation for one. The audience’s groan, for another. But mostly a girl will laugh like this, after neutering a man with a chainsaw, to sonically disrupt the rapidly emerging narrative of her cruelty in the hopes that observers will agree to her new implied narrative that the ordeal is all a light-hearted joke between friends. Girls have to walk a tightrope when disabling insolent beta orbiters in public; they have to simultaneously disabuse the orbiter of his presumption AND prevent her social ostracism by onlookers who will naturally feel sympathetic toward the orbiter.

I can’t blame the girl. This beta set the bitch up. She was cornered. She had to move against him. It’s so typical of mincing passive betaboys to wait for claustrophobic moments to make their move, like when the girl is trapped in an elevator or on a TV game show. If I were this cute girl, on reflection I’d be pissed.

But it takes two to tango. One exploitative minx, and one willing-to-be-exploited beta. He pounces when (he thinks) she’s most defenseless; she leads him on for months when he’s most defenseless. Nobody comes out a winner here. The sadist requires the masochist. The dom the sub.

Returning to the title of this post, the best way to recover from a brutally public friendzoning is a cheeky interpretation of the Game tactics ASSUME THE SALE and AGREE & AMPLIFY.

HER: shiv shiv shiv shiv shiva destroyer of socially retarded blue balled beta orbiters *tee hee*

YOU: I love a girl who plays hard to get.

To pull this off our insipid beta would need Supreme Gentleman levels of state control, and a practiced shit-eating grin. But let’s face it, there aren’t many ways to salvage an LJBF blowout this catastrophic. To get the right Inner Game for such a salvage operation, our beta male would have had to have multiple HB6s-and-above plates in rotation to prevent the ramifications we see here from his having oneitis for this Cruella de Filly.

***

A reader mentioned that Flip the Script Game would work here, too.

HER: We’re friends!

HIM: YESSSSSS! I’m single again! FREEDOM BABY!”

That would be pretty funny, and it would totally restore his dignity imo, and put a little egg on her face as a bonus.

***

Another good response, offered by multiple commenters,

“Yeah, we’re just friends…with benefits lzzlolzlol!”

***

Commenter Lash notices a dead giveaway about the girl’s motivations:

How has no one mentioned this? Emphasis mine.

About 0:07: [HER:] “We’re friends. Haha. We’re friends, but he wants to . . . . . “.

I can’t believe I missed that part. So she knows he wants to fuck her, but she’s so cruel and selfish she doesn’t give a shit about his unrequited lust and will continue using him for the asexual orbiter gibs.

Remember, folks, women can only use men who allow themselves to be used.

***

The Friendzone Text (h/t da GBFM):

It’s funny cuz it’s cold.

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The Judge says giving women all the responsibility for initiating and controlling the pace of sex is the answer to false rape accusations.

Women are just dishonest to the bone, 24/7. You can think everything is cool because the dumb bitch doesn’t say anything, next thing you know, she claims you raped her, or she “felt half-raped”.

In such a climate, Game…CHARISMA…is needed, because the only safe sexual encounter is one initiated and controlled by the dumb bitch.

The Judge is well-meaning but his suggestion will actually make the problem of women blaming men for the regret and emptiness women normally feel after impulsive hookups much worse. Ceding the domain of bedroom escalation to women is no guarantee of a safe sexual encounter. As we all know, a woman will back-rationalize any sexual encounter into a distant facsimile of actual events to support whatever her feelings require in the moment, and that includes sexual interactions she initiated and controlled. Even if you signed a consent form with a lawyer present and tied your hands behind your back so that she would have to undress you and guide your penis into her three holes, if she felt bad about it the next day she’ll concoct a load of self-serving sophistry to excuse her actions and relinquish her accountability, which in practice means IT’S ALWAYS THE BOYIM’S FAULT.

Paradoxically, the closest thing men have to a guarantee against a false regret rape accusation is to DOMINATE and LEAD the girl to a sexual encounter in which she CAN’T CONTROL her erupting arousal and EAGERLY SURRENDERS to the man. (Then make sure you give her a peck on the cheek and tell her something nice before bolting in the morning. Leave em wetter than you found em.)

The problem with the physically and personably unattractive amy schumers of the world is that they are fated to date weak men, soyboys, gloryhole faces, male feminists, john scalzis, and simpering omega nerdos. A woman who initiates and controls the sexual encounter from start to finish with one of those kinds of un-males will FEEL LIKE she was raped afterwards, because her contaminated womb will be crying out for a mercy killing. Naturally, this bad feeling of existential darwinian regret will compel her to deny her role in the consensual sex and to seek absolution by shifting a fake blame onto the unwitting loser male who thought she was enjoying his tepid romantic advances.

A woman sexually in control is a woman emotionally in doubt. Give her control over sexual progression and the only guarantee you’ll get is her post-coital spite and resentment. Few women, deep down, want to lead a man. Most women, deep down, want to follow a man. You, as a man, deny this want of women at your peril.

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