Chinese Women Toughest Girls To Game?

This may be the quote of the year:

The hard-boiled bachelorette, Ma Nuo, has gone on to become one of China’s most recognizable bai jin nu [golddigger]. Marry for love? Fat chance, said the material girl: “I would rather cry in a BMW than smile on the back of my boyfriend’s bicycle.”

That’s from an article about the rank materialism of Chinese women. Hmm, now what does that quote remind one of? Oh yeah:

Maxim #101: For most women, five minutes of alpha is worth five years of beta.

You go, future time oriented girl! Now, normally, only the hottest chinagirls are gonna have a realistic shot at crying in a rich man’s BMW. Most of them will have to settle for getting pumped and dumped, sans engagement ring, in the beemer’s back seat. But these are not normal times in the middle kingdom. For one, their sexual market is all kinds of dysfunctional; armies of single men prowl for whatever scraps of single women they can sniff out. With a ratio that bad, it’s no wonder men have to advertise flat ownership (15 square feet!) before some chinese version of a dumpy jelly splingerette casting call reject deems him worthy of a peck on the cheek. We’ve come a long way since foot binding, baby.

The Chinese, being the massively Special K-selected race that they are, are likely the world’s preeminent, badassiest provider betas. This is the land of niceguy hugs, excruciatingly long courtships, the zippered non-fling, and video game substituting for… well, for just about everything. You drop your typical soybrained China dude in America and he is gonna get chewed up and wetly expectorated by our badboy loving women, house or no house. Which system is better? Tough call. Personally, as a fan of love and being human, I’d wither in an environment where chicks were so calculatingly miss roboto about dating and all that slimy emotional stuff that lubes the whole process. On the chubside, you can straight buy your way into some fairly loyal, and non-obese!, vertically epicanthic vaj. No game needed. Of course, the price of entry is steep, and climbing like a stripper reaching for a hundred windexed to the top of the pole.

The Sino-sordid spectacle reminds me of stuff I read from somewhere about how the English evolved mucho smarts and were able to kickstart the industrial revolution, and eventually, America. Turns out they practiced good old fashioned eugenics, the way nature intended — all the smarties and upper classmen had way more kids than the poor and smelly, who were left to die in the streets very uncompassionately, and after many generations of that, a new people was born. (Any current reversal of the process is a figment of your imagination. Ow, my balls!) But you religious bleeding hearts can sleep easy; God watched over the unfolding dirty Darwinian events with an eye toward a future kinder, gentler humanity, so you know it had His heavenly stamp of approval. Back to the point: I see the same thing happening now in China.

I’d say Chinese men need an infusion of game, stat, but they’re probably constitutionally incapable of understanding the concepts, let alone applying them. These Chinese chicks may be megamaterialistic, but I’m nigh certain that you drop a nuclear neg on a moonfaced gaggle of them and suddenly that legalistic mental mate checklist (house? car? sinecure with the Party? Now we talk long time.) evaporates like so much empty bluster. Why do I think this? Because I’d bet coin of the realm that in a country of 500 million men, not more than three girls have been negged, and I’m counting the whores. The conceptual reality of Chinese men couldn’t be further from the world of pickup.

Hey, if a lonely sex-starved Chinese man can’t get a nibble, he could always pull a van der sloot. That’s guaranteed to get him an avalanche of marriage proposals. And it’s a lot cheaper than paying for a house 22 times the cost of the median Chinese annual salary. But seriously, let’s hope this banal, arid materialistic quid pro ho doesn’t infect the rest of the world. Last thing America needs is another layer of absurd entitlement on top of the noxious layers currently defeminizing our women. Remember, every time you buy a fat girl a drink, or a house, Satan smites a beta.

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Second Thoughts

Imagine you ignored everything you read here and proposed to your girlfriend. She accepted. Would you have second thoughts if you saw her Facebook page the next day and she had changed her profile photo to this? (hat tip: Lance Armstrong’s Molester Mustache):

The poor bastard who married this girl is in for a world of hurt. He will

NEVER

STOP

PAYING.

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How To Trump The Status Signaling Games Of The Conformist Suckups

This post is mainly directed at those readers who are still in college and have to deal on a daily basis with fanatical ideologues on the hunt for crimethinking heretics to burn at the stake, though the wisdom here is applicable at any time of life. A typical PC police baiting tactic might go down like this:

CONFORMIST SUCKUP: “So what do you think of [controversial politically incorrect subject].”

YOU: “You first.”

CONFORMIST SUCKUP: “I think [politically correct answer].”

YOU: [smiling knowingly] “Then I agree with you.”

The beauty of this is twofold: one, you give them no rope with which to hang you, and two, you subtly send up the underlying inquisition-like mentality of them and their kind. It’s fun teaching very special lessons to sanctimonious shitholes that they’re no better than those to whom they feel superior.

This tactic even works on conformist suckups who were too cowardly to tell you their honest view. The pointed faux agreement will make both cowards and dogmatists feel the burn of disrespect.

Feel free to credit me in fliers stapled to kiosks all across America’s college campuses.

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Want A Happy Relationship? Make Sure Your Woman Never Rises Above Your Status

What happens when a woman’s social status leapfrogs her man’s status? Breakups.

In the past dozen years, nearly every woman to win the Academy Award for Best Actress has broken up with her husband, boyfriend or lover — some just months after thanking them from the award show stage.

Status is interesting when applied to women. For women, their status in the sexual market — the fundamental market that underlies all other markets — is locked up in their beauty. Women barter their looks status for high male social status, where male social status loosely defined indicates the man’s ability to provide resources for the woman and any future children. But women can also earn male-centric social and financial status. When a woman jumps up the social status ladder higher than most men, tremors rattle the normally smooth functioning of the dating market. Women with very high social status, regardless of their beauty, perceive themselves “better catches” than they really are. (If the woman is ugly, her self-perceived boost to her image will be smaller than if she is beautiful.) Women loathe dating down with lower status men, so a woman at the pinnacle of social status has, through forces acting upon her beyond her scope of influence or even conscious recognition, locked out a much larger dating pool of men than if she had never risen higher in social status. If she was already in a relationship with a man when her social status climbed above his, the relationship will suffer a buffeting of hypergamous winds that is hardly ameliorated by the fact of their longtime loving commitment.

This is what has happened to those Oscar winning actresses. They rose in status, and their lovers consequently dropped in relative status. Thus putting the brakes on the tingle train.

The line of breakup causality goes both ways. Men are subconsciously aware of the threat to their reproductive success that high female social status brings. This is why men are skittish about dating women with better educational credentials or career prospects. It’s nothing to do with being “scared” or “intimidated” by “strong women”. Men just prefer the pussy path of least resistance, and make calculated decisions which quarry is worth pursuing and which is a waste of time. Men, being the more realistic sex when considering their place in the sexual market, are apt to be better than women at streamlining dating operations for maximum return on investment. This means avoiding women with higher social status than their own, correctly figuring that such women, no matter how superficially enthusiastic about the courtship, will put up a bigger fight before putting out, if ever.

Women don’t want to date down and men don’t want to date women who don’t admire them on some level. Unfortunately, in a relationship where the higher social status woman truly does love her lower status man, (as may have been the case for the Oscar winning actresses in the above article), the tragedy of unintended breakup still occurs, for the lower status man will grow resentful of his fame-riding lover (and with good sociobiological reason) and act in ways which sabotage the love she still feels for him. You may think this is stupid of the man, but generally when we do the bidding of our DNA dictates what’s seemingly stupid for us is the right thing for our genes. At some point in the not too distant future, those loving high status actresses will begin to lash out at their lower status hubbies with the spite of a thousand harridans. Those are the regrettable odds. And who wants to be around for that? Especially with so many cute, lower status waitresses and tattoo artists to happily spelunk?

My advice for men who have a fetish about dating higher social status doctors and Fortune 500 executives and don’t much care about love: Marry them. In the inevitable divorce, you might walk away with more moolah than you brought.

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Using This Blog As A Pickup Prop

A late 20-ish/early 30s woman with a passing resemblance to Jennifer Connelly sat down on the springless couch to my right, relieved that she found a spot to sit in the crowded coffee shop. She sunk all the way in like a turtle retreating into its shell, and I smiled and told her the couch already ate two people. She laughed while pulling out a laptop.

My laptop was in front of me, perched on my thighs. In between spurts of typing I reached to sip from a cup of dragon well green tea and to munch on toasted focacia with slices of brie. Because my balls weigh that of ten men, I am secure enough to write the previous sentence. Immediately, my thoughts drifted to meeting this woman and how I could best use my supranatural Lucifer-given talents to accomplish that.

I waited for ten minutes to pass. When a woman is forced by circumstance to loiter in your proximity, it’s best not to jump on her right away. A man must leave an impression that his interest in a nearby woman only piqued after his mind stopped being preoccupied by whatever he was doing before she arrived. So I continued typing while pretending her stimulating looks hadn’t yet registered in the cock-shaped part of my brain.

Finally, I delivered my opener.

“I’ve never seen someone so engrossed in their work. You writing the next great American novel?”

Standard operating procedure. I’ve used the line many times, although it felt fresher this go round. Perhaps I was inspired by my latent decision to toss caution to the wind with what was about to come.

She chuckled at my opener, and answered with the confident voice of a woman who is used to sparring with men.

“Not quite. More like the next great American Excel spreadsheet.”

A good-looking woman with a genuine sense of humor? Did I sell my soul to the devil in a dream? Oh wow, I’d better not screw this up. My game has to be super tight! No margin for error. Just dance with the script that brought me here. No need to improvise. Stay the course!

“Ooh. My Mom warned me about women who use Excel.”

“Oh, really?” she playfully parried. “And what did she warn you about?”

“They’re bad news. They can analyze a man and know what he’s all about in two seconds.”

“That sounds like a great gift to have!”

We chatted for five more minutes. She was slowly hooking. Eventually, the conversation found its way to a point where I could deliver the following line.

“Luckily for me, I’m totally inscrutable. For instance, I’m definitely not writing an Excel spreadsheet. So you can try not to be so obvious when you peer over my shoulder to see what I’m writing.”

Babe bait.

“You certainly think highly of yourself.”

“I’m just a boy trying to figure it all out.”

“Is that what you’re writing about? Figuring it all out?”

“Sort of. I write a dating and relationship blog. Unfortunately, it’s pretty popular. So I have a lot of stalkers. Cost of doing business, I guess.”

“A dating blog?”

“And relationships.” I show her the front page of the Chateau.

“And you’re citizen renegade?”

“Among other names.”

“So, if you’re such an expert on dating, why are you still single?”

“The better question would be: Why *wouldn’t* I still be single?”

“Oh no, you sound like trouble.”

Ka-ching!

“Wow, the prison warden said the same thing to me.” She smiled and I let a few seconds of silence break the badinage.

I put forth my most serious face. “Hey, I have a confession to make…”

I love the ‘confession’ line. It’s like a mini insta-vulnerability game pebble that I can toss into almost any conversation to boost the girl’s intrigue. Plus, it makes girls a wee bit nervous, wondering if I’m going to confess to something really sordid that would make them too horny to control themselves.

“My blog is pretty controversial. I write about the dark side of human social dynamics as well. People with closed minds would probably not be able to understand. So if you find yourself curious, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I suppose now I’m going to have to take a look some time.”

“Hey, listen, I’ve got to run. But before I do I’d like to grab your number so our conversation doesn’t have to stop here for all eternity.”

This is my new number closing line. So far, I like it.

We exchanged numbers. The next day, I called her and set up a date that evening. No need to wait two days. She wasn’t an early 20s flakeriffic chick. The date went well, and we ended with a kiss. My blog was discussed, briefly, when she asked if I was really like my blog persona in real life. After I assured her I was (and make no mistake, it was assurance she secretly wanted), we went salsa dancing. A kiss to close the night, and I told her I had a good time. I didn’t set up a time for a second date. Never make plans for a future date while on a date. It reeks of urgency. Best to just tell the girl you must go, and you had a good time. Leave her stranded knee deep in the wonderment of her uncertainty.

***

I admit that using my blog as proof of status to pick up girls is cheesy. One of my goals in writing this post was to show just how powerful raw status game can be for a man. There was very little in the way of calculated technique-based game as is commonly understood used in this pickup. Instead, I relied on the crutch of high status within my endeavor of choice.

Cheesy, and effective.

She will probably read this blog post, so what I’m about to write may cost me, and her, a chance to see where this will lead. Or not. As I walked home from that first date, I asked myself if I really wanted to date the kind of girl who would be intrigued by what I write on this blog. If past experience is prologue…

But that is an answer for another time.

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When Elites Self-Destruct

When I first read this news story, I doubted its authenticity. It reads like something Snopes.com would later discredit. But I looked around and the story is repeated in multiple media outfits.

Transsexual performer vomits on Susan Sarandon

Oscar winning actress Susan Sarandon has had a bad time of it lately. The actress recently separated from her long time partner, actor Tim Robbins. Sarandon attended the third anniversary of The Box in New York’s Lower East Side.

A transsexual cabaret performer named Rose Wood engaged in projectile vomiting on stage and hit Sarandon with it .

Standing nearby were Scarlett Johansson and Liev Schreiber.

According to Wood it was not intended as an affront to the actress and she didn’t take it that way.

“Apparently [Sarandon] got a big kick out of it. She squealed with surprise and loved it when several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her. She had a ball! I saw her assistant downstairs afterward, and he was moved by it! She was in great spirits,” Wood told the New York Press.

Wood explains that vomiting on people is fitting is this establishment. “[It was a] fitting time for an outrageous act: the third anniversary of The Box. Everybody wants to offer safe and ordinary, not The Box!”

Was the vomit fake? The news outlets reporting on this story didn’t mention anything about the vomit being fake, so it looks as if an actual stream of hot, chunky puke hit Sarandon. If she was sitting down in the first rows, it is likely the projectile vomit splattered her upper body and face. Where does getting vomited on rank compared to other incredibly disgusting affronts to one’s dignity? Leaving aside for purposes of this discussion the creatively exotic ways in which the tortures of the damned might be executed (e.g., feeding severed genitalia to the writhing victim), I have ranked in descending order the top three most disgusting things that could happen to a person.

A tranny crapping on you. (Bonus points if face is the bulls-eye.)
A tranny projectile vomiting on you. (Again, bonus points for face.)
A tranny — assuming he/she still has a dick — jizzing on you. (Despite the terabytes of pornographic evidence to the contrary, I’d imagine that, like Clarice Starling, most women would not appreciate receiving an unwanted hot load to the face by a complete stranger, whether or not that stranger was doing “art” on stage. If we were to restrict our ranking to straight men, I’d place jizz in face above vomit in face, but just slightly below crap in face. If the crap was small, hard, and pellet-like, I think most men would even take that over jizz in the face. I once saw a porno clip of two guys on one girl and one of the dudes accidentally jizzed into the other dude’s face as that dude was kissing the girl. The reaction of the jizzed-upon dude was priceless. He jumped back instantaneously and retched, swinging his arms around blindly for a towel to wipe off on. I bet his nightmares will haunt his sleep for years.)

Was Sarandon auditioning for “two old leftie hags, one cup”? And what the hell was Scarlett Johansson doing there? Did she partake of the pukage? I’ve gotta say, nothing can desexify a hot babe faster than a little dribble of puke falling down her cheek, like a sad, gross tear.

This story has so much win it’s hard to know where to begin. First of all, it happened to Susan Sarandon. This is better than if it happened to Bono, although not as good as if it happened to Katie Couric. Secondly, the melding of elitist status posturing with the fraud that is modern “art” is perfectly symbolized in the caulking of the latter’s vomitus to the former’s face. This is meta-art that illuminates far more than the actual art.

Idiocracy isn’t confined to the plebes and riff raff. A counterpart idiocracy is simultaneously at work degrading the elite. A sure sign of a culture’s death rattle is its elite abandoning all pretense of taste and class in a vain effort to prop a barrier between themselves and the hoi polloi. The fraud that is modern art has served this function well for the past 50 or 60 years, but it is finally reaching its inevitable resolution, as it always would, devolving into a repulsive farce that says more about professed elite admiration for it than about the art itself. At one time, there was piss christ, which the elites could happily use as a club to bludgeon the unsophisticated into submissive apologia. But pretty (and not so pretty) lies are like ravenous beasts that must continually feed until ultimately they turn on their advocates. (See: Any multicultural society’s paeans to diversity.) And so we have the scorching parody of an elitist like Susan Sarandon suffering a stream of projectile vomit from the beast she helped breathe to life, and then being forced by a combination of circumstance and cognitive dissonance to betray her own disgust reflex at the altar of lifestyle liberalism.

Susan Sarandon’s defiled face and subsequent feint of enjoyment and poseurism is a symbol of the late Caesarean implosion of our putative overclass. Tim Robbins’ dumping her must have hit her hard. (Another high status man dumps aging wife! News at 11.) The “several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her” line is telling. Rose Wood knows what a wrinkled, sexually worthless woman wants to hear. On the other end of the social spectrum, People of Walmart race to the bottom free of any need or desire to ape the habits of their betters. And who could blame them when their betters are the likes of Sarandon, vomiting trannies, and enabling art critics and media mavens? All the while, the rapidly shrinking sane middle is beaten like a pinata by an unholy alliance of the hermetically warped elites and the wretched bottom dwellers, of which such end-gameplaying is sure to have deadly serious consequences.

Here is the truth of the incident. You, Susan Sarandon, got puked on by a freak degenerate performing nothing remotely resembling art except in the fevered imaginations of bathhouse Baudelaires and serial killers. It wasn’t cutely “outrageous” and it wasn’t conceptually deep that only you and your inner circle of pretend snobs could recognize its artistic merit. And those “handsome gentlemen” in attendance took pity on you, the kind of unwelcome, soul withering pity reserved for the losers and the lost. Of which you are now one.

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Why Do Some Men Bang Below Their Level?

Take a look at this picture:

This is Steve Phillips, 46 year old ESPN baseball analyst and former Mets GM, with his 22 year old mistress, a lowly production assistant he met on the job. The bitch mistress filed for a restraining order against Phillips the day *after* she left a taunting letter with his wife saying she (the bitch mistress) and Steve were meant to be together. Chutzpah, thy name is woman.

(Note that stalker behavior is more likely to occur when the status differential between the man and woman is significant. A woman will fall in love VERY quickly and effortlessly with an alpha who deigns to dump a fuck in her, while this same woman would need years to decide whether she loves the provider beta who dotes on her.)

Here is a photo of Phillips’ aged wife, Marni, mother of his four children:

After viewing the first picture with much disgust and confusion, most of you were probably asking “What the HELL was he doing with her?” And you’d be right to wonder. Phillips is a good-looking dude, high status, and presumably loaded. There are thousands of hot 22 year old women who would gladly smoke his pole.

The mistress looks like a fat dyke. I’d rate her a beer-fueled 2. The only thing she has going for her is her youth (24 year age difference between Phillips and her), which goes to show that even an ugly dyke-ish 22 year old can be more sexually appealing to men than their aged wrinkled wives. Although after looking at the pic of Marni Phillips for many minutes of close examination, I’d have to conclude that it’d be a close call deciding which one I’d fuck. I think I’d choose Marni. Her boobs give much love.

So why do some men with options choose to date, or cheat with, unattractive women below their level?

First, keep in mind that the reason we notice weirdo combinations like Phillips and his pig-faced mistress is because they are so rare. We notice that which defies expectation, and we ignore that which is the same old same old. 99% of men with Phillips’ status are either dating or cheating with much hotter women. So don’t get your hopes up, ladies.

Remember, too, that what you see is not always what you get when a good-looking man slums it with an ugly woman. Because a man’s dating market value is determined by so many more variables than those which can be observed by the naked eye, we cannot always assume that a good-looking guy is high status in the same way we can safely judge a good-looking girl is high status. (A woman’s social status is based almost completely on her looks.) That good-looking guy with the ugly girl may have crippling personality flaws, no money, no job, no charisma, no humor, no self-confidence, no ambition, or no game. He may also be too lazy or fearful to put in the extra effort to get a girl closer to his level.

But these unusual dating disparity exceptions do exist, and here are the reasons why I think some high status men will choose to lay with gross women:

• Variety is the spice of life. Sometimes a new, ugly pussy is more rewarding than another night of the same, slightly less-ugly pussy.
• Convenience. Many alphas won’t make the minimal effort required to meet hot chicks in the wild savannahs of their cities. The pigmalion intern you see every day who will drop to her knees instantly to suck you off can be, from a cost-benefit calculation, the better deal of the moment.
• Pure laziness. Some men think it’s undignified, degrading, or less than manly (ha!) to actively chase women. They prefer to have the ugly pussy fall in their laps. This rationalization by lazy men is known as “sour grapes”. Unfortunately for them, it’s actually more degrading to bang an ugly woman than it is to pursue hotter women, even when that pursuit leads to rejection. There is honor in the chase.
• Insecurity. A powerful man with deep-seated psychological issues who likes to be in control may opt for the ugly mistress he can easily dominate. A hotter mistress would require more tact and manipulative ministrations to keep in line, a tall order which could send him into a self-hating spiral of spite. Some men don’t like a challenge; they prefer a supplicative sex slave. These are the same kinds of men who solicit hookers. Also see: laziness.
• Hidden lack of self-confidence. He’s alpha on the outside, beta on the inside.
• Paper alpha. There are men who are alpha with other men, but graceless, befuddled pussies with women. It’s not many, but they do exist.
• Youth is its own quality. A man quickly grows bored of sex with an old wife. An ugly 22 year old will suddenly start to look a lot more appealing than even sex with a “beautiful for her age” older wife.
• Experimentation. Many unattractive girls will do things in bed that a wife or a better looking woman would never do. If a girl is willing to accept A2M and post gym workout teabagging, she will bump up the queue.
• Odd fetishes. There are guys who like to fuck sheep. Rare outliers are part of the wonderful tapestry of humanity.

Some of you will suggest that maybe the ugly mistress has a sparkling personality, and Phillips was drawn to that. No. When a man is an alpha, women all around him, including hot ones, will suddenly have sparkling personalities. Bitch shields drop as fast as panties with the right man. Compatibility and sparkling personalities can be easily spoofed when the proper incentives are in place.

None of what I listed above should provide succor to weak, lazy men who wish to dumpster dive and enjoy their buddies’ approval at the same time. Steve Phillips forever sullied his good name by hooking up with this beast. If you’re going to take a mistress, be sure to take one who brings honor to the title.

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