Blind Girl Game

“Hi, I’m an interpretive guide for the Truitt exhibit. What do you think of it so far?”

I looked over and saw a short, cute girl with a seeing eye dog in tow. At least, I figured it was a seeing eye dog because one, it had the telltale handlebar thing strapped to it and two, it was a dog in a museum, where pets aren’t normally allowed.

I scanned the nearly blank white canvas on the wall before answering her. “I’m struggling with it. If I had to turn this in as an assignment for art class I’d probably get an F.”

I was at the Anne Truitt exhibit, in search of beauty amongst blocks and drawings of lines. For those who aren’t familiar, here is a representative sample of her work:

Are you scratching your head? Keep scratching plebe. You wouldn’t recognize art if it bit you on the ass.

The short cute girl eagerly continued our conversation. She was quite earnest. I was charmed.

“Truitt was a minimalist who wanted the viewer to experience her work as an emotional reaction, instead of a visual object. (something something something)… it’s conceptual art that draws out memories in the viewer… (something something something)… and the colors are meant to represent just the color…”

As she spoke, her eyes looked directly at mine, as if she could actually see me. Her gaze was intense. It made me a little uncomfortable and I looked to the dog for reassurance. I began to wonder if she was really blind, or if she picked the dog up from the shelter and liked the handlebar thing, so she never removed it. In the middle of her speech, she reached down without looking and patted the ground with her hand, feeling for the dog’s leash which had moved a foot away from her. Yep, she was blind. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought about picking my nose, but checked myself. Some blind people have rudimentary vision. She might be able to see my blurry finger drilling into my blurry face.

She was such an engaging converationalist that I found myself fully committed to chatting with her. It didn’t hurt that she was cute with a perfect ass. If there was female game, she had it. As we volleyed back and forth on the artistic impact of Truitt’s bare bones oeuvre, I felt an old, familiar urge well up inside me. I was gaming this chick. Teasing, banter, light touch on her elbow.  The raw energy of a possible seduction electrified the air around us. My crotch grew three sizes that day!

None of my teasing involved her blindness. It never came up. It’s funny how a rollicking conversation can overlook the most obvious questions, like “What is a blind girl doing in a museum giving tour guides of a visual artist’s exhibit?” Then I noticed something else; this girl was getting attracted to me through nothing but my words. She moved in closer, she smiled wider. But, she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see my well-timed cocky grin, or my alpha body language. I could have been a potbellied bald leprosy victim rubbing my hands together nervously for all she knew.

That’s when it hit me. How, after all these years, could I have ignored the potential of blind girl game? There are so many fewer variables to worry about. No need for style, grooming, or calculated backturns. You don’t even have to smile. All you need is the seductive allure of your words. If you are a man with powerful verbal game, your talents will be best appreciated by a blind girl. In fact, you could easily score a 9 or 10 blind chick if your game is only good enough to score 20/20 vision 7s. Removing a woman’s visual judgement bumps your skill level up two full points.

Downside: When slipping her the midnight hummer, make sure to tell her it’s not a hot dog.

I bet VK has a lot of great blind girl jokes up his sleeve.

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The Omegas Among Us

Standing on the long escalator, a small Asian woman excused herself to get by me as she strode down the descending steps briskly. Just in front of me, a family of four stood like grazing cattle on both the left and right sides of the escalator, heavily obstructing the passage of the tiny woman who was now trying to squeeze past them. As she squeaked “excuse me, excuse me” multiple times vainly searching for openings to circumnavigate the human cattle, they smirked and refused to budge and began spitting a fusillade of comments at her. “This is an escalator, not stairs.” “It’s not us that’s supposed to move, honey.” “You never ride an escalator before?” “Don’t be a little bitch, we ain’t moving for you.” “Son, just stand still, she ain’t supposed to be racing by like this.”

After a few seconds of this witty banter and threat of physical altercation, the Asian woman richoted off the man’s gut and shot out of their gauntlet of flesh. Briefly disoriented, she composed herself and resumed her jog down the escalator as the guffawing family continued flinging accusations and insults at her. When she reached the bottom she looked back up at the family, muttered something unintelligible, and flipped them a petite Asian bird. The father yelled back “fuck you bitch, you dumb bitch” then looked over his shoulder at the rest of his family and at me and my company, a vapid grin creased across his inbred face, laughing sourly as his fat sow wife and two kids took his cue and laughed along with him. His son, a boy of perhaps five, repeated his dad’s words: “yeah, you bitch!” The dad tenderly put his hand on his boy’s head and tousled his hair, and a few more “fuck”s and “bitch”s were shared in solidarity amongst the family members.

The father swiveled his head and made eye contact with me, presumably in search of proximate allies, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing with him. Instead, I curled my mouth downward and narrowed my eyes, making sure my disgust for him and his Morlockian broodclan was obvious. My eyes swooped slowly over all four of them — a white family from out of town, judging by the faint hillbilly accent I heard. There was the father with close-set eyes and a face wider than it was tall, the sweaty stringy-haired fat pig mother who wheezed with each labored breath, the little boy (a rapscallion in training no doubt), and the little girl. I sneered one word, audible enough for them to hear: “class”. There was a still moment when it seemed as if he and his wife were registering my reaction and deciding what to do about it. The father’s smile dropped and he turned back around.

Fortunately for him, he did nothing. Maybe he could read the seething contempt on my face and sensed the lurid scenario playing itself out in my mind, the visceral desire I had, given the slightest pretext, to shove his filthy loser face into the escalator machinery, ripping his eyes and mouth and flesh and sinew off the bone and kicking the fat brood sow so hard in her bloated belly she is rendered infertile, as her children mewl helplessly nearby. Yes, he made the right decision to shut his trap. He knew, on some deep level, I was his better, and he would get no succor from me.

My intuition and keen eye has guided me well in seeing the big picture. America is currently fracturing hard and deep into two, irreconcilable groups — the genetic losers and the genetic winners. And the chasm between them is growing wider, a leap from one side to the other in either direction ever more incomprehensible. I am, in my humble outpost at the cultural hinterland where PC politesse yields to the merciless attack machinery of my wrecking ball truths, turning the mirror on civilization, and stripping bare the sugar coating civil society sprinkles on our discourse and beliefs to protect losers like the family in this story from the ghastly knowledge of their own worthlessness.

There was once a time when the lower ranks of society would admire the upper ranks, and work hard, however ineffectually, to acquire the habits and virtues of the upper classes on a journey of personal betterment. There was once a time when the upper ranks understood their duty to the lower ranks, and constrained themselves publicly in an act of noblesse oblige, to serve as example for their lessers. Today, that dynamic is destroyed. The losers know they’re losers, but they no longer give a shit. They wallow in their wretchedness like pigs in mud, sticking a porky hoof up the pinched sphincter of anyone who would encourage them otherwise. The winners know they’re winners, and despite their tissue-thin rhetoric to the contrary, know that it wasn’t hard work but the luck of the DNA draw that they aren’t rolling around in the sty with the pigs and who, if you get them behind closed doors and pry liberally with truth serum, secretly believe the left hand side of the bell curve barely even qualifies as members of the same human species. So now we have two groups, staring distantly at each other across the tar pit of our shredded national identity known as pop culture, who don’t give a shit about the other, and are feverishly living their lives to guarantee that a shit will never have to be given.

If you think this is sustainable, you have only to sense the bubbling resentment surfacing not only in the urban jungle where resentment is the engine of self-delusion, but in once placid regions like small towns and college campuses, to know it is not. Soon, there will not be enough gated land behind which the elites can barricade themselves and continue peddling their hypocritical pissant platitudes. The orc hordes will swarm like locusts and devour everything in their path. Even the danegeld will lose its power to pacify, if for no other reason than that the source of funds will not keep up with the hungry multiplying maws of the beasts of chaos. If you feed it, they will come.

The West is doomed. Unfortunately, there is no rescue from this cycle of inevitability. There are solutions, but they will never be accepted, for the languor and the stasis has metastasized, an ablative bunker mentality has burrowed deep in the national psyche. And so the decline will play itself out to the bitter end, quietly or explosively, it doesn’t matter.

The past 40 years have witnessed a cognitive stratification on a scale I believe is unparalleled in American history. The unspoken philosophical forces of credentialism and good breeding, coupled with the substrate of economies requiring abstract mental prowess to successfully navigate, have never been more actively practiced than they are now, and in so blatantly a fashion to what is said to the contrary. Assortative mating is the buzzword of the moment, but more significantly it may be the one true philosophy if pragmatic adoption is any measure of truth value. Yet confront the overclass with this untidy ugly truth and you will be treated to a stream of sophistic shit so thick you’d think the actions of a genocidal regime could be happily rationalized.

Come to think of it…

When words and deeds tug so hard in opposing directions, something’s got to give. The center cannot hold. And so, because I am a blessed humanitarian, here is my patented solution for saving America:

1. Build a wall at the southern border and kick out the last 30 years’ worth of de facto invaders, and cut off all immigration for two generations. It makes zero sense to add more misery to an already growing and spiteful underclass.
2. Alpha males need to start fucking and having babies with hot lower class women.

That’s it. A wall is cheap to build when compared to the costs of maintaining a military presence in a third world tribal cesspool. And upper class alpha males used to fuck and breed with their hot secretaries until said secretaries began going to college and getting higher paying jobs. Now, because of peer pressure, social finger wagging, or expedience, alpha males have forsaken fucking hot lower class women in favor of co-worker lawyer cunts, and the result has been a ghettoization of the genetic misfits to breed exclusively among themselves. Spread that upper class alpha seed around and you begin to rebuild the common mission and shared trust of a nation, one recombined double helix at a time.

In the meantime, I’m arranging my life in such a way that I minimize the amount of time spent in the company of losers. They’re fucking depressing.

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Is There Ever A Time Not To Game?

Discount bin answer: Never.

Gamers’ Edition Bonus Pak answer: It depends.

I was at a small-ish film fest party for a guy who directed a couple of short documentaries. Crowd size: ~80-100 peeps, skewed toward women, most of whom were cute artsy scenesters who liked to wear woolen caps and scarves indoors. Because, you know, it might snow.

Three girls, all 7s, approached me and my friend to ask if we were “part of the creative scene”.

Clearly, a significant subculture of the residents are starving for the company of unconventional people who aren’t yuppie whores. And so, I give them that. I aim to please.

After a few minutes of light chit chat about my latest blockbuster mega-grossing film, I felt the energy of the set wane. They were slipping away. Girls are born with a self-entitlement region of the brain that causes them to assume all men were put on the earth to continually entertain them. This region is connected to the pussy through a single major nerve called the tingleginaceptor. When the pussy deteriorates through age, so does the entitlement region of the female brain. This is why many older women are so engaging in conversation; they have to be.

A player adept at seducing women knows to flip this entitlement script and demand entertainment from the women in his company. Game is the tool that helps with the script-flipping. But this time I ran no game. Instead, I let the chit chat dissipate, smiled warmly, and told them to enjoy the show.

I could’ve made fun of one of the girl’s scarves (“That scarf is all wrong on you”). I could’ve negged the hottest girl (“You look like the girl in the movie who got dumped by the guy. Are you her? Well, chin up”). I could’ve kinoed, isolated, made out. But I did none of these things. Why?

Because in certain specific contexts, I believe game can backfire. This was one of those times. A small, insular indie scene such as at a film screening, filled with people who likely are friends, or at least acquaintances, with everyone else in the room, and who have certain social codes that they follow and are only understood by themselves (e.g. don’t be a douchebag) are more apt to react suspiciously to game run on them by a relative outsider. (I do hang in the indie scene, but not this particular one.)

My spidey sense was telling me that had I negged one of the girls in the three set, it would have confused her. And not in a good way. Tightknit groups of people tend to want to feel newcomers out, to see if they’re cool, i.e. socially savvy. A neg right out of the gate might have tingled ginas, but it also ran the risk of emphasizing my outsider status. It’s best to demonstrate your in-group cred first before hitting them up with the thermonuclear love bomb of game. With very provincial groups, this getting-to-know-you process can sometimes require attendance at three or more events where you’ll see the same girls and they’ll have an opportunity to become comfortable with you. Blogger happy hours used to work this way.

There is a trade-off to every decision. The girl who interested me may not ever again go to one of these events. Or she may have been sufficiently bored by the non-game “normal” conversation between us to write me off as a future contender. If I had properly gamed her, I had a chance to initiate the short road to intimacy. But gaming her also posed the risk of stamping me persona non grata within the scene, possibly polluting my chances with other girls who knew my primary target peripherally.

Pickup is about experience. After enough time and practice, you’ll get a feel for these kinds of social riddles. But all in all, I prefer this rule of thumb —

Maxim #13: When in doubt, game.

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I Will Not Drink Fucking Merlot!

There is a group of SWPLs outside on the balcony right now discussing the finer points of wine. They are mocking some mutual friend they know for being pretentious about wine by… being pretentious about wine.

“Oh, like, so X says she had dinner with Napa Valley’s best sommelier.”

“She’s such a wine snob. I swear she brought table wine last month to X’s party.”

Their insipid blather has ruined my pleasant evening of pipe smoking and single malt drinking. I loathe SWPLs. If hypocrisy and status whoring were hellfire their screams of torment would echo through the ages.

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The Woman Source

I’ve found day game nirvana. The Paper Source, on M Street in Georgetown, is swimming in snapper. Swimming, Jerry! I couldn’t believe the wall to wall babes in this place, browsing, of all things, paper and paper accessories.

As one Yelp reviewer wrote:

What is it about women and stationary? If a girl ever looked at me with the same look of anticipation, excitement, longing, and joy that you see on the faces of the many ladies walking into this store, I think my heart would explode.

Gentlemen pay attention, should you ever have the urge to be surrounded by a crowd of attractive, giddy women head over to this store on a Saturday afternoon. Loudly announce to the clerk that you would really love some “letter pressed personalized stationary” and whether there is a large selection of styles you can patiently browse through.  Women standing around you will raise one eyebrow appreciatively and check you out.

I have been dragged here a couple of times over the years. What can I say; It sells paper. In a bewildering amount of sizes and functions.  This store proves that women are just more thoughtful and caring then us guys, for they sell a cute little card for every possible occasion.  There is an upstairs, but before having to go up there to see what it was about, I was able to negotiate an early exit from the store by promising to buy the girl I was with dinner; there may be a bar and dumpling store up there for all I know.  Point being, if you come here with your girlfriend, you will have to drag her out kicking and screaming. And probably drop at least $20 on paper. Otherwise, Mie n Yu is close by so you can pop over there for some drinks and wait it out.  

I really could care less about stationery, but because women love this store, and I love women, I dedicate 4 stars on their behalf.

I went upstairs. There was a $112 photo album in a bin. (Photos not included.) Was it laminated in gold leaf? I couldn’t tell. The man-cession deepens while the frivolous woman economy rolls on. For now. Helpful tip: Two floors means consecutive number closes mere yards apart are possible.

Why do women love froo froo stationery? I know why.

1. Paper is lightweight. Women are lightweight.
2. Paper is insubstantial. Women are insubstantial.
3. Paper is a medium upon which trivial thoughts are transcribed. Women are a medium from which trivial thoughts issue.
4. Paper comes in many soft pastel colors. Women can identify more soft pastel colors than men.
5. Paper contains an element of danger (paper cuts). Women tingle in the gina region for hidden danger.
6. Hand-written love notes on high gauge paper harken back to a romantic era. Women love fantasizing about long-gone romantic eras when raw sewage would run freely down cobblestone streets.
7. Personalized lace-fringed paper, calligraphy, and wax seals show you care. Except that you shouldn’t show you care. Because chicks will ignore you if you show you care. Which is why chicks love things that show you care. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So there you have it. A day game den of estrogen situated in the heart of a day game neighborhood. Bonus day game locale: City Bikes in Adams Morgan. Chicks dig the fixed gear.

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Herb Attack!

First there was this. Then this herb poked his fat head up from his burrow. Then a magnificent specimen of herb was spotted on the concrete plains of a SWPL savannah. Suddenly herbs started springing up everywhere, wearing frontal papooses, inexplicably carrying satchels into nightclubs, and laying their bulbous heads in the laps of girlfriends to be stroked like a pet cat. But none of these squishy shuffling beasts in khaki could inspire the kind of awe, and gag reflex, that the latest discovery has provoked among the world’s top anthropological researchers. Behold… the Mother of All Herbs… the UBER HERB:

When I first saw this pic, I thought… Will Wilkinson! I mean, just look at their relationship exactness and complementarity. But no, I have been informed that Will does not have an Asian girlfriend. Then I thought… Hope! White and nerdy boyfriend? Check. Wearing healing crystals of Buddharrific transcendence? Nope, not Hope.

A close examination of this blurry photo reveals the embodiment of herbitude — perfect in presentation, flawless in composure, virtuous in cross-legged effeminacy, he is the archetype of the schlumpy herb whose feeble beta posturings are thrown into stark relief (fortuitously for the ninja photographer who risked his serum testosterone level to capture this herb on film) by the annoyed girlfriend stiffly rebuffing his tender ministrations.

The reader who sent this in provides the backstory:

Red Line, Wednesday evening.

This guy was so obviously beta he might as well have had a neon sign on him. He kept looking at her, smiling occasionally. He put his arm around her. He touched her leg the way some shy teenage boy might. He did the talking. He leaned into her. She might as well have been sitting next to a stranger. Her arms were crossed the whole time. Checking BlackBerry. No emotion on her face. When they got up, she got up first, and led the way. She wasn’t even cute; 4-5 at best. The thing was…they were married.

Married! This is what an equalist concept of relationships earns a man — crossed arms and clamped pussies. And this schmendrick looks so shit-eating happy to surrender any shred of manly dominance. I could carve a better man out of a purple saguaro.

OK, you say, instead of pointing and laughing how about some solutions to help this guy? Hey, I aim to please.

I’d begin with the easiest and quickest improvements and work my way up to the more difficult herb-cleansing tasks.

First, style and presentation.

• I’d have him shave his head. If you’ve got hair like that it’s the only way to go. If his wife protests, even better.
• NO GODDAMN KHAKI. Ever. Only guys who already possess an understanding of style should attempt khaki. Not herbs wearing high waters.
• Unbotton the top button on his shirt.
• Even though this photo is blurry, I can tell his shoes suck. New shoes.
• Glasses dropped for contacts. Or at least more fashionable eyewear.
• Perhaps a soul patch to add a hint of edginess. Or a hint of “I’m not a doormat, really.”
• Tanning booth.
• Gym membership. Of course, he’d probably gravitate to the treadmill or hip abductor machine. I’d make sure he found his way to the heavy iron.

Next, body language.

• Uncross your legs, nancyboy. Old men and fruitcups sit like that. Spread em and display the goods. An alpha male loves the thought of impolitely shoving the contours of his mighty package into the viewing angle of scandalized Metro riders.
• Lean *away from*, not *into*, your woman. A healthy relationship always features the girl cozying up to the man. Egalitarian libertarians like Will Wilkinson who live and breathe in the world of abstraction will never understand this, but women WANT their men to be dominant, despite their claims to the contrary. They WANT to be the ones leaning into him.
• Stop smiling like an idiot at your girl, especially when she’s not returning your joy. Do you know what your face says? “Oh, I’m wetting myself that I have YOU, my precious flower. Thank you, Asian girlfriend, for blessing me with the exquisite pleasure of your company and tightness of your Oriental vagina. This love we share… wait… excuse me, getting a little choked up… a lone tear pregnant with possibility shouts my love for you. PS You are permitted to walk all over me.”

Finally, we’d move on to LTR game.

• I’d tell him to pay attention to his wife’s behaviors, and stop feeding her revulsion with counterproductive betaness. So, when wifey folds her arms, scowls, refuses to touch you IN PUBLIC, and generally acts like a bitch, you STOP, DROP, and ROLL the fuck off from her. Pawing at her like a needy puppy isn’t going to help. You know what would help? Flirting with another woman in front of her.
• Once you’ve figured out how to read your wife’s “you disgust me” body language, you will be tempted in all your glorious betaness to inquire “What’s the matter, honey?”. Resist this urge. You would only be digging the hole deeper.
• Hey, guess what, it’s OK to tease your wife for being a bitch. “Try not to look so happy, babe. I’m just a man, not a god.”
• When your marriage is this arid, it’s a good idea to disappear for a week. When you return, act like nothing is wrong.
• Lead, don’t follow, and don’t “complement”. Your wife wants to step in place behind you, not next to you and not in front of you; stop denying her this fulfillment.
• Read this blog for relationship game. It may be the only thing that can save you from a brutal divorce theft ass raping.

As I’ve written before, the Asian woman is a white beta male’s dream. Asian girls are guided less by their primitive gina tingles than women of other races, and are more susceptible to the herbly charms of the provider beta, as long as the provider beta in question is a white dude. The white beta male can wallow like a pig-shaped puffed pastry in his desperate, needy, cloying betaness with the Asian girlfriend without worrying so much that she’ll dump him for the nearest bartender. The white beta male would have to settle for a fat white chick to enjoy the same treatment.

But when you’ve become a caricature of a herb, and so beta that your Asian wife is repulsed by you and showing it in public, you’ve got serious problems. You’re one short step down to omegatude and midnight masturbation marathons to Caucasian-eyed anime.

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Jealousy

Damian and I were out with a mixed group. One of the girls got very drunk on martinis (fast action truth serum) and pulled Damian aside for what I thought was the beginning of making beautiful music together. Later that night, Damian announced he was going home alone, and the rest of us were left with the job of escorting the drunk girl back to her urban single woman’s hovel, distinguished as they all are by mass quantities of pillows, toiletries, and shoes. Along the way, she mumbled “I just want to get laid before leaving town. How hard is it for a girl to get laid in this town?! By the way, what’s wrong with Damian?”

I though maybe Damian’s same night lay attempt had gone awry, that perhaps his game had gotten rusty, but no that wasn’t it. This girl was primed for his pistola, all he needed to do was say “I’ll take you home” and victory was his, and yet he beat a hasty retreat. She wasn’t bad looking, she had a nice ass, and she was leaving town for good in a couple of weeks. Christ, it’s like handing the pussy over on a platter, and garnishing it with an industrial-sized bottle of KY.

The next morning, I called Damian for an explanation as to why he violated the foremost single man’s honor-bound duty —

Never look a gift pussy in the labia.

— and he gave me his reason.

ME: What were you thinking? That was yours for the taking.

DAMIAN: First of all, I wasn’t attracted to her.

ME: Dude, she wasn’t bad looking. Definitely within your historical sphere of acceptability. She had a nice ass.

DAMIAN: I’m dating two other women, I’ve got nothing to prove. Plus, she was drunk, yapping like a chihuahua, and saying weird annoying shit.

ME: Like what?

DAMIAN: She found out through your girl that I’m going on a date with that Chinese girl XXXX. Then she started freaking out. [Imitating whiny nasally Jewish woman voice] “Whyyy? Why are you going out with an Asian girl? Is it because Asian girls are submissive? Do you want a submissive woman?”

ME: Wow. Awkward.

DAMIAN: Yeah, it was a turn-off. She kept it up for a while. Demanding explanations why I was interested in an Asian girl. I just wanted to get away.

ME: Her inner demons came streaming out. Must’ve been the martinis. Still, you could’ve just put cotton in your ears and gotten the bang. There’s a larger principle at stake.

DAMIAN: There’s a larger principle all right — getting a good, quiet night’s sleep!

***

Yet another amusing, and cringingly awful, DC dating escapade. The great thing about multiple martinis is that it’s one of the few elixirs that is capable of aligning a girl’s actual thoughts with the words coming out of her mouth. Never listen to what a girl says… unless she’s sucking down her ninth dirty olive.

It’s now my belief that most white women harbor a deep distrust, even jealousy, for Asian women. They see the Asian girl, like they see foreign women fresh off the boat, as competitors for the white men they have come to expect will bow and scrape before their precious white American vaginas. This jealousy contrasts sharply with the indifference they feel towards black and latino women taking their white men. The Asian woman occupies a special place in the mind of white women — with her neotenous features, softer skin, natural slenderness, and purported submissiveness the Asian girl comes armed with a fully operational arsenal of femininity that can bust through the deepest white woman’s bunker. And while most Asian girls who cross the racial Rubicon wind up with big galoot white herbs (see: Hope) or squishy pudding pop betas who look like Conor Friedersdorf, the impact on the white woman’s psyche is nearly the same as if the Asian women were taking all the alpha white men; namely, they sense their bargaining power in the sexual market is being undercut by a worthy foe.

Speculative stroll: The martini girl in this story was Jewish. Does the fact that Asian women possess intellectual firepower and educational attainment almost the equal of Jewish women cause the latter to feel particularly antagonistic toward them? You be the judge.

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