#1 Herb

What do herbs carry in their satchels that they need convenient access to whatever is inside while at nightclubs? Grapes? A back issue of Wired? Naomi Wolf’s ‘The Beauty Myth’? E tabs? An Obama-shaped buttplug? Scientists are baffled.

Other trademarks of the species herbisaurus maximus:

He goes straight to the leg press machine at the gym because he has no upper body strength. And it’s easy to stack a lot of plates on the leg press without actually exerting much effort.

He only exudes confidence around women when he’s already in a relationship. The herb will turn into an unstoppable and slightly creepy parvenu of flirtatious banter when he knows he has a girlfriend to fall back on. If his practice target reciprocates, the herb will suddenly get nervous and start babbling about having to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy his girlfriend scented tub stickers.

Related to the above, the herb is happy when in a relationship, morose when single. A herb who has been in a rut for longer than six months will sweat droplets of pure estrogen.

The herb constantly white knights, subconsciously hoping it will lead to sex. It never does, and the herb never learns. This white knighting instinct can be particularly annoying to the herb’s buddies. Try it and see for yourself. Example: Herb’s friend negs girl. Herb intrudes, “Hey, man, that’s not cool. Her shoes are fine.” Friend loses pickup momentum as herb monopolizes convo with girl, emoting furiously about the latest indie band.

The herb is more flexible than most female gymnasts. He does 1,500 Kegels a day, inadvertently.

The herb is not gay, but sometimes wishes he were, because he is that open-minded.

Herbs are vegetarians. Super herbs are vegans. Meat eating herbs will indulge in private, away from scornful female peers. Almost all the herb’s peers are female LJBFs.

Herbs have never — not ONCE — acquired a girlfriend by picking her up. All the herbs in the world met their girlfriends through social circles.

There are many subspecies of herbs, but the one thing they all have in common is lumpenbeta passivity. Not only does the herb have no concept of game, he will be actively repelled when you try to explain it to him. He doesn’t understand why men need game because he is happy with his chubby 4 girlfriend.

Now there are Japanese herbs! The herb has gone international!

Typically, “herbivore men” are in their 20s and 30s, and believe that friendship without sex can exist between men and women, Fukasawa said.

The term has become a buzzword in Japan. Many people in Tokyo’s Harajuku neighborhood were familiar with “herbivore men” — and had opinions about them.

Shigeyuki Nagayama said such men were not eager to find girlfriends and tend to be clumsy in love, and he admitted he seemed to fit the mold himself.

“My father always asks me if I got a girlfriend. He tells me I’m no good because I can’t get a girlfriend.”

Midori Saida, a 24-year-old woman sporting oversized aviators and her dyed brown hair in long ringlets, said “herbivore men” were “flaky and weak.”

“We like manly men,” she said. “We are not interested in those boys — at all.”

It can no longer be denied; I have my finger on the pulse of trends in first world decay. What will be the next meme to capture the world’s imagination? Stay tuned!

No herbs were harmed in the writing of this post.

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Update On The Stripper Pickup Attempt

In this post I asked where I went wrong.  Some of you got the right answer (and some of you — feministx, omw — were wide of the mark).

While I can’t go back in time and tap the neural network of the stripper I tried to bang to find out what she was thinking, I have a pretty good idea where I dropped the ball. Those who said I waited too long to leave the strip club and join her at the after hours bar were correct. When I arrived, she was sitting there looking annoyed.

G Manifesto, Challenge, and Chuck had excellent tactical suggestions (don’t order beer, offer a different venue to meet her, dress in custom tailored suit, etc.) but the game killer was the overplay of my aloof and indifferent hand. The Big Mo’ was lost.

Maxim #84: Respect the momentum.

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Stripper Pickup Attempt

This is the story of the time I attempted to pick up a stripper while she was working her shift at a gentlemen’s club. I failed at this attempt. As you read my story, try to figure out where it went wrong.

***

I showed up with two buddies. We went to the upper floor where the crowd is usually less raucous at strip clubs than on the ground floor. The waitress sat my friends at a table while I grabbed a stool at the small bar and sat there. The bar was closer to the stage my target would be dancing on, about fifteen feet off, but not so close that I would be obligated to watch her dance and feed her singles.

I knew my target peripherally. She was an acquaintance of a friend. We had briefly crossed paths at a party once, but I was dating someone seriously at the time and didn’t bother making an obvious move on her. But I had flirted and she had reciprocated my flirting. At the strip club, I did not expect her to recognize me, and even if she did I figured she wouldn’t come running over to say “Hi” because most strippers don’t like to mix “real world” with “writhing naked on a stage world”.

I ordered my drink ($10 Miller Lite) and chatted with the female bartender. I made sure not to look over at the stage for longer than a glance and kept my attention focused on the bartender and a dancer who had come by to join our conversation. I was the only man sitting at the bar. The rest were gathered in semi-circles around the two stages admiring the dancers like live artwork. Every couple of minutes one of the guys would stand and march toward the stage for extra special attention in the form of the girl waving her crotch inches from his face. The herbier guys would say “thank you” and put the singles in her garter or even in her hand, as if giving her a present. The rougher looking guys would smirk and put the singles in their mouths and the girl would pull the bills out with her cleavage or ass crack.

My target, Redbush, came up behind me and warmly said hi. She did recognize me. She was one of those girls who looks radically better with makeup and wearing little clothing.

After brief intros, I mentioned that I was there for a bachelor party but that this scene isn’t normally my thing. She noticed my bold pinky ring and asked me about it. Strippers are drawn to shiny happy things like petite pierced noses to coke lines, so I made sure to wear a lot of peacocking jewelry that night.

“Where’d you get that ring? It looks cool.”

“An ex gave it to me. Supposedly the ring signifies some kind of secret club that all ballet dancers belong to. I never gave it back after we broke up because I think it looks good on me.”

She pressed her index finger and thumb around my ring and giggled. I told her to be careful, it has special powers that cause girls to obsess over me. I then ran a pre-Style original ring routine on her. It was not as refined as Style’s version would be, but it got the job done. Her eyes glittered with attraction. I mentioned that of the two of us, I was sporting the hotter jewelry, and proved this by putting my ring against her necklace. This maneuver gave me an opportunity to break the physical barrier, not the easiest thing to do when your target is a stripper in the middle of her shift.

We talked for about ten minutes, then she said it was her turn to dance and I should come over to watch. She pointed at the stage she would soon be gyrating on. I nodded and flashed my patented half-smirk. Patented, folks.

Naturally I would not be going over to the stage like every other hard up loser. Although the girls are the ones naked before the men, they have all the power. This is something feminists don’t understand, but then feminists aren’t very smart. Walking over to the stage to watch her dance and give her dollars would have been the equivalent of neutering myself and dangling the detached sack from her rearview mirror like lucky dice. I stayed put at the bar and turned my back on Redbush, only looking over for a second to smile at her. She had a pretty vagina, her labia just the right size (no more than a 1/4 inch extended outward and right and left lobe symmetrical) and her sensibly trimmed pubes as bright red as her hair.

It is erotically electrifying to experience the juxtaposition of the nakedness of a girl you have just been talking with in a normal manner while she was partially clothed. It’s similar to how a businesswoman walking crisply down the street could blow your mind if she pulled you into an alley and ripped off her starched blouse and skirt.

After her dance, she walked up behind me, panties and bra back on, and put her hand on my shoulder.

“You didn’t see me dance! I was right over there.”

“Oh, wow, I missed it. Guess I was wrapped up in the fun over here.”

“Hey, my shift ends soon. I’ll be next door at the pub if you want to stop by for a drink.”

“Sounds good.”

She disappeared. I remained at the bar for another half hour, enjoying the anonymity of the new dancers who had just taken the stage. After a couple of Miller Lites and not one single dollar spent on a dancer, I told my buddies I was heading over to the pub to meet one of the strippers for a nightcap. I didn’t want them coming with me because I knew at that late hour the pub would not have enough female patrons to occupy my friends. They would be reduced to hovering around me and my stripper.

At the pub, she was sitting alone against the bar, sipping (chugging really) a draft beer. I sat next to her. The music was loud, and made louder by the emptiness of the bar. I counted six people, including us and the doorman. She wasn’t smiling. A blue funk had draped down her face. Perhaps she was tired. We made some small talk, but it felt like too much work. The words, the fun, the smiles, weren’t coming as effortlessly. I felt myself chasing her response, initiating every new topic to draw her into our little bubble of love.

The doorman whisked by us and she talked with him for a few seconds. He left, and she turned to me. “I’m going to go now.” She eked out a wan smile, abruptly twisted her hips, and marched out the door. I never saw her again.

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Three Macbooks

I’m sitting here in a coffeehouse and to my right are three people — a black man, a white woman, and a white man — sitting adjacent on a couch. All three are haughtily typing on Macbooks propped on their knees.

I stare at them, smiling. “Ha, you guys look like a commercial.” I point my finger at each Macbook. A woman seated across from me suppresses a giggle.

The black guy and the white woman grin at my perspicacity. The white guy does not smile. He furrows his brow at me, clearly displeased that I have made a mockery of his lame SWPL status whoring. I smile at him in return.

There is no escaping tribalism.

Lenovo Thinkpad. That’s a real man’s laptop.

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Game Will Help Ugly Guys

I was lounging in placid contentment on a sofa in a local lounge like a proper post-history, citizen-of-the-world nihilist enjoying the flume ride down the rump of American decline when I spotted a somewhat unkempt man with awkward mannerisms take a seat at a small table to my right. He was a little more homely than the average man, nearing 40, and bereft of any fashion sense. (For those who need the catharsis of another 800 comment thread on race, he happened to be black.) He moved in an ungainly way, as if hobbled by a long-ago hip injury. I watched bemused as he tinkered about his table, moving his chair in and out, fussing with napkins wedged between the ketchup bottle and salt shaker, and generally projecting an air of Rainman-like social unease.

A minute later, a woman approached him for what appeared to be a first or second date. Looks of recognition led me to believe they had met before. He clumsily stood from his chair, his motions so quick and jerky that the chair made a loud screeching noise as it was pushed back violently from the table. She was a black woman, in decent shape (read: not fat), and a point or two higher than him on the cross-gender physical attractiveness scale. He took a couple steps toward her and held his arms out for a hug, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I surveyed her facial expressions. She was clearly not enthused about being there. She walked tentatively toward him, a crooked smile perched on her face, and prevented him from achieving his goal of a full-contact hug by arching her body away from his and giving him the long-distance “two pats on the back” pseudo-hug.

“So great to see you!” He blurted out the words like a burp and maneuvered for a tighter hug and kiss. She deftly evaded his sneak attack and left him stranded, kissing the air a few inches from her right cheek, his lips pursed outward in puffy, parched hunger for soul-nourishing reciprocation that would not come.

Impatient with his bumbling overreach, she snippily replied, “Ok, let’s sit down.” He vigorously nodded his head and mumbled “Ok, ok” and they both sat at the tiny romantic table next to the window that would not be able to works its magic that evening on this couple. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of their slo-motion heart wreck any longer.

******

Game could have saved this man.

Pulling up in a Ferrari would not have helped him. Receiving a standing ovation by the staff and patrons when he entered the eatery would not have closed the deal with his date. She would have raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his Ferrari or his mini-fame, her loins would have briefly stirred, but she would still be left sitting across a man with crippling beta mannerisms. Her smile would have rapidly decayed to disgust. Her disappointment would have been palpable.

But had he not jumped up from his chair when she arrived; had he not lunged desperately toward her for the hug and kiss his demeanor suggested he hadn’t gotten since his Mom saw him off on his first day of school; had he teased her humorously about the scarf she was wearing on a mild spring day; had he moved slowly and gracefully with the practiced insouciance of a wanton Casanova used to bedding women much hotter than her; had he been dressed with a little more care; had he stopped smiling like a vapid goofball for two seconds; had he qualified her about her worldliness and sense of adventure —

— he might have gotten the lay. Maybe not a 100% guarantee of getting the lay, but a damn bit better than the 0% chance he had BEING HIMSELF.

Recently, the Audacious Epigone challenged Game as egalitarian wishfulness. He, like so many others who have yet to delve deeply into the world of Game for themselves, claims that game will only help those who are already gifted by genetics with good looks or income-boosting and social adaptability-enhancing high intelligence. Now I am not one to shy away from the ugly truths, so there is merit in what he says; given equal facility with game, a good-looking man will do better than an average-looking man. A rich man will trump a poor man. A witty man will pull more than a dull man.

But rarely is skill with game distributed so equally. As I mentioned in the comments to Audacious’ post, excepting fame and vast wealth the most powerful lifestyle change the typical man can make to improve his lot with women is to learn game. The psychosocial dominance and alpha mimickry that game teaches is worth a garage full of Ferraris. Give a beta a Ferrari and he’ll look alpha while driving. Give a beta the self-confidence and swagger of someone who drives Ferraris and he’ll look alpha all the time.

Realistically, homely betas wielding the power of game won’t bang dime pieces (much). But they will begin to experience the pleasure of banging chicks 1 to 3 points higher on the looks scale than what they are used to scoring. And for most lifelong betas, that nontrivial step up the pussy ladder will feel like nirvana.

It is no exaggeration to say that game would have elevated the status, and hence the pussy-lubing power, of the clumsy, homely beta at Busboys far beyond his natural no-talents. And for a mere fraction of the cost in time and energy than he would have spent raising his status in more conventional, and socially-approved, ways.

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Update: A Second Herb!

Thanks to the eagle eye of reader W Baker, a second herb has been discovered in the photo of the herb with satchel.

Unbelievable. Two herbs frolicking in the wild! What fortune. I didn’t even see the second herb when I snapped this shot. It’s like finding out your antique ceramic cat is hiding secret code from the Spanish-American War engraved on its underside.

As you can tell, the second herb is the subspecies “de-balled family man” herb. He is a prime specimen of his taxonomy. Just look at his firm two-hand grip of the stroller handle, the head held high proud of his emasculation, the papoose slung insouciantly across his chest like a beacon to all other herbs that, yes, here be safe haven for our kind. Stroller, baby, frontal papoose… is that a pink blankie over his elbow?… my god, it’s the perfect storm of herbliness. A magnificent beast! What could possibly make this better except for the not insignificant odds that, since this shot was taken in a yuppie habitat, our herb may be the rare breed known as the “two daddies” herb. This find is almost as good as the Zapruder footage of the paunchy papoosed herb holding mall shopping bags while his annoying wife shouted instructions at him.

I should send this pic to National Geographic.

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Herb In The Wild

Take a look at this photo.

Is the person on the right a man or a woman? Neither. It’s a herb. Particularly, a subspecies of herb known as the hipster herb.

All the telltale indicators are here in one self-contained lump of flesh. The demasculinizing flip flops. The ungainly, loping walk that suggests the presence of a load in the pants. The baby soft skin from years of avoiding manual labor, sun and harsh soaps like Ivory. The slumped shoulders of meekness from carrying the ultimate calling card of the herb — the man satchel. I had to walk in front of them to verify the herb was male.

This herb is of the hipster variety. Notice the mop top hair, retro shirt sleeves, strangely androgynous countenance, and cute girl in his company. We can’t be sure the herb is banging this girl. Most likely, she’s a shopping and irony-laden cultural critic companion into whom the herb secretly yearns to dribble his tepid seed.

Why does the herb inspire my contempt? I’ve thought about this and I have an answer. The herb is nothing less than a physical emblem of the decline of America and a rejection of everything that made it great. As our SWPL women are getting more masculine and bitchier, our SWPL men are becoming human bean bags of suppleness. Sit on them and they’ll conform to whatever shape your ass is, because the herb most of all is a man who loathes the fiercer spirits of manhood. That’s why you’ll see them wearing frontal papooses and walking cats on leashes.

The hipster herb, the suburban family man herb, the art fag herb, the gender role smashing herb, the “I went to a formerly all-woman liberal arts college and I’m proud of it” herb — all 21st century versions of the new American Gollum. Pitiable creatures.

Oddly enough, a nontrivial number of herbs manage to score cute girlfriends. Scientists are baffled. Maybe they have an agreement — she gets to fuck around and he gets to continue treating her like a princess.

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