Things Are Changing

Case #1

I’m on a date with a girl from a small, poor Eastern European country. She used to live there as a little girl when it was still behind the Iron Curtain. After the Soviet Death Machine fell to pieces in 1989, she moved to the US and has been here ever since. I broke one of my cardinal rules and allowed her to get political on me.

ME: So you must have been pretty happy when the Soviet Union fell.

HER: Well, I wouldn’t say I was *happy*. More like, there were pros and cons. Universal health care was nice to have.

ME: [thinking to myself Oh christ, a commie sympathizer] Universal health care means a poor quality health system and long lines.

HER: Hey, you’re not one of those libertarians, are you?

Precious. Girls have balls these days to just blurt out whatever obnoxious thing enters their heads. They fear absolutely zero retaliation or consequence for their actions from men they date. Are men this desperate that we have bred an entire generation of ill-mannered bitches? I wondered what would have happened if we were talking about our careers and I had said something like “Hey, you’re not one of those lame nonprofit do-gooders, are you?” She would have huffed and cut the date short, going home to call all her friends to tell them what a jerk I was.

I decided the hell with it, and switched to Nuke the Pussy from Orbit game.

ME: Whatever I am, it’s probably 180 degrees the opposite of what you are.

HER: Well, who did you vote for?

ME: I didn’t vote.

HER: Whaat?! [looking shocked as if I had admitted to serial necrophilia] How could you not vote?

ME: Easy. I stayed home. Are you a Commie? What would you call yourself politically?

HER: I’m not Communist, but I would say I understand a lot of what they believe in. I’m more of a socialist. I like the free education and healthcare.

ME: You do realize that it’s not free? Everyone pays for it in burdensome tax rates.

HER: Well, Ok, it’s not technically free. But I think we should care for the people. It’s our responsibility to make sure no one suffers without health care.

ME: So why don’t you just pay for it with your own money instead of forcing people like me to subsidize your morality? [I was really beginning to enjoy myself. I noticed her body had stiffened]

HER: [getting torqued] Yes, I believe we all should contribute. It’s what’s best for society. You wouldn’t just let people die without help!

ME: It’s immoral to take my money away from me when I don’t want to give it. That makes you a dictator. Are you a totalitarian dictator?

HER: It’s not being a dictator to want to stop suffering. It’s basic decency.

ME: [sending a multi-warhead payload] I think it’s bad long term policy to prop up the poor and weak. The herd must be culled. Otherwise, they reproduce on my dime and drag everyone else down.

HER: People wouldn’t just die like that. They’d live in suffering, so you have to help them while they’re alive.

ME: [total war] Oh, they’d die. If all aid were stopped, the babies of poor and useless people would die before reaching their first birthdays.

This date ended without the close, but I have to report that despite my Nuke the Pussy game, there was a spark of electricity in her eyes. I bet not a single herb or SWPL had ever spoken to her like that before.

Case #2

I approached four sets. The first two sets I went in with casual game. This is where I make some innocuous but humorous comment about something situational, and let the chit chat move the interaction along into more fertile fields. For example:

ME: [after seeing a girl pick a piece of lint out of her girlfriend’s hair] You have excellent grooming skills. Guys would never do that for each other. We’d leave it in there and laugh at our friend all night.

HER: [smiling] Thanks, she would do the same for me.

Our conversation went back and forth like this for a minute, then died out. Friendly asexual vibe: 100%. Sexual tension: 0%. This was the kind of game that would have been more than adequate for my father’s generation, but today it means nothing. I did another set the same way with the same results. Then I switched gears to Asshole Game for the next set.

ME: [noticing her mode of dress and curling my mouth downward in reproval] I can’t believe you’re in here.

HER: What? What’s that supposed to mean?

ME: You should really be in Georgetown. This bar is a little too edgy for your type. Not that that’s a bad thing, but you know, I’m trying to save you any uncomfortable feelings being outside your element.

HER: That’s an asshole thing to say.

ME: Yup, I guess.

HER: And what exactly is my type?

ME: Prim and proper. Boring but dependable.

The conversation continued in this way for a while. She reacted with obviously faux indignation. But the results were much improved. Number close. Friendly asexual vibe: 0%. Sexual tension: 100%.

There is change in the air. The culture is shifting right under our feet. What I have noticed lately with more frequency is that I have to act like a dick to get anywhere with a girl, even the good girls. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as my dick game is pretty good and I enjoy doing it. But it seems that only dick game can break through a girl’s perimeter defense to the pulpy, juicy center of animal desire.

It wasn’t always this way. Sure, there were sluts who were so inured to getting played by cads and assholes that they could only respond to asshole game. These girls used to be around 20% of the population back when I was in high school. Today, that number has risen. It’s closer to 60%, and in bars and clubs in the city it may as well be 100%. The sweetest girls who grew up in happy families with mom and dad still together are turning into little playettes with adamantium bitch shields. This change has picked up the pace in just the last year. It’s finally happening. The game is causing girls to adjust, and screen for the biggest most congruent assholes, in spite of their intentions to the contrary. It’s evolution, baby.

I cannot respect a girl who dances like a puppet to asshole game. She will get the worst of me.

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Hormonal Surge

Conventional wisdom is that human females don’t go into heat — that is, their ovulation is hidden from male discernment — but I believe this is only partially true. The bars and clubs during the last couple weeks have been drenched in intoxicating estrogen. I notice this each year when spring begins, right around the end of March and beginning of April. The women are on the prowl, and the men are slabs of beef dangling from meathooks for inspection.

What does a roomful of sexually excited women look like? ADHD liplicking gigglebombs with perpetual pelvic grind syndrome.

The women jump from one man to the next, heaving their bosoms and smiling with glossed lips, expressing the full sensuality of their bodies in arched backs, thighs rubbing together, fingertips lightly grazing every available surface. They want the men to suffocate on their womanly bouquet, to lose control. Attention whoring is at DefCon “I’m on PornoHub” level. It’s been a hassle lately to keep one woman’s attention for long because their raging hormones are driving them to sample every man within sight, until the best cock they can afford presses its chub against her belly. That’s been the downside. The upside is that there’s a new woman eager to talk to you everywhere you turn.

Unfortunately, this nirvana won’t last long. By mid-April, the estrogen surge will have depleted itself, and most of these horny chicks will have either gotten themselves boyfriends or regressed back to their usual bitchy, arms crossed selves. Your window to act is short. Smart men know that this is the time of year to go out every night of the week to fatten up on the bounty. Be like the crocodiles gorging on the stampede of wildebeest crossing the treacherous river during their annual migration.

Men don’t understand the compulsion of the springtime female hormonal surge because our hormones surge year round. We might have a downtick in our libido now and then, like after brain surgery or a death in the family (immediate relations only), but mostly we’re good to go regardless of the season. I’m especially immune to hormone surges because my libido is at a constantly elevated state. If it goes any higher the tip could explode.

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Anti-Game

Damian and I were at a multi-floored historic building converted into a lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city.

Damian bumped my elbow and motioned me to look toward two attractive blondes — a 7.5 and an 8.5 — who were standing near us. Two men had just walked up and engaged them in conversation. Both men were, as far as I can tell these things, decent-looking, over 6 feet tall, and in shape. One was older– late 30s, early 40s — and sharply dressed with a dash of gray around the temples. His buddy was late 20s, early 30s, and dressed more casually. The younger guy had a frat boy-ish vibe, while the older guy struck a more sophisticated pose.

Since all four of them were within earshot, I focused my listening attention on the group, occasionally glancing over, so I could enjoy the spectacle of these guys running whatever game they had on the two blondes. When I see a choice setup like this, I take it as an opportunity to observe and learn or, in the case of men with no game, to amuse myself and gawk at the carnage, while positioning for a flanking maneuver.

Approach

The men went straight in, telegraphing their interest from the word “go”. Opened with “Hey, how you guys doing?” Points for boldness, demerits for shitty opener. Even in socially overheated crowded venues, the best approach is noncommittal — from an angle, over the shoulder. Also, it doesn’t hurt to be a little more creative than “How you doin’?”.

Girls’ Reaction

The poor approach didn’t hurt these guys. The girls welcomed them with big smiles and enthusiastic hellos, probably because the men were reasonably good-looking compared to the average man in the place. The older man looked like he was of means.

Body Language

The men registered the girls’ positive reaction and took the beta bait, amping up their energy levels and enthusiasm. This was my first hint that a pickup attempt disaster was looming. The younger guy began grinning ear to ear like an idiot, and bobbing his head up and down each time the girls talked. The older guy maintained a more aloof body language, keeping his back straight and avoiding any “pecking” or leaning into the girls. He didn’t wildly smile like his fratboy buddy. I could see he had more self-control and experience than his younger friend. His economy of words and body movement made him seem the more confident of the two men. If I noticed that, then surely the girls noticed it as well.

Conversation

The men ran what I call Chit Chat Game. This is the kind of conversation you make with someone when you are bereft of anything interesting to say. “What do you think of this place?” “You guys live in the city?” “Hey, the martinis here are really good.” “You guys like to dance?” “Whoa, you’re from North Carolina?” “How about those Tar Heels!” The fratboy latched onto this subject because it was in his comfort zone. “Yeah, you’re a Tar Heels fan? All riiiiiight!! High five!”. He tried to hold the high five with the 7.5 for a second too long, but she dropped her hand fast.

Yes, the guys were actually talking college sports. I could *feel* the initial attraction drain out of the girls, like a nail in a tire slowly letting out air. Their smiles had turned plastic, and they began gripping their drinks tighter and holding them up higher on their chests. The hotter one made a series of quick sidelong surveys around the room.

The older man wasn’t talking as much, but when he did he had a steadier, calmer cadence than his sports fan friend. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t lead and take control of the conversation when it started sputtering into lame sports talk territory. What he did contribute was of the “business interview” variety. More mature than gushing over the Tar Heels to be sure, but still death for pickup.

Escape

Surprisingly, Fric and Frac managed to stay in set for fifteen minutes. I chalked it up to the niceness of the girls — they were very forgiving of horrid game that would have sent the typical urban lawyer chick into massive shit test, ball crushing mode, after suckering the tools for free drinks of course. These two girls must have been from out of town — way out of town.

The 7.5 delivered the cockblock signal to her friend — a thin-lipped entreaty and an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise — but that was all it took for her to get the message.

“Well, we’re going to go upstairs now. See you!” As they turned and slithered away from the men, Fratboy looked over his shoulder at them and in a sickeningly pleading voice moaned “Aww, you guys are going upstairs?? All right, maybe we’ll see you up there!” The girls didn’t bother looking back.

Denouement

Damian found all this the height of hilarity, but also was overcome with an urge to pummel the beta out of these guys. He believes bad game is more nauseating than eating a spoiled enchilada. It really is like rubbernecking at a particularly gruesome car accident. I enjoy bad game in others because it means less competition for me. This is why I support gay rights. I want as many men as possible to feel comfortable embracing the butt pirate lifestyle and thus removing themselves from hetero circulation.

Fratboy and Boring Gent talked amongst themselves, obviously planning a way to reconnect with the girls. Someone needed to be charitable and interject to explain the futility of their situation, but no man’s ego is strong enough to handle that sort of constructive criticism, especially not in the chaos of the field. Instead, we watched them climb up the stairs to meet their by now long gone girls.

We didn’t have the heart to tell them that the only thing upstairs were the bathrooms.

Rebirth

Later, I bumped into the hotter girl on the first level of the club. I smiled at her.

“So, how did those guys do?”

She laughed.

*********

A lot of losers in love insist that “being yourself” is morally superior to “manipulating and seducing” a girl with game. They have an instinctual aversion to anything that doesn’t conform to the beta script of “boy meets girl and sometimes magic happens in a most satisfyingly natural and unforced way, as God intended”. They believe any conscious effort to make oneself more attractive to the opposite sex is inherently dishonest.

They are wrong. Honesty is recognizing that women have different desires and appealing to that. Dishonesty with yourself is ignoring this fundamental fact of the sexes, and selfishly expecting women to be attracted to your principled obstinacy.

What game-hating beta losers don’t comprehend is that the opposite of Game — casual chit chat — can increase a man’s failure rate with women who would otherwise prefer that he not disappoint them so. “Being yourself” isn’t an ethically or strategically neutral stance; it is an unnecessarily negative obstacle to connecting with women in the way they want you to connect with them. Despite what women claim, they would really rather you run some game on them so they can feel those good feelings that are aroused by skilled practitioners of the art of indulging the female psyche. They just don’t want you to tell them you’re running game.

The two girls were happy to be approached by the two men on account of their style and looks. But Anti-Game quickly eroded whatever attraction was there initially. These guys were being themselves, and it cost them dearly. They were “honest” according to the beta playbook, and they were punished for their honesty.

Anti-Game is the equivalent of being an ill-prepared Boy Scout. Anti-Game is to men what going out wearing baggy pants and flannel shirt, no makeup, and greasy, unkempt hair is to women. Sure, you may be good-looking enough to pull some ass despite your lack of game or your figure-concealing unflattering clothes, but you’ll be needlessly limiting your options.

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Obama’s Women, Part 2

Here’s this link to a New York Beta Times story about SWPL perimenopausal women having dreams of Barack Obama — psychosexual fantasies and stalkerish glorifications of the Obama family. The NYBTimes has been churning out some truly vomitus copy as of late, but for sheer sickening nausea this story may very well spew the farthest.

One woman wrote that when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, she “lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.”

When, generations from now, our Islamic and Mexican overlords have gathered to discuss the exact moment the American empire fell to pieces and reverted to a pre-civilizational Mad Max tribal wasteland, someone will point to this quote in the ancient tablets of the New York Times, and heads will nod in agreement.

I’ve already written about Obama’s women, and the sexual mores of girls who voted for him, so there aren’t many new lessons to glean from this article that haven’t been discussed before. This story has made the rounds, and been roundly ridiculed by many other bloggers. If there were any remaining doubts that giving women the right to vote has been an unmitigated disaster for America, this article should dispel them. Most women, especially single SWPLers and undersexed hausfraus bitter about being married to quisling betas, are simply unserious creatures who will let their emotions guide them to vote away the political and social arrangements that created the modern yenta-fied culture that affords them the luxury of voting like vapid teenage girls. If history is any guide, and if fortune should shine upon the United States before the point of no return is reached, a cooperative, horizontally structured patriarchy will reemerge and supplant the suicidally insane matricentric sick culture and stateless citizen of the world globopuppeteer elites playing “let’s you and him fight” currently running the show. I think it will happen soon, perhaps within five years. It may be violent as the authoritarian sanctimonious Boomer pricks and Gen X lackeys are overthrown.

The other day a friend of mine confided that in the weeks leading up to the election, the Obamas’ apparent joy as a couple had made her just miserable. Their marriage looked so much happier than hers. Their life seemed so perfect. “I was at a place where I was tempted daily to throttle my husband,” she said. “This coincided with Michelle saying the most beautiful things about Barack. Each time I heard her speak about him I got tears in my eyes — because I felt so far away from that kind of bliss in my own life and perhaps even more, because I was so moved by her expressions of devotion to him.”

BOTY candidate right here. Imagine being this bitch’s husband and reading this quote from your wife in the paper. I bet she showed him the article, proudly pointing out where she was quoted publicly humiliating him. “Here, honey, check this out. I’m in the New York Times!” The poor, wretched beta would probably work double time to win his wife’s approval, when he should be doing just the opposite — kicking her cottage cheese ass to the curb.

Relatedly, I was talking to a typical urban slut machine and she asked who I voted for. I said I didn’t vote. She reeled back, shocked. “You didn’t VOTE?!?” “Nope,” I repeated. “Voting is a useless exercise.” She leaned over to her girlfriend and spoke in her ear. They made OMG faces. Both of them looked at me suspiciously, frowning. Their reaction was as if I had told them that I killed a pregnant woman and dumped the body in the Potomac. The Obama Age scales of moral opprobium are completely out of whack. She returned. “What are you registered as?” “Independent.” “Independent? Hmm.” Girls know that when a man says Independent he means “Non-Democrat”.

I got the bang and marked her number in my phone as a “Tier 2” number.

***

In other news, I nearly interrupted a mugging in progress. I was literally five feet away walking down an alley that serves as a makeshift parking lot when an early 20s black dude, thugged out to the max, stuck a gun in the gut of a 50ish well-dressed white man (soft target) walking in my direction, and barked at him “You know what to do”. The middle-aged guy yelped when he apprehended what was happening. I broke out into a half-run and turned a corner off the alley about a hundred feet from the scene. Since this was a city hood on a weekend night, I expected to see a cop car nearby I could flag down. No such luck. No cops anywhere to be found. Did they take the night off? Way to be available, guys. What are we paying you for, again?

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to locate a cop and dialed 911. As I’m standing on the street in the middle of the nightlife crowd giving the description to the lady on the phone, the mugger casually strolls right by me on the sidewalk. He’s walking with a buddy. He’s got bills in his hand that he’s flipping through, and his buddy is cackling with glee. I relayed this information.

I never saw cops arrive. No doubt the guy got away scot free. The US is heading for a meltdown if criminals feel they can act with such impunity and fearlessness that they can blithely walk away from the scene unconcerned about being caught. I wondered who the victim voted for.

As a friend of mine said, “After a certain amount of time living in the city, you either settle down or move to a new city.” He’s right. It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. A move is on the horizon.

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A Cat Lady Bares Her Soul

Craigslist is coughing up some gems lately.

Reasons I Like My Cats More Than Any Man I Have Dated in the DC Area – 23 (For Anti-Cat Man)

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Reply to: XXX
Date: 2009-01-27, 10:00AM EST

Dedicated to the old, cat-hating man…I’ve provided a list of reasons that my two kitties are better than any of the men I’ve gotten involved with in the DC area.

• My cats have never taken me on a date to the 7/11.
• My cats have never pretended to be the love of my life, then disappeared into thin air without even the courtesy of a post-it note explanation.
• My cats have never lied about being Navy SEALs. Not once. Actually, my cats don’t lie AT ALL.
• My cats are ALWAYS in the mood to cuddle.
• Cleaning up after them is much easier than cleaning up after a man.
• My cats have never drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s then tried to break my arms.
• My cats have never lied to me about being married to try to get me into bed.
• They’re not afraid to show their love and affection, which is unconditional.
• My cats are VERY intelligent.
• They aren’t obsessed with Asian women.
• They would NEVER intentionally hurt me.
• They clean themselves daily.
• They aren’t insecure.
• They’re very low-maintenance.
• They have never betrayed me.
• They like ALL different kinds of people…blonds, brunettes, redheads. Because they’re not fixated on narrow, exclusive sets of physical attributes.

So when faced with the decision of whiny man versus loyal cats, I’ll go with the cats any day…

******

She sounds like one of my exes. Always bitching. Her standards are way too high. What’s wrong with 7-11? With the right attitude and cocky smirk a guy can turn a microwaved burrito into a cherished romantic memory for the girl.

How much you want to bet she completely forgave him and had a squirting orgasm that night after he tried to break her arms in a drunken stupor? Women… their tales of woe fall on deaf alpha ears.

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Dating In The City: A Series

It’s another installment of Dating in the City where I chronicle the mirth and madness of dating the headcases and cheap whores that live and work here. The women of this city cough up an endless stream of fodder for my blog. For that, I thank you ladies.

Zeets: You’re not going to believe what this woman said to me when I called. “Let’s meet for a bagel.” What the fuck is that? Let’s meet for a bagel?!

Me: It’s possible for a woman to kill your motivation to see her with just five words.

Zeets: Ah, not to worry, I knew what she was up to. I set her straight and told her “No, we’re meeting at a club that night.” She quickly agreed. I could tell she was overjoyed that I didn’t accept her terms.

Me: There’s nothing more asexual than a brunch date. Sitting there in the middle of the day, spreading cream cheese on your bagel. “Oh this sesame seed bagel is delicious. What do you think? How is your marathon training going?” You want to get a girl into a sexy lounge with alcohol in her.

Zeets: I knew as soon as she said that what type of girl I was dealing with. She’s dated a parade of herbs, one after another, and probably had a bagel date with every single one. I bet they were happy to go. I can just picture these herbs riding up on their ten speeds, taking off their helmets and fanny packs, and giving her a dead fish handshake. [Zeets imitating whiny herb voice] “Ah, ah, nice to see you. I really love bagels. This was a great idea. And, uh, and so it begins.” She wasn’t used to a silverback like me spoiling her script.

Me: She was begging for a caveman to come along and throw her bagels in her face.

Zeets: I was onto her. These girls try to squeeze you into their agenda. Their first instinct is to see if you’ll let them cut off your balls. Most herbs gladly give it up. “Here are my balls! Snip away!” I wasn’t going to let her do that to me. So I brought her back to that time when she was just blossoming into her womanhood and men were exciting to her. I made her feel like a giggling girl again.

Me: That’s all they need. A man to remind them what it was like before modern city life corrupted them.

Zeets: In other news, I removed my old toilet seat and replaced it with a shiny new one. It looks spectacular.

Me: Did your bulk splinter the old one? Who changes their toilet seat?

Zeets: It’s a good investment. Lifts the spirit to see that glittering new throne. A seat fit for a king’s crap! You should try pampering yourself once in a while, pig.

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The Industrial Park Nightclub Is Dead

Who goes to these venues anymore? I’m talking about clubs like Fur and Platinum in DC. The era of the multi-floor, $12 bottom shelf drink, $20 cover, $20 valet parking, bottle service douchery, strobe and laser light show, Axe fumigated, plastic wristband tagged, earsplitting, bump and grind dance club playing cheesy house and electro music is over. Any man who’s lived a day knows these places are the worst for scoring quality chicks low on STD count, and not much better for hooking same night lays.

The trend is away from these soulless behemoths to smaller, more intimate dance clubs and lounges. Maybe it’s a sign of the coming economic collapse that people are turning to low key places, or maybe guys are wising up to the fact that it’s easier, cheaper and more effective to game girls in the daytime or in less artificial environments. I predict that soon we will see a major contraction in the number of megaclubs littering major cities like DC and New York.

Any place that features a huge dancefloor with girls dancing in lockout circles creating a perimeter defense, screeching when their favorite song comes on, and little space left over for couches and quiet areas where you can sit with a girl and talk her into sex is a bad bet. Personally, I get bored with dancing after five minutes, so I usually lose interest in gaming a girl who wants to dance all night. It’s pointless when there are better things she could be doing with her body, like greasing up her ass crack so I can play log flume.

The wave of the future is Unanticipated Pickup. You read it here first. Men will learn the value of approaching girls when and where they least expect it, catching pleasantly surprised girls off guard with bitch shields lowered, and from that solid foundation better dating experiences will follow, and the yin-yang polarity will be strong. Now no place will be safe haven for women from the predations of guys like me.

Next stop: Church, back of the pews. Giggity!

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