Thinking Like A Woman

I was at a house party noticing something I expect to see at these sorts of events: dudes not knowing what the fuck they are doing with women. (Proof that the practice of game is not making many inroads into general circulation.) Every single guy who was macking on a girl was telegraphing in the worst way possible his sheer delight to be speaking with her. Some of the gross errors of pickup judgement I observed:

• Laser-like focus of his eyes on her eyes.
• Leaning into her (in some cases the girl actually leaned back, like she was trying to escape his bad breath).
• Constant smiling.
• Rapid-fire talking.
• Interrupting her to vociferously agree with whatever she was saying.
• Too much laughing, and laughing too hard at ostensibly unfunny female jokes.
• Telling long-winded stories.
• Getting a laugh from her, and then repeating his brilliant joke for good measure.
• Nervous body tics (rubbing of fingertips on glasses, shifting of feet, crossing and uncrossing of arms, scratching of ears and noses).
• Relying too heavily on unsubtle sexual innuendo.
• Constantly asking if she needed a new drink.
• Excessive head nodding.
• Asking a lot of questions.
• Dutifully answering her questions.
• Never touching her.

Now none of these men were socialy awkward losers. They were all normal men with well-rounded lives. Solid, salt of the earth dudes. The kind of guys women claim to want to date. On paper, they were catches. But as we all know, credentialist paper mentality is why so many men fail with women. Rip that paper up, because it is not what women really want; it is what they say they want to make their mothers happy. And because women’s own hindbrains are a mystery to even them.

The general impression one would get from watching all these nascent courtship dances is CHASING. The men were doing all the chasing.

Chase, chase, chase, chase, chase, chase, chase…… aaaallll the way home. Alone.

Men, pull it together. The way to seduce women is by redirecting them to CHASE YOU. You do this by exploiting their natural and universal female desire to your advantage. This is what game is all about. If you act like the men I saw at this party, you are running no game at all. And no game may as well be anti-game, because its effects on women are the same — bored, dry pussy. The only difference between zero game and being actively repulsive is the speed which her pussy snaps shut. The destination is the same.

Remember the fundamentals of game recently discussed here at the Chateau:

1. Be aloof. (Amused mastery)
2. Don’t be insecure. (Irrational self-confidence)
3. Dehumanize and objectify women. (Do not put any pussy on a pedestal)

Re-read those fundamentals out loud. Taken together, what are they really saying?

“I am the prize. I do not seek the approval of any woman. She will, instead, want to seek my approval.”

Or, in simpler caveman language:

“She chases me.”

Yes, this thinking turns conventional wisdom on its head. Yes, it takes a huge dump on the evolutionarily derived instincts that govern the behavior of men and women. But as practitioners of the crimson arts, we are not here to abide conventional wisdom. Nor are we here to meekly march to the beat of our Darwinian impulses. We are here to learn how to seduce women… efficiently, completely, utterly.

The first step to getting a woman to chase you is to think like a woman. Only when you have put yourself into the mind of woman will the game that you need to seduce them begin to make any sense to you. Deep empathy — not the cheap bleeding heart kind but the kind that you struggle hard to attain so that it may redound to your maximum benefit — is the ultimate inner game that serves as the bedrock upon which the rest of the razzle-dazzle game will flow effortlessly.

In fact, this may be the best explanation of the meta-fundamental precept that underlies the above fundamentals:

Think like a woman.

Get in the mind of your adversary. (And make no mistake, men and women are, underneath the romantic tapestry, adversaries in the mating market. We have contradictory reproductive goals as nature designed.) Know what she needs to feel desire, what she loathes, how she will react before she does, and what her frame of mind is when men hit on her. Once you have successfully infiltrated one woman’s mind, you will have supremacy over all women’s minds.

When you think like a woman, you are imagining… no, you are accepting as a given… what it’s like to mercilessly judge the smallest details of a girl. What it’s like to be one foot in, one foot out with every girl you deign to talk to. What it’s like to cast a jaundiced eye at every girl before deciding she is worth more of your time. What it’s like to make silent demands of girls that you wouldn’t make of your male buddies. What it’s like to keep your options open until she has won you over. What it’s like to screen a girl, to qualify her, to shit test her, to tease her without worrying about giving offense, to refuse to backpedal from any offense given, to have an inner conversation with yourself *while she is talking to you* about whether she meets your ideal, to call her out in a good-natured manner on any of her bullshit, to seriously doubt her attractiveness until proven otherwise, to lean away from her when she is talking, to refrain from laughing if her joke falls flat, to notice her nervousness, to be laconic while she tries to impress you, to be comfortable with silences because it is her job to keep the conversation alive, to act noncommittal, to disagree with her occasionally, to glance furtively around the room every so often, to end conversations first, to happily hold court with other girls joining your conversation…

… in short, to make her dance to your tune.

Truth is, it is the tune she prefers to dance to above all others.

The day will come when you will have completed the merging of your mind with the neural network of womanhood. When that day comes — fully entwined, unable to return to  the one-dimensional, solipsistic man you once were — your game will be second nature. You will have transcended the dictates of crass materialist evolution and the straitjacket of social mores, and like magic the gates of vagina will open to you.

And if some numbnuts tells you it’s gay to think like a woman, you can ask him how many times he got laid talking about football and retrieving drinks for girls.

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American Woman In One Photo

If a provincial foreigner who had never left his tiny village were to meet me and ask what American women are like, instead of bothering with a long-winded exegesis I would show him this photo. The understanding would be immediate.

Fat? Check.

Delusion of grandeur? Check.

Ridiculous standards? Check.

Pop culture cipher? Check.

Overinflated ego? Check.

Self-entitled princess? Check.

Living in fantasy world? Check.

Craves demonic prolespawn with sexually unavailable, aloof vampire who will always be by her side gazing longingly into her beady, pig-like eyes to protect her from danger? Check and checkmate.

This is how it starts, folks. The road to SUS — Spinsterly, Unattractive and Single.

After the foreigner and I got done laughing, he would thank me for giving him a newfound appreciation of his local women. Joylessly, I would further inform him that there are American men who would happily lay with that porky princess, thus feeding her ego beyond the ability of science to measure it. He would shudder as I told him that desperate betas and indiscriminate horndogs willing to beg for table scraps guarantees there are tens of millions of American women just like her who have no incentive to improve their looks or their attitudes. Then we would part, and I would notice a skip in his step.

Oh well, at least we have cheap smartphones.

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Arjuna, You Magnificent Beta!

Between the time when the suffragettes subverted America and the rise of the dykes of feminism, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Arjuna, destined to bear the jeweled crown of Beta Overlord upon a pansy brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga. Let me tell you of the days of great emasculation…

The Beta of the Year contest is over, but the disease that atrophies the balls of the gender formerly known as men continues plaguing large swaths of modern manhood. If anything, the mass sack shrinkage has reached epic proportions. As soon as I read the title of this Huffpost piece — The Art of Worshiping Women — I knew I was about to be treated to a particularly appalling case of pedestalisus dwindling testicularisis.

Meet Arjuna Ardagh, a self-declared “awakening coach, writer, teacher and public speaker”. A few choice bits of his relationship advice follow. If you had to imagine what the polar opposite of the advice given on this blog would look like, he’s your… “man”.

I’d been out for a walk with Chameli, my wife, one evening. Overwhelmed with the feeling that it just couldn’t get any better than this, I popped a little update on Facebook in celebration of the goddess I’m married to.

Try to control your puke reflex, because it only gets worse from here. As if it needed to be noted, calling a woman a “goddess” is bad game. It’s best to think of obsequious flattery like this in terms of the handicap principle. Abject betaness can be, paradoxically, an indicator of alphaness, if you are high status in some way, or the woman of your cloying cheesiness already loves you. Arjuna Ardagh sells books full of new age claptrap, and speaks to rapt audiences hanging on his every word, and so he has cashed in his high social and presumably financial status for a non-ugly wife, despite his counterproductive relationship advice. And let’s not forget that there is a conspicuous minority of dippy hippie chicks that lap up this holistic chakra new age bullshit. Framing — something Arjuna would be familiar with but will never admit to using in his personal dealings with women — is apposite. You can safely call a woman a goddess if it is wrapped and bowtied in a shitstorm of goofy mysticism.

It reflected on the wisdom of being in worship of the feminine. Not just get along with, or tolerate, or befriend, or cooperate with. Yes, I said what I meant: to worship the feminine.

Worshiping women is the fast track to involuntary celibacy. Women are, on average, biologically higher value than men, so worshiping them will only exacerbate an already skewed value perception and violate their hypergamous impulse. This is why concepts like negs and qualification are so successful; they strip women of their inborn royal decree and raise the value of the man using them.

Anyway, alphas don’t worship. They admire. There’s a difference.

Whether [Romeo and Juliet] liked it or not, they were carrying the inheritance of a conflict that they had each done nothing personally to create.

The same thing would be true today if an Israeli fell in love with a Palestinian, or if a Tea Party member fell in love with a Muslim, or if a Roman Catholic from Dublin fell in love with a Protestant from Belfast.

One of these comparisons is not like the others.

None of these meetings happen in a bubble. They all sit within the context of conflicts that have been generated in the collective. This same is true whenever a man enters into relationship with a woman. Of course, the man himself has likely never raped anybody, or burned any woman as a witch, or denied anyone the right to vote, or forced a woman to hide her face, or barred her from religious or political office, or forced her to perform subservient chores. “No, no,” such a man might say, “I’m a conscious man. I’m respectful of the feminine. I’m fully supportive that you do your thing.” Whether he likes it or not, that man still carries within himself the echoes of the collective masculine and, like it or not, every woman is an incarnation of the collective feminine.

Ah, the age old “sins of the father” tripe. Nevermind that his list of masculine “sins” never really happened the way he says, or in the numbers he believes. Nevermind too that woman have committed equally noxious sins against men that don’t get front page treatment because women tend to execute their evil without the razzle dazzle of physical violence. Cuckoldry, for instance, is a gross injustice against men that rivals serial raping in the evil sweepstakes.

The man carries on cleaning his gun and watching football, waiting for his woman to bring his dinner and his beer. The woman, still locked into millennia of enforced subservience, acquiesces, but bitter all the time, and holding back the treasures of her real love.

Lemme guess, an Obama voter? In the progressive mentality, men are forever perpetrators, women and minorities forever victims. Any other perspective would be… cognitively dissonant.

He distances himself as far as possible from the brutish behavior of his father and his ancestors and bows sheepishly to the newly emerged feminine power. The woman, now rebounding in resentment of how her mother and ancestors have been treated, becomes dominating. She becomes militant, unforgiving, and even castrating. The sad thing is, no one really enjoys this game either.

This is the Iron John bone that slimy creeps like Arjuna throw to their male readers. Don’t be fooled. Those bongo drums in the woods and guttural chants aren’t going to get you laid.

We discover that masculine and feminine are energies, not just biological genders. Every man has some masculine and some feminine energy and so does every woman. The balance we seek is not only between men and women but between the masculine and feminine energy, which are to be found everywhere in life.

What he’s talking about here is vulnerability game. But you must first demonstrate masculine alphaness — either through “leader of men” social status and domination or through “sexy lover” aloofness and cockiness — before you can move to the stage of seduction where she is open to hearing about your feminine side. It should also be noted that this “masculine/feminine energy dichotomy” that books like “Way of the Superior Man” have popularized is a bit of sloppy BS. Couples in sexually polarized relationships are the most successful — and often the most physically beautiful — that we see in the state of nature. Women aren’t drawn to sensitive men; they are drawn to masculine men who display traditionally feminine virtues, such as nurturing and emotional closeness, in a distinctly masculine form.

The feminine way is neither inferior (as we had deemed it for thousands of years) nor is it superior (as some have claimed in the last decades), but it is different. Through a synergy of masculine and feminine strengths, we find the emergence of a whole that is far, far, far greater and the sum of it to individual parts.

Nah, fuck that wishy-washy noise. The feminine way is inferior at building and maintaining civilization. It’s superior at raising brats to weaning age.

The restoration of dignity to the feminine has happened in three stages over the last century. The first took place less than 100 years ago with suffragettes demanding the right to vote. At that time men moved from denial and ridicule, to violent opposition, to acquiescence and finally to support.

And soon, back to global financial and demographic crisis.

The next wave came in the 1970s when women stepped forward to fully participate in the world man had created on his own terms. Margaret Thatcher and Indira Gandhi became heads of state (both in a woman’s body but doing things in a very masculine way). Women became judges and politicians and engineers and doctors and lawyers and ministers and construction workers, all roles that had previously been mainly reserved for men. Again, men’s response began with ridicule in the ’50s and shifted to acquiescence and then awkward support.

Actually, women mostly became PR flacks, HR drones, and bitter single moms. Most engineers, doctors, pols and construction workers are still men. Not sure about the gender balance of lawyers, but just look at the decay that occupation is in. Didn’t Carly Fiorina run HP into the ground?

The third wave of the restoration of feminine dignity has really happened in the last few years. It is sometimes called “The Goddess Movement.” We are, all of us, recognizing that there is a feminine way of doing things just as valid as the masculine. Women are realizing that they don’t have to compete or even participate in the world that man has created on his terms. We realize that there is a feminine expression to spirituality, a feminine expression to ecology, a feminine expression to leadership, and each has a huge gift to offer.

National decline?

Women have been disenfranchised for thousands of years.

Maxim #198: Use of the word “disenfranchised” or other similar nomenclature of deconstructivist post-modern pablum automatically discredits an argument for serious consideration.

Feminine energy has been given very little respect, and we have all lost out as a result. Even if you’ve never disrespected the feminine yourself, the first step is still to say “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what we have done. I’m sorry for what my gender has done. And I come to you with a fresh start.”

“Please accept my application for position of eunuch beta orbiter to you and your girlfriends.”

This is not the stance of shame, but of honesty and self-respect. Please take our words for it, and that of thousands of our colleagues and students: women love to hear this being acknowledged.

What women claim to love to hear and what women actually love to hear from the men they are fucking are often, if not always, at complete opposites.

The second shift that today’s man can make is to fully experience and release the hurts that he has experienced in his relationship to women. It is those very hurts, both personally and collectively, that cause men to dishonor women, if they remain banished out of awareness.

Pussy stubble chafes my shaft. End the hurt ladies. Wax that shit.

The third shift is for man to recognize how much he really loves feminine energy: how much he loves her beauty, her capacity to love, her laughter, her freedom to feel and express emotion. In some senses, she brings vivid color to his world, which can easily become black and white.

All right, this is obviously true. But appreciating and loving feminine energy doesn’t mean you have to act or think like a self-flagellating dweeb with undescended testes.

Man can discover, and then learn to worship, the feminine face of the divine. People sometimes object when Gay and I use the word “worship.” They hear the hierarchy of a subservient relationship.

Paging Robin Hanson’s forager theory. So many self-flattering “progressives” cream their panties at the thought of returning the US to some imaginary edenic past where non-hierarchical foragers with their promiscuous, communal lifestyles free of jealousy, violence and sexual competition rule the day. Be careful what you wish for.

We use the word “worship” in a completely different way, one we found in our dictionary as: “to pay extravagant respect and admiration.”

Maybe menopausal middle-aged women with desiccated pussies like to be extravagantly respected and admired by their high status husbands who could step out with younger mistresses at any time, but a guy who pulls that weak shit on a hot babe in the prime of her fertility can expect a lifetime of aching involuntary celibacy. Even the underarm hair chicks won’t grease up for a blubbery Eastern mystic sycophant if he isn’t leading seminars of captivated audiences.

This kind of worship can easily be a two-way street. Gay and Kathlyn and Chameli and I endeavor to bring this quality of extreme respect and worship in both of our marriages, and it overflows into the rest of life.

Jesus Christ, they’re aging swingers. I’m sure the sex dungeon and vat of Viagra help compensate for their loss of desirability.

Arjuna Ardagh, congratulations! You are officially designated Supreme Universal ÜberBeta (SUUB). Your balls, and the balls of men who listen to you for relationship advice, are hereby tendered to Hillary Clinton where they will feel more at home.

Thank you, mewl again!

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Compare And Contrast: Two Bitter Ex-Lovers

A jilted ex-boyfriend went on a scorned nerd rampage on live TV while his ex-girlfriend sat next to him.

As a YouTube commenter astutely noted:

That is the nerdiest smackdown ever. If this wasn’t C-span I could swear it was Comic Con. Probably the most eloquent way of saying “That bitch is a ho”. Although, I wouldn’t mind tapping her Yale degree because she is probably a superfreak closeted S&M mistress and that’s my kind of political maneuvering.

I’m telling ya, YouTube commenters are the new American comedy art form. More:

typical fat guy’s laugh in the background.

Funny, fat guys DO have a distinctive laugh!

What was your reaction when you watched the video? If you’re like me and most people, you felt a mix of contempt, cringing revulsion and pity. You probably thought “wow, what a loser.” You vowed never to let a chick get under your skin that badly. A fleeting moment of sympathy made you wish this spazzy nerd would learn some game and start dating girls who didn’t look like Philip Seymour Hoffman.

There’s no doubt this dude is a lesser beta, perhaps even a greater omega. And this judgment is not solely a reflection of his unfortunate looks; his attitude, mannerisms, and, of course, total lack of amused mastery peg him as the needy, desperate, no-game-having betaboy he is deep in his soul. He has failed spectacularly the live TV version of the Jumbotron test (the worst way to fail). If he fumbles with nerdo Randian women, it is because of these latter characteristics, and not because of his looks.

His exceptional intelligence cannot compensate for all his negative traits. If anything, his smarts may be working against him. It’s easy to imagine his big brain spending week after week excessively analyzing his breakup and thinking up ways to rectify his pain. In a moment of pique — her body which he once penetrated (assuming he did) now mere inches from him on a televised panel — his unruly emotions took control of his mind and steered all that IQ in an embarrassingly unproductive direction.

This is what happens when you don’t have a clue how women operate. He exhibited the opposite of amused mastery — distressed incompetence. Vaginas all over the land snapped shut on cue.

Now I want you to read the following story. See if you have the same reaction to the bitter spurned ex-lover in this news story that you did for the woeful man in the video above.

Now that her label is finally starting to play the album for select critics, it’s easy to fathom why its contents have been closely guarded, all fears of leakage aside. Some of the lyrics are startlingly candid, even by the standards of Taylor “Naming Names, Taking No Prisoners” Swift.

And listening to “Dear John,” the scorching song that is-from all appearances-aimed at Mayer, all we can say is: Joe Jonas, you got off easy. […]

And it might seem sensationalistic to focus on “Dear John” at the expense of the rest of the album if it didn’t feel like it might be her masterpiece to date, or at least the most bracingly, joltingly honest song you’ve heard any major performer have the nerve to put on record in years. Maybe not since John Lennon took on estranged partner Paul McCartney in “How Do You Sleep” has a major pop singer-songwriter so publicly and unguardedly taken on another in song. But while Lennon’s song came off as mean-spirited, Swift was motivated by vulnerability and woundedness, which makes her song far braver… and more cutting. […]

There may be those who’ll accuse Swift of exploiting her own romantic travails in this and other songs. But the extended bridge section of “Dear John” (and, at six and a half minutes, the entire song is fairly extended) packs such a cathartic punch, it really does transcend any tabloid associations. When Swift sings “I’m shining like fireworks over your sad, empty town,” anyone who ever felt manipulated or used and found the strength to move on may be cheering like it’s the 4^th of July.

Taylor Swift is doing no different than Todd Seavey did to his ex-girlfriend on that C-Span panel: she is lashing out bitterly at an ex-lover who she feels wronged her. Substantively, her actions are the female version of Todd Seavey; the only distinction is the style in which each exposes their hurt and feeble stabs at revenge. (I say feeble, because I doubt very much John Mayer is going to lose sleep at being called out as a callous womanizer. The horde of groupies queueing up to sample his callous cock after hearing how he treated Taylor Swift is surely growing by the mile.) In fact, it could be said that Seavey is more admirable than Swift, for he at least lashed out at his ex while she was there to defend herself.

Here is an excerpt of Swift’s revenge lyrics:

Dear John/I see it all now that you’re gone/Don’t you think I was too young/To be messed with/The girl in the dress/Cried the whole way home/I should’ve known. […] It was wrong/Don’t you think nineteen’s too young/To be played/By your dark, twisted games/When I loved you so. […] You’ll add my name to your long list of traitors who don’t understand/And I’ll look back in regret I ignored what they said/’Run as fast as you can’

Notice how all the blame is shifted to Mayer. Swift removes any responsibility and accountability for her decision to fuck the alpha male. She is a mere womanchild, a vassal into which evil men have their way with her. (If true, can we revoke the right to vote from these womenchildren?) Todd Seavey’s bitterness flows from the same place — an inability to recognize that he bears responsibility for the impression he leaves with women.

Todd Seavey and Taylor Swift’s behavior toward exes IS ONE AND THE SAME. Their bitterness is a shared bond that crosses class, looks and celebrity.

And yet, what did you feel reading about Taylor Swift’s lash-out at John Mayer? The same contempt, revulsion and cold pity you felt for Todd Seavey? Likely not, if you’re honest with yourself. Certainly the women reading these two stories did not feel the same toward each antagonist protagonist. I bet the same women (and some manginas) who subconsciously lambasted Seavey for his bitterness were quick to offer sympathy and understanding to Taylor Swift. Just look at the way the story is told by the reporter, Chris Willman (presumably a man): “vulnerability and woundedness”, “startlingly candid”, “such a cathartic punch”. This is the reaction of someone who wants to offer Taylor Swift a shoulder to cry on. Todd Seavey will see no such shoulders offered; he will instead be cast to the icy wastelands where the tribe will mercilessly mock him from afar.

Your conflicting emotional responses to Seavey and Swift are no fluke. They are evolutionarily imprinted in your brain. All flows from the basic premise that eggs are expensive and sperm is cheap. From this premise, we subconsciously affirm that men are expendable, and women irreplaceable. One man can impregnate an entire tribe and keep the population growing. One woman is a population bottleneck that will mean the extinction of the tribe. And further on from that premise, we find ourselves offering comfort and uuuuunderstaaaaanding to Taylor Swift, while we offer nothing but sharp barbs and ridicule to the expendable Todd Seavey.

This is our reality, our world, our universe. Some human beings are worth more than others, and despite our grandiloquent litanies to the contrary, our actions tell us all we need to know, if we are willing to look with open eyes. Remember that the next time a palace guard of the old order tries to tell you what’s in your best interest.

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The Duke Rejection List

I’ve gotten more emails to write about this Duke slut Karen Owen than I have on any other topic. I wasn’t interested at first, having scanned the notorious Powerpoint (also at this link in case first doesn’t work) and concluded that it was just another story of a whore riding the (alpha) cock carousel who happened to forego discretion and publicize her sluttery, nothing to see here move along dystopia down the hall and to your left. But a closer inspection of Owen’s tell-all reveals a river of scorned subconsciousness that the mainstream feminist bloggers have predictably failed to notice —

this chick was rejected by each and every one of these high status men she banged.

“But how can that be?”, some of the duller among you will ask. “None of the men turned her down for sex.”

Don’t you know it’s different for women? Failing to get laid is not how women are rejected; they are rejected when they don’t receive romance, love, and long term commitment from the men who fuck them. Most women under 25 with a slim and healthy 17-23 BMI profile have no trouble getting laid from the men they find attractive. Given that most young women can get sex fairly easily, falling into bed with a man, even high status men such as the Duke athletes targeted by Owen, is not much of an accomplishment. It’s like giving a trophy to a dog for being able to lick its own balls.

Now convincing these fly-by-nighter men to date, romance, introduce to their friends, spend money on, and marry the women they screw… that’s the real trick. And it is the measuring stick we should be applying to skank hos like Karen Owen. For by that metric, she and many others like her fail miserably.

For example, here is her write-up of the man (a tennis star) she rated the worst:

Note this man’s utter dismissal of her as a potential long term prospect. “Did not bother to kiss more than a few seconds”. “…after which he simply walked out”. “…did not return”. “‘I will leave them outside of the building for you'”.

And Owen’s reaction?

“1/10. Seriously.”

That is the tersely bitter send-off of one pissed and deeply wounded woman. Don’t let the whimsical snarkiness and slut empowerment pose fool you — even the raunchiest cockgobblers have a heart inside that beats for a man to love and cherish them above all others. The love of a man, true and loyal, is the slut’s white whale.

But what about the men she rated highly? Did they stay with her? Here’s her write-up of the man she rated the highest:

What did the first place man do differently than the last place man? He catered to her female need for signs of romance and commitment (which, in the end, weren’t forthcoming. And that kid went HA HAW):

“…intense level of eye contact”. “‘…if I get lucky you’ll wake me up with a kiss in the morning'”. “Him refusing to allow me to leave before noon”. “…how important it was to him that I got off as well”.

So when PUAs talk about leaving women better than you found them, this is what they mean — treat your pump and dumps like girlfriends and in the ego-assuaged haze of their pleasure they will forget that you haven’t actually committed to them beyond offering the half-eaten burrito in your fridge.

Unfortunately for Miss Owen, this story with ÜberMan #1 does not have a happy ending. After that amazing night together, this is how the following rendezvous meetings went down:

I saw him out briefly at Devines the Tuesday after, but since we had only just seen each other [ed: “seen” = “fuck” in chickspeak. GSS Fail!]… I did not even approach him, only making sure that he saw me in passing. […] I would have liked to have hooked up many more times than two, but he was tired and I needed to graduate the next day.

Long term romance fail. When a girl is careful not to talk to a lover in public for fear of creating an awkward moment that might kill the budding romance, you know you are dealing with a slut shooting way out of her league and, in the big picture, a dating market beautifully arranged to the maximum advantage of alpha males. This truly is the golden era for single men with game who have wisely avoided the trap of marriage. Conversely, it is the hell matrix for betas who now have nothing to offer but the pitiful consolation prize of being willing to wear ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ t-shirts in hopes of copping a pity fuck from a short-haired hippie chick on a five hour bender.

The whole Powerslut Powerpoint reads like the above. Owen snags another Duke alpha athlete (implicitly she has studiously avoiding snagging any computer science students on campus), has her sex, and then never sees the guy again except at beer pong parties where they exchange knowing glances if she’s lucky, or unacknowledged quick exits if she’s unlucky. Then she writes about it with a dash of humor and self-awareness to exorcise the demons tormenting her broken heart and chafed vulva, and sends it to a couple of girlfriends, her male-oriented brain assuming the girlfriends would be loyal to her and not pass it on to the wider public. Big mistake.

Probably the stupidest commentary on this affair was by that cougartown fembot Penelope Trunk, (the hypocritical conniving cacklepuss stalkercunt who harassed a man and his family in real life for having the gall to sneer at her feminist boilerplate), who in her infinite perspicacity managed to turn it into a treatise on, color me surprised!, sexual harassment and female empowerment via the magical art of spreading your legs for chaste men who only have sex once every thousand years when Jupiter and Saturn are aligned.

So what makes these slides so fascinating?  I think it’s her spunk and self-knowledge and enthralling sense of her own power. I wish I had had that when I was her age. I am twenty years older than Owen, but she inspires me to be brave, takes risks, and let my creativity get the best of me.

So what’s stopping you? Oh, that’s right. Twenty additional years (forty in female years) isn’t good for the bangathon business.

Jesus, what a buffoon.

Here’s some real insight for ya, Penelope and assorted Jizzabelers — Karen Owen has royally fucked up her chances to extract marriage from a good man thanks to her intemperate decision to write about, share and, consequently, archive for the masses for all eternity her insatiable hunger for a variety of lacrosse cock. Try to turn down the knobs on your psychologically-cemented female projection modules for a moment and put yourself in an alpha male’s shoes. What man worth his yarbles in character, money, career, looks, charm and/or social status is going to use Karen Owen for anything more than a hole in which to dump a perfunctory fuck? What high status man would marry a slut with a tap sheet a mile long, her every clitoral flutter registered in loving detail in ASCII, jpeg and png for his friends to read and laugh at?

Rhetorical.

Naturally, the double standards crowd will pipe up that Owen was just doing what men do all the time. Congratulations! You just figured out double standards exist and life isn’t fair. First prize, a group hug from fellow knobbobbers. Second prize, a beta with few options. Third prize, you’re still a rancid slut.

The impolite fact is that a man who wrote an Owen-esque fuck list would not suffer much, if any, penalty in the dating market *or* in the more tightly regulated social market for his promiscuity. Sure, a few femtards would wail at the objectifying of women and the unfairness that ugly but SMRT broads are passed over for alpha bimbo sorostitutes, but in the crucible of real life most normal heterosexual women would be uncomfortably drawn to such a man, and would work for his affections. I’m sure the athletes who are a part of Owen’s fuck list are high-fiving their pounding of Owen’s sperm cavern when they’re not fucking a hundred other groupies scrambling for their attentions.

Bottom line: a male Karen Owen would actually see his sexual market value *rise*, while Owen’s value as a girlfriend and potential wife has undoubtedly fallen. This — plus the raw hypergamy on display by her choice of sexual partners and her ability to effortlessly fulfill that limbic impulse — is the underlying message of Owen’s cutesy confessional. And it’s the message that the legacy media, the middle-aged vicars of vicariousness, and the feminists are trying hard to miss.

******

A few other points of note. Duke is also the site of the infamously racist false rape accusation by a black stripper against white lacrosse players. The mass media and fembots had a glorious communal orgasm over that one until it was discovered the whole thing was a lie. Funny how now, with another Duke scandal wafting in the autumn air, those same media mavens and feminists can’t be bothered to string up Karen Owen for her objectifying of Duke’s male students. Instead of a wail, admiration for her journey of self-actualization is shared by all.

Hypocrites, liars and filthy cunts, the lot of them.

Karen Owen herself looks masculinized. Check out her manjaw, beady eyes and heavy overhanging brow (on the left):

The photo of her lends evidence to my theory that women with high serum testosterone, or women who have been prenatally drowned in single mamma’s high T syrup, are more likely to slut it up with a platoon of men. These kinds of women are also more likely to value raw looks in a man, whereas more feminine women tend to downgrade male looks relative to other attractive male traits such as humor, charm and social acumen. It is possible that Owen’s masculinization gives her the male-like capacity to absorb to a greater extent than most women a series of repeated romantic rejections from crudely inattentive one night stands.

Last thought. What I’ve written above is based on the assumption that Owen was honest with her Powerpoint. It isn’t a guarantee that she’s telling the truth. The internet is the place where people make shit up. (Case in point: I could be making everything up as well. Every story I write could be a total lie. It isn’t, but it could be. You’ll just have to take my word for it.)

Owen could very well have made everything up for shits and giggles, or she could have been cruelly rejected by an alpha lacrosse player and this was her weird idea of getting back at him and those like him. It’s not unheard of that women will lie, in both petty and grand ways, about the men who have hurt them in a vain attempt at exacting vengeance, nor is it unheard of that they will fantasize out loud about having sex with alpha males. For purposes of discussion, we’ll have to believe the story as reported: the hookups are real and she only meant to send her fuck list to a few (formerly) close girlfriends.

I’m sure the Duke lacrosse players are crying in their red cups. [/sarcasm]

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The International Symbol Of Feminism

For the reason why this symbol was chosen by an elite selection committee, see here.

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Visualizing Omega Or Man With Game?

A great way to build a love connection with a girl is through the subtle mockery of the absurdity of others. Chicks dig social dynamics and speculating ad nauseam about the backstory of couples or groups of people that they see walking around, particularly people who stand out from the crowd. Thus, it is a valuable component of your game to speculate along with her, demonstrating your mastery of quickly ascertaining social group relationships through incisive observation. It is, in short, another example of seducing women by co-opting their mode of thinking.

To that end, you should not shy from analyzing couples that you see while on a date with a girl. It’s great fun to spot an unusual couple, or an offbeat group of mixed men and women, and mischievously nudge your date to redirect her attention to the spectacle as you openly ponder “what’s going on there?”. Bonding in this fashion should not be underestimated.

So imagine you are walking through a park or an outdoor festival and you and your date come across this sight (leaving aside for the moment any third party observational bias caused by the presence of a photographer):

(Pic courtesy of Peter)

How would you analyze this snapshot in time such that you demonstrate your superior knowledge of human relationships?

Three possible scenarios jump out.

Scenario One: it’s a prank! The girl in the ratty blue and white striped shirt, at the instigation of her cackling chubby American friends, sidled up to the ugly fat man to pretend she was his girlfriend, or at least to pretend to flirt with him, to the great amusement of everyone but the mark. You can surmise by her left hand deep in her jorts pocket and her knowing glance of collusion toward the laughing girls that she is not his date. Also, her right leg is bent at the knee, suggesting she is ready to dash back to the safety of the pig pen should the prank be discovered. Meanwhile, fat boy’s smile is likely the goofy grin of a guy who is happy to mug for the camera with a cute girl by his side, who doesn’t realize he’s being tooled. His raised red cup of piss water is an auto-toast to his doltishness and omega ranking on the mate value scale.

Scenario Two: it’s a player! What you see is an actual couple on a date. They may even be in love. He hoists his plastic tankard in celebration of his good fortune. His grin is the shit-eating variety of the man of confidence boffing a much hotter babe than people expect of him. His slovenly appearance is not the dress code of the fat quasimodo nerd, but the devil-may-care fashion statement of the bad boy who does not need the crutch of stylish clothes to pick up hot chicks. What about her? Well, she’s leaning into him slightly, which implies she is happy to be with him. Her clothes and hair drape with the disheveled insouciance of a girl who has recently received a powerful rogering from a very fat man with tits bigger than hers. She has turned to sheepishly acknowledge the three single piglets chortling at the ludicrousness of her boyfriend. Her smile is the leftover glow of a shared laugh she had seconds earlier with her humorous, portly Casanova, but which has morphed into a teeth-clenched grin of discomfort reflecting her unease with the laughter directed at her and her lover by the tri-lambchop sorority sisters.

Scenario Three: it’s pedestrian! All five of them are friends and are laughing about something happening in the distance behind the photographer. Or they’re just posing and laughing because they’re drunk. Sixteen Miller Lights can make a fart seem like endless high comedy.

Your turn. How would you describe this scene for your date? Reaction time counts toward your final score.

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