F You Jewelry

When we were teenagers I remember my brother coming home from dental surgery with a plastic container holding his four extracted wisdom teeth, blood and bits of flesh still clinging to the roots.  I thought it was so cool.  So did he, if his proud grin was any indication.

I’m having a wisdom tooth pulled tomorrow.  I would like to keep the tooth and make intimidating jewelry out of it.  Bone jewelry sends men running in a panic and women twirling their hair with arousal.  I could tell people that it’s my own tooth I wear as a talisman imparting me with wisdom, or I could say it’s a souvenir I pulled from the jaw of my vanquished enemy, similar to this guy:
a warrior knows how to accessorize.

Some ideas I have are the tooth ring:

and the tooth necklace:

A man moving through the world without apology should adorn himself with powerful symbols of virility.  If I engender a hint of disgust and fear in women who see me wearing teeth jewelry, I’ll know I’m projecting the right image.  Running tight game is a breeze when people think you’re a warlord.

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Dear Diary

I was never one to keep a diary.  Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal.  Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.  Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life.  So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:

At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid.  The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions.  The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds.  I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all.  Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that.  I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction.  In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment.  Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public.  They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs.  I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.

It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream.  The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order.  When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium).  So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look.  I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees.  I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.

There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set.  My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet.  At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest.  A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me.  I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.  Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.

My friend’s wife hates me.  Oh yes, it’s so obvious.  At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me:  Hi.  Bye.  And she was facing away from me when she spoke them.  This is understandable.  Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before.  I’ve known her husband much longer than she has.  He and I have the OLD DAYS.  The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with.  Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty.  A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him.  So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin.  Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.  The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage.  She should be naming her next kid after me.

I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.

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It finally happened

After a lifetime of enjoying the spacious accommodations of the handicapped stall, an actual handicapped man entered the restroom while I was in there using it. 

His walker clicked on the tiled floor as he approached huffing and grunting the whole way.  He stopped in front of my stall, the feet of his walker in full view under the door jamb, and pushed impotently on the locked door.  A loud snort followed and he shambled into the adjacent, normal-sized stall.  For what seemed like an eternity he negotiated the tight space, stumbling and banging into the walls, grabbing onto the tp dispenser for support.  Twice, his walker tipped over when he tried to lean it against the stall.

Now I am not a guy who languishes in guilt.  Cheating, lying, stealing, breaking hearts… it’s all part of the wonderful fabric of life.  Like Donald Trump said about his divorces: “The guilt last for five minutes, then you get over it.”  But this made me feel bad, real bad.  I responded as only an honorable gentleman would — I hightailed it out of there before he could see my face.

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The Limits of Game

Game is now packaged, marketed, and taught to tens of thousands of men in the US.  At the rate the major businesses are growing and the books are selling, it’s possible that 10 million or more American men will have some knowledge of the fundamentals of game within a few years.  This is a not-insignificant number.  A percentage of those men will put forth the effort and apply what they’ve learned to their dating lives.  When a critical love-em-and-leave-em juncture is reached, I believe the country will go through another social revolution similar to the great upheaval of the 1960s.  What lies beyond is anyone’s guess, though I have my personal theories.

The art of seduction is not a new discovery, but it’s transformation into a science that can be executed in the field to produce relatively reliable results is new.  If Voltaire were alive today he would recognize a familiar scene of thousands of men talking away their ugly faces to bed their queens of france, but what would strike him as novel is the calculated efficiency and cooperative effort with which these 21st century voltaires, tools of science in hand, eviscerate and demystify the age-old quest of winning a woman’s heart and spreading her legs.  I imagine he would be saddened that the beauty and grandeur of the chase had been stripped to its bones and displayed textbook-like for the edification of legions of aspiring seducers.

The rise of the era of Game is not hard to explain.  Particular social conditions in conjunction with fresh knowledge and rapid information transfer practically guaranteed a new world order of more cads, less dads. Ironically, feminism helped midwife this beast.  The free love anti-trust breakup of women’s monopoly over sex and their increased financial independence dissolved the primary pillars of marriage.  The wheels were set in motion, yet the Sexual Revolution 2.0 didn’t kick into high gear until the mid 1990s when some very astute and horny guys found in the teachings of darwinistic evolutionary psychology the blueprint for getting what they wanted from women.

A shortcut had been discovered.  Now, instead of toiling for years as a cog in the machine, giving til it hurt, to win the heart of a marriageable woman in a socially-approved manner, men were, in effect, mimicing the traditional alpha male through a process of data compression.  The confident body language and cocky humor of the CEO or BigLaw sleazebag could be had by the common man for pennies on the dollar.

Most men scoff at this.  It takes many demonstrations by pioneers before the average guy will lose his long-held beliefs about how the world works.  Even those guys who know about game and have immersed themselves in it like a religious follower at a tent revival find it difficult to change their old ways.  For now, the status quo continues to be the default assumption.  Marriage, rigged as it is against men in its current configuration, is still the norm people aspire to.  And that is where game (to date) has fallen short; it is a great tool for pickup but needs refining for application in longterm relationships.

A lot of pie in the sky acolytes of game miss the bigger picture.  There are some very immutable laws of human nature that the best game in the world won’t circumvent.  Age is one of them.  A 90 year old man will not score 20 year old coeds on the strength of game alone.  He’ll need compensating factors, in massive quantities.  Fame and vast wealth are proven sexual value enhancers.  Without game, a man would need a steadily increasing pot of money or accumulating social status to satisfy his urge to screw young women.  With game, he can afford to slack off a certain amount on the traditional attractiveness measures.  In a sense, game is like an extra 5 inches in height or $100K in salary — it gives a man a big leg up in the mating wars.

By age 50, the decrepitude of mitochondrial degeneration will really begin to hinder a man’s ability to score.  Women under 30 will not take his flirting seriously any longer.  At this time, the amount of power (in the form of money) he’ll need to continue attracting younger women will rise exponentially.  In graph form, it would look like this:

For women, their version of game, wealth, social status, and power over men are dependent on one necessary variable: her beauty.  Once that goes, (and it usually goes faster for them than it does for men), they are shit out of luck.  But for the brief window of time they have their beauty, they hold in their hands the power of the gods.

Since women cannot do much about their looks other than plastic surgery and, marginally, makeup, they have to be more cognizant than men of their time left to secure for themselves the best deal on the sexual market.  Time is no friend to anyone, but to women it is especially cruel.  When I see mother-daughter duos shopping at the mall I’m always stunned they are related.  There isn’t a better, or sadder, advertisement for trading up.

Although a woman’s looks primarily define her sexual marketability, feminine personality and a willingness to experiment sexually count as well, but those factors only work synergistically with youth and beauty.  Women who’ve hit the wall can wear dresses every day, learn the art of coquettish flattery, and carry a suitcase full of perverted sex toys, but it will be in vain.  Men will look past her at the younger versions of herself.  Older women (between 30 and 45) who still have a few years of serviceability left in them can compete against the younger competition by putting out right away.  Nevertheless, this is a temporary fix.  Any man worth having will get his rocks off with the cougar and save his commitment for the kitten.  A graphical representation of the market constraints women operate within would look like this:

While game is the next step in the evolution of relations between men and women, it is not an alien technology with diplomatic immunity from human nature that will yield results for everyone under every circumstance.  Street bums are not suddenly going to start banging quality pussy, though they may improve their meet to lay ratio with soup kitchen volunteers.  For the man who truly wants the life that most men dream about, a multi-front attack improving his finances, physical well-being, and game, with one eye on the ticking clock, is the only way to go.

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Conjugal Bliss

There are certain products that just seem to belong together, but as far as I know, remain undiscovered pairings.  After I munched some coffee beans to temporarily boost my IQ a few points, I brainstormed the following consumer product marriage:

  plus 

No, I’m not talking about regular horns on bikes.  I want to see big ass bitchin air horns strapped to the handlebar.  I’ve never seen nor heard a bicyclist blow one of these.  Think of the applications.

– Similar to a really small motorcycle helmet that only covers the crown of the head, a gigantic air horn on a bike is a safety feature that doesn’t sacrifice your masculine cool.  Teens will clamor for this life-saving device.

– I once saw a TV show that had kids in a car driving slowly by unsuspecting bicyclists and pedestrians and blowing an obnoxiously loud air horn out the window.  Hilarity ensued as the bikers tumbled to the ground and people standing at their mailboxes threw their handfuls of mail into the air and peed themselves in shock.  Coming from a bicyclist, this would be even funnier.  As if they weren’t clamoring enough, teens will now pine for this life-saving, prankster-enabling device.

– Asshole drivers yapping into cellphones have always annoyed bike messengers.  The bikers must have had a lot of brushes with death because when they get cut off by one of these suitboys on the phone with their broker or some spaced out chick driving and gossiping in a 5-way conference call with her friends they get really angry, cursing like a sailor and giving the finger to the driver, sometimes even banging on the hood with a fingerless gloved hand.  I heard this on U St just the other day:  YOU MOTHERFUCKING FUCK GET THE FUCK OFF THE CELL COCKSUCKER!!!  Most of the time, the driver hardly notices, what with his five senses occupied by navigating DC’s notoriously retarded streets and taking calls.  But now with the air horn-equipped bike the messenger can toot blast the driver and know he’ll get his full attention.  Double thrills if this causes the driver to throw the cell into the air and swerve into a fire hydrant.  No more ineffectual foul-mouthing; with the mighty air horn the bike messenger’s knowing smirk will say it all.  Forget pining, teens everywhere will pre-cum for this accident-causing bike accessory.

– Skirt chasing was never so much fun.  Re-live those days when you used to stick your head out the car window and yell I LOVE YOU! as you drove by cute chicks standing on the sidewalk, except now do it in style with the air horn.  Blast away and watch as the fright sends fire coursing through her loins.  Chicks dig unpredictability, and the air horn has that base covered.  Don’t even bother with formalities — just toss her the engagement ring.  She’s already yours for life.  Bonus:  The ride on your handlbars back to your pad gets her juiced up for lovemaking.  Teens will be apoplectic.

I’d patent this, but the patent process costs $20K.  Instead, I’ll kindly ask people not to steal my incredibly brilliant idea until I have a chance to build a business empire around it.  Most people are good, so this should work.

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