Be A Skittles Man

Reader Fabian linked to a funny entry on the ‘Don’t Date Him Girl’ blog:

He had several “lady friends” who stayed the night at his house and he claimed they were “Just friends”. He frequently forgot important details about me, such as the fact that I had a sister, my birthday and what sorts of hobbies I had. He blew me off constantly, would return calls a week later with the excuse of “I was busy.” I often spoiled him with gifts, rides and sex only to receive a bag of Skittles in return. (I don’t even like skittles!) That was the only gift I ever received from him! I met a new friend and we were bonding over “worst ex-boyfriend stories” and suddenly we realized “boy, a lot of these sound the same… Was his name ____?” IT WAS THE SAME GUY!!!

In an unintentional juxtaposition for the ages, reader joel left a comment in my Pimp Slap post about a wedding he attended:

I just attended a wedding the  bill for which, paid mostly by the parents of the bride but with substantial input from the groom’s parents, would easily pay for the private education of several children. It could have paid for a modest but nice house in a good neighborhood in many parts of the country. Hint: The flowers cost about $15,000.

It is amazing what the matriarchy does. The Darwinian purpose of this, I believe, is to keep the husbands working their asses off, and keep them broke, so they can’t go out and buy a younger woman for their next wife or keep a concubine.

Really. There is no other logical explanation for this excess.

Two men, two vastly different experiences with women. One man gets all the pussy he wants for the bargain basement price of a bag of Skittles, while the other man marries a woman in a wedding ceremony featuring flowers that cost $15,000.

How much you want to bet the first guy’s rotation of girlfriends is hotter than the second guy’s $15,000 flower wife? How much you want to bet the first guy gets all the anal sex and blowjobs he desires while the second guy will be begging for his once-a-month sex as soon as the vows are exchanged? If one of these guys is a herb, who is it more likely to be?

FACT: Odds are good you will enjoy a bounty of pussy and love if you act like Skittles guy. FACT: Odds are good you will spend the rest of your life begging for tepid sex from the same old boring pussy if you act like $15,000 wedding flower guy.

Be a Skittles man. Don’t be a $15,000 wedding flower man.

I’ve been in the company of a lot of women who hailed from all sorts of stations in life. I know the sound of a woman in love, and it usually sounds like the woman in the Skittles story — bitching and moaning about a world class asshole, chasing him from here to kingdom come to cajole him to surrender at least a small measure of his autonomy (which he never does), and always… ALWAYS… going back to him when they have a bad fight. I’ve been that guy.

I’ve also been around the kinds of women from the wedding flower story. They usually sound like they are more in love with the idea of $15,000 wedding flowers than they are with their man. They never chase, and their men are in the permanently disabling position of constantly bending over backwards to satisfy their women’s whims. Women who are princess-ified have power over their men, even over the kinds of men who themselves have power over other men. The women know this and they subconsciously resent it.

Joel is right. The matriarchy in all its silly manifestations — extravagant weddings, diamonds-nookie barter, pop culture propaganda, daddy government disease — is structured to handicap men. To cut them off at the knees. Fitting, really, because a man on his knees is exactly where he’d have to be to agree to $15,000 wedding flowers. The finances aren’t the core issue; it’s the corrosive effect such a wasteful expenditure for a woman will have on her attitude. The matriarchy loathes and fears Skittle Man, the freeloader who nonetheless basks in the love of many women. The matriarchy would rather men be like Wedding Flower Man, slaving dutifully as a nameless, faceless cog in the machine paying his dues for his two pence of pussy. Society’s Little Helper.

And at the end of the day, what for? To thanklessly pump out cannon fodder for the wars of the future? Fuck that sideways. The rulebook was written to constrain free thinkers like you. When you know the score, when you understand that this life is all there is and all there ever will be and your legacy in gold or works or kids means nothing when your consciousness is obliterated to nothing and your deathbed is lined with the garland of regret and pleasures denied and the memory of your decades of pointless sacrifice crawls slowly across the walls like night shadows to suffocate you in your final doom… only then will you look your blushing bride in the eye and inform her that there will be no $15,000 wedding flowers and she can hit the bricks if that’s unacceptable to her.

Better yet, tell her there will be no wedding and no marriage. She can love you without needing the permission of the state.

Some newcomers are aghast when they read my stuff. They think this blog must be a joke or the ravings of a lunatic, a madman driven to the brink by a particularly damaging experience with an ex. No. While I’ve had my joys and sorrows and loves and heartbreaks just like any other man possessing a wealth of experience with women, on the whole most of the women in my life have been and continue to be cherished loves. My lunacy is the clear-eyed vision of Neo after the matrix is revealed to him. Reality makes lunatics of us all, but only those with the eyes to see and the ego to spare ever embrace it unconditionally.

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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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All The Lonely Cougars

I’m never surprised when another study comes out confirming the Poon worldview. I’m that omniscient. Thanks to Days of Broken Arrows for passing along this Boston Globe article called “The Myth of Ashton” about dating events specifically targeted at cougars:

Maureen Trickett, an event organizer for 8minuteDating.com, had an idea based on all the hype surrounding younger men dating older women. She decided last year to plan an event specifically for that demographic – a night of speed dating for women-of-a-certain-age and the boyish men who love them.

Trickett posted the event online, and women quickly signed up. But the men – they were slow to show interest. After only six men registered, the event was canceled.

“I need eight men,” Trickett explained. “If I don’t get eight, the system cancels the event.”

Maureen Trickett could have saved herself a lot of time and energy if she read this blog. On the other hand, maybe not. That would require facing reality.

Trickett decided it was worth a second try. She set up another speed dating event for a recent Sunday afternoon at Tommy Doyle’s in Kendall Square, this time for older women and younger men, as well as older men and younger women. The room would be split in half – age-inappropriate on both sides.

Self delusion is an unlimited resource. See: Just about every single social policy since 1960.

But again she had a shortage of younger men. The “cougar event,” as Trickett was calling it, was canceled.

And Nelson went “Ha haaw!”

The older men/younger women event went on as planned, but only because Trickett waived the fee for a few women so that they’d sign up and the numbers would be even.

Older men with younger women is much more natural than younger men with older women. While women are suspicious of older men’s motives and station in life, they are at least willing to give the sophisticated gents a chance to pitch themselves. Waiving the fee for men at the cougar event still would have resulted in few men except the desperate loser dregs showing up.

Despite what magazines and tabloids might suggest, Trickett said, despite all the talk of cougar culture, men still want to date younger women, and older women . . . well, their options are limited.

If you’re taking your cues from mass media, you’re hopeless. Magazines and tabloids serve to perpetuate the pretty lies. Else they wouldn’t sell.

Sure, Demi Moore broke a mold, and I know a few couples – family members and friends of friends – who represent the highly publicized demographic of older women and younger men, but the dating industry will tell you that for the most part that demographic is a myth.

If you arrange your life with an eye on the exceptions rather than the rules, you deserve the sorrow, loneliness and failure coming your way. Demi Moore-Ashton Kutcher is a one in a million oddity. 99% of 40+ women aren’t in the ballpark of Demi’s looks, and 99% of men with Ashton Kutcher’s fame, looks and money won’t date washed up broads like Demi when there is a world of hotter, younger girls available.

“With men dating women, it tends to be up to six years younger but it will only be up to two years older.”

And why is that?

“Guys tend to have unrealistic expectations,” said [Mark] Brooks, who bragged that he is one of the mythical Ashton Kutcher-types (he recently dated someone nine years older than him).

Mark Brooks is your typical feeble-minded betaboy who licks the crusty anal dirt of his feminist overlords and begs for more. How do we know this? One, he dates an older woman and is proud of it. Two, he thinks the reason men prefer to date younger women has to do with unrealistic expectations. No, Mark, that’s not it. Men date younger women because they are biologically impelled to seek the love and sex of women who show healthy signs of fertility. No doubt Mark is highly jealous of guys like me dating all the young babes he covets from afar as his old lady slaps his face with her droopy tits.

Those HurryDate age ranges mirror what most men ask for online. I asked Kate Bilenki, a spokeswoman for Plentyoffish.com, a dating website with 10 million members, if she’s ever seen a male profile call for an older woman. “In my experience, no, I can’t say that I have,” she said.

Brutal.

Bilenki adds another depressing tidbit: “For every 55-year old male, there are three 55-year-old women.”

Soul ripping.

Why are there cougars if it’s such a hellish existence? Some cougars were too unattractive in their prime mating years to get a decent man to commit to them. Some are divorced and overestimated their competitive value on the sexual market as older versions of themselves. Some have given up attracting the men they really want (i.e. older men with means and options who don’t want them) and have chosen the pathetic life of offering their aged, floppy pussies free of charge to horny younger guys who just want to dump a quick fuck in any available hole, no muss no fuss.

Then there are the women who became cougars because of their own stupid choices. These are the sad detritus of former urban slut machines; the women who spent their valuable youth hopping from one alpha cock to another only to wake up a day late and a wedding ring short in their early 30s wondering why the alphas no longer look at them with lust in their eyes. Now, even the beta males don’t want them. They are forced to settle, and settle hard. If they can.

Here’s a juicy irony: The anti-aging industry that cougars cling to like life support is the brainchild of betas. Those same dull, socially awkward nerds the cougars ignored when they were kittens are busily inventing the science and technology that may one day grant them a reprieve from the horror of fading beauty.

If the betas disappear, well… so do the cougars’ hopes.

Which way do you think America is heading?

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Lies About Women Who Love Abusers

Like a dispatched army of obfuscators and purveyors of palatable lies, the fembot foot soldiers were marching in locktstep after news broke of Rihanna’s return to the violently abusive man she deeply loves. The lies, pop culture psychoanalysis and threadbare excuses were flying left and right.

“It’s really hard for a woman to leave an abuser. Where will she go? How will she survive?”

“He’s controlling/manipulative. She was too weak to resist that.”

“He wears down her self-esteem. Eventually, she depends on the beatings to feel loved, and the cycle continues.”

Grade A bullshit. How do I know this? Easy. A simple thought experiment will suffice to aid understanding.

When a woman wants to leave a beta boyfriend/husband who makes her life a misery, is it:

a. hard for her to leave him?

b. impossible because she won’t be able to survive on her own/find a place to live?

c. difficult because she can’t resist his mind control?

d. not going to happen because she depends on his beta behavior to validate her self-esteem? or

e. pretty fucking easy for her to walk out the door/sign the divorce papers?

It’s amazing the verbal calisthenics humans will go through to avoid facing up to a disconcerting truth. Fembots especially; they’ve got so much invested in the prevailing shibboleths that to turn their backs on them now in this crucial matter of why women return to abusers would amount to a repudiation of the holy foundation of dyke dogma — that women are not responsible for their choices, and that a woman’s sexual nature is a moral paragon to ceaselessly celebrate. Rihanna, like so many women, runs back into the arms of her beatdown boyfriend because…

wait for it…

she loves him.

And she loves him more because he hits her. This explains why, despite immense family and social pressure (really, an entire country’s worth of social pressure) to leave Chris Brown, and despite the likelihood of future painful beatings at his hands, Rihanna could not ignore the pull of her heart. Love is too powerful an emotion to be swayed by the blunt tools of shame, reason, or even fear.

Superficially, the red-faced excusers may be describing some element of psychological reality that happens in the heads of women like Rihanna. But they are only teasing around the edges. Full understanding eludes them because they miss the core motivation — the emotional juggernaut — that animates the woman who willingly makes herself vulnerable to a physically abusive lover. They refuse to acknowledge this because in their minds it says something unflattering about women they’d rather not know.

On a related note, I am not surprised that the usual suspects who comment on this blog haven’t come out and condemned Rihanna for rushing back into the arms of Brown. The sound of silence is deafening…

In other news, a British model spoke about a two-year relationship with a man who put her in the hospital for a week.

The Liverpudlian beauty was a teenage model when she started dating her abusive ex, who she has declined to name.

She’s still protective of him. Love will do that to a girl.

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Shocker! Beautiful Woman Chooses Man Who Beats Her Silly

And once again the Chateau worldview is vindicated.

The pair have reunited almost three weeks after Brown, 19, allegedly battered the “Umbrella” singer on Feb. 8, a source tells PEOPLE.

“They’re together again. They care for each other,” says the source. The on-again couple are currently spending time together at one of Sean “Diddy” Combs’s homes, on Miami Beach’s Star Island.

Aww, how cute. Rihanna and Chris, the two lovebirds, back together again. POW! She just couldn’t stay away, that girl! WHACK! Sources close to the loving couple say they can’t keep their hands off each other. SLAP! I bet!

Is Rihanna going back to Chris in spite of, or because of, the beatings he gave her? Answer: both.

Consciously, she goes back in spite of. Subconsciously, she goes back because of.

And science is slowly discovering that women’s sexuality can effortlessly occupy both the conscious and subconscious planes simultaneously.

A hit across the face, because it is an unabashed demonstration of male power, will trigger stronger orgasms in many otherwise normal women. I have observed this phenomenon myself. Think of a slap as Viagra for women. Lubed up for a long evening of hot sex!

PS: If you disapprove of this behavior, the way to contain this Pandora’s Box of human nature is to shame the women for freely choosing abusive men. Shaming violent men for striking women will not work as well as long as women continue to reward these men with their loving hearts and open pussies.

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Returning To Abusive Relationships

I left a comment in Roosh’s post about fat people in modern society being OK with their slovenly appearance (my theory: removal of shaming controls and safety in numbers) in response to the following preposterous assertion by another commenter named Heather:

is it possible to be fat and happy? speaking from personal experience: yep. i fully realize that i’m in the minority, but here is the reality: i’m in spinning class three days a week, yoga four times a week, i walk everywhere, been a vegetarian for the last 18 years, shop at the farmer’s market every week, have an enviable boyfriend, a career that i love and that lets me have my own lovely apartment in expensive-ass san francisco, amazing friends, am crafty as a motherfucker….i could go on. oh, and i’m 5′5″ and 185 pounds.

my point? be careful of casting disparaging judgments on an entire class of people. everyone has their own thing going on, and making assumptions about the happiness of others is shallow and ignorant, at best.

Here was my reply to the very large 5’5″ 185lb Heather:

heather, are you familiar with the ethiopian famine of the mid-1980s? millions starving, and a bunch of euro pop stars got together and wrote a song called “do they know its christmas?” and sang feed the world. bob geldof organized charities. the media was streaming video and pics from ethiopia during that famine.

care to guess how many of those ethiopians were fat?
yeah, not a one.
you can try to fool everyone here but you can’t fool the second law of thermodynamics — if you eat less food you will lose weight.

heather, you are a big fat bowling ball. 5′5″ 185 lbs is disgustingly obese on anyone who isn’t a world class male bodybuilder or powerlifter. if you aren’t lying about your exercise regimen and your vegetarianism, then the simple conclusion remains that you are eating way too much plant food or ice cream and/or exercising with the intensity of a slug for you to be that fat. because i guarantee that if you ate 200 calories worth of food per day for the next two months you WILL lose weight. there is no getting around that law of biochemistry.

oh, and i don’t believe you have an “enviable” boyfriend. you are either lying about that or deliberately misconstruing the meaning of “enviable” to assuage your ego. to clear the air, answer the following questions about your BF:

how tall is he?
how much does he weigh?
does he have all his hair?
do other women check him out when you are out with him on the town?
what is his occupation?
does he have an arrest record?
what is his level of education?
does he watch nascar regularly?
how much money does he make?
is he, or has he ever been, a drunk, gambling addict or drug addict?
is he, or has he ever been, in debt?
what happened to his last relationship?
what did his ex-girlfriends look like while he was dating them?
does he talk about his exes a lot?
when did he lose his virginity?
how long have you been together?
how many gifts has he bought you?
how often does he want to have sex with you?
has he ever fucked you with the lights on or during the daytime?
has he ever fucked you two or more times in a row?
does he go down on you?
on average, how long does he fuck you?
is he always asking you for blowjobs?
do you frequently catch him looking at other women?
has he ever called you another woman’s name?
does he watch a lot of porn?
is this porn featuring slender girls, or fat tonka truck girls?

that’ll do for now.

ps: if you think at your grotesque size you aren’t suffering a hit to your attractiveness to 99.99% of men, think again. men are pretty uniform in what they desire in women’s looks. if you have found a genuine fatty fucker, then count your blessings, because the number of weirdo fetish men who like fucking women of size are FAR fewer than the number of fatsos available for them to fuck.

Roosh appreciated the ownage. On second reading, I am inclined to agree.

So what does this have to do with “Shove me, slap me, but don’t ever say you’ll leave me” theme week?
It’s this: Overeating is self-abuse. Except food won’t give you hot sex.
Unless your name is Keith and you stare longingly at butternut squash.

In his perfect world, shame is once again restored to its rightful place as a powerful motivator of human behavior. SWPLers hate shame. Probably because they hate things that make them feel bad but have the effrontery to work.

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Chris Brown Is Alpha

Commenter DF wrote:

Oh yeah, Chris Brown is alpha. No doubt. If rumors are true. The beat down stems from a booty call text. So he beat down Rihanna when she confronted him about it, probably tapped the other chick that very night, and has Rihanna drop the charges. That’s fucking alpha.

Yep, it’s alpha. Many people, despite their revulsion, will believe these rumors because these kinds of stories are all too common. Alpha isn’t always “amused mastery” or grace under pressure. Sometimes, in fact a lot of times, it’s a flying flurry of fists to the face, in the case of Rihanna leaving its demon mark as shadow horns on its victim AKA enabler.

Chicks dig power, and slapping a girl around is a form of power, whether we like it or not. Girls get moist in the nether regions for men who hit them, as we can deduce by the fact that most of the masochist victims go back to their punch-happy lovers. Many women drop the charges entirely, until they have taken one too many blows to the head and desperation finally severs the powerful bond of their emotionally paralyzing love for their tormentors. And make no  mistake, it is LOVE they are feeling for their savage boyfriends. If you watch Cops, the domestic abuse emergency calls are very revealing. Often, the cop will arrive after the woman or a neighbor has called 911, only to find that getting a full accounting of the events from the victim is like pulling teeth. She will hem and haw, and ask the cop to go easy on her boyfriend (it’s usually a boyfriend, not a husband), and even give the boyfriend, who moments earlier was knocking her across the room, a hug and kiss as he’s being pushed down into the squad car.

Understand: Nearly EVERY woman — even upper class and educated women — has buried in the recesses of her feminine mystique a vulnerable center that will yield entirely and gratefully to a violent alpha male who will hit her. When you have a fear of approach, and you’re feeling intimidated by all those sharply dressed and tightly coifed yuppie chicks striding purposefully down city streets and in office buildings, Blackberries in hand and eyes cold as ice, just remember that each one of them possesses, in varying degrees of will to surrender, the capacity to submit her heart and her pussy to a violent thug.

When you begin to see them this way, I promise your fear of approach will become manageable. To be successful with women, you must destroy the last vestige of the pedestal you put them on and the unearned respect you’re impelled to give them.

Why does beat down game work? Answer: It’s asshole game x100. And it’s particularly effective on the hottest, most desirable chicks. In Darwinian terms, any guy who has the cojones to hit a woman is a guy who gets so much pussy he doesn’t care about the risk that she’ll leave him. And what that attitude encapsulates — Imperturbable Aloofness — is attractive to women. Very attractive. When I talk about psychological dominance as a core component of male power, I’m referring to that Stone Cold Take It Or Leave It attitude. Think of Game as the software app that installs this attitude into your superego. No plump 401K or fancy car needed.

The face of a beautiful woman in love with an alpha:

No charges have yet been filed by Rihanna. Just the opposite. She wants him back. On message boards, Rihanna fans have been begging the singer not to drop any possibly forthcoming charges against Brown. Seems people are very aware, deep in the dark echoing chambers of their ids, that beautiful women like Rihanna are prone to run back into the arms of violent men. We expend a lot of mental effort pretending we’re blind to the reality of human nature, when we act in accordance with its precepts all the time. We are fallen sinners not from Adam and Eve, but from Travis the chimp. We haven’t evolved as far from face eating as some would hope.

For any female readers who are disturbed by this post, take it up with your sisters who reward guys like Chris Brown, over and over again. I am the messenger you lash out at for revealing a truth about yourselves that hits a little too close to home. Shame the messenger and in doing so you hope to silence the sway of your darkest natures.

Nothing to see here but cold hard truth. You’d best move along, folks…

Related: Keeping Your Woman In Line. Reports from the front.

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