When It Is OK To Call A Woman Fat

Commenter and blogger Redacted had this to say from yesterday’s post:

Somewhat off topic, but never, ever neg someone with a reference to their weight. Not even a 10. A buddy of mine got kicked out of a club for saying, “Hey, haven’t you put on a pound or two,” to one of the hired guns.

I don’t disagree with this if we’re talking about women only. (Men can handle jabs about their spare tires.) Women are so incredibly sensitive to criticism of their weight (and for good sociobiological reason) that there aren’t too many scenarios in which you could manipulate their body image issues to your benefit without it blowing up in your face like an overstuffed burrito.

Sure, if a girl punches you in the nads, call her fat. If your estranged wife is cackling across the divorce lawyer’s mahogany table, casually mention she’s a shambling mound. If your sister ratted you out — she’s fair game.

But the most rewarding time to drop a fatty insult on a girl is with an ex. If you ever bump into an ex-girlfriend who had the gall to stop having sex with you, you can hit her with the fatty two by four. (Be sure to use subtlety when you swing the low blow. In-your-face won’t get under the skin as deeply.) I did exactly this with a Russian ex of mine.

Her: [looking skinny and spectacular] Hi, nice to see you!

Me: [looking momentarily stunned] Oh hey, hi.

Her: Wow, so how are you?

Me: Good. [scheming…] You look nice. Did you put on a little weight? It looks good on you.

Her: [jaw on floor] Um, noo… OK, well, I’ve got to go.

Was it petty? Yes. Did I have a smile on my face afterwards? Yes. Did I get hand? YES.

Kicking Pussy Off The Pedestal

When I was a naive, idealistic lad first sprouting peach fuzz on my gagoots I used to fantasize about the girls I had crushes on. Strolling arm in arm on the beach, naming constellations while lying on the warm summer grass under a starry sky, saving her from a mugger and returning her stolen purse like a hero, kissing her for hours and hours of fully clothed foreplay (wouldn’t want to sully her with sex)… you know, the usual beautiful beta dreaming. In real life, I stared at these girls from across the classroom and doodled their faces in my notebook.

Putting women on a pedestal was my art. And I was good.

Then reality hit me. In the cleansing fires of rejection (and indifference) I learned that women were not pure creatures of light and virtue. I realized instead they were animals, just like men, but operating under a different set of parameters. In my effort to crack the cooch code I watched and mimicked guys who were good with women. I adopted mentors. I experimented. I grew a thick skin.

But before I could stop putting women on a pedestal I had to first kick them off. So I had an asshole phase. I think every man who was not born with his dick in a girl’s mouth needs to go through an asshole phase in order to seduce women in a healthy way. It’s important to experience for oneself what the power of assholery can do to a girl’s attraction buttons — press them like an epileptic on coke and E playing whack-a-mole.

It’s also important to stay in touch with your asshole side in case you ever find yourself slipping into bad beta habits. This way you can play the asshole card when the moment calls for it. Believe me, it’s much more efficient than groveling your way back into her good graces with expensive dinners, flattery, and engagement rings.

Have you ever said “Fuck you” in anger to a girl you were seeing? Have you ever told a girl “Enough of your shit”? Have you ever let a girl argue for 20 minutes then look her in the eye and say “You done?” and walk off? If you haven’t done any of these things you don’t know just how much is possible in your dealings with women.

It’s easy to dismantle the pedestal when you read this:

Scott Peterson, the man who was convicted of murdering his wife and unborn child, had been on Death Row barely an hour when the first proposal arrived from a woman who wants to be the new Mrs. Scott Peterson.

Three dozen phone calls came in to the warden’s office on Peterson’s first day at his new home in San Quentin State Prison — women were pleading for his mailing address, and one smitten 18-year-old said she wanted to marry him.

18 years old. Scott Peterson was twice her age. So much for the theory that chicks get creeped out by older murderers men. Heh.

So think about that the next time you find yourself romanticizing the woman of your dreams. There are women who would take their chances with a sociopathic death row inmate over law-abiding nonmurderous free men they know.

Why I Love Abortion

Lost in the culture war clamor and feminist breast-beating is the fact that abortion has been very, VERY good for men, especially alphas who play the field. Think about the upsides:

• Abortion is a handy dandy escape hatch for men.

Sure, men aren’t the ultimate judge, jury and executioner of the fetus; that is a special privilege afforded only women — for now. (I’d like to see men have the legal right to abort their financial responsibility for any unwanted pregnancies. In the interest of fairness, you see.) But men have the next best thing — an open invitation and legal sanction for women to do the dirty work and absolve them of 18 years of imprisonment. It’s a bit of a crapshoot to rely on a woman’s whim, but it’s leagues better than accidentally impregnating a woman and having zero recourse to rectify the situation.

Anyhow, as a man, if you fuck around a lot, you’ll thank your libertine god that abortion exists as a viable alternative to forced fatherhood. Pro-choice means pro-player.

• Abortion is eugenic.

In theory, at least. In practice, as it is utilized in present day America, it’s more or less neutral, as those who would most benefit society by cleansing their wombs of the next generation are still going on to have more kids than their betters. But once people accept that our genetic heritage accounts for much of who we are (and with the science advancing in that direction by leaps and bounds it’s just a matter of time), abortion will come to be seen as a convenient method for ensuring only the prime grade A progeny make it through the vaginal canal.

• Abortion is the cure for what ails ya.

With constantly improving embryonic screening techniques for genetic or physical abnormalities, our gloriously abortifacient new world offers women and the men who love them the opportunity to prevent the misery and suffering of the doomed. For what could be more cruel than knowingly bringing to life a soul trapped in a twisted body or a stunted mind, wracked with pain and shame and exposed to a lifetime of horrible torment as objects of his affection forever elude him, his heart never to pulse with requited romantic love. I have nothing but seething hatred for those parents who willingly allow the births of babies with torturous afflictions.

• Abortion will spur anti-aging research.

The trend is couples having children later in life. But biology doesn’t care about trendiness. A 32 year old mother has a higher chance of giving birth to Quasimodo than a 23 year old mother. That is a fact. But the good times of extended adolescence are here to stay (yay!) so the growing number of older couples wanting normal healthy children, in conjunction with the child-delaying tactics of the abortion industry, will energize anti-aging research enabling people to extend every phase of their lives. If all goes well, 40 year old women may be first time mothers while still looking — and feeling — like 20 year olds.

• Abortion keeps a woman’s body looking hot.

‘Nuff said.

Many pro-choice feminists reading this post outlining my reasons for extolling the virtues of abortion will instinctively recoil in horror, despite my agreeing with them in the abstract. They will do this because my reasoning is to the benefit of men and, secondarily, society. And feminists have no desire to see to the interests of men. Where they are busy trumpeting the “autonomy” of a woman’s body and holding up coat hangers in victory signs, I am taking their arguments to their logical conclusions. But hey, ladies, you cut a deal with the devil when you wrested the power of the grim reaper, and now you have to accept the afterbirth of that decision. You have, unwittingly, made life easier for guys like me.

When you dance with the devil, the devil don’t change…
he changes you.

Wii Love

There is a lot of unspoken tension on the first two dates. Until you’ve had sex with a girl, that tension will always be there, and can’t be resolved until clothes are off and bodies pressing. This tension is good — it serves to keep both of you mentally sharp so you put your best face forward, and it motivates you to find a way to relieve the tension in sex. This is why when a girl decides after a lackluster first date that the guy is not worth banging she feels disappointment more than relief as the tension fizzles.

But too much tension makes you stiff and nervous. Then you’ll try too hard to compensate for how you’re feeling, anything to alleviate the discomfort. This is where the Wii shines. Next time you go out on a date tell her you’re taking her to a place that has Wii bowling. Watch her eyes light up!

The Wii is great for relieving the negative nervous tension while sustaining the positive sexual tension. You’re bumping into each other, you’re swinging your arms, you’re standing behind her guiding her arm on proper Wii bowling technique, and you’re making fun of each other. Wii boxing works, too. Imagine the unbridled joy of popping your virtual date with an uppercut. Actually, her joy will be greater. All girls secretly harbor a hidden desire to physically pummel the guys they are attracted to.

And the Wii characters are cute and cartoonish which appeals to a girl’s sensibility. Make sure she has a couple drinks in her before playing. Inebriated Wii torques the burning lust.

Close the deal with naked Wii Fit.

Giving Girls An Excuse To Approach You

Occasionally, as you stalk your way through the great veldts of vagina, prey will put itself in your mouth. If you look good, and look sharp, and are saying all the right things with your body language, maybe one woman each night you go out will make her interest in you blatantly obvious. Such obvious signs include smiling at you from across the room, looking back at you more than once, and pointing at you then pointing at her crotch and pointing back at you while mouthing “you, me?”

On very rare occasions she will approach you. It’s hard to overestimate the rarity of the female cold approach. Unless you are famous and need cuntblockers to keep women off you, you will be able to remember every time a girl approached you. The cold approach is probably the most glaring gender difference — women simply don’t do it, and men will get nowhere without it.

You can facilitate women approaching you if you give them an excuse. Ideally, a girl who likes your style and social aura will want you to come over to her, but if that doesn’t happen and she is an unusually assertive girl, she might walk over to you as long as you have something on or around you that she can comment on. This is what I call passive game — set it and forget it.

stylish red lighting sets the mood for grabass.

I was sitting on a barstool with my camera in my back pocket and the strap dangling out. A girl walked up to me and said she had a bet with her two friends (she pointed back at two girls ten feet away who were watching us) about the identity of the thing sticking out of my back pocket. (I liked the bet angle. This girl had game.) Of course I didn’t give her a straight answer. I told her it was my thong.

Other items that serve as handy excuses for girls to approach you:

an obvious condom packet impression in a shirt or pants pocket.
better yet, a condom pendant.
a woman’s lipstick kiss on your cheek (a Mystery staple).
a colored string or piece of cloth hanging out of your pocket or waistband.
a ball.
a nude girl pen tucked behind your ear.
a t-shirt with words in a foreign language.
a ring pop.

As you can tell, none of these things make any sense (except the kiss, you player). That’s good; it means they’ll work to coax a girl to comment on them. If you don’t like wearing feather boas, you can’t go wrong with these understated accoutrements.

Steroid Questions

I’m looking for some answers to questions I have about steroids and their use. This is for a, uh… book report. Anyone who has useful information or advice is encouraged to leave a comment.

What are the mild class of steroids?
Where and from whom can they be bought? Do users go to Mexico to stock up?
How much do they cost?
How are they cycled?
Is an estrogenic aromatase necessary during the down cycle?
This is important – are there any that don’t need to be injected? (I have a crippling phobia of needles ever since I saw a big guy poke another big guy who was bending over with his shorts down to his knees in the ass with a needle in a gym locker room.)
For those who take them – describe your experience. How much higher was your energy level on the juice?

Please spare me any moralizing. I have no interest in getting hyooge. And I know there are classes of roids that are relatively benign in their side effects, like Winstrol and Deca. I’ve been around enough doctors to know most of them have a reprehensible lack of knowledge about recent research in their fields of specialty. They toe the conventional wisdom. “Roids are baaad for you!” will get you nowhere here. I’m no drug warrior.

Oh yeah, and what are your opinions of HGH?

Sex And The City Movie

Any of my male readers who have seen this movie, voluntarily or not, are welcome to leave their observations in the comments. Feel free to use an anon handle if the shame is too great.

I’m curious to know your impressions. Was the movie hysterically anti-male? How many straight men were in the audience? During which scenes did the women in the audience shriek the loudest? What did your girlfriends/wives/female acquaintances like best about the movie? Will Sarah Jessica Parker win the Triple Crown?

I have a theory that SATC’s biggest psychological clit rub for adult female fans is the fantasy it portrays of women remaining sexually attractive to alpha males well into their 40s. A woman’s biggest fear is aging into sexual invisibility. SATC with its alternate universe of debauched unreality assuages that fear. It’s a feature length “You’ve still got it!” affirmation, allowing women the luxury of imagining the day of reckoning can be put off indefinitely. Unfortunately, in real life, Mr. Big glances right past Carrie Bradshaw at the hot fresh 21 year old waitress bringing his coffee.

I predict the 17-21yo female audience for this movie will be as small as the straight male audience.