Best Spam Titles

Horse in my pussy.

Let the big dick fairy bless you.

Knock down trees with your GIANTCOCK.

and an amalgam courtesy of the random generator:

Knock up alpha fairies and their cats with your horse cock.

Becoming a Minor Scenester Celebrity

in eight fab steps.

1. Identify your target demographic.

 2.   Dress the part.

3.   Frequent your designated list of certified hip venues.  Do not commit social hara-kari by showing up to the same place twice in one week.

4.   Take pics of yourself having fun in certified hip venues. Hold camera steady at arm’s length or recruit BFF/fuckbuddy.  Solicit ever-present amateur foreign photographer with tit flashing or pouty-lipped pose.

5.   Befriend someone in the circle jerk who runs a website dedicated to digitally archiving last night’s fun.  Because the only reason you are having fun is so that you can see pictures of yourself having fun the next day.

6.   Build fanbase of inquisitive internet onlookers with living vicariously issues.

7.   Repeat ad nauseum until you are having your picture taken unsolicited by fun-archiving friends who expect to have the favor returned.  Amuse yourself by logging into public forums to see how many angles they caught of you in jpeg format.  The new fishnet stockings and crotchless panties looking fine from floor-level perspective!

8.   Never look straight at the camera.  This shows you are too busy whoring attention and being a poseur to notice that someone is taking your picture.  Effect a calculated aloofness.  You’re set for 5-10 years of juicy coutureness.

Alternate Route:

Deal coke.

For guys, minor scenester celebrity (MSC) is a great way to get laid with other aspiring scenesters, even if you are ugly.  In fact, if you are ugly, go balls out ugly.  Shove it in people’s faces.  That’s called being authentic.

For girls, MSC will result in thermonuclear meltdown levels of female cattiness.  It is irrelevant to getting laid, except insofar that someone will now digitally archive in photos or rumors your propensity for spreading your legs.

The Late Night Shots dust-up inspired this post.

Dick Farm

The next time you hear a guy talk about the favorable female to male ratio in DC, show them this:

wingmans anonymous meeting

From a quick head count it looks like the men outnumber the women 3 to 1 in this picture.  I’d say this scene is representative of the majority of DC singles bars on any given weekend night.  Even if it’s technically true that there are more fertile-age women than men in DC it’s clear from the facts on the ground that these surplus women are all staying home crocheting sweaters for their cats or playing jenga.

There is no external factor that will impact a man’s success with women more than the sex ratio of the venue he attends.  No fancy analysis is needed to confirm this observation — it’s simple supply and demand market functions working on human psychology.  If there is one girl and ten guys vying for her attention she will get an inflated sense of her mating worth and it will show in her attitude.  The 6 will have the bitch shield of a 10 when there are enough guys giving her the time of day.  The trick is to meet women where their sexual market value is most accurately self-assessed.  That brazen 6 will be very accommodating when there are 8s and 9s all around her hogging the limelight.

An artificially boosted self-esteem means she is likely to test the waters and push for the best deal she can get by rejecting many early advances for the possibility of a better prospect opening her later in the night.  Your time and energy investment carries a much higher risk premium under these circumstances.

I am still surprised just how drastically a girl’s personality will shift when more guys flood her field of view.  It’s as if the hordes of swinging dicks release a pent-up princess.  She’ll start passively engaging the flirtations of every man hoping to absorb as much male attention as humanly possible to fuel a seizure of salf-satisfied preening.  For many women, receiving a sustained burst of positive feedback on their attractiveness to men can often be better than sex itself. 

With the deck stacked like this, certain game strategies are rendered inoperable.  Tactics like jealousy plotlines (making your target jealous by walking away from her to talk to another girl), pawning (using another girl that you have befriended to open your target easier), and calculated indifference (won’t work when ten other guys are hovering to jump in at any opportunity) need a somewhat balanced ratio to utilize effectively.

If you have the tightest of game, and believe personal growth can only come through putting your skills to the test, then knock yourself out at the dick farms.  You can demonstrate your prowess in comparison to the weak competition.

For those who prefer the path of least resistance, here are my suggestions for avoiding the sausage:

Stay away from places with egregious specials on cheap beer.  If it has $2 Miller Lites all night it’s a good bet the bar will smell like Axe.

Go out on weeknights instead of weekends.  The kinds of girls out on a weeknight are more motivated to meet someone.  There are fewer of them, but they’re easier to game.

Skip places that advertise through major promoters.  An Absolute Addiction promotion will summon the armies of douche darkness.

You can help.  If you want to improve the scenery and psychological profile of this ego-besotted city, as well as build the character of the women, try not to contribute to the visual pollution by rolling into venues with a cock posse twelve strong.  There are a few places in DC that have manageable ratios.  Chi Cha and Cafe Citron come to mind.  If you’re secure in your masculinity, you can also take my advice and hit up the gay bars.

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.

Girlfriend or Fling?

Player or Poseur gave me many minutes of quality entertainment, so in homage to that theme here’s something similar I call Girlfriend or Fling.  Examine the photo and figure out by superficial judgement alone if the girl(s) featured would make girlfriend material or good time material.  Does she look like the type of girl you could trust to be loyal and faithful, or would you be more likely to catch her dancing on a bar one night with a club monster sliding a hand under her skirt?

The girl on the left would make a solid girlfriend, assuming she met your attractiveness threshold.  The girl on the right would make an excellent one night stand.  She is dressed sluttier and is more assertive in her grinding.  Plus, playettes are always striking poses in order to draw attention to their bodies… their bread and butter for getting what they want.  Girls with better values and a stronger internal compass tend to smile warmly and sincerely at the camera, because they are trying to convey their personalities.

Date Girl #1 like she was a normal human being who would be happy to enjoy the pleasure of your company.  Wait 2 days before returning Girl #2’s texts and phone calls, and when you do set up a date, tell her to wear something revealing.

Addendum:

This photo gives a better idea of what kinds of traits men notice when deciding girlfriend potential.  These two girls are nearly equal in attractiveness (in fact, they might be sisters), so differences in beauty are neutralized as a variable.  Yet, the girl in the orange top has heartbreaker written all over her while the other looks more grounded.  Judging by their clothes is difficult since there is not much distance separating them, though the orange top plunges lower showing more cleavage, and lace is always indicative of sexual adventurism.

Like with the first pic, the smile says it all.  Blue shirt girl’s smile is natural, unforced, and inviting.  She doesn’t give the impression of hiding anything about her true character.  Orange shirt girl is looking seductively at the camera under heavy lids.  She is making love with the viewer, while blue shirt girl is making friends with the viewer.  I would feel safer dating blue shirt girl.

First Porn Experience

For most guys porn has been a part of his life since his first adorable little ejaculation.  It’s been a good friend, right there all along, assisting in quickie wanks, long drawn-out Saturday afternoon sessions, and walk-by chubbies at the office (pre-firewall days).  It’s helped to raise our standards of what we expect in bed from the women we date (another reason why women are getting sluttier.)  Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my first exposure to porn.

It was at my grandparents’ house.  I was exploring the basement when I came across a copy of The Joy of Sex in an old beige filing cabinet.  What a find!  The rush of excitement was instantaneous.  The pencil sketch drawings were thin gruel compared to today’s high res video on demand, but I was 14 and just saying the word “boobie” was enough to give me blue balls.  I pored over every single picture.  Eventually I got around to reading the words.

I don’t know what was skeevier — getting off to porn with my grandparent’s watching Jeopardy in the next room, or finding porn in their home, a place I used to think was holier than a confessional.  I’m pretty sure the book smelled like old people.  That didn’t stop me.

From then on I was a perverted pirate on a porn treasure hunt, always looking for my next fix.  Like women, the chase was almost as much fun as the viewing.  With each score I ratcheted up my demands for stronger, purer stuff.

My next big find was my parent’s underwear drawer.  Big honking VHS tapes with colorful scenes all over the sleeve.  I later learned that most of my friends found their parents’ porn in the underwear drawer as well.  I wondered if our parents got together on bridge night to discuss the best places to hide the porn from the kids.  In their infinite wisdom they decided under the granny panties.  Come on, that’s the first place a kid is gonna look knowing that’s exactly where his dopey parents will think he won’t look.  It wasn’t long before I found the vibrators and devices I still can’t identify to this day.

Porn is so ubiquitous now that the thrill of the chase is gone.  Kids these days have no idea what it was like back when we had to walk 5 miles through the snow, uphill both ways, dodging suicide bombers, to get to number 2 pencil sketches of vaj.  Today it’s log on, rub one out, get back to whatever you were doing.  There’s no anticipation.  It’s not Christmas morning anymore, it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon.

In the distant past when men had nothing but glimpses of ankle to masturbate to, actual sex must have been an earthshaking experience.  It must have been the kind of thing that men died for… and created civilization for.

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.