David Alexander, frequent blogosphere commenter, extraordinarily successful troll, and often self-contradictory advocate for the supposed virtues of the celibate omega male way of life, has started a church — The Church of David Alexander — and a new religion, Davidalexanderism.
Here is his First Article of Faith:
Article The First: Betas must not reproduce or impose themselves upon women. These women are unwilling, only wishing to steal your money perhaps or shower you with contempt.
Hey, if enlightened liberal SWPLs can invent a new cult religion worshipping Gaia and Her only begotten Sons, Anthropogenic Global Warming and Free Range Sea Salt, I don’t see why it’s any less irrational for David Alexander to have a church in His name where His flock goes to worship the greatness of His supernatural omegatude.
“I am the beta and the omega, the second from last and the last, the living end and the dead end.”
“I am beta am.”
“Go, be fruitless and masturbate.”
(Church of David Alexander website courtesy of reader Bhetti.)
I’ve been reading your blog for only a few short months now, so I’m not as polished on my alpha/beta (and their respective subsets) classification skills as I should be.
I presented clear and elegant definitions for the alpha/beta male in this post and for the alpha/beta female in this post.
I’m curious to know how you would understand this classic PUA who managed to wrangle me into bed. I wrote about the experience quasi-extensively here [REDACTED to protect reader's privacy], but in the case you don’t want a serious case of TLDR, I’ll give you the long and short of it:
I’m a 20 year old woman. I’ve been with four men, that number including the aforementioned PUA. On the whole, I’m fairly responsible with my sexual decisions. Two of the men I’ve slept with have been relative long-term engagements, the third was short-term, but I did have feelings for him. I consider myself fairly shrewd and astute intellectually considering my age and station in life, and don’t often let myself get manipulated. The PUA I slept with initially presented himself as thoughtful and intelligent, but also arrogant, circumventing most everything I was saying. He was a 24 year old budding lawyer; I am a philosophy student, so I held my argument fairly well, but in spite of what I said, he would be altogether dismissive without substantiating his claims. Normally, this would infuriate me, but I perceived it as a challenge, and it created an erotic situation. I slept with him on the second date.
By the third date, I was having unprotected sex with him (completely out of character), and allowed him to take my anal virginity with the full knowledge at this point, that he would be moving away to another city, and that he had slept with around 35 women. He wasn’t classically Alpha, in the sense that he didn’t play the aloof game. He would text me countless times in a day, call me at all times, and suggested, after only the second date, I stay over at his place to be able to greet him when coming home.
My venture is that he understood I normally didn’t go for the capital-A “asshole” type, so decided to humour me with semi-committal gestures. Semi-committal, in the respect that he would treat me with the complete familiarity of a significant other, but still managed to retain all of his arrogant airs. What breed of PUA is he exactly? I’m at a total loss.
Thanks,
S.
Four partners by 20 years old? According to studies, the median number of lifetime sex partners for American women is three (so really, it’s six, since we have to double whatever number women claim it is). You’re pushing slut territory, be careful how many more cocks you stack up throughout your 20s if you want to snag a quality man and you wish to avoid numbing your capacity for love and infatuation. Judging by your full name which you included in your email to me, you are probably European, so adjust the slut threshold to your particular sexual market accordingly. For instance, Russian chicks are notorious sluts, so if you are Russian four partners is known as “a warm-up”.
I’ve dated many women like you, S. Washington DC is filled with overeducated smart chicks who get turned on by men who can joust with them intellectually. It sounds like this putative PUA played to your type perfectly. He knew your pride rests on your self-identification as a smartie, so his gameplan was to impress you with his “thoughtful and intelligent” game. Then, once your outermost defense shield was breached, he amped up the haughty arrogance. You got aroused, a natural consequence when a woman is challenged. This is especially true of lawyer chicks and philosophy students such as yourself, who wilt into a puddle of warm vaginal juice when intellectually challenged by a man who is so confident in his opinions he doesn’t feel a need to justify them. He just irrationally assumes he is the most learned man in the world.
In the sexual marketplace where men sell themselves and women browse the bazaar for the best deals, irrational confidence beats rational doubt every time. EVERY TIME.
By the third date, I was having unprotected sex with him (completely out of character), and allowed him to take my anal virginity with the full knowledge at this point, that he would be moving away to another city, and that he had slept with around 35 women.
You sound like you could be one of my exes.
He wasn’t classically Alpha, in the sense that he didn’t play the aloof game. He would text me countless times in a day, call me at all times, and suggested, after only the second date, I stay over at his place to be able to greet him when coming home.
If a man has enough alpha cred in reserve, he can get away with what you wrote here. A man overflowing with arrogant confidence can risk these normally game-killing maneuvers and still come out on top. A clue as to why he can do this is in the last few words you wrote: “I stay over at his place to be able to greet him when coming home”. He is issuing a command. Your gina tingles for dominant men issuing commands, so you forgot all about how quickly he was rushing along the courtship.
Roissy Maxim #51: Commanding women to do your bidding will give you a bigger beta margin of error.
It is also possible, as you mentioned in your email, that your PUA is masterfully manipulating you with “beta provider game“, holding out the promise of a great future together. A classic ploy of a great seducer is to ASSUME THE SALE, which is why his assumption of familiarity and deeper bonding than has yet occurred worked so well on you.
His breed of PUA is clear: He is Sir Stephen, from the novel “Story of O”.
Email #2: “Tips for building a harem”
Heil!
I am 25 and cohabit with my girlfriend whom I knocked up. This is widely known. My female peers (other graduate students) have a habit of asking me “So, how’s your girlfriend?” in the next available conversational lull following even low level flirtation. I’ve taken the question as a brush off or as an opportunity to be a smart ass, depending on how it was said.
In general, what are the implications of a prospective girl asking about an established one?
g.
Heil? So let me get this straight. You live with a chick you knocked up, and you continue flirting with other women as if they were prospects to add to your “established” girl who is carrying your child in her womb. Really, I don’t know what to say, except… well done! You, sir, have been reading the Sixteen Commandments of Poon.
What are the implications of all this? Well, keep in mind the following:
Roissy Maxim #20: The gina tingle is the principal moral code to which women subscribe. All other moral considerations pale in comparison.
When you are flirting with these prospects and turning them on, they forget to care that you’re living with your pregnant girlfriend. Do not be surprised at how far you can take it. You are in a good position for fucking around and, if your game is tight enough, for building a harem of lovers and mothers. Your pregnant live-in girlfriend is utterly beholden to your support right now, so if she catches you cheating she is not likely to walk out. She will suck it up and get turned on by you even more. As an unmarried man with options, you have all the emotional leverage. Push for pregnancy threesomes.
Email #3: “I don’t *feel* like an 8.”
Hey Roissy, I sent you the hangover game submission a month or so back, it went well for me, I am still banging one of the girls I met that day, but she’s starting to get a little too testy so it’s on borrowed time. Thank god I’ve got options and game to spare.
But moving on…game as we know is essential, but in several posts (most recently the one about women’s insecurities) you make note of how women over 8 always need to be negged, 7’s need slight negging and 6’s barely need to be negged at all. True advice, I’m with you, the neg is a very important tool.
BUT…and this has befallen me several times in my life; what if you have an 8 with self-esteem issues? You know what I mean, the type of girl who is attractive, but constantly doubts herself and questions why you like her (answer: because she’s hot), shit like that. An 8 who thinks she’s a 6. I’ve had mixed results negging these girls; some of them acted like typical self-confident 8’s and loved it, others were just plain offended and never spoke to me again. Since these girls are (usually) more educated, quieter and more cultured than your typical hot and flaunting it 8’s, they have greater LTR appeal, and I would really like to know how I can step my game up to avoid this situation in the future.
R.
The neg is a fluid concept with results that will vary based on your market value as well as your target’s. Most 8s and above will need to be negged because most men are themselves ranked below 8 (and I don’t mean just based on looks). But men who are 8 and above might find it counterproductive to neg another 8. The same dynamic holds true the lower you go on the mate value scale. If your ranking as a man (taking all factors into consideration) is a 4, and you are hitting on a 6, you will need to neg her. If your ranking is a 9, you will only need to neg the very hottest babes to get your foot in the door. If you are David Alexander or Keith, you will need to neg everyone with a pulse.
A good rule of thumb: The larger the variance between the man’s mate value and the woman’s mate value, the stronger and more often he will need to neg her.
A corollary to the above rule is the Law of Hot Babe Entitlement: The hotter the woman, the less beta weakness she will tolerate in a suitor. What this means is that 8s, 9s and 10s will need at least one mild neg in the form of teasing from even high value men, simply because the hottest women know the value of their scarcity. Most men should be negging 8s and above by default.
(The opposite corollary is the Law of Alpha Man Entitlement: The higher value the man, the less commitment and ugliness he’ll tolerate in his targets.)
There are exceptions, and you listed one in your email. Some hot girls, especially foreign hotties who have immigrated from countries where the average man treated them like shit, don’t have a solid grasp of their sexual power. Hot girls (and by “hot” I use the ISO definition of 8 and higher) who date only assholes also suffer from this low self-esteem problem, as they are used to men treating them as if they were 6s and lower. If you are a high value man, truly low self esteem hot girls may become offended by your negs.
On the flip side, if you are lower status than her, she could become offended because you delivered your neg with a hint of bitterness. Many betas learning game have the most trouble nailing down the concept of the neg and putting it into action. I have seen too many guys deliver their negs with the wrong tone and timing. The neg is based in science, but its execution is an art. If you’re getting a lot of “That was rude!” comments to your negs, you are probably doing something wrong.
Unfortunately, there is no way to consistently predict which hot chicks will react poorly to your negs. You could try qualifying a hot girl — e.g.: “Would you say that you’re creative?” — early in the interaction, to coax out any low self esteem issues. If she reveals her inner basketcase, then hold off on the negs.
Educated hot girls are more likely than low class hot girls to have had LTRs with provider betas. If you are finding that the classy hot chicks you hit on don’t react well to your negs, it may be because they are accustomed to getting their asses kissed by men they dated. Your neg may be too much of a shock to her system, especially if it is based on something about her appearance. Try negging a smart, classy broad on her bloated ego, her sense of entitlement, or her useless humanities degree. (”Oh, you have a women’s studies degree? How cute!”)
The good news is that the exceptions you are encountering are rare. Most girls, including the educated ones, will respond very well to a neg. Your default mode should continue to be “Neg first, ask questions later”, because no matter how much a girl acts offended her pussy will have tingle-tangled when you negged her. They can’t help themselves.
The next time one of these snooty chicks acts offended, don’t backpedal; just ignore her protestations and plow as if her annoyance was irrelevant. Which it is. If she really acts pissed, wordlessly give her the backturn. She was just a bitch itching for a fight.
Email #4: “No skin off my pecker.”
Roissy,
Over the weekend, I opened a mixed group, acknowledged/introduced myself to everyone and started conversation with my targeted blonde. we chatted for about 3 minutes, when her friends (both male and female) decided I wasnt worthy. Essentially I was ousted by the group – the blonde dried up and the interaction ended.
My question, is there a tastefully, witty, alpha-like way to eject yourself from a situation like this??
I did leave the set with the “it was nice to meet you” line and immediately opened up another chick within an eyeshot of the first group.
Love the blog – I go under “3point5″ when I comment.
Thanks for your insight,
J.
It sounds like you turned your attention to the target too quickly. If I had to guess, I’d say you could’ve stayed in set if you had included everyone else in your conversation longer than you did. Barring that assumption, they just didn’t like you. Even the top alphas can’t expect to win everyone over.
The line you used — “nice to meet you” — is fine. It’s the standard eject line for a busted set. And you reasserted your value by immediately hitting on another girl, so I don’t think you could have played it much better than you did, without sounding like you are trying too hard to rescue a bad situation.
You don’t want to use lines that draw any attention to your banishment by the group, so avoid trying to be humorous by saying stuff like “Well, I can see my jokes aren’t going over so well here!”. Also, don’t sound like a defeated man by saying “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”
If in the future in similar scenarios you want to eject with more alpha oomph than you did here, you could totally ignore your ousters and say directly to the target “I might talk with you when you’re more free.” This is direct and forceful, but also risky. Do not smile when saying it.
Another option would be to simply WALK OFF and say nothing. You’ve got to be perceptive of social dynamics and know when a set is starting to head south, so you give yourself a chance to walk away in silence before it becomes obvious the group is kicking you out.
Your email reminds me that the march of life can be summed up as a quest to save face and to get the upper hand. All done in service to nailing down the best deals we can get in the sexual market. That’s pretty much it, in a nutsack.
A reader sent me this photo of a bunch of DC bartenders who won some sort of bartending awards for best in business. The quality of the photo is not good, but it’ll have to do. The previous “Spot the Alpha” post was a big hit with the ladies.
Usually the alpha male (or female) is the most comfortable-looking person in the room. Who looks most comfortable to you in this photo? Who is the alpha male?
The three guys on the left look the most uncomfortable. Their bodies are stiff and their faces are studies in expressionless reserve. Their fashion sense is conservative. Two of the men are holding their drinks with both hands above belt level. Verdict: Solid provider betas.
The tall, striped tie smiley guy in the back row looks like a frat boy. He’s confident and happy — currency he trades for female attention – but it’s the confidence of the class clown. Verdict: Greater beta.
The Disco Stu guy in the middle with the wide collared, unbuttoned shirt and spiky haircut is a PUA. Well, I don’t know this for sure, but that would be my guess. I bet he’s in the community. The telltale signs are there — regular tanning booth customer, extra-wide smile, looking straight into the camera lens, hands all over the ladies (the fat one is enjoying it). There are a lot of short guys in the PUA community. I leave it as an exercise for the reader why this is so. Verdict: Lesser alpha.
The fat girl should not be a bartender. You gotta have face to move product.
The semi-cute Latina looking girl definitely likes it in the pooper.
The goth dude with the intense gaze of a thousand Mongol warriors (or of a thousand brooding adolescents in detention for scratching devil symbols into school desks) has captured the essence of lone wolf, “I’m a rebel, Dottie” game. He is the Sneaky Fucker, or the Niche alpha. His dark style is deliberate, and he wears it well from years of welding it directly to his identity. He’s creepy looking, which I’m sure was his intention. He’s a natural peacocker, and in normal environments will stand out just enough to attract some female attention in the 4-7 range. (In his own environment — Black Cat perhaps? — he is more comfortable and probably has a stable of cokehead groupies.) Outside in the light, he cannot go head to head with a natural alpha, as most brooders are too introverted and retiring to exercise the necessary social dominance to attract the maximum number of hot babes. When he retreats from gaming the truly quality chicks in a normal, non-vampiric milieu, he will likely tell himself they were beneath him anyway. He may also be a PUA of the Mystery Method school. Verdict: Lesser alpha.
The droopy-faced man standing to the left of goth dude (to the viewer’s right) is vanishing. He’s representative of the mass of nondescript betas that swarm around women like so much dust in the wind. Verdict: Lesser beta.
The short, Harold Ramis looking guy with glasses to the left of invisible man is an interesting case study. He shares much on certain alpha metrics with Disco Stu guy. He seems to have a sense of style, confident body language, liberal use of resting his hands on other people, and a smiling, upbeat facial expression, but because he looks like a dork he is less alpha than Disco Stu. He needs to tone down the smile to avoid looking “try hard”. I would also tell him to get Lasik, and a new hair style. Judging by his high forehead, he’s a smart guy, and so will understand and heed my advice. Harold Ramis guy is your classic fun-loving, sociable nerd who sometimes annoys girls with his bold, but charmless, approaches. Verdict: Beta.
Finally, the Matthew McConaughey looking dude on the far right of the photo. He looks the most comfortable and self-assured of all the men. Note the perfect hint of a smile — not too forced, not too pinched. What does this say? It says “You, cameraman, have not yet won me over.” His style is good; fashionable without tipping over into silly peacocking. His chin is held slightly higher than parallel with the ground, which subcommunicates alphaness. His body stance is strong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were standing contrapposto when this photo was taken. Also note he does not put his hands on anyone; he doesn’t need to. Guys who are constantly resting their hands on other guys’ shoulders are playing dominance games. True alphas do not need to do this. They have enough alpha credit to spare that lending their shoulders as a prop for lesser men to climb upon does not lower their value. One more thing to note: He is neither holding a drink nor shoving his hands in his pockets. It is alpha to keep your hands at your sides, relaxed, with a slight bend in the elbow to avoid the perception of stiffness. Verdict: Natural Alpha.
Interestingly, I would bet it’s not Natural Alpha who has banged the most girls. I would give that honor to Disco Stu.
Congratulations, Edmund Andrews, reporter for the New York Beta Times (AKA “All The Lies That’re Fit To Foist”), you are our May 2009 BOTM winner! You, sir, are a beta. Hang your head proud, shuffle your feet with joy, you represent the worst of what it means to be a man. May your aged Argentine wife’s future boob job drive you into bankruptcy a second time. May her yoga instructor avoid eye contact with you.
June 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by reader cz. It’s a news report about an heir to a billion dollar media empire in Australia who gets publicly humiliated over and over and over again by Australia’s version of the DC lawyer cunt. A photo of the loving couple practically tells the story:
Ever notice how some women just *look* like bitches, before they’ve said one word? Is it her arrogant, smug mug? Her fuel-injected chin? Her severe hairstyle? Hmm, who does she remind me of… who could it be now?
So what makes Ryan Stokes, the billionaire heir in this story, a contender for betatude above and beyond the call of pity? Is it the fact that his girlfriend snorts coke with a badboy biker and, if I were a betting man, likely has taken his kickstand long and hard up her ass?
MEDIA heir Ryan Stokes has remained in Broome while his troubled girlfriend Jodi Gordon tried to avoid the limelight after she was linked to a cocaine-fuelled bender with a Kings Cross bikie. [...]
Police found her in the unit of the suspected Rebel bikie member [Mark Judge], said to be allegedly suffering from the effects of illegal drugs. [...]
Judge, a tattooed hard man said to be a member of the Rebels, is serving a two-year suspended jail sentence after pleading guilty to the 2005 assault of a Newcastle man. He faces sentencing on further charges (detaining and occasioning bodily harm on a Llandilo man) later this month in Penrith District Court.
Or is it the fact that his lovely girlfriend has a history of slutting it up and rubbing his high society face in it?
It is not the first time Gordon’s public behaviour is said to have affected her relationship witStokes. In February, The Sunday Telegraph reported the pair had argued after Gordon wanted to continue partying “beyond her curfew” on her 24th birthday.
Last year at the Ivy Gordon was allegedly seen crying before “knocking back” shots and openly flirting with men and women.
Or perhaps it’s that he’s engaged to a whore who has a penchant for hanging out with shady underworld figures?
Gordon is a regular on the Kings Cross circuit, friendly with club owners Dave Evans and Julian Tobias among others.
She often frequents Darlinghurst Rd club The Piano Room, a notorious hang-out for celebrities and underworld figures, where she met with Judge before returning to his apartment.
A Seven spokeswoman denied Stokes and Gordon were engaged, despite Gordon sporting a diamond ring on her wedding finger last Friday.
…and then in typical amoral female fashion, absolving herself via testimonials from friends of any personal responsibility:
“Jodi’s holding up: she’s a strong, stoic girl, but she is also acutely aware of the damage she’s done,” a friend of Gordon said.
“She’s devastated that she’s caused so much turmoil. (She’s) honestly appalled by what’s happened.”
Translation: “I feel bad that people are freaking out about this. It was out of my hands. What was I supposed to do? My gina tingled!”
No, it’s none of those things that catapults Mr. Stokes to BOTM nominee. Dirty, soulless, ballchopping sluts are a dime a dozen. What pushes Stokes into the rarefied atmosphere of truly mythical betas is the fact that he’s a FUCKING BILLIONAIRE HEIR WHO COULD GET HIMSELF A BETTER BITCH TOMORROW if he had ANY BALLS AT ALL. Instead, he suffers his cheating, whoring, lying, floozy girlfriend’s humiliation and begs for more. If you are a man with options, there is only one thing you say to a Jodi Gordon after you discover she’s been in the company of an ex-con biker:
Get the fuck out.
***
June 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by reader db. Drum roll please…
No I don’t have to cook, one of my exes comes over and cooks enough for me and my son for the whole week. (He’s Italian and loves to cook). As for the cleaning, he does the things I hate like dishes and sweeping but the rest I do myself because I have OCD and am VERY particular about the way things are in my home.
Hm. I see. So let me get this straight. Your ex comes over to cook a week’s worth of meals for you and your bastard child, sweeps your fucking house and does the dishes because those are the chores you hate the most, has to deal with your fucked up OCD issues and Teutonically grating, unfeminine personality, and gets…
Lady Raine, you attract second-rate men into your life. SECOND RATE. Say it to yourself. You are a prematurely aging, BMX biker banging, single mother who has her pick of SECOND RATE low self esteem loser betas.
You’re a winner!
Now of course you will probably protest that your Italian ex is handsome, caring, assists you of his own free will, and can fuck you like a champ, if you so choose to let him. Unfortunately for you, none of that is relevant. All that matters is the fact that Antonio Eunuchio does slave work for you and gets nothing in return but your annoying flapping gums. This instantly puts him in the running for BOTM.
I’m feeling in a generous mood, so I will leave you once again with some valuable advice I gave you in the comments of my blog not too long ago (which, naturally, I don’t expect you to heed):
you [Lady Raine] claim you are OK with an assortment of random short term pump and dumps and loveless flings, as long as you have your LIFE and your HOBBIES and your bastard SON and your YOU GO GIRL amen chorus of eunuch omegas and low class allentown high school dropout girlfriends to keep you occupied, but i guarantee that in a few years when your looks have completely cratered and you can’t even find a halfway decent man who isn’t a total beta loser willing to spend the minimal effort to fuck you for a few nights, nevermind willing to stay with you and your unfortunate spawn from a DUI-collecting loser badboy, and when the prospect of love from a good man — deep true amazing soul-nourishing love — is lost to you forever, you WILL feel the cold shadow of desperation trace its gnarled finger down the back of your neck and spine.
and you will shiver, remembering my words.
and as for your breathless contention that as a woman you don’t have to worry that you’ll never get laid again, i have two words for you: quality matters. an aging single mom can get laid, but she’ll only be able to do so by gradually lowering her standards. most single moms manage something like this by lying to themselves and to blog audiences about the steadily declining quality of men they are bagging. i’ve no doubt an arrogant cunt so completely lacking in self-awareness like yourself with do exactly that. right now, it’s low SES bikers and italian eunuchs who orbit your shriveling vagina. soon, it will be urine-soaked homeless bums and david alexander clones.
of course, one day not too far in the future, 5 years or so, your standards will have been forced to bottom out so low that you find it easier on your ego to abdicate men altogether instead of suffering the indignity of laying listlessly through awkward, arid rutting with weaselly sycophantic suckup betas or suffering the shame of spreading for yet another 50-ish drunken lout with a boob tattoo on his chest and a penchant for expressing his rage through cigarette burns on your arm. and then you will tell everyone here how happy you are that you don’t need a man in your life. you are an INDEPENDENT WOMAN.
and no one will believe you.
and when the pain and horror of your life begins to pile up on your psyche like a staten island landfill or the waiting list at the allentown battered wife shelter, not even you will believe yourself.
now, you could follow my advice and do the smart thing before it’s too late:
LEARN TO SETTLE.
but i don’t think you’re that smart, so i’ll just laugh at your pain instead as i twist the shiv of reality deeper into your overtanned prematurely wrinkled patent leather husk.
oh and here’s a very special ps just for you: in fifteen years, when you are 43 and looking 103, you WON’T EVEN BE ABLE TO GET LAID without paying for it or frantically flirting like a sad mangy cougar with the absolute lowest of CHUD-like, shambling losers and male detritus. you can pretty much give up on your dream of forever banging younger betas who worship the floor-length dangle of your labia.
Lady Raine, you once asked why I give you a hard time. The answer is this: I enjoy making an example of you. It amuses me.
***
June 2009 BOTM Candidate #3 was submitted by reader Thursday. It’s an article written by Rod Dreher, syndicated columnist, one-time National Review contributor, and self-described “crunchy con” (read: religious, Luddite hippie social conservative). Rod writes about adultery. His words betray the soul of a beta:
I’ve been thinking a lot over the past day about why I have such intensely strong emotional reactions to news about adultery, comparable to my fierce reactions to news about child abuse. It’s perhaps a bit odd, because I grew up in a family in which no one committed adultery, and no children were abused (a friend of mine, though, suffered through his father’s abandoning his mother and him when he was a boy, and is far more emotional on the topic than I am). The best explanation I can come up with is that I am a papa bear about my wife and kids. I really am. I would give up my life without a second thought for any of them, and I struggle every day to be worthy of them. If my wife ever committed adultery, under most circumstances (i.e., true contrition and repentance), I would hasten to forgive her, not only because I love her that strongly, but also because I would see it as my duty, in love, to do whatever I could to make our marriage whole again, for the sake of the children. That said, I honestly don’t know if I could live with myself if I were unfaithful to my wife, nor do I imagine myself capable of receiving her forgiveness. I know that is disordered, but were I to betray her, I’d also be betraying my children, and the thought that I had done such a thing to my wife and kids is one of the worst things I can imagine.
“Struggle every day to be worthy of them.” “I would hasten to forgive her.” “… my duty, in love,… for the sake of the children.”
These beliefs reveal a rotten, fearful beta core. Yes, I said rotten. Rotten because they show a man who would sooner betray his masculine essence than face up to the truth of human nature, and in particular the amoral nature of women. Fearful because they expose his lack of faith in himself that he could go out and find another woman who would respect his sexual and emotional desires. Rod, here’s a news flash: There is no God, your wife is not a saint sanctified by your love, and she’s not worth your abject forgiveness no matter what she does. What Would Doormats Do? They would do like you say.
Rod, know this: If you discover your wife has cheated once, that means she has cheated hundreds of times. And she LOVED it. She LOVED taking the other man’s cock deep into her pussy, all the way up to the cervix, where the tip brushed with the depths of her womanhood and sent shock waves of pleasure through every inch of her body. Are you visualizing this yet, Rod? Good. Now that you have that image burning your retinas, let me explain to you what a real man does when he experiences the ultimate betrayal:
He dumps the whoring bitch.
No ifs, ands or buts. No appeals to your better angel. No clinging like a barnacle to societally useful concepts like duty, honor and forgiveness. No last ditch leaning on a supernatural being to credit your sacrifice with points toward fast tracking through the pearly gates.
You dump the whoring bitch.
Do you think it helps women… do you think it helps SO-CI-ETY… if all men acted in the honorable fashion you prescribe and forgive their cheating wives? What happens when you REWARD bad behavior? As a conservative, you should know. You get more of it.
And if it’s the children you’re worried about, there are alternatives to handing over your BALLS to a whore in utter, daily humiliation. You could work to change the ri-fucking-diculous divorce laws in this country so that when a wife cheats the children are automatically removed from her and remanded to your custody. Then guess what, Rod? You get the kids AND you get to be single again and chase some new, fresh skirt at Bible study. Trust me on this, Rod, new pussy is AMAZING.
That said, I honestly don’t know if I could live with myself if I were unfaithful to my wife, nor do I imagine myself capable of receiving her forgiveness. I know that is disordered, but were I to betray her, I’d also be betraying my children, and the thought that I had done such a thing to my wife and kids is one of the worst things I can imagine.
Words to projectile vomit to. So Rod would forgive his wife’s cheating, but he might kill himself if he ever cheated. Rod, go back to the visualization exercise I wrote just above. Read it again. Still think that the worst thing you can imagine is yourself cheating?
Jesus Castrati Christ, the main problem with the postmodern West is that so many men have forgotten they have a sack between their legs. And so many more, like Rod, are telling men with any sack left to lop it off for the Lord.
That said, I really don’t feel the least compelled to give up my high view of marriage and family.
That’s OK, with the sanction of the anti-male state, plenty will give it up for you.
We live in a time and place in which the integrity of the family is under constant assault, not least by an egotistical culture that exalts sexual pleasure and self-fulfillment, and casts aside ideals of fidelity and self-sacrifice for the greater good.
I want my sons to grow up knowing that it is both good and honorable to see women as worthy of utmost respect, and the women they pledge fidelity to before God in the sacrament of marriage to be worth dying for, which is to say, worth living fully for.
What if the woman fucks around? Some women aren’t worthy of respect, either yours or your sons.
I want my sons to carry in their hearts a natural repugnance at the thought of infidelity, not so much because it offends God (though it does), but because it is a defilement of a covenant made in love.
Grand words, but why stop at your sons? Shouldn’t a man hold a cheating wife to the same standard? Or is her cheating not quite as repugnant? I suppose if you take the modern warped view of Christianity you’d find it easier to forgive the dear darling pedestaled princess than to forgive yourself. You’re like one of those beaten cuckolded men who lash themselves mercilessly with the self-taunts “If only I had been there for her. It’s my fault she spread for another cock.”
And I want my daughter to think and feel the same way about marriage — that it requires sacrifice of one’s selfish passions, and the transformation of them into active love for one’s spouse and children — and not to settle for a man who has a lesser view.
The best way to teach your daughter this lesson is to leave your wife should she ever cheat on you. Oh, and it’s probably not a good idea to inculcate an aversion to settling. Family gatherings take on a dark pallor when your daughters and sisters attend as aging cougars.
By the way, don’t think for a minute your marriage will ever be the same after your wife is caught cheating. Unless you have the fortitude and willpower to dump your bad beta habits for a good alpha attitude adjustment, your wife, no matter how penitent, will never tingle in her gina for you ever again. And lest you nurse ignorance about this, a gina tingle is the only moral code that women subscribe to. So really, if you want to enjoy the pleasure of a loving, sexually avaialable wife into your dotage, you have only two options when confronted with infidelity: Leave her, or learn Game.
and how important it is to get it straight in your head from the beginning that once you marry, and especially once you marry and have children, your life is no longer your own.
Yet another reason to not get married.
But breaking a family through infidelity and divorce is a deep wound, and always an occasion of the most profound sorrow.
Admonitions of sorrow are such a beta giveaway.
That’s not how it is with us these days. To quote C.S. Lewis on our moral state, “We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and then bid the geldings to be fruitful.”
C.S. Lewis’ words are pointed like a dagger straight at your own beta heart, Rod.
What I can’t get straight in my head, when it comes to marital infidelity, especially when children are involved, is the difference between mercy and cheap grace.
I was out at an 80s night at one of DC’s popular nightclubs with a couple of women. We had earlier bounced from a lounge to dance the weeknight away in the middle of a crowd dressed in Top Gun aviator suits. Reader “maurice” had assisted yours truly at the lounge when he introduced a cute blonde and her friend. We had a great time, and sparks were flying between me and the blonde, thanks to my incessant teasing. If she had 100 ponytails, my game was the equivalent of pulling all 100 on the playground.
“Maurice” departed when we left for the next club, leaving me to entertain to the fullest extent of my capability the two women in my company. Unfortunately, I was dog tired, so my game was less than sharp. At the club, I took it easy, leaning back and enjoying the spectacle of the crowd, (although not enjoying so much the ear-piercingly loud music). Meatheads were hitting on the blonde in my company all night – I was getting AMOGed (Alpha Male Other Guy) like it was going out of style – but because of my listlessness all I did was smirk from the bar and raise my glass to her as guy after guy came up behind her grinding into her ass. This was maximum aloof game, and it worked because my aloofness was genuine.
After a while, the blonde’s friend, who I had been talking with off and on during the night, leaned into my ear and shouted over the cheesy music that the blonde needed “a lot of attention” and I had to be “really aggressive” if I wanted to have a shot with her. At first, I was skeptical. Don’t all girls “need attention”? But she offered this insider information with such sincerity that I put aside my doubts and decided to shake off my lethargy and march in strong, with Eye of Tiger. I grabbed the blonde, ran my hands up and down her body, danced with her, spun her around, gave her sexy compliments (not too many), and made out. Very nice lips.
The advice was money. It worked. Later, I reflected on the night. The world is full of cockblockers — bitter girls who live and breathe for their chance to sabotage a budding romance between their friend and a cool guy — but once in a while you will have the pleasure to meet an anti-cockblocker. She is the rare woman who truly wishes to help her friend meet a great guy, and if you pass the perfunctory initial tests she will go out of your way to help you.
So here’s to you, cockbuddy, cock accomplice, cockbacker, you make the world a better place, and you made this demon’s heart grow three sizes that night.
Maybe the greatest TV half hour ever. This episode is perfection from beginning to end. The Ring.
There is very little in TV and film that promulgates the Roissy worldview. My themes are beyond the pale, which really means the truth is beyond the pale. South Park comes close. The Wire, too. Swingers and Roger Dodger contain elements of Roissyism. In The Company Of Men was brutally Roissy. I’ve noticed that women who have seen Neil LaBute’s masterpiece universally hated it, when in reality they would be all over the type of men portrayed by Aaron Eckhart’s smooth talking, manipulative alpha character.
A lot of Hollywood’s critically-acclaimed “dark” films aren’t truthful, they’re just subversive, which is not necessarily the same thing. I don’t think unflinchingly candid films stripping to the bone the monstrously human motivations of all the characters, including the sympathetic protagonists, do very well because people don’t want to be reminded of their true, ugly natures. Is there a more powerful cognitive bias than self-delusion?
Based on the sketchy evidence that has come in so far, I don’t think this possibility can automatically be ruled out. Will we discover from the autopsy that his body was flooded with a massive dose of the painkiller Demerol? If so, was the overdose intentional or accidental?
What we know: Michael Jackson was 50. For a guy who didn’t want to grow up, turning 50 must have been a hammer blow to his already fragile prepubescently regressed psyche. He was in debt. Did the stress of a new worldwide tour to get him back in the black (innuendo intended) push him to the ultimate despair? He was underweight. As people age, their metabolisms slow and they begin packing on the unsightly pounds. There are only two (natural) ways to stay adolescent-thin as you age: Exercise, or eat a lot less. Michael Jackson didn’t look very healthy. Most likely, he solved the problem of middle age spread by drastically cutting down the amount of food he put in his mouth. Prolonged (as opposed to intermittent) intense calorie restriction can play havoc with a person’s psychological state, not to mention his health. Michael Jackson wanted to be white. No sense pussy-footing around that, it was as obvious as the caucasian inspired reconstruction of his face and skin, and his (very) white-looking kids. Did his living with being black finally tumble over into self-immolation?
Most importantly, Michael Jackson was fucked in the head from his father’s mistreatment. The manboy was robbed of a childhood (imagine having to hear your brothers banging groupies at the age of 11 as you hide under the bedsheets sticking your fingers in your ears). Jackson was a genuinely asexualized, emotionally stunted, and fantasy-prone age-regressed headcase. Did he believe, or want to believe, that he was still an 11 year old boy? It’s possible Jackson really did see himself as a little kid and it felt natural and normal to him to have boys over for slumber parties. Whether his adult-sized id led him to rest his chemically bleached penis in those kids’ hands is an open question, but does the pedophilic sexual urge of an adult necessarily have to be mutually incompatible with psychological self-identification as a young boy?
If Jackson imagined he was a boy, he would have most feared getting old. For him, aging would have been an encroaching horror he was unable to grasp, let alone cope with in the way most humans cope with the slow decay of their bodies — through the liberal use of happy clappy platitudes and a healthy sense of self-delusion. If you wake up and see a creature in the mirror looking less and less like the boy you think you are, it could send you off the cliff edge. Especially when the real boys you like having over for pillow fight parties start becoming more creeped out by “the old man” who wants to play with them.
Add up all the above, and the speculation of suicide as the cause of Jackson’s death seems reasonable.
Thoughts on Farrah Fawcett:
Cancer sucks, but anal cancer is just humiliating. How does one get anal cancer? I can think of three ways. Random misfortune, eating too much red meat, or taking HPV-positive cocks in the ass. The mind wanders…
Thoughts on celebrity deaths in general:
I’ll never get the outpouring of grief by people who have never met their cultural heroes and don’t know them from Adam. I must be missing the gene for abject celeb worship. When Diana died, the maudlin displays of garment-rending anguish reaffirmed my deeply felt disgust for the mass of humanity. Fucking no-life losers.
When someone I love dies, it’s a big deal. When a pop singer dies, I couldn’t give less of a shit. Unless I’m writing a dastardly blog post insinuating everyone’s blessed icon offed himself.
Thoughts on Michael Jackson and Game:
When a get rejected, I moonwalk away from the girl.
I think Virgle Kent could do a funny retrospective on the Gloved One.
‘Beat It’ was my favorite MJ song. Eddie Van Halen composed the guitar riff for ‘Beat It’. Does it matter that Michael Jackson didn’t write any of his songs? As a music snob and hobbyist guitarist/drummer/clarinetist/pianist, I used to be of the opinion that “pop stars” who didn’t write a lick of music were unworthy of stardom, but that’s a limited view. MJ had a distinctive singing voice, he was a great dancer and popularized a lot of innovative dance moves, and he had charisma, however eccentric. His hit songs are catchy and he had a flair for showmanship. Composing music isn’t the only measure of talent.
Here is how I responded (or would respond) to the game challenges I posed in Tuesday’s post.
Part A
“You’re ten minutes late.”
“I don’t *feel* tardy.”
She doesn’t laugh. “Are you always late for dates?”
You pause. She’s reacting to your lack of punctuality worse than most women.
What do you do?
I stared at her for an uncomfortable two seconds, mentally wrote her off as a date-worthy prospect, and said “The problem is that you came right on time. No DC girl does that.” This reply seemed to mollify the bitch in her. Thinking back, the emphasis I gave to the words *RIGHT ON TIME* implied that she was more invested in the date than I was. I believe this caused a subtle shift in power to my benefit.
Best reader answers
el chief and his classic Asshole game (although I’d just use his second line):
Look around like Stevie Wonder, and say in a German accent: “Mother is that you? I’m sorry mother. I von’t be bad again.” Then laugh. Then order a beer.
If she presses say “Gimme a fuckin break. I thought you said you were fun and easygoing?”
Another version of Asshole game is One Word Game. One commenter suggested answering her pointed question like this: “Maybe.” Short, sweet, leaves ‘em wanting more of your dominance.
I think One Word Game will be the next big thing in pickup science. It is my contribution to expanding the oeuvre. Look at the pros and cons. Pros: It’s mysterious, requires little memorization, saves you from paralysis by analysis, doesn’t smack of try-hard, gets you into her head, and captures the essence of ambiguity that so tempts the typical woman to fantasize scenarios involving your penis in her vagina. Cons: Can be misconstrued.
roosh’s genuine but uncompromising Superior Man game:
“If you’re in a bad mood we can reschedule the date no problem.” Definitely no smirk or smiles. Laser eye contact. If she leaves then you just saved yourself a couple hours of hell.
Brad demonstrates the power of Turn-The-Tables game:
I smile, stare at her right in the eye, HOLD… HOLD… and then say: “You missed me that much, huh? Well, I guess I can understand that..”
Firepower drops funnyman game:
“chill, baby – I’m only late when I’m pulling babies from burning buildings…and, maybe for girls I like.”
I’d dispense with the second half of his response. Similarly, I think a funny answer that could work would be: “Yeah, it was a rush for me to get here, but I had to take my sick mother to the doctor and feed orphaned babies, and I figured you’d be understanding about that. Like, WOW, I’d hate to meet a girl who was against sick mothers and orphaned babies!”
Fenton offered an example of witty game that works (i.e. note the succinctness):
“Well, you’ve been waiting four days, what’s ten more minutes?”
Most of the rest of you gave answers that were too nasty, too defensive, or too clever by half. Your goal isn’t to piss the girl off, nor is it to impress her with your Shakespearean wit. She isn’t worth your effort, yet, right?
To the commenter who wrote that the best reply is the Cary Grant “Big Face” push followed by draining her drink while signaling the waitress to come over for another order, I commend you sir. If anything will set America back on the path of world-bestriding hyperpuissance, it will be the big face.
Lady Raine, as usual, gave the opposite answer of what you should do.
Part B
Your date mentions she reads local DC blogs and likes most of them, and you wonder about bringing up your Roissy fandom [...]
There is only one acceptable response to this situation. You steal my ideas to use as conversational fodder without mentioning you read me. I am such a fucking humanitarian.
Part C
Same as above, except this time, before you have decided whether to announce your everlasting platonic love of Roissy, your date mentions she has read Roissy and hates him. [...]
Your response should be the same as Part B. Don’t reveal you’re a reader, then change the subject. What are you, my eunuch servant who screens concubines for me? If she hates me, she’s masturbating to thoughts of me at night. Why boost my status even higher?
There is a catch in this particular situation. You have the option to play beta white knight to the hilt (see: Keith, Cliff Arroyo, DA, Jessica Valenti’s husband, any random urban liberal SWPL off the street) and say you have read Roissy as well and TOTALLY agree with her that he is a foul, bitter misogynist who probably doesn’t get laid and his ideas are all wrong, 1950s Ozzie and Harriet throwback shit and he uses women like a sperm receptacle. Then tell her how you feel privileged to have almost been aborted by your mother, and the biggest injustice in the world is that gay marriage isn’t yet accepted by Afghan goat herders. After you have massaged her ego, you slyly wonder aloud if maybe Roissy is right about this or that subject and suddenly you are having a rollicking conversation with her and your hand is resting too high up her thigh.
I should bottle this magic.
Part D
You are me. You are on the date with the girl from the above story and have been talking with her about the book you are writing. She is intrigued. A little later in the date, she mentions she reads a lot of local blogs. She says there are some she reads that she really hates. You nod again. Then she asks you if you write a blog.
What do you say?
I lied.
She also mentions she ran a triathlon the day before.
Now what do you do?
Go big or go home. Same night lay or number deletion. Chicks who participate in triathlons are almost universally unfeminine. And by unfeminine, I don’t mean her looks, I mean her attitude. These kinds of women are at war with their femininity. It is the essence of yang polarity to take up personal challenges and compete against the limits of one’s endurance and pain threshold. This is what men do. When women do it, it’s unnatural, a big middle finger to the sex she was born as. While women like this can fuck like champs, they will invariably fall short in the areas that matter to men for long term relationships — generosity, nurturance, compassion, submissiveness, alluring coyness, and proper female deference.
I asked her if she was a tomboy growing up, then I ran the digit ratio routine on her. She had a masculine ratio. I told her that meant she was “ambitious”, which is a nice way to tidy up the word “bitch”. I am now going to craft an Andrew Sullivan-like neologism: Ambitchious!
Scenes from the upcoming romantic comedy ‘How Do You Know?’ starring Owen Wilson, Paul Rudd, and the once-but-no-longer cute Reese Witherspoon were being filmed a few yards from my front door last night.
Don’t the trees look beautiful?
It must be that ground level Adams Morgan moonlight.
Every tree in the scene had one of these spotlights under it casting an aesthetically pleasing glow only found in the state of nature.
These rooftop Klieg lights were bright enough to illuminate a baseball stadium.
Klieg lights = crime prevention. Probably more effective than the DC cops. And less surly.
The scene called for a rain-soaked street, but it hasn’t rained here in a few days, so a tanker truck rolled by hosing everything down with water.
Romance is more romantic when set against a backdrop of wet streets.
People craned to catch a glimpse of… well, not Reese or Paul Rudd. They were with me, Reese practicing her cougar moves on my stripper pole and Paul doing that thing he does where he makes endearingly corny jokes and then chastises himself for his dorkiness. Oh Paul, you know what the ladies like.
I could say something cliched here about how the vacuous enterprise of celeb worship is the modern day version of the peasants gawking for a chance to touch the king’s velvet robes, but it’s much more banal than that. People just like to imagine it’s them being filmed, and to experience the thrill of getting caught by the cameras as an extra in the movie. The Attention Whore is strong in all of us. *preen*
Yes, that’s a dude in the white shirt.
This was moments before the cameras started rolling:
Four cars and a taxi drove through the intersection. Annnd… cut! That was it. Three seconds of Hollywood magic. Kind of like David Alexander’s self-love life.
I post this photo because I enjoy the effects on the buildings created by the intense spotlights.
They filmed throughout the night. People were standing on the street corner for hours. Get a life?
The film crew was barking orders to everyone and everything.
“Move move move!!!”
“Get that car out of here!”
“Please step behing the cones, people!”
“Are they rolling already? Why the fuck are they rolling when I’ve still got to get these people off the set!!”
“Do NOT cross the street yet, folks! Just wait there until shooting is done!”
I knew a guy in high school who was in the A/V club. The entire film crew of this latest Reese Witherspoon vehicle reminded me of that guy. Annoying, disheveled nerds who make the most of their five minutes of power. There’s nothing more insipid than a bunch of nerds power tripping as the cameras are about to roll. I walked into the middle of a scene they were about to shoot to get a closer look. I was on the phone with my girl, giving her a play by play.
A shambling nerd approached me. “Are you part of the back crew?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
He got distracted for a moment then asked again. “You’re part of the back crew?”
“Yes I am,” I lied again.
“You need to get to the side lot?”
“Yeah, the side lot. I’m going over there.”
He eyed me closer. “Do you have your pass?”
“Yeah, it’s right here.” I waved my hand around my back pocket. “Hey, I need to get to the catered food.”
At this point the girl I was talking with on the phone, who was overhearing everything, began laughing. A couple walking by also started laughing.
“Oh, OK, hey I’ll need you to step behind those cables.”
Damn, gig was up. I think if the couple hadn’t laughed, and I hadn’t pushed it with the catered food comment, I could’ve infiltrated the set and pretended to be Reese’s lingerie handler.
Here is a picture of the moon:
Actually, no, it’s another damn spotlight that was so bright it lit up apartments two blocks away.
This movie looks to be a typical chick flic suckfest. What did it cost the production company to film this scene? Millions on lighting, crew and fake rain-soaked streets. Hollywood = crass waste. Rome burns while the plebes frolic in sentimental garbage.
Jack Nicholson is supposed to be in this movie. I hope he anally bangs the snot out of Reese in the final emotionally charged scene, his 72 year old belly hanging over her ass like bread pudding. That would be cool.
Pulled from the headlines! A four part installment.
You met a girl at a bar. (Where else are you gonna meet her, tiger? The church social?) She’s a six foot tall, 23-year-old statuesque brunette who would probably intimidate most men, but not you. You gab for twenty minutes and score the digits.
On your first date four days later you arrive at the swank Connecticut Ave lounge ten minutes late, as per your usual routine. Your date is already there, drinking a cocktail. A smile flashes across your face, as much for seeing her again as for the thought that you will not have to buy her a drink. You sit down and notice she is glowering, her legs crossed geometrically. You hope she’ll uncross in homage to Basic Instinct.
“You’re ten minutes late.”
“I don’t *feel* tardy.”
She doesn’t laugh. “Are you always late for dates?”
You pause. She’s reacting to your lack of punctuality worse than most women.
What do you do?
******
You are on the date with the Nordic Amazon from the above story. You are an avid reader of Roissy and feel he has made your life immeasurably better, and at a cost of nothing! Which, in occasional misanthropic moments, rubs your hero raw. Your date mentions she reads local DC blogs and likes most of them, and you wonder about bringing up your Roissy fandom, thinking the wealth of topics about sex and social dynamics written by your Infallible Lord, Master, and Philosophical Heir to the Divine Right of Kings would provide much fodder for rapport building and sexual future pacing.
What do you do?
******
Same as above, except this time, before you have decided whether to announce your everlasting platonic love of Roissy, your date mentions she has read Roissy and hates him. You mull in the mind whether ’tis more opportunistic to admit fandom and suffer the slings and arrows of angry, yet energetically and erotically charged, conversation about Roissy-inspired themes, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing or denying thricely Disciple Peter-like the ugly truths Roissy tells the world end any chance of the date imploding in your face like an overmicrowaved burrito.
What do you do?
******
You are me. You are on the date with the girl from the above story and have been talking with her about the book you are writing. She is intrigued. A little later in the date, she mentions she reads a lot of local blogs. She says there are some she reads that she really hates. You nod again. Then she asks you if you write a blog.
What do you say?
She also mentions she ran a triathlon the day before.
