Reader “T.A.” sent me the following email:

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I’ll be brief – I’m a fan. Game has made my marriage palatable, and I thank you and the rest of the community for that. However, I wanted to submit a sort of “public service announcement” to the community. Hopefully so men everywhere can avoid the mistake I made. Do with this what you wish, but hopefully you’ll post it:

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I’m like alot of men – probably safe to say “most” men. I’m 35. I’m a handsome fellow. I’m reasonably successful. I’m fit – probably more fit than I should be at my age – due to years of pent up frustration released on various pieces of innocent gym equipment and “recreational” 5Ks. You would probably look at me if you passed me and my family on the street and think I’ve got my shit together. I’ve got a pretty, fit wife who wears stylish clothes, and I’ve got two gorgeous sons.

You’d probably think that I’m a happy man – or at least that I SHOULD be a happy man. You’d be wrong.

I’ve spent countless hours thinking about the uninspired, passionless albatross of a marriage that constantly tugs at my neck. Countless hours thinking about how incredible it would be to actually get to use my dick more than a couple of times a year. Countless hours spent lamenting my shitty marriage with my equally miserable married buddies. I’ve thought about divorce a dozen times, but social pressures and family expectations have always held me back (“grow up – sex isn’t that important!” “but you’ve got such a lovely family!” etc.). I lived in a constant state of crisis for years until one day an old friend of mine introduced me to the Roissysphere.

I’ve DEVOURED all manner of PUA/MRA/Roissy-ganda with the appetite of a starved child. And I’ve come to some startling conclusions.

I won’t waste too much of your time with my personal story (trust me, it is completely interchangeable with any one of millions of men’s in this country). But I have come away with one priceless gem that I believe all men MUST be made aware of. It’s as common as a McMansion in an outlying suburb, yet its as powerful and menacing a beast as any you’ll ever encounter:

BEWARE the classic gun-to-the-head marriage pressure administered by your typical non-descript, rudderless late 20’s/early 30’s woman.

When a woman pressures you mercilessly to marry her, bullying to the point of threatening a break up – this is the shit test of ALL shit tests. Treat it as such – If you fail this shit test, you are RUINED. FOR…LIFE..

For those of you who haven’t lived through it, let me go through the script:

You’ll meet a girl. She’ll seem perfect in a lot of ways. Not only will you get to hang out with your friends whenever you want, go out to bars with your buds, etc. but she’ll encourage it. And she’ll have her own life and she’ll go out with her friends. She’ll be game for the booty call, and she’ll do filthy things in your bed (and out of your bed). She’ll fuck in public bathrooms, she’ll fuck you and blow you in cars. She’ll bend over willingly and she might even swallow. Nothing will be off limits, sexually, and she’ll wake up your neighbors proclaiming how much she loves to get fucked by you.

She’ll watch football with you, maybe even become a fan of your team. She’ll watch movies with you that you know she hates, and she’ll do it with minimal whining. She’ll cook you special meals, pick up random gifts, and generally be a perfect girlfriend. You can leave her to pay the check, shrug at her requests for attention and affection, blow off her birthday, and generally just live a normal bachelor life but with the added benefit of having a consistent and exciting lay.

Then one day it will all come to a screeching halt.

I’m not quite sure what causes it – I suspect its a “special” night out with her yenta friends. A night spent drinking and dreaming about designer wedding dresses, champagne flutes, Pottery Barn registries, and giant rocks. Whatever the case, sooner or later they end up muttering to each other how unbelievable it is that their boyfriend hasn’t popped the question and made the self-absorbed dream that they’ve held dear since they were a little girl into an expensive and soul-sucking reality. They might even become hostile – proclaiming what a “waste of time” it is to date this horrible creature who is so selfish that he’s denying them a $50k masturbatory spectacle that benefits no one but them, and a subsequent life of enslavement and misery. Things will get desperate, and you’ll start seeing the signs.

There will be inexplicable weeping at inopportune times. Cold shoulders for no apparent reason. Sex will dry…up. Blow jobs will be something you only see in pornos. Hints at marriage will drop like snowflakes at first – then like a barrage of hail. Any resistance to the wedding yap will incite riots of rage and tears, and screams of “if you loved me you’d want to marry me!!” and “why am I wasting my time with you?!!”

This is the beginning of the end, my friend. And you should fucking RUN…LIKE…HELL!

You see, there is no winning this fight. I know – I tried. But there is no victory – and there sure as shit are no spoils. I know what you’ll be thinking: “I don’t really want to break up yet – maybe its time to settle down?” and “surely the sex will resume once we get over this hump and get married?” You’ll start wistfully looking at little kids on the street, thinking “maybe I’d make a cool dad?” and “I’m not gittin any younger – maybe this is for the best.” You’ll fall prey to the oldest trick in the book – thinking that things will get “better” if you just cave to this, the queen of all shit tests.

Listen to me – things will not get better. I didn’t really understand at first, but after becoming part of this community, I understand it all perfectly now. Things will not only NOT get better, but they will get much, MUCH worse. EXPONENTIALLY WORSE. To degrees that you cannot imagine. Think that you’ll start having sex again after buying that ridiculous fucking rock? Dream on – it gets WORSE. You’ll be lucky to get laid on your birthday from now on. And when you do get laid it will SUCK. The term “doggystyle” will be like a fucking cuss word in your house. Anything cool and interesting that ever happened in your bedroom will be a long lost memory.

Think your girl will relish her role as wife and cook you up a nice meal from time to time? Fuck that – get used to picking up fast food and frozen dinners. That is, unless you like to cook yourself or take it upon yourself to maintain a healthy diet – in this case, welcome to the role of homemaker, you beta pussy. And you better not have the audacity to leave it up to the Mrs. to plan/cook a meal. You’re on the hook now.

Oh and you’ve still got all of the “man duties” too, didn’t you know? Make sure the oil in BOTH cars is changed, make sure all of the tires are inflated. Want to sit on the couch and watch the game? Fuck you! Cut the grass. And pay the bills when you’re done. Mama needs to go shopping with the girls. Because hey, maybe if she buys herself something nice from time to time (and by “from time to time” I mean “increasingly” until she’s buying EXPENSIVE shit every other day) she’ll be happy again and you guys can get to fuckin again, right?

Wrong. Its over dude. You’re on a sharp, downward beta-slide that will just make her more and more revolted by the day. It was over before you started.

See, if you fail this shit test, you have failed every…single Roissy tenet in one fell swoop. Worse, your girl is going to have a front row seat to this total and complete collapse of your manhood. She’s gonna watch it in what seems like slow motion – like witnessing the carnage of some kind of disgusting ten car pileup where gas and steel and body parts are spewed out in a violent ballet of carnage. And make no mistake – she will be sickened. She will have to hold back the vomit upon witnessing your more-beta-than-beta act of total surrender. And your dick will be as appealing to her as a fresh turd. You will be completely and permanently doomed from that day forward, and your sex appeal will hit negative digits.

It has a sad sort of snowball effect – you’ll think that the more sensitive, caring and compassionate you become, the more she’ll reward you. But all it does is make you more beta – more repellent. She’ll hate you more by the day, and she’ll mask it less and less.

Whatever you do with your life, to whatever degree you practice game, if you remember one single thing from any of these blogs, remember this – you MUST pass the Marry-Me-Or-Else shit test. Your future depends on it. Its basically like someone holding open the door to a prison cell and cheerfully inviting you in. There’s no earthly reason for you to EVER step into that cell, and ultimately they will HATE you for getting in that cell. Not only that, but they’ll lift up their skirts and get fucked by some bad boy outside that cell – right where you can watch but are powerless to intervene. Its a cruel, beta joke and they know it. Turn it back on them – just say “NO.” The world needs another yenta wife like it needs another stinking landfill.

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I’ve had a few instances where the girl I was dating began pressuring me for marriage. What did I do? I walked. And I will probably walk again. If a lover told me “marry me or else” I would choose “else”. I would inform her that I don’t heed ultimatums, for that road leads to soul death.

Only weak betas cave at the first hint of pressure. Fear motivates their decisions. The fear of being alone, the fear of going sexless. This fear is mostly a phantom. Remember, gentlemen, no matter how badly the dating market skews against your interests, no matter how much your woman withholds sex, no matter how deviously she threatens to leave you if she doesn’t get the ring, you hold the trump card, the dick detonator, the MOAB in the eternal battle of the sexes – you can walk away, forever.

Exercise your right to walk.

Once you’ve walked you might be surprised to see her come running back to you, suitably chastened.

I’ve got a new post up at The Spearhead. It’s about the sexual benefits that accrue to the master gameplayer who treats women like bratty little sisters. This is normally my Friday Night Game post, but since I’ve been busy jetsetting with A+ list celebrities and ambassador daughters, I’ve been negligent posting over there. So here’s a Tuesday special for you. Excerpt:

So what does “everything she does is cute” mean in practice? It means not getting riled up when she tests you. It means not explaining yourself when she stamps her wee feet and wags a finger at you. It means never acting apologetic when she’s upset with some mysterious infraction you’ve committed. Keep in mind that when a woman gets upset, at least half the time she’s not really upset with whatever misdemeanor she’s accusing you of; she’s just upset that your behavior caused a temporary reversal of gina tingle induction.

Go read it over there. I believe that the tactics described in the post should be a solid foundation of inner game as well as outer game.

ME: So you eat fish but not delicious pig or cow?

GIRL: Fish are different. I don’t like the way farm animals are treated. It’s inhumane. Some animals have intelligence and emotions. Have you seen those big brown eyes on cows?

ME: Changing the subject for a sec… you’re very pro-choice right? You believe abortion should be legal.

GIRL: Of course.

ME: You don’t have a problem with third trimester fetuses getting torn limb from limb and sucked out of the womb?

GIRL: Ugh, why do you have to say that? Are you anti-abortion or something?

ME: Actually, no, I have no problem with abortion. But then I have no problem with killing and eating cow either.

A big reason abortion has such wide acceptance is because the disgust reflex isn’t triggered. The bloody affair takes place hidden behind closed flesh, so to speak. If the womb were transparent, I doubt legal justification for abortion beyond the first trimester would exist.

A true sadist embraces cruelty even when, maybe especially when, he can witness the tortured writhings of his victim. Ever see video footage of a guy about to jump off a building? Some people in the crowd below will yell “Jump!” as the poor guy stands high above them, lonely on the ledge, contemplating a suicidal leap. Would you yell “Jump!” if you could clearly see that man’s face, etched with pain and sadness?

Obama after the Henry Louis Gates, Jr. incident:

“The Cambridge police acted stupidly in arresting somebody when there was already proof that they were in their own home.”

“We don’t know all the answers yet, and I would caution against jumping to conclusions until we have all the facts.”

Gentlemen, grab your cat o’ nine tails because we’re in for another round of beta lashings. Deliver these betas from their trespasses and lead them not unto self-constructed torment. Sweet, sweet deliverance.

It was a tight race, but the winner by a plurality of the September 2009 BOTM was the sad sack husband who is aware of and tolerates his wife’s repeatedly consorting with serial killer Richard Ramirez. Tolerance is such a beta virtue. Congratulations, sir, for helping to teach men the world over that the way to a woman’s heart is through an ear to ear throat slit. Preferably more than once.

October 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by Johnny Gage.

Amusing? Yeah, sure. Will make other women go “Awwww”? Probably. Beta? You beta believe it!

Just because something is attention grabbing, doesn’t mean you should do it. Anyone want to bet this guy’s wife rocks 200+ pounds?

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October 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was gleefully submitted by waysa. It’s a New York Beta Times wedding story about a Croatian tennis pro who threw away his alpha capital by marrying an older single mom. Just flushed it right down the toilet. There are so many great quotes in this article. Let’s examine the kind of prize that tennis pro Marko Zelenovic foolishly decided to hitch his Croat balls to:

At 18, [Brooke ALexander] arrived in New York on a one-way plane ticket. By the time she was 39, she had a successful career as a model and soap opera actress, a sunny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side and a big circle of friends she calls her ‘ohana (Hawaiian for family). Yet she yearned to be a mother, and was known to wear a T-shirt with the message, “I can’t believe I forgot to have children.”

She was the last person anyone thought would be single at 39. “Why would this gorgeous, talented, amazing woman be alone?” said Bill Block, a film producer and friend. “She loved the rockers, the great-looking bad boys, and they never panned out.”

She’s like a character straight out of a Roissyan novel, except I didn’t make her up.

But wait, it gets better.

She forged ahead and joined Single Mom by Choice, an organization that guides single women through the process of becoming mothers. “I knew we’re given one life and if there’s something incredibly important to you and there’s an open door, go through it and give it everything you got,” Ms. Alexander said. The organization helped her find a sperm donor and on Jan. 8, 2004, she gave birth to a son, Jace, in a room full of female friends. “I wasn’t alone,” she said. “I just didn’t have a husband.”

When Jace was a year old, Ms. Alexander started thinking about dating again. She placed an online ad, which was a disillusioning experience.

Disillusioning? You don’t say? Now I wonder why (40s) she would have such trouble (40s, bastard kid) finding a guy willing to stick around (40s, bastard kid, fucked in the head yupster)?

The dude she eventually lucked out with (and I mean she hit the goddamn lottery. She should be making nightly sacrifices to the god of biomechanics.):

Then, in November 2005, a friend said she wanted to introduce her to Marko Zelenovic, a handsome tennis pro from Croatia who is known among his clients as the Croatian Sensation.

Her friend persuaded her to have lunch with Mr. Zelenovic. “He was in a banquette, facing the wall, not looking around the room,” Ms. Alexander, now 46, recalled. “He was a gentleman, waiting for his date.”

Paper alpha.

“I was very aware of the first time his knee pressed up against mine,” she said. “It was like two magnets connected.”They were rarely apart after that. “I spent a lot of money on baby sitters,” she said.

Future juvenile delinquent and paint huffer.

He moved into her apartment soon after they met, where he slept on her couch for three years, out of respect for Jace.

Wait, isn’t the kid like, 2 years old at this point? What kid that young will understand the concept of respect, or even what goes on in his mother’s bedroom? Jesus, the New York Beta Times knows how to induce projectile vomiting.

“The love I have for Marko is very quiet, very deep and very rooted,” Ms. Alexander said.

Ever notice how the most high-falutin’ pseudo-profound words are used to describe the most strained, mature sort of love? Real heart-squeezing and gut-rending love, the kind that feels like a drug, is never described in this way by young people who are actually experiencing it. I’m reminded again how often “grown-up” dating and falling in love resembles a business proposition rather than an electric emotional rollercoaster.

Mr. Zelenovic says he fell in love with Ms. Alexander because of Jace, not in spite of him. “Honest to God, Jace was an asset,” he said. “The kid, for me, is pure joy. He’s someone I want to be with all the time.”

Still, Ms. Alexander admits she “put Marko through the paces” and “spent about a year analyzing whether or not he was a fit role model for my son.”

The exquisite betatude of the nonjudgemental cuckold in waiting. It’s a self-parody. There’s something wrong with this Croat that the NYBTimes isn’t telling us. Mentally unbalanced? Broke? Micropenis? The truth is out there.

Can it get more pathetic? Yes, it can:

He brought up the subject of marriage a few times; she always changed the subject. “It was like, what is holding me back?” Ms. Alexander said. “It was the mother wolf. It was really hard for me to give up my single motherhood and let Marko in.”

No one ever went broke underestimating the betaness of the man who repeatedly begs for marriage. From a cougar. With cub.

The couple are now expanding their apartment into a two-bedroom. Mr. Zelenovic said he told his bride, “I’ve spent three NBA seasons on your couch. I’m not spending a fourth.”

Oh, you will be dude. At least you’ve gotten plenty of practice.

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October 2009 BOTM Candidate #3 was submitted by Cless Alvein. It’s a Youtube video about Establishedmen.com, an internet website that brings wealthy older men together with hot young women. The proprietor of the website is a good-looking chick who is essentially a pimp. She kind of has a face that makes me want to punch her in the mouth. See if you agree with me.

I was hesitant to include this submission, because the beta rolls would be filled with millions of men if we included every guy who spends money on hookers (which is basically what the girls in this video are). But watch from 6:35 onward. You’ll get a glimpse at what a true paper alpha is — a conventionally alpha man (powerful, wealthy) who has no game and instead lavishes insipid compliments like “you’re gorgeous” and must spend tens of thousands of dollars over the first three dates to get any action. This is the all-too-often accurate face of the well-to-do man who solicits prostitutes — alpha in his dealings with men, beta in his dealings with women.

While it’s not necessarily beta to pay for sex, it is a leading indicator of betaness. If you are a wealthy man with money to burn, it makes sense to dump a wad of cash on a woman to pry open her legs with the minimal effort, but you should never comport yourself like a beta. Go ahead and buy the whore expensive jewelry if it gets you off, but always do so with an alpha demeanor. This ensures two things: One, if you lose your money you’ll have womanizing skills to fall back on, and, two, if you act like an alpha there is a good chance the whore might truly fall in love with you and not just your wallet.

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The voting:

Note: Reader “Nicker” had emailed me a video of a pasty-face, plump-lipped, fat guy expressing his undying love and devotion for his girlfriend who was away. It was, without a doubt, the MOST sickeningly beta thing I have seen or heard about in years, and that is saying a lot. I believe he would have run away with the Beta of the Year contest. Unfortunately, just days after I viewed the video, fat dude pulled it. If any reader happens to know what video I’m talking about and has it saved somewhere, please email it to me. What a shame that such beautiful betaness should be denied the world’s mockery.

A while back on this blog Chuck left a comment suggesting a new type of game routine to run on women. It involved telling a woman exactly how you plan to seduce her, in step-by-step detail. I thought this idea was nifty so I tried it for myself. The following conversation is not verbatim (who can remember their conversations in minute detail?) but it’s close enough to the spirit of the interaction.

Scene: A local pool hall. Stick in hand.

ME: I’m gonna need you to move aside so I can take this award-winning shot. You might want to take a picture.

GIRL: [sarcastically] Oh excuse me! I don’t want to interrupt your concentration.

ME: [I take the shot and scratch] You’re bad luck.

GIRL: [laughing] I’m sure that was it.

ME: [I leave to get a beer at the bar, then return and sit on a stool next to her. She is sitting comfortably out of earshot of her friends.] I have a confession to make.

GIRL: I don’t like the sound of this.

ME: The pool thing was just a ruse to capture your attention. I know it worked because you’re still sitting here, hanging on my every word.

GIRL: I don’t know if I’d call it hanging. Maybe laughing at every word.

ME: [thinking to myself this girl is filled with spit and vinegar. it's on!] I’m going to seduce you and I will tell you how I will do it. First, I noticed you from across the room. I don’t think you saw me noticing you, but that doesn’t matter.

GIRL: [wide-eyed look] Ooookay.

ME: Then I decided I would talk to you. It was a quick decision; less than one second, really. I avoided any possible discomfort of breaking the ice by teasing you with the first words out of my mouth.

GIRL: [folding her arms and nodding her head] This is getting good.

ME: Then I gently knocked your ego in line by saying you’re bad luck. This part was important because all women are born with bigger egos than they deserve, and this makes romance difficult.

GIRL: So this was all a script then? That’s not very romantic.

ME: The concept was scripted, not the words. Now notice how I’m sitting here with my body a little turned away from you. I do this so that I don’t look like I’m *that* interested in talking with you.

GIRL: Why would that make me interested in you?

ME: Women want men who show some disinterest. Also, you may not have noticed this, but when I came over and said I had a confession to make, I put my hand on your forearm. Briefly. It was too quick and subtle to be obvious. It’s important that I break the physical barrier in a non-threatening way as soon as possible, but to do it so that you barely notice. It’s an art form.

GIRL: Actually, I did notice.

ME: You’re just saying that now. As we sit here and talk, I’m going to move my body a little towards you as you begin to impress me more with your conversation skill. Soon, we will be facing head on.

GIRL: What if I turn away?

ME: You won’t, but if you do, I turn my back on you until you rejoin the best conversation you will have all year.

GIRL: That’s a big claim!

ME: It’s also another part of my seduction of you. A little arrogance is attractive to women.

GIRL: I’m not a big fan of arrogant men.

ME: Just wait, you will be. So now you see I am smiling, but not too much. Smiling too much looks goofy. You’ve said a few funny things that impressed me.

GIRL: I think in a seduction it’s the man who’s supposed to impress the woman.

ME: This is what most men think, but it’s not true. A good seduction surprises you. Next, I ask you questions that show I’m a discriminating man who wants more than just looks in a woman. Looks are overrated. So for instance, I will now ask you if you have more than 20 pairs of shoes.

GIRL: I don’t, but what difference does that make?

ME: A girl with too many shoes is high maintenance. You’re not high maintenance, are you?

GIRL: I probably am, but don’t let that stop you.

ME: Now I mirror your body language and facial expressions. This is a subtle psychological ploy that makes you think we are soulmates. It’s all on the subconscious level.

GIRL: Really.

ME: I can see your interest level is peaking. Here comes the best part. Right when I notice your interest level is high, I disqualify myself as a potential lover.

GIRL: Disqualify?

ME: Yes, I will tell you, like I’m telling you now, that we could never work out, you’re way too cynical for me.

GIRL: I’m cynical? I guess after all this I am.

ME: Then I would tell you a story that warms your heart, such as the time I saved my 3 year old niece from falling down the stairs. I might also drop a mention of my stripper ex-girlfriend, which will intrigue you.

GIRL: Intrigue me? I’m not lesbian, if that’s what you mean.

ME: No, you would be intrigued in the same way men are intrigued by women in sexy cocktail dresses and high heels.

GIRL: You’ve really given this a lot of thought.

ME: Hold on… finally, I will tell you to join me on the couch over there, so that we can talk in more privacy about deeper things. Then I would whisper a secret in your ear, which would arouse you. Whispering is very arousing. If the moment is right, and it usually is, I would kiss you. Since you are now twirling your hair, I would expect the kiss will happen.

GIRL: [stops twirling her hair] How does twirling my hair mean a kiss is going to happen?

ME: Hair twirling is a sign of romantic interest.

GIRL: Or maybe it’s just a habit.

ME: Maybe, but not likely. After the kiss, if I’m feeling it, I would invite you back to my place to admire my photographs.

GIRL: And if I declined to go?

ME: I would take your phone number instead.

GIRL: And I would give it?

ME: You would give it.

GIRL: And you wouldn’t call.

ME: Who knows? But you would relish the anticipation.

We talked for another twenty minutes, and I did eventually secure the digits.

A photo of a heavily bearded man on Halloween:

On my post about lying for sex, “notaloser” recently left this comment:

I would NEVER lie to a woman in any way to get sex. NEVER. I respect women and know that lying to them impedes their ability to make good decisions for themselves. Nobody ever has the right to take that autonomy away from anyone under any circumstances … the very idea of lying to a woman to fraudulently get sex is appalingly misogynist. Lying  to a woman to get sex is very emotionally/sexually abusive to women and has lasting effects … ask any women.  Your desperation is hardly an excuse to proceed with what constitutes sexual misconduct. You have a lot of problems, dude, and this lack of awareness is probably why women don’t want to sleep with you in the first place.

Do you hear that? NEVER!

“notaloser” is a classic white knight of the particularly noxious variety — besides the hypocritical nature of his misplaced chivalry (it’s a lie to assert you will NEVER lie to a woman), his pious posturing perches poon on pedestals so prominently that no woman would ever be able to see him as anything other than a bootlicking servile sap. His is the sort of blushing indignation that, if freely and sincerely expressed and acted upon, would absolutely kill his chances with any girl except fat desperate closeted dykes.

Lying to girls for sex is perfectly fine, because it is not the man’s job to simultaneously seduce women and help them make good mating decisions. Women are responsible for screening their prospects; it’s called personal accountability. Only feminist men who believe women are emotionally underdeveloped children think like notaloser and want to protect women from men’s libidos.

In some ways, lying for sex is win-win for men. If it works, he gets sex, and if his lie is eventually discovered, she will be likely to forgive it if she has fallen in love with him. If it fails, and she finds out that, for example, his real job is less prestigious than the job he claimed to have, and she leaves him because of that, then he has successfully screened out a whore who views him primarily as status candy.

I don’t recommend lying on practical grounds, but as a moral matter it’s a dead end. Men and women lie all the time to get the best deal they can on the sexual market. To illustrate the absurdity of believing otherwise, I’ll re-word notaloser’s comment:

I would NEVER lie to a man in any way to get love. NEVER. I respect men and know that lying to them by wearing make-up, getting nose jobs, or playing coy about my age or desire to marry a man who makes more money than me impedes their ability to make good decisions for themselves. Nobody ever has the right to take that autonomy away from anyone under any circumstances … the very idea of lying to a man to fraudulently get love is appalingly misandrist. Lying  to a man to get love is very emotionally/financially abusive to men and has lasting effects … ask any men who wake up next to a disturbing morning face.  Your commitment desperation is hardly an excuse to proceed with what constitutes emotional misconduct.

“notaloser” is probably a woman pretending to be a man who has been hurt by an asshole boyfriend in the past, because no man, no matter how much he claims to believe in the feminist agenda, could possibly write such a beta comment with a straight face. “Fraudulently get sex”? “Sexual misconduct”? A man would have to be psychologically castrated and/or flamingly gay to make such blubberingly pussboy assertions. I suspect it’s a biting beaver sock puppet.

Note: Many of you are wondering why David Alexander did not get recognition for the most beta comment ever left on this blog. This is because DA does not write beta comments; he writes trollish freakboy omega comments. That is a different world of loser altogether.

Standing on the long escalator into the bowels of the Woodley Park metro, a small Asian woman excused herself to get by me as she strode down the descending steps briskly. Just in front of me, a family of four stood like grazing cattle on both the left and right sides of the escalator, heavily obstructing the passage of the tiny woman who was now trying to squeeze past them. As she squeaked “excuse me, excuse me” multiple times vainly searching for openings to circumnavigate the human cattle, they smirked and refused to budge and began spitting a fusillade of comments at her. “This is an escalator, not stairs.” “It’s not us that’s supposed to move, honey.” “You never ride an escalator before?” “Don’t be a little bitch, we ain’t moving for you.” “Son, just stand still, she ain’t supposed to be racing by like this.”

After a few seconds of this witty banter and threat of physical altercation, the Asian woman richoted off the man’s gut and shot out of their gauntlet of flesh. Briefly disoriented, she composed herself and resumed her jog down the escalator as the guffawing family continued flinging accusations and insults at her. When she reached the bottom she looked back up at the family, muttered something unintelligible, and flipped them a petite Asian bird. The father yelled back “fuck you bitch, you dumb bitch” then looked over his shoulder at the rest of his family and at me and my company, a vapid grin creased across his inbred face, laughing sourly as his fat sow wife and two kids took his cue and laughed along with him. His son, a boy of perhaps five, repeated his dad’s words: “yeah, you bitch!” The dad tenderly put his hand on his boy’s head and tousled his hair, and a few more “fuck”s and “bitch”s were shared in solidarity amongst the family members.

The father swiveled his head and made eye contact with me, presumably in search of proximate allies, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing with him. Instead, I curled my mouth downward and narrowed my eyes, making sure my disgust for him and his Morlockian broodclan was obvious. My eyes swooped slowly over all four of them — a white family from out of town, judging by the faint hillbilly accent I heard. There was the father with close-set eyes and a face wider than it was tall, the sweaty stringy-haired fat pig mother who wheezed with each labored breath, the little boy (a rapscallion in training no doubt), and the little girl. I sneered one word, audible enough for them to hear: “class”. There was a still moment when it seemed as if he and his wife were registering my reaction and deciding what to do about it. The father’s smile dropped and he turned back around.

Fortunately for him, he did nothing. Maybe he could read the seething contempt on my face and sensed the lurid scenario playing itself out in my mind, the visceral desire I had, given the slightest pretext, to shove his filthy loser face into the escalator machinery, ripping his eyes and mouth and flesh and sinew off the bone and kicking the fat brood sow so hard in her bloated belly she is rendered infertile, as her children mewl helplessly nearby. Yes, he made the right decision to shut his trap. He knew, on some deep level, I was his better, and he would get no succor from me.

My intuition and keen eye has guided me well in seeing the big picture. America is currently fracturing hard and deep into two, irreconcilable groups — the genetic losers and the genetic winners. And the chasm between them is growing wider, a leap from one side to the other in either direction ever more incomprehensible. I am, in my humble outpost at the cultural hinterland where PC politesse yields to the merciless attack machinery of my wrecking ball truths, turning the mirror on civilization, and stripping bare the sugar coating civil society sprinkles on our discourse and beliefs to protect losers like the family in this story from the ghastly knowledge of their own worthlessness.

There was once a time when the lower ranks of society would admire the upper ranks, and work hard, however ineffectually, to acquire the habits and virtues of the upper classes on a journey of personal betterment. There was once a time when the upper ranks understood their duty to the lower ranks, and constrained themselves publicly in an act of noblesse oblige, to serve as example for their lessers. Today, that dynamic is destroyed. The losers know they’re losers, but they no longer give a shit. They wallow in their wretchedness like pigs in mud, sticking a porky hoof up the pinched sphincter of anyone who would encourage them otherwise. The winners know they’re winners, and despite their tissue-thin rhetoric to the contrary, know that it wasn’t hard work but the luck of the DNA draw that they aren’t rolling around in the sty with the pigs and who, if you get them behind closed doors and pry liberally with single malt scotch, secretly believe the left hand side of the bell curve barely even qualifies as members of the same human species. So now we have two groups, staring distantly at each other across the tar pit of our shredded national identity known as pop culture, who don’t give a shit about the other, and are feverishly living their lives to guarantee that a shit will never have to be given.

If you think this is sustainable, you have only to sense the bubbling resentment surfacing not only in the urban jungle where resentment is the engine of self-delusion, but in once placid regions like small towns and college campuses, to know it is not. Soon, there will not be enough gated land behind which the elites can barricade themselves and continue peddling their hypocritical pissant platitudes. The orc hordes will swarm like locusts and devour everything in their path. Even the danegeld will lose its power to pacify, if for no other reason than that the source of funds will not keep up with the hungry multiplying maws of the beasts of chaos. If you feed it, they will come.

The West is doomed. Unfortunately, there is no rescue from this cycle of inevitability. There are solutions, but they will never be accepted, for the languor and the stasis has metastasized, an ablative bunker mentality has burrowed deep in the national psyche. And so the decline will play itself out to the bitter end, quietly or explosively, it doesn’t matter.

The past 40 years have witnessed a cognitive stratification on a scale I believe is unparalleled in American history. The unspoken philosophical forces of credentialism and good breeding, coupled with the substrate of economies requiring abstract mental prowess to successfully navigate, have never been more actively practiced than they are now, and in so blatantly a fashion to what is said to the contrary. Assortative mating is the buzzword of the moment, but more significantly it may be the one true philosophy if pragmatic adoption is any measure of truth value. Yet confront the overclass with this untidy ugly truth and you will be treated to a stream of sophistic shit so thick you’d think the actions of a genocidal regime could be happily rationalized.

Come to think of it…

When words and deeds tug so hard in opposing directions, something’s got to give. The center cannot hold. And so, because I am a blessed humanitarian, here is my patented Roissy solution for saving America:

1. Build a wall at the southern border and kick out the last 30 years’ worth of de facto invaders, and cut off all immigration for two generations. It makes zero sense to add more misery to an already growing and spiteful underclass.
2. Alpha males need to start fucking and having babies with hot lower class women.

That’s it. A wall is cheap to build when compared to the costs of maintaining a military presence in a third world tribal cesspool. And upper class alpha males used to fuck and breed with their hot secretaries until said secretaries began going to college and getting higher paying jobs. Now, because of peer pressure, social finger wagging, or expedience, alpha males have forsaken fucking hot lower class women in favor of co-worker lawyer cunts, and the result has been a ghettoization of the genetic misfits to breed exclusively among themselves. Spread that upper class alpha seed around and you begin to rebuild the common mission and shared trust of a nation, one recombined double helix at a time.

In the meantime, I’m arranging my life in such a way that I minimize the amount of time spent in the company of losers. They’re fucking depressing.

Despite my well-researched and logically unassailable warnings to the contrary, some of you who read me will someday decide to marry the woman of your best available options. If you do insist on acting in such a personally disadvantageous way, you should at least pop the question like an alpha male. That’s how you set a precedent.

Here are some suggestions.

Alpha move

“Whaddaya say we get hitched?”

Superalpha move

“Whaddaya say we get hitched, my number one bitch?” Then slip this ring on her finger:

If your woman is not willing to wear a ring with the diamond on the inside, away from public view, then you’ll have all the proof you need that she is a grubby status whore. This ring is pure deviousness; there is no way out for her. She can’t accuse you of cheapness; the diamond is in there. And if she wears it she can’t go around advertising her ring finger for inspection by all of her yenta friends to show that she is prettier than them to be able to land a man with discretionary cash to blow on a useless rock. I would almost be willing to spend cash money on this diamond ring just to see the look on my beloved’s face.

Alpha move

Walk up behind her, wrap your arms around her, lean over her shoulder, and while placing the ring box into her hand whisper in your deepest, most gravelly voice: “Let’s do this.”

Superalpha move

Same as above, but instead of an engagement ring box, put two tickets to Vegas and a brochure for the Elvis Chapel in her hand.

Alpha move

“You know, I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but… ah fuck it, let’s go crazy and get married, babe.”

Superalpha move

“You know why I’m asking you to marry me? Cause you’re the kind of girl who would sign a pre-nup. That’s what I cherish about you.”

Alpha move

“How long we been together? Five years? Ten years? It’s time…” Slide the ring box over to her.

Superalpha move

“May as well dot the i’s and cross the t’s and get married already.”

Alpha move

Take her to the reflecting pond in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Dance with her under the clear moonlight. Gaze into her eyes and slip the ring on her finger, saying nothing.

Superalpha move

Take her to the reflecting pond in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Dance with her under the clear moonlight. Gaze into her eyes and slip a handcrafted origami paper ring on her finger. Tell her “You know you want it, babe.”

Alpha move

“Marry me, lovechop.”

Superalpha move

“Marry me, dirty whore.”

You’ll note that the common theme to these examples is the refusal to drop to one knee or to ask for her hand in the traditional (read: beta) way. There is no “Will you marry me?” nauseating pleading, and there is certainly no doing it on your knees like the indentured servant you are about to become by agreeing to ratify your copulations with a marriage license.

Some alpha males get married for social or religious reasons, and for them following my proposal advice above will go a long way toward ensuring they enjoy many years of grateful wifery and minimal backtalk. But for the truly self-aware alphas who have transcended petty societal concerns and stifling tradition, marriage is seen for what it is — a self-inflicted prison sentence to curb one’s masculine allure. These men will never worry about when or how to propose, for the issue has been rendered moot by clear thinking.

Behold, the greatest website since lolcats: People of Walmart.

Here is a candid photo of an attractive, slender, wholesome American mother:

I’d tap it.

I’ve added People of Walmart to my blogroll, because it’s just that worthy. When future historians ask why the great American empire fell, People of Walmart is all the archived evidence they’ll need to find the answer.

(Thank reader Ovid for bringing us this breathtaking view of the left behind side of the bell curve.)