If They Were Women...

Some of the New Misogynists are a bit ticked off by the recent media attention given to the FeMRAs. Roosh posted a video warning the Men's Rights Movement that they were making a serious tactical error by allowing girls into their tree house. Some of these guys believe that FeMRAs are the Trojan horses of a vast feminist conspiracy to infiltrate every last space once the sole and rightful dominion of men. [Sigh! If only!]

Mostly their feathers are ruffled because journalists find the spectacle of female anti-feminists more freakish intriguing than a bunch of Angry White Guys bitching and moaning about how they've now got to share their pie with everyone else, and it's so [sob!] unfair! 

Vox Day observed the other day, "If we were women, there would already be a Time Magazine cover with Roosh, Roissy, and me dressed in all black, arms folded, cast in dramatic lighting." 

Actually, if that trio were women invited to pose for such a cover, they'd be photographed in soft pastels, nonthreatening postures, their makeup and hair impeccably done, bathed in the warm, flattering light of feminine subjugation. Now wouldn't that be a pretty picture? Although even then, they'd have to face an onslaught of angry readers who complained they were too fat, ugly, old, or hirsute to merit media attention.

 But that remark got me imagining: If I really were "La Strega" and had magical powers that could, say, transform a prince into a frog, what more delightfully malicious way to exercise them than to turn all the New Misogynists into women? I don't mean permanently -- I'm not that cruel! -- but only until they could persuade a beautiful transgender warrior princess to kiss them and reverse the spell...

Call Me! We'll Do Lunch!

It seems that folks in Hollywood are paying attention to the manosphere, as well they should: A person couldn't find a richer vein of dramatic inspiration to tap. Talk about the dark underbelly of the American psyche! Simmering resentments, mysteries, feuds, fascinating back stories, loads of sexual shame and fantasy, and a pervading sense that at any moment all hell will break loose. You couldn't dream up a crazier cast of characters, and they write their own dialogue, so think what producers will save on screenwriters. 

Sunshine Mary and her husband the Holy Hand Grenade could carry an entire weekly sitcom by themselves. (Some episodes they would have two daughters; some episodes they would have five; audiences love "inside" jokes.) The ladies from Return of Queens could play SSM's trailer trash cousins, popping in to deliver casseroles and pious homilies at crucially inopportune moments. Dalrock is the minister of SSM's congregation, of course, but he's got some dark secrets, not least of which nobody has actually seen his wife in years, although he continually refers to her in the most exalting terms.  

Paul Elam (AVFM) is the corrupt mayor who rules the town with an iron fist. Those who cross him tend to disappear mysteriously. Citing his "compassion for men and boys," he insists on leading the Boy Scout troop; the residents are bullied into signing up their sons despite their apprehensions. Dean Esmay is his bumbling, sycophantic police chief who claims to have been abducted by aliens and is secretly in love with his AA sponsor. Karen Straughan is his tough-talking deputy and minder. Janet Bloomfield is Elam's PR Chief, the villainous who lords it over the other Honey Badgers at City Hall and has half the menfolk in her thrall. She's also a loose cannon. She butts heads with the town librarian (a bluestocking post-marital spinster, of course), and scandalizes everyone by calling all the high school teachers, regardless of gender or girth, "fat feminist whores." What transpires when one of the PUAs seduces her teenage daughter will be the first season cliff-hanger.

Danger & Play is the athletic club. The manager supplements his income selling testosterone under the counter. A lot of the town lotharios hang out there, sometimes pumping iron, but more often gathering at the juice bar, swapping tips on how to "bang" the local hotties. (When one intrepid girl has the gumption to challenge the "no ladies hours" policy, she is threatened with rape; fortunately, a chivalrous beta comes to her rescue, and their ensuing tender romance becomes one of the ongoing subplots.) We get to follow the "game boys" on some of their club adventures; lots of humor and pathos to be found in the way they spin the reality of their various encounters or their lives at home in their moms' basements.

Well, you get the picture. There's a reason series like "Peyton Place" and "Desperate Housewives" ran so long. There's a reason some people are "hooked" on the manosphere. People love these kinds of melodramas. There is nothing more entertaining, or reassuring, than watching people whose lives are even more dysfunctional than our own. In fact, this idea is such a winner I'm almost reluctant to share it. But I'm totally cool with collaborating with others in the anti-anti-feminist community.

The question is casting. Who to cast in these meaty roles?

We will need strong character actors the likes of the late Philip Seymour Hoffman and Jon Lovitz, who played passive-aggressive misogynists so brilliantly in Todd Solondz's "Happiness," a movie I positively loved, and most of my friends positively loathed. (Warning: extremely dark humor and definitely NSFW!)

Get Groupies By Blogging!

Giving female fans a face for their fantasies.

This week Matt Forney teaches readers how to "get groupies by blogging."  No, really.  By following Matt's seven easy steps, any man can "enjoy a rock star life." 

You see, women are "hardwired to mate with winners" and nothing signals "conquering hero" better than a soft, goofy-looking guy who makes almost no money and sits in front of a computer most of the day cranking out vitriol while deluding himself that playing in "a crappy local band" makes him a professional musician.  See, we live in such a celebrity-crazed culture that it isn't necessary to be good at something: it's only necessary that one has a recognizable name: like, say, "Matt Forney".

Matt refers to a girl that once "not only made me breakfast, but insisted on doing my dishes, vacuuming out my living room, and dumping Drano in my toilet."  I have little doubt this happened to Matt, but he refers to the incident so often (always with the telling Drano detail), it's obvious it was a fairly singular event in his life.  Furthermore, what he takes as a girl being "suppliant" I take as a girl feeling sorry for him.  At any rate, it's not a very erotic memory, is it?  I mean, how bad does a toilet have to get to call for Drano?

Of course, Matt lays down certain caveats.  First, "most groupies reside in the middle of the attractiveness spectrum."  Really?  So Kate Hudson-as-Penny Lane was just a Hollywood fantasy after all?
 

Second, groupies don't make good long-term girlfriends because they are all "ho's" ("ho's," let it be noted, who occasionally provide fanatically high levels of housekeeping service).  

Third, geography is a major "cockblocker" for bloggers, since potential groupies tend to be dispersed around the world of Matt's imagination.  Easy to see why that presents a serious obstacle for a guy like Matt, who relies on hitch-hiking to get across the country.

Once he has responsibly forewarned his readers, Matt gets down to the business of getting girls by building blogs.  See, if Matt knows anything, it's how to get women's attention.  Apparently women on the internet like blogs about game, self-improvement (i.e., weight lifting), and punk rock because those interests make a man look "cool."  "Unacceptable topics include politics, video games and anything that makes you look angry, bitter, or nerdy."  (It's almost hard to type that last quote because even my fingers are laughing so hard.)

Then there is the matter of style.  Bloggers who attract groupies "convey strength, confidence, and mastery," just like Matt.  On the other hand, indulging in a "negative, carping tone" a la Paul Elam is the kiss of death.  Girls want winners, not whiners!  Writers like Matt himself, who project "unapologetic masculinity... establishing ourselves as dominant men who put women in their place."  Don't squander logic and reason on the likes of women, and instead engage their erotic imaginations by describing "hot" sexual encounters.  Look at the success of 50 Shades of Grey -- how difficult can it be?

But, wait, there's more!  Read Aristotle's Rhetoric (I'll put that on my reading list immediately) for the fundamentals.  Find your own voice -- but make sure that voice is deep and commanding.  Blog regularly (alternate, perhaps, with lifting?).  Network with other bloggers (cuz "no man is an island" yadda yadda yadda).  Oh, and by the way, please buy Matt's e-book on the subject (of course!).

Curiously, Matt claims it is "absolutely vital" for bloggers to post pictures of themselves.  I say this is curious advice from Matt because as far as I know, there are only two photos of Matt in the public domain, and they are only used by bloggers like me who want to mock him.  In fact, Matt took down his old "vlog" because Youtubers made such relentless fun of his, uhm, less-than-dominant presentation.

Finally, Matt cautions would-be rock stars bloggers who dream of following in his trail-blazing footsteps to "be patient."  This isn't going to happen overnight (or probably ever), but when your manosphere blog takes off, it will all be worth it.  One day you too will lie back on your satin upholstered, circular bed, like the returned king you were destined to be, and "bask in the attention of your lady fans."

Matt Forney Can't Go Home Again

I think there is a general consensus that Matt Forney is a Terrible Person, no?

After reading one of his recent posts, it's also clear that he is a Complete Wuss.

In "The Kingdom of Heaven is Within," he recounts a terrifying experience in which, while visiting a convenience store in upstate New York, he is forced to interact with a black guy.  Forney knows the black guy is "a bum" because he is "clad in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans."  Forney assumes he is being "hustled" because he is "dressed like a rich guy."  (Now I've seen at least three pictures of Forney, and in none of them does he look like someone who has more than two nickels to rub together.  If this guy was indeed targeting Forney in order to menace him, it is more likely because he sensed Forney's fear, which made him seem vulnerable.)

 Forney reports that his old Rochester neighborhood is becoming gentrified, whilst the "sprawling ghetto" surrounding it is being invaded by "scum" "emboldened" to "terrorize" nice [white?] neighborhoods.

As far as I know, Forney has only lived in three states: New York, North Dakota, and Oregon (and the latter two quite briefly).  However, based on this vast experience, he can declare that the entire nation is quickly morphing into one huge coast-to-coast Portland.  [Sigh! If only!]

Forney feels himself to be a stranger in a strange land... "like a soldier [!] returning home from a war to find the same people doing the same things, still going nowhere in life..."

The reader wonders how a few months tasting the music scene and railing about fat girls in Portland equates to a tour of combat, but the part of "still going nowhere in life" would seem consistent with Forney's own lack of direction.   

Forney muses, "While I'm a success in my personal life [again, I really need some photographic evidence here], there's one urge I'll never be able to fulfill: the desire to belong."  

I'm such a softie that I find Forney's claim of "personal success" heart-breakingly delusional. 

Anyway, having had this epiphany -- that he will never belong anywhere -- Forney announces he will be undertaking a second hitch-hiking trip, even though "the optimism, the joy of discovery is gone" (since he already knows the whole country is actually just Portland after all).

It's not simple curiosity or desire to visit "California, the Grand Canyon, the South and whatnot [sic]... " that sends ol' Forney down that ribbon of highway, but rather "a compulsion to insert myself into stressful, life-threatening situations... because I'm a junkie searching for an adrenaline high."

(BTW, unless Forney is planning to bungie-jump into the Grand Canyon, I can assure him that a visit to our national treasure is actually a pretty low-risk venture.  I was there a few months ago, along with about a dozen other seniors in various stages of decrepitude.)

Then Forney adds, "And because if you feel like an outsider no matter where you are, one place is as good as the next." 

Oh really?  Cuz that's not been true in my experience.  For example, having lived in both Italy and Saudi Arabia, I can attest that I found Italy to be a much better place to be an "outsider" in.  Just take my word on this.

Forney caps this post by musing, "If you romanticize this kind of thing [?], I'm pretty sure you're missing the point."  Of course, romanticizing his own lack of direction, his inability to connect with people, to establish or even maintain relationships, is exactly what he is doing here.

Now why do I call Matt Forney a wuss?  Well, I'll have you know that I myself was rather an adventurous traveler back in the day.  For example, when I was twenty-two -- younger than the intrepid MF himself -- I traveled solo from Kabul to Istanbul on buses and third class trains.  ("Midnight Express," anyone?) And I was a girl.  Sure, there were some tense moments, which made for great "stories" later, but I can proudly declare that I never "lost" my "bearings" the way Forney did when he was approached by a black man on a busy street in Rochester in broad daylight.

Aspiring PUAs Watch Out

Garfunkel and Oates have got your number (and the bimbos they lust after).  Could these girls be cuter?

Punctuation is Misandry!

Over at Captain Capitalism, a rave review of Roosh V.'s new compendium The Best of Roosh, Part I.

First of all, Capt. Cap warns other self-publishing entrepreneurs that "until I get counter reviews, the book reviews will be limited to a tit for tat mutually beneficial relationship."  Ah, so that's how "peer review" works in the manosphere!

In defense of Roosh, whose self-editing tends to be as haphazard as his personal grooming, The Captain asserts that he, personally, likes the typos.  In fact, the more of 'em, the better! 

 I'm taking a religious stance with this in that I believe men are sick and tired of the predominantly female-dominated publishing/correcting-ones-english-at-the-expense-of-ideas industry.  I truly believe that with online publishing proper grammar will finally be ranked below "ideas and content" as it should have always been until academian charlatans came in insisting their knowledge of "dangling participles" was more important than pioneering lines of thought.  The more and more typos I see, overshadowed by intelligence, innovation, creativity, and just plain cleverness, the better for the publishing industry and readers.

I didn't realize until now that careful proof-reading compromised the creative expression of men's "ideas."  Now I see how I have been not only stifling, but indeed virtually castrating, my male students by insisting that they learn to observe the conventions of "academian" English.  For years, I've been trying to persuade them that "proper grammar" would strengthen their power to persuade readers, but am now chagrined to learn that I had it all ass-backwards.

This is why I cannot fear the New Misogynists.

And also because of this:

Roosh ‏@rooshv 26 May

The Best Of Roosh has been downloaded 3,250 times. 136 of you purchased it. :)

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Isn't Baking Soda Just A Little Bit Beta?

Guess what the lead story was today on Return of Kings:

a.  5 Feminists Who Will Kill Your Boner
b.  5 Steps To Achieving Killer Abs
c.  5 Big Ass Books to Read Before You Die
d.  5 Surprising Uses For Baking Soda

It is really cute!  First the author, Mikael, assures his skeptical readers that he doesn't expect them to actually own any baking soda because  "Well women use [it] for baking, let’s get serious we’re men, we don’t bake, we go to the store. But being as men don’t generally bake, not every man has baking soda in their home as a bachelor, and you should."  

Re-read the previous passage and consider the following information:  Mikael has a B.A. in English Literature.  He even has his own blog, in which he writes about Education ("Learn More While Doing Less").  He even has a job that allows him to listen to his Ipod all day so that he can "multi-task" on his employer's dime time.  Pretty sweet.

All right, never mind the comma splices and run on sentences, Mikael's got some damn good tips about baking soda.  Of course, being a woman of advanced years, this wisdom has already been passed down to me over the ages through my mother and grandmother and about a bazillion newspaper fillers.

Anyway, in case, being a guy, you haven't considered baking soda since you constructed that volcano in fifth grade, baking soda has a number of possible uses:

1.  Deodorant

I'm not sure why someone would want to use baking soda as deodorant, but I suppose if you're stuck on the edge of the Empty Quarter, where soap, water, and basic grooming products are unavailable but where baking supplies (perversely) abound, and you don't mind the inevitable "grit factor," this works.  At least it works according to Roosh, who apparently dealt with this particular application in some length back in 2011 (I must have missed that essential pearl of Roosh wisdom).  "It is good to know in a pinch one always has options."  Indeed!

2.  Tooth Whitener

I've actually used baking soda as an ad hoc dentifrice now and then.  I've never been impressed with the results though, and it leaves a weird residue on your teeth.  Don't over do it, at any rate:  You don't want to grind off all your enamel.

3.  Mosquito Bite Treatment

"Mosquito's [sic] suck plain and simple."

Hmm...  I'm very allergic to mosquito bites, and in desperation have tried just about anything to alleviate the itch, including baking soda.  Unfortunately, I didn't find it any more effective than bleach, toothpaste, alcohol, or camomile lotion.  Icing followed by cortisone cream works best for me.  Better yet, avoid getting bitten in the first place.

4.  Refrigerator Deodorizer

"Let it absorb the stank [sic] of your horrendous cooking leftovers."  Wait a minute, I thought a real man doesn't cook (that's the second function of females) --. or else, when he does, he's a much better cook than any woman could hope to be.  I've actually wasted boxes of soda to prevent my frig from offending, but I find as with 4. (above), prevention (i.e., throwing away "stanky" food) is more effective than treatment.

5.  To Extinguish a Fire

"Just throw a whole boat load on it and boom, fire be gone."  

As someone who has started more than her share of grease fires over the years, unless it's a very small fire, you still need a portable fire extinguisher.  Or a Cosco-sized bag of baking soda.  Just sayin'.

There you have it.  Were you as "surprised" as I was?

Performance Anxiety

N.B.  It was only after I had posted the following that I found David Futrelle over at manboobz had coincidentally posted a response to the same topic. 
_________________________________________________________________

Yesterday, I was in a tanning salon waiting my turn at one of the beds.  (I want to build up a little melanin before our trip to Mexico).  To my annoyance, all there was to read in the lobby was Cosmopolitan magazine, the one magazine I cannot stand to look at.

Although there was much to admire about Helen Gurley Brown, I have always detested Cosmopolitan.  Not only for the content, or lack thereof (since it is dedicated almost exclusively to the various Geisha like arts of pleasing men), but for its style (which, BTW, Nora Ephron skewered brilliantly in a piece for Esquire many years ago).  Brown stepped down in 1997, but the magazine only seems to have gotten more obsessively focused on the need for women to cater to men in the bedroom, with shameless headlines screaming "Tease Him and Please Him!" "Foreplay Men Crave!" and "His Butt."  Every issue features at least one article on how to gratify men sexually.  Cuz these days the way to a man's heart is through advanced fellatio technique. 

So it was surprising to read over at ROK that "You've probably noticed that most women haven't got the tiniest interest in pleasing us.  The large majority of women believe that getting naked and allowing us to stab their insides with our manly part is pretty much all they have to do when it comes to having sex."  Well, you can't blame Cosmopolitan for not trying!

The article, by someone who calls himself Alex "The Player" Matlock, invites readers to identify the type of bad sex that they are (probably not) having.   He believes it is important for the Rooshites to know this because it's only "fair" and "natural" and besides, "Judging is important because it allow us to understand exactly what it is that we want from a sexual encounter."  Ah, if wishes were horses...!

Who is Alex Matlock and why should men listen to him?  According to his website, Mr. Matlock is working on his PHD -- and he spells it like that, all in caps -- in Social Psychology.  He chose Social Psychology because he thought it would help him understand women better.  He even shared a flat with three girls once, not to "bang" them, but to deepen his knowledge of the feminine psyche.

Although he assures us that he has "banged a lot of chicks," he has found that most of their performances fall short of the mark.  And because Roosh and his ilk love lists (also tables, graphs, flowcharts, and diagrams), Matlock methodically lists the five types of women in order of most (1) to least disappointing (5).

1. The one that tries too much (aka The Disaster) 

This girl is guilty of trying too hard. She moves out of sync [because the guy establishes the tempo, presumably].   She has the highest percentage of male genitalia injury [sic], breaks condoms, and makes guys lose their boners. That’s just one more reason to avoid “taking advantage” of heavily inebriated women. Why do I suspect the sarcasm quotes to be Roosh's touch?

2. The one that’s scared (aka The Virgin) 

I thought these guys wanted sweet, inexperienced girls?  But the so-called virgin is just scamming a fellow.  She makes a guy feel guilty by acting as though she doesn't know what she's doing.  Plus she only allows penetration in the missionary position.

3. The one that doesn’t move (aka The Starfish or The Doll)

Matlock suggests that because she doesn’t do anything that disrupts the actual lovemaking... she will probably have many more orgasms than #1 and #2 simply because she lets the man do his thing.  Matlock rates such women as "average" in the performance department.  And I rate Matlock's understanding of what makes a woman orgasm "below average."

4. The one that does something (aka The Girlfriend) 

Experienced enough to "put a smile on your face."
5.  The Pornstar
The ultimate girlfriend experience.  (Probably a regular Cosmo reader.)

Is it my imagination, or can I feel the editorial hand of Roosh in every piece that is posted to ROK?  Like Helen Gurley Brown and Hugh Hefner, his persona infuses everything.  But Roosh is no Hugh Hefner, and the glory days of magazines like Playboy and Cosmopolitan, which were once the authorities on How To Perform One's Sex, are over.  The only reason they linger on is that the one thing that doesn't seem to change is the sexual performance anxiety many young men and women suffer from.

And here's a picture of the author with two "chicks."  Not surprisingly, he's selling PUA too.

Alex Matlock is an expert in dating and woman psychology. This is the sort of stuff he discusses on his blog and in the free eBook he gives out. If you want to increase your success with women, visit ThePlayerGuide.com - a place where the dating mindset is thrown out the window in favor of more direct and fruitful methods of meeting and seducing women.

Roosh Writes Fiction

For a guy with utter contempt for females, Roosh spends a lot of time fantasizing what it is like to be a girl.  This week on his blog he offers up a short story called "Patricia and Her Smartphone."   Except it's not so short, after all; it is 3500 words long, as he lays out in thudding detail how a young woman's day revolves around the demands of social media.  It is meant, I expect, to be a stinging indictment of how consumerism has destroyed the capacity of women to form relationships with others. 

Roosh often blames feminism for all the ills that plague male/female relationships today, but he seems to conflate feminism with consumerism.  This lack of understanding of what these terms actually mean confounds and annoys me more than just about anything else Roosh does.   

Roosh's literary effort seems to be derived from Bret Easton Ellis yuppie satire, American Psycho.  I heartily disliked both the book and subsequent movie. but in their day they got favorable reviews.  Of course, there are no smartphones in American Psycho, which was published in 1991, but otherwise it's much of a muchness, as my mother used to say..

As someone who spends several hours a day trying to capture the fleeting attention of  "emerging adults," I am all too familiar with how the new technology hinders face-to-face communication and shortens attention spans.  I don't find the addiction to texting and twittering a particularly gendered behavior, however: my male students are equally in thrall to their devices. It also strikes me as a bit hypocritical that Roosh takes young ladies to task for living online, when he and his followers are doing much the same.  Meh, this is hardly breaking news, and many artists and writers have been addressing it.

I did smile at the passage in which Patricia and her friend Madison photograph their lunches before consuming them:  "The food arrived, presented beautifully on large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce going outward like heat rays a child would leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones were out now, taking pictures from different angles...  From the beginning of their lunch date until the end, a total of 52 photos were taken. Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to various sites to garner a total of 48 likes, comments, and retweets, including a comment from the restaurant, apologizing for the menu typo."   I (once) shared a meal in Las Vegas with a colleague who actually did this: by the time she was ready to take an actual bite, I was ready for the dessert menu.

Patricia, as Roosh's fictional feminized self, is a very, very Mean Girl who dismisses the men who approach her throughout the day because they aren't handsome or hip enough to meet her standards.   She later meets a fellow for drinks who tries to impress her by "talking about his recent experience in the Peruvian mountains where he took ayahuasca and achieved spiritual enlightenment [and] accumulated a vocabulary of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important Andean wisdom from wise elders..."  Now, if that bit of esoterica wouldn't impress a girl, what would?  (Me? I'd be thinking, What a pretentious twit!)

Patricia won't have anything to do with poor Cody, either, because he doesn't believe that access to birth control is a woman's right.  (And rightly so; that attitude should be a complete deal breaker in any woman's playbook.)

The story goes on and on and on.  Roosh took the next day off from blogging, citing exhaustion, and no wonder:  If it was as exhausting to write as it is to read, he must be knackered.

Roosh writes competently; I'd be thrilled if my students could string that many grammatical sentences together.  Functional literacy does not, alas, good writing make.  Unfortunately, like pretty much everyone in the manosphere, he is incapable of nuance, subtlety or levity.  Despite his efforts to be witty and satirical, the resulting prose is heavy, turgid and excruciating, and about as much fun as watching someone stack bricks. 
  
I don't think this is the sort of thing his fan base wants to read, either.

The End of Roosh

Roosh is exhausted.  Anyone who reads his blog between the lines can sense he nearing the the end.  He is trying to prepare his fan base for the inevitable End of Roosh:

"When I first got to Eastern Europe, my standards were lower than what the market provided. I bought all the product available, a binge that coincided with doctor visits and antibiotic treatments. But each new notch increased my standards by just a tiny amount, until one day, standing in a plentiful, fully-stocked market, I did not make a purchase. The reason is that my standards overshot the local markets I found myself in."

In other words, he found himself, in a veritable "poosy paradise," to be impotent.

"I tried to drug myself with alcohol to make the market more appealing. It used to work in the past, but no longer. Even after many drinks, my brain knows true beauty. Only when my boner supplants my brain, when I walk around the market with a priapismatic [sic] erection that is not stimulated by the external, can I proceed with a transaction."

Let's reword this, shall we?  "Especially after many drinks, I am unaroused despite the abundance of attractive young women in my view."

"Please tell me how to go back to when my standards were lower, when I was not a machine for detecting aesthetic flaws in women, of spotting misshapen thighs, an extra dollop of adipose tissue over the stomach, eyebrows that weren’t properly groomed or even a voice one half octave too deep."

Gosh, I wish I could help here.  Perhaps you need to entertain the notion that while sex without emotional connection can be fun, as a daily diet it is lacking essential nutrients.  You have dedicated your entire identity, your life's very purpose, to detecting and exposing the flaws in women.  This is the End of Your Game: no one real can now meet your standards, and the sexual act has become about as meaningful as gorging on a bag of potato chips.


When I look in the mirror, I see a physically flawed specimen, so why have I come to seek perfection? My brain demands it, and it is defeating my boner, putting me on the path of one day seeing sex as a biological nuisance instead of a pleasurable necessity.

Ah, my love!  You are beginning to see the light: Sex is BOTH "a biological nuisance' AND "a pleasurable necessity."  Is Little Roosh beginning to grow up?

Almost all women I’ve had sex with in the past I would have sex with today, but only on one condition: I wouldn’t have to put in a stroke of work. They would have come to me, touch me, disrobe, and then let me play with their bodies as I see fit. I would not put 10% of the original effort that allowed me to have sex with them in the first place. This must be the end of the player, when the development of his brain defeats the evolutionary demands of his penis, or is it the natural order of man, with the hyper-sexed player and his demands of never ending variety being the anomaly, the freak of nature?

Let's not get carried away here.  You write as though you have actually had sex with a huge number of women, but we all know, don't we, that this is not exactly the case.  You also write as though "the penis" makes "evolutionary demands" as part of the "natural order of man."  In other words, your entire life philosophy needs a major overhaul.  And I don't know whether that will sit very well with your readers.
 
The club is horrible and I want to leave. I pick the most beautiful girl in the venue, one who my brain liked, but she rejects me, not so softly. I can’t leave after having done just one approach—I can leave after two. I go through the motions on the girl next to me, cute but not extraordinary, just slightly above the mean of what I’ve had in the past. She likes me. She’s touching me, complimenting me. She is ready to do the work that I don’t want to do and so my brain allows me to proceed and I will have sex with her three days from now. Unless it’s easy or unless the girl in the top 0.01% of women I’ve seen in 25 countries and counting, I can’t seem to be bothered.

OK, OK -- you've convinced me!  Sex addiction is a Real Thing.

Roosh is trying to tell his readership that he has had enough.  Little Roosh Wants To Come Home.  Don't make him keep trying to fuck strange women in strange countries!  It's starting to tear at his very soul.

But what else can Roosh do?  Sans the porno, does anyone care what Roosh does or says or writes?  It looks like he will soon find out.

Roosh is a Whiner

I just read Roosh's latest, "If I Was Born An American Girl."  I won't reproduce it here.  Jezebel readers were shredding it the other day, much to his delight.  He loves to play the naughty boy, get all the girls riled up, then wank about it on Twitter.

But even a riled up girl like me is getting pretty bored with being outraged over Roosh.

Anyway, the theme of this "essay" is how damn easy Roosh's life would have been if he had only been born a woman.  It's one of those New Misogynists' heavy, ham-headed attempts to be satirical.  (I have come to the sad conclusion that The New Misogynists, with the exception of Delicious Tacos, are tone deaf to humor and nuance.)  

Roosh's piece takes the form of a very long and very arbitrary list. (Roosh loves compiling lists, graphs, tables, and pie charts -- so scientifical!)  Although not in any apparent order of importance, Roosh methodically numbers the privileges that young American women enjoy compared to their male peers.  Allegedly.

Note that most of this privilege is attributed to women's sexual power over men.  Obviously, he is only thinking about the tiny fraction of American women whom he considers sexually attractive.  The rest of us ugly fatties, who make on average $6000/year less than everyone else, well, we belong in forced labor camps anyway.

So basically, if Roosh had been born a conventionally beautiful young woman, he wouldn't have had to study for his organic chemistry exams; he could have aced the course by simply fucking his instructor.  This fantasy is such a standard of "school girl" porno and B movies, where Roosh and his fans get most of their sex education, that naturally Roosh serves it forth as irrefutable "evidence."  Hey, a cliche wouldn't be a cliche if it weren't a fact, right?  And resentful boners are the best!

As a college student, I never had to choose between either failing a class or exchanging sexual favors with an instructor, but had the dilemma presented itself, in most cases, I believe I would have opted to withdraw.  (Mainly because, although I used to be kind of a slut, I've always been a really lazy slut, and as any sex worker can attest, it's called sex "work" for a reason.) 

Please don't assume that the fact that my undergraduate transcripts are riddled with "Ws" is because I turned down the option of blowing my profs on a regular basis.  Honest, it never came up for negotiation (no pun intended).

OK, full disclosure:  Once a film history instructor asked me to give him a massage in his office.  Although I had no reason to believe that my grade hinged on fulfilling this rather surprising request, I dropped the class immediately out of sheer embarrassment.  And because I had no idea how to give anyone a massage.

Ah, the good ole days, before anyone had ever heard of "sexual harassment!"

God, Roosh is boring.  And whiny?  Jesu Maria!  What a tiresome child he must have been, the kind of kid who would complain for hours because his sister got the red popsicle, while he had to settle for the blue one, and who would keep repeating his grievance in a tedious, unrelenting whine, until his mother longed to toss both child and popsicle onto the shoulder of the road from a moving vehicle (and then back up, a la Dzhokhar Tsarnaev).

The fact that Roosh's mother did not succumb to the temptation represents an amazing feat of maternal self-restraint for which -- unsurprisingly -- Roosh is not in the least bit grateful.

Oh, and as long as we're talking about frozen treats here, let me share this treat of a one minute video "I'm A Nice Guy" by Scott Benson. 

Roosh: Coming Soon to a Second Tier City Near You

I note that I have a few readers from other countries, most notably Romania and Russia.  Perhaps some of you are Roosh fans; perhaps, some of you not so much.  Roosh posted the following a couple of years ago, when he was getting a lot of flack from writing about his exploits in various Latin American countries.  Roosh's words are in bold; my annotations are italicized.  

9 Things I Want To Say To My International Critics
By Roosh

I have nine things I would like to say to all those who are angry about my travel writing:

Stop right there, did you say "travel" writing?  You mean I can find these guides in my local Rick Steves store?  If by "travel" you mean "how to prowl foreign discoteques, malls, clubs, and locate cheap sublets," maybe.
 
1. Sex is a normal biological process that occurs whether it’s written about by me in a book or not. I’ve yet to see any evidence that a noticeable “Roosh Boost” occurs in countries I write about.

No one is going to argue with that.  I'm mildly curious what a "Roosh Boost" involves (is this somehow related to Roosh's boast that he "explodes" in women's vaginas?) but I can live without knowing...

2.It may be hard to believe, but your women like fucking men who are from different countries. Attacking me won’t change that...

Note the use of "your women."  This is a powerful taunt in cultures with patriarchal tribal traditions, in which women are seen not only as the property of their male relatives, but also as the receptacles of family honor.  Roosh, one generation away from a rural Iranian village, betrays his own tribal origins here.  

Note to my non-American readers:  This is NOT how most American men under the age of, say, 120, refer to women!

Procreating with a different race or background is an evolutionary [sic]  advantageous behavior that lowers the rate of genetic disease.

While it's well established that the offspring of first cousins who marry -- especially over successive generations -- are more likely to suffer from certain congenital diseases carried by recessive genes, I challenge you to show me any credible scientific evidence that "procreating with a different race... is an evolutionarily advantageous behavior."
 
3. Consensual sex with girls of legal age is not predation and is not rape, no matter how many times you say it is.

Agreed -- if and when it is indeed consensual and the girl is of legal age.  Having sex with extremely intoxicated girls who are incapable of consent IS rape in the U.S. -- no matter how many times you say it isn't.  Coercing women by deceiving them or simply wearing them down, or by deliberately targeting very young or naive girls with promises of a "relationship," while not rape, is "predatory" and morally repugnant.
 
4. You should be more concerned about turning on your women instead of trying to stop foreign men from successfully providing them with [sic] their emotional and physical needs. One path yields more sex, while the other gets you nothing.

Again with the "your women" taunt.  Basically, he is telling his critics "I can take your women because I am more of a man than you are, so nyeah, nyeah, nyeah!"  As for more successfully fulfilling their emotional and physical needs, that's pretty rich coming from a guy who dismisses the female orgasm as "trivial," doesn't care if his partner comes or not, and admits his own most satisfying sexual encounters have been with women he "hate-fucked."
 
5. By the time my book about your country has been published, thousands upon thousands of men have already had sex with your women. Nothing you do can stop this from proceeding unless you completely ban tourism.

"Nothing you can do to stop me from having sex with your women."  Wanna bet?  In fact, countries CAN do a lot to discourage sex tourism without banning legitimate tourism.  Roosh has already been declared "persona non grata" in a number of countries.  Keeping undesirable elements out is one of the reasons countries demand visas.
 
6. You can’t pick and choose what effects of globalization impact your country. You must take the good (increase in trade and technology) versus the bad (competition from hairy foreign men).

Is Roosh seriously suggesting that the only way to build a globally competitive economy is to allow sex tourists through their borders? What a dilemma!  (At least Roosh admits he's "the bad" vs. "the good" here.)

7. Censorship doesn’t work in the internet age. Go ahead and ask the Brazilian government how easy it is to take sites off the internet. If you look hard, you’ll probably find hundreds of sex-themed articles about your country. My work is just a drop in the bucket.

Probably true.  However, has it occurred to Roosh that it is not "sex-themed articles" in general they object to, but his in particular?

8. Criticizing the use of game as “manipulation” shows that you’re stuck in the wrong century. Science now backs up game concepts such as touching, pre-selection, and being alpha as ways to be more attractive to the opposite sex. Your argument is essentially “Be unattractive on purpose because it’s natural and right.” Good luck with that. Instead, American men want the best game to get penis inside vagina. You will not dampen the demand for this crucial knowledge.

Actually, I don't have much against PUA and "game" if it helps a few socially inept fellows muster enough self-confidence to climb out of their mom's basement on a Saturday night.  It's pretty silly stuff, but so is most of the relationship advice out there, whether it's for girls or boys.

By "science," Roosh and his ilk mean "evolutionary psychology," which is a highly controversial field riddled with pot-holes of fallacy, inadequate data, and overgeneralization.  Its status as a discipline is further compromised by yo-yos like Roosh who embrace half-baked theories as gospel and then apply them willy-nilly to justify the most heinous and socially maladaptive behavior.

Whether Roosh's brand of "game" constitutes "crucial knowledge" is also highly debatable.  

9. You should thank me and my compatriots for spending money in your country. Your hotels, restaurants, tour agencies, and nightlife venues get paid. Your people will suffer more if we go elsewhere.

Personally, I find this final point the most distasteful, and if I were a national of Romania, Russia, Colombia, or any other country, I'd be infuriated by the notion that I should be grateful or beholden to some Ugly American who believes he is doing me a favor by throwing a few dollars into the local coffers.  Who the hell does he think he is, the Sultan of Brunei?