Call me old fashioned. I was born in a time when sexting did not exist, and we had to go to the store and buy a stamp, then use the post office to mail each other Polaroids of our wonderful, wonderful genitals. And your boyfriend only showed them to his friends, he didn't post them for the world to see after you pissed him off when you dumped him! You always wanted to be famous, and now you have your wish.
But now there's this new so-called fad-turned fresh hell sweeping Cluelessville: Internet relationships. These are not real relationships. These are electronic pen pals. You see, having a boyfriend/girlfriend in reality means that you have a flesh and blood person that you make physical contact with, share intimate physical moments with and occasionally knock the ol' boots. It does NOT include telling her to diddle herself on her bed through a computer monitor.
If you have never been in the room with each other, you are not in a relationship. How easy is it so say you're macking mad bitches just because you've spoken to various females on Internet message boards? How fair is this? How is it possible for people to be "intimate" living 2000 miles away from each other? Telekinetic sex? I need SOMEBODY out there to explain me the logic behind this. Sure, you have a "connection" with all the words you shared. Words are words, you can be whoever you want on the Internet when nobody is there to call you out on your actual shit. It's not the same when you're alone. None of you have no idea right now as I type this at my handy-dandy lil' laptop I'm actually wearing a zippered gimp suit and a mask that used to be my dad's face. To you, I'm NiceGuyStud87 on Fagsfordates.com. Am I really? Who knows? And that's my point.
Let me lay this down for you one more time: that girl you talk to on a camera in Tucson? She's not your girlfriend. You have only ever seen her sit in an office chair and flip her hair back and forth 87,000 times in the last for months. You have not held hands. Been on a date. That too-soon reach for the breast that sends your palms into cold sweats. Dry humped your way into drunken first-time sex where you slammed her head on an iron bedrail and her dog licked your asscheeks in mid-coitus. All that good shit. Until you do, your pen pals. And we ALL have more than one pal.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
YOU'RE TUNED INTO THE HOME OF THE ROCK!
And now folks, it's 6am and we conclude our Sunrise Chat, please stay tuned for Mad Cat and Asshole Jack in the morning on Radio 101.3.
Mad Cat:
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD Morning Radio America!!! This is...The DOCTOR Mad C. and you can't Jack it without my main asshole, say hi to our people, Jack!
Asshole Jack:
Thank you Cat it's Friday, it's the WEEKEND and we're looking to give away lots of concert tickets, prizes and 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK t-shirts that you will immediately use for the specific purpose of mowing your lawn.
Mad Cat:
If we call you and you answer your phone by saying "Prize me 101!" and slap your scrotum against the phone, we'll be sending YOU and a friend too see the band with the two other guys from Fallout Boy! You know, the ones nobody knew.
Asshole Jack:
...AND you'll get to meet the band before they hit the stage for pictures and autographs!
Mad Cat:
We're gonna SLAY yooooooooooooooooooooou with a little Scorpions here while my man the A-Hole and I cut rockstar lines of blow to keep up our incredibly loud and obnoxious routine. Here's No One Like You on the ONLY rock station that matters 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK!!!!
*song plays*
Asshole Jack:
...and we're back! Man, is there anything better than German hair metal?
Mad Cat:
I'll answer that by saying "Hi-Yo!!!!" and playing some sound byte from a Will Farrell movie to show how in-touch I am with the Youth of eight years ago!
*Anchorman sound clip*
Asshole Jack:
You know, losers often stop me in the street when the recognize me from the awesome billboard of the two of us with our back to each other while yelling at the camera man and wearing sunglasses. They say things like "You're a douchebag" and "I'd rather listen to static than you." Pfft. Jealous. Jealous of this 265 lb. Hawaiian shirt-clad scene celebrity who gets to feels up girls at wet t-shirt contests. Of course I never go home with them, but who witnesses that part?
Mad Cat:
This job is tough, people. We barely make enough money for the eightball apiece we put up our nose during this 4-hour broadcast. You see, with limited songs in the morning and our inability to comment on social norms without shitting the bed we make up for it by using CRAAAAZY sound effects, idiotic contests and bringing hot women into the studio that only WE can see!!!! And you love it!!
Asshole Jack:
You said it Cat, speaking of which beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee the fifth caller in right now and you will be spending $101.30 this weekend in DAVE AND BUSTER DOLLARRRRRRRRS!!!!
Mad Cat:
Just think of all the games of ski-ball, table shuffleboard and Power Tower that will buy you and your date!!! Looks like you'll be eating in the FANCY section of that cesspool of noise pollution. Maybe even walking away from the prize station with a Stewie doll.
Asshole Jack:
Changing the subject for no reason, we want to remind you to be tuned in at ten for our daily Fake Orphan Funny!
Mad Cat:
Good reminder AJ! We'll be calling a random child at ten am to let him no his parents are dead. If he goes ten seconds without crying, we'll be setting him up with tickets to the Jimmy Eat World reunion tour courtesy of 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK!!!
*"Please sir may I have some more?" clip from Oliver!*
Asshole:
The ROCK!!!!!
Mad Cat:
THE ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mad Cat:
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD Morning Radio America!!! This is...The DOCTOR Mad C. and you can't Jack it without my main asshole, say hi to our people, Jack!
Asshole Jack:
Thank you Cat it's Friday, it's the WEEKEND and we're looking to give away lots of concert tickets, prizes and 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK t-shirts that you will immediately use for the specific purpose of mowing your lawn.
Mad Cat:
If we call you and you answer your phone by saying "Prize me 101!" and slap your scrotum against the phone, we'll be sending YOU and a friend too see the band with the two other guys from Fallout Boy! You know, the ones nobody knew.
Asshole Jack:
...AND you'll get to meet the band before they hit the stage for pictures and autographs!
Mad Cat:
We're gonna SLAY yooooooooooooooooooooou with a little Scorpions here while my man the A-Hole and I cut rockstar lines of blow to keep up our incredibly loud and obnoxious routine. Here's No One Like You on the ONLY rock station that matters 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK!!!!
*song plays*
Asshole Jack:
...and we're back! Man, is there anything better than German hair metal?
Mad Cat:
I'll answer that by saying "Hi-Yo!!!!" and playing some sound byte from a Will Farrell movie to show how in-touch I am with the Youth of eight years ago!
*Anchorman sound clip*
Asshole Jack:
You know, losers often stop me in the street when the recognize me from the awesome billboard of the two of us with our back to each other while yelling at the camera man and wearing sunglasses. They say things like "You're a douchebag" and "I'd rather listen to static than you." Pfft. Jealous. Jealous of this 265 lb. Hawaiian shirt-clad scene celebrity who gets to feels up girls at wet t-shirt contests. Of course I never go home with them, but who witnesses that part?
Mad Cat:
This job is tough, people. We barely make enough money for the eightball apiece we put up our nose during this 4-hour broadcast. You see, with limited songs in the morning and our inability to comment on social norms without shitting the bed we make up for it by using CRAAAAZY sound effects, idiotic contests and bringing hot women into the studio that only WE can see!!!! And you love it!!
Asshole Jack:
You said it Cat, speaking of which beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee the fifth caller in right now and you will be spending $101.30 this weekend in DAVE AND BUSTER DOLLARRRRRRRRS!!!!
Mad Cat:
Just think of all the games of ski-ball, table shuffleboard and Power Tower that will buy you and your date!!! Looks like you'll be eating in the FANCY section of that cesspool of noise pollution. Maybe even walking away from the prize station with a Stewie doll.
Asshole Jack:
Changing the subject for no reason, we want to remind you to be tuned in at ten for our daily Fake Orphan Funny!
Mad Cat:
Good reminder AJ! We'll be calling a random child at ten am to let him no his parents are dead. If he goes ten seconds without crying, we'll be setting him up with tickets to the Jimmy Eat World reunion tour courtesy of 101.3 HOME OF THE ROCK!!!
*"Please sir may I have some more?" clip from Oliver!*
Asshole:
The ROCK!!!!!
Mad Cat:
THE ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, March 17, 2013
WELCOME TO CLUB La CLUB
So the weekend is here, and it's time so hit the town, huh? Want to go to a place where girls dance in large, bulletproof circles? A place with bass notes that can effect the earth's rotation? A place with an overheated dance floor where douchebags with popped collars grind your ass without permission? A place where you can walk through crowded areas and have drunk people's sweaty shoulders hit you in the mouth? Well you are in for a treat, my friend.
As you can see, we have a velvet rope out front. This indicates importance. You know you are entering a classy joint when there's a velvet rope. It really screams "exclusive." See also: "movie theatre" or "mall bank." You will pay a cover charge that will gouge your ass like a Vlad III pike. Of course, we're not going to let you wear your coat in the club, so that will be four more dollars to simply put your coat on a wire hanger, and don't forget to tip this soldier of fashion for having to walk up to a marathon-esque thirty feet.
Now that you have the honour of stepping inside the premises, it's time to meet our ready and capable staff:
"Are you sure this is you in the photo?"
I roll up my sleeves to make my arms look bigger, know the radio ten-code off by heart, and call all the customers "perps". I am under the false sense that women are into me because I am a bouncer and I give a bad-boy image of security. I also collect empties from around the bar and stack them in cases. Later on, I will select ten customers at random to throw out so more can come in and pay the rip-off cover. Then I will get ice for the bartenders. I also watch Road House before my shift. Always.
Ego Grade: B+
"I am a bartender. in the Industry."
My name is probably Ricky, and I do a LOT of preacher curls at the gym. I have seen Cocktail 237 times and it still gives me the hippy-hippy shakes. I treat hot women like royalty and all male customers with humble scorn, sometimes calling them "chief" or "bro". I will charge you seven dollars for a Red Bull and allow you to drink one third the can, dumping the rest out of the sink. Sometimes I will ignore paying customers for eight straight minutes to yak with my hot co-workers, finally serving them with a purely condescending manner to charge them eleven dollars for two dollars worth of beverage. Don't forget to tip your bartender, folks. Or his pee is going into your long island ice tea.
Ego Grade: A-
"Dude, I'm trying to spin here."
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW yeah son this track is SLAMMIN. I am a DJ. I bring this up in virtually every conversation I have ever had with a new person. I don't actually know how to mix songs, but my laptop secretly solves that problem for me. I hardly do a thing and get paid eight times the amount of the door staff while playing pre-recorded music by various artists. If you are a hot girl, I will invite you in the booth in hopes of rubbing up against you, if you are a dude I will flip on my headphones when I see you in my peripherals so I don't have to tolerate your bullshit requests. Fuck off, I have magic to create here.
Ego Grade: A to B
"I have the power to fire you monkeys."
I am the bar manager. Not the bar owner, but a guy can dream. I wish Tony would sell me this place, I would have it SO bumpin'. Instead, I use my little authority to keep employees on eggshells and sexually harass the hot females staff members by overstating my leverage. When a fight breaks out, I believe I have the authority to use a blunt-force weapon in the fight, and will direct the arriving police at only customers to avoid red tape. I have perfected skimming the count to perfection and have a lot of chest hair. FUCK I wish I owned this place.
Ego Grade: infinity
There are various areas of the club. First upon your arrival is the parking lot, which will consist of many poorly-parked cars by not-so-sober drivers who pee on handles of other cars after spilling out into the dirty gravel. Guys will throw empties against granite brick walls and yell "LET'S GET SOME FUCKIN' PUSSY BOYYYYYYYYZ!!" while girls will stumble in painfully tall heels on poorly-graded construction clay. After that little obstacle course you arrive at the front door, which consists of a long line to the right of ugly people, a shorter line to the left of good-looking people, and an invisible line where if you look close you will see women with breasts appear in front of the bouncers for a split second, then magically disappear into the club.
After the shitshow wait in line watching your friends hit on girls that hate them and listening to everybody complain about how "Fuckin' freezin' it is out here, meng!!!" you are in the club, ready to cut rugs, dazzle ladies and put on a drinking clinic. Of course, you have something in the way of that much-needed first drinks(s). The Sea Of Money-Waving Assholes, a gigantic crush of mostly men waving various bills around in the air and calling bartenders "buddy" and "chief" and stealing tips off the bars by pretending to lean too far over and scooping them with their hands. You will get drinks splashed down your side and have your feet stepped on by spiky high heels. You will finish your drink before you finally get to your table, which will consist of a surface four feet off the floor with the circumference of a frisbee and will shake if sneezed on.
But hey, the music's bumpin' and you wanna hit the dance floor. Now, if you're white like me this is already-- in its own way-- a lost cause, so the plan is to let the dance floor pack up with enough women and rhythmic ethnics that nobody will notice your terribleness. If they're playing 90's R&B, that's the cue for females' asses to be ground by raging semis from behind. House music is the cue for frighteningly happy people with large pupils to perform dancing featuring arms moving in many directions. The top 40 and hip-hop is the usual flavour at most bars, which results in small groups of men shuffling around in trains between dancing women waiting for one drunk enough to start rubbing her shit all over him. That's the cue for him to give his friends that sly "This bitch soooooo wants me" smirk and ditch his buddies to cut a rug with Coyote Ugly. Guys, don't dance on speakers or tables. Nobody wants that since it's for pretty drunk girls and if you get hit in the face with a loaded pint glass just pick yourself up, spit the blood out and accept you made a huge mistake.
Of course, you may need some fresh air to flush the pungent mixture of Axe from your lung so you may want to go outside on the patio, a concrete slab painstakingly decorated with nothing. Here you can witness male customers on the patio throw punches at men walking by on the sidewalk and on the other end clothing-hating noisy girls sans underwear falling drunkenly when their heels catch on the slab joints. It's a place where they force you to dump your drink into a shitty plastic cup and you can have menthol cigarette smoke blown directly up your nostrils by a woman that just vomited into an open garbage pail. Drinks do have a habit of being cheaper out here so it may be worth having to shiver around umbrella space heaters, at least until you find a girl drunk enough to fall for one of your jokes that you stole from a stand-up comedian.
No bar journey can be complete with at least half a dozen trips to the restrooms, where people do things that by and large, are disgusting.
Eventually all good things must come to an end, and when those lights come on and nuke your retinas, it's time to start shuffling out the door and pathetically trying to locate fictitious after parties and desperately trying to score the leftovers. Most instead will settle for street meat and discreetly throwing up on the cab floor on the way home.
Free cover before 11.
As you can see, we have a velvet rope out front. This indicates importance. You know you are entering a classy joint when there's a velvet rope. It really screams "exclusive." See also: "movie theatre" or "mall bank." You will pay a cover charge that will gouge your ass like a Vlad III pike. Of course, we're not going to let you wear your coat in the club, so that will be four more dollars to simply put your coat on a wire hanger, and don't forget to tip this soldier of fashion for having to walk up to a marathon-esque thirty feet.
Now that you have the honour of stepping inside the premises, it's time to meet our ready and capable staff:
"Are you sure this is you in the photo?"
I roll up my sleeves to make my arms look bigger, know the radio ten-code off by heart, and call all the customers "perps". I am under the false sense that women are into me because I am a bouncer and I give a bad-boy image of security. I also collect empties from around the bar and stack them in cases. Later on, I will select ten customers at random to throw out so more can come in and pay the rip-off cover. Then I will get ice for the bartenders. I also watch Road House before my shift. Always.
Ego Grade: B+
"I am a bartender. in the Industry."
My name is probably Ricky, and I do a LOT of preacher curls at the gym. I have seen Cocktail 237 times and it still gives me the hippy-hippy shakes. I treat hot women like royalty and all male customers with humble scorn, sometimes calling them "chief" or "bro". I will charge you seven dollars for a Red Bull and allow you to drink one third the can, dumping the rest out of the sink. Sometimes I will ignore paying customers for eight straight minutes to yak with my hot co-workers, finally serving them with a purely condescending manner to charge them eleven dollars for two dollars worth of beverage. Don't forget to tip your bartender, folks. Or his pee is going into your long island ice tea.
Ego Grade: A-
"Dude, I'm trying to spin here."
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW yeah son this track is SLAMMIN. I am a DJ. I bring this up in virtually every conversation I have ever had with a new person. I don't actually know how to mix songs, but my laptop secretly solves that problem for me. I hardly do a thing and get paid eight times the amount of the door staff while playing pre-recorded music by various artists. If you are a hot girl, I will invite you in the booth in hopes of rubbing up against you, if you are a dude I will flip on my headphones when I see you in my peripherals so I don't have to tolerate your bullshit requests. Fuck off, I have magic to create here.
Ego Grade: A to B
"I have the power to fire you monkeys."
I am the bar manager. Not the bar owner, but a guy can dream. I wish Tony would sell me this place, I would have it SO bumpin'. Instead, I use my little authority to keep employees on eggshells and sexually harass the hot females staff members by overstating my leverage. When a fight breaks out, I believe I have the authority to use a blunt-force weapon in the fight, and will direct the arriving police at only customers to avoid red tape. I have perfected skimming the count to perfection and have a lot of chest hair. FUCK I wish I owned this place.
Ego Grade: infinity
There are various areas of the club. First upon your arrival is the parking lot, which will consist of many poorly-parked cars by not-so-sober drivers who pee on handles of other cars after spilling out into the dirty gravel. Guys will throw empties against granite brick walls and yell "LET'S GET SOME FUCKIN' PUSSY BOYYYYYYYYZ!!" while girls will stumble in painfully tall heels on poorly-graded construction clay. After that little obstacle course you arrive at the front door, which consists of a long line to the right of ugly people, a shorter line to the left of good-looking people, and an invisible line where if you look close you will see women with breasts appear in front of the bouncers for a split second, then magically disappear into the club.
After the shitshow wait in line watching your friends hit on girls that hate them and listening to everybody complain about how "Fuckin' freezin' it is out here, meng!!!" you are in the club, ready to cut rugs, dazzle ladies and put on a drinking clinic. Of course, you have something in the way of that much-needed first drinks(s). The Sea Of Money-Waving Assholes, a gigantic crush of mostly men waving various bills around in the air and calling bartenders "buddy" and "chief" and stealing tips off the bars by pretending to lean too far over and scooping them with their hands. You will get drinks splashed down your side and have your feet stepped on by spiky high heels. You will finish your drink before you finally get to your table, which will consist of a surface four feet off the floor with the circumference of a frisbee and will shake if sneezed on.
But hey, the music's bumpin' and you wanna hit the dance floor. Now, if you're white like me this is already-- in its own way-- a lost cause, so the plan is to let the dance floor pack up with enough women and rhythmic ethnics that nobody will notice your terribleness. If they're playing 90's R&B, that's the cue for females' asses to be ground by raging semis from behind. House music is the cue for frighteningly happy people with large pupils to perform dancing featuring arms moving in many directions. The top 40 and hip-hop is the usual flavour at most bars, which results in small groups of men shuffling around in trains between dancing women waiting for one drunk enough to start rubbing her shit all over him. That's the cue for him to give his friends that sly "This bitch soooooo wants me" smirk and ditch his buddies to cut a rug with Coyote Ugly. Guys, don't dance on speakers or tables. Nobody wants that since it's for pretty drunk girls and if you get hit in the face with a loaded pint glass just pick yourself up, spit the blood out and accept you made a huge mistake.
Of course, you may need some fresh air to flush the pungent mixture of Axe from your lung so you may want to go outside on the patio, a concrete slab painstakingly decorated with nothing. Here you can witness male customers on the patio throw punches at men walking by on the sidewalk and on the other end clothing-hating noisy girls sans underwear falling drunkenly when their heels catch on the slab joints. It's a place where they force you to dump your drink into a shitty plastic cup and you can have menthol cigarette smoke blown directly up your nostrils by a woman that just vomited into an open garbage pail. Drinks do have a habit of being cheaper out here so it may be worth having to shiver around umbrella space heaters, at least until you find a girl drunk enough to fall for one of your jokes that you stole from a stand-up comedian.
No bar journey can be complete with at least half a dozen trips to the restrooms, where people do things that by and large, are disgusting.
Eventually all good things must come to an end, and when those lights come on and nuke your retinas, it's time to start shuffling out the door and pathetically trying to locate fictitious after parties and desperately trying to score the leftovers. Most instead will settle for street meat and discreetly throwing up on the cab floor on the way home.
Free cover before 11.
Friday, March 15, 2013
ART OF THE PUA (PICK-UP ARTISTS): No tools of the trade, just plain tools.
Have you ever pondered if the actual End Of The Internet is out there? I talking about bottom. Absolute zero. The most unabashedly stupid bullshit you can possibly think of that could exist in the human race. It's could be heaven, hell, Oz, or all three. You roll the dice when you enter not knowing which way it's going to scar you for life. It's like the most degenerate porn pictures you have ever seen: you just KNEW you would regret looking at them, but if you didn't look you would always have hindsight bugging you about why you didn't click on the link that said "ten-way barfcock".
This place exists. Like the little girl in Waterworld, I have been there and have been scarred by it. And like her, I can't take you there personally. It's not because I can't remember, it's because I care about you. Even if you're Hitler. Because what was brought to my attention by members of The Idiot Board was so intelligence-insulting, so insane, and so impossibly hilarious it essentially defies the fabric of reality itself. It is the domain of the Pick-Up Artist, also known as the PUA. I have never been amongst a more delusional legion of ding-dongs in my entire life. Exploring the Internet forums of the PUAs was like descending into a David Lynch movie but with more Ed Hardy shirts. You have arrived, my friend. The End Of The Internet. Because such a final frontier as the PUA forums cannot be breached further: they are nothing short of being the work of divine intervention. They have to be.
So now I have to either destroy or at least try to expose these clowns to the vast population of those out there who don't have any idea these nincompoops are out there in droves. Myself and a few other board member infiltrated the PUA forums. Let's just say it was a short journey, but it gave me an almost bottomless abyss of comedy to laugh myself sick reading. To allow maximum impact, I will not edit spelling, remove or edit anything about the posts on these heavily-trafficked sites. Prepare to have your eyes whirl out of your skull. It all started with this:
Hi all. I'm new here, and new to being a PUA.
I've got one major concern on my mind, and that is the issue of PUA Prejudice.
I guess I'd describe myself as your typical AFC. My game is generally lacking, and I find it very difficult to close the deal. However, I honestly feel of my problems stem from the prejudices of others. I'll give you a few examples:
1. I attempted to peacock, but the bouncer at my favorite club wouldn't let me bring my giant foam cowboy hat inside. Ironically, the commotion that resulted did attract the attention of several ladies - except they were laughing at me as the bouncer shoved me to the ground. Was I simply attempting a move too advanced for limited skill set? Or was the bouncer being (for lack of a better term) "racist" towards PUAs?
2. My good friend, who has been stuck in a quote-unquote "fulfilling relationship" for 3 years, keeps telling me that I should just treat women like actual people (his words, not mine). He'll say stuff like "Darth" (not my real name lol) "maybe if you just talked to women like they were normal human beings, they'd be more comfortable around you." Does he not understand that I want to get laid? It's
difficult to hear such prejudice coming out of the mouth of a trusted friend.
3. Every time I try negging somebody, I am either called a creep, an asshole, or a jerkoff. I told a cute Starbucks barista that whatever she was using to whiten her teeth was working great, and she told her manager I was supposedly "harassing her again."
Sorry if this is the wrong place to post this, but I'm just getting frustrated dealing with PUA Prejudice. Wondering if you guys have experienced this, and how you have dealt with it.
May the game be with you,
Darth_Goatee
...You mind is blown. I hope. Now aren't you all glad you came to the show? You think it ends there, but no. These fuckers are everywhere. Blind morons that are convinced that women are machines, and once you perfect the formula to crack said machine you will simply never be shot down. Their formula is simple: wear loud asshole clothes, talk to them like an asshole, stay at arms length like a coward, suck at conversation. They apparently can score any woman they want and kick her to the curb, but they cannot answer a simple fucking question like "How the fuck do you retards think peacocking always works?" You see, here on Planet Reality when you dress in loud shit, like a gold-trimmed t-shirt, sunglasses and a fucking top hat in a bar women don't think you look cool. Instead, their Gaydar is going batshit because they've found a new friend to take them shopping: you.
You effeminate, shameless twats. LOOK at you. Look at how low you stoop just to get another sex statistic. None of that "connection" or "meaningful conversation" nonsense. Get her down, get it in, don't mess my highlights and get 'er out. That is the fantasy life of a PUA, a fantasy that very evidently corrodes their souls like a Venus acid rain. What we have here is the recipe for dying alone. Even if these guys ARE scramming mad trim, out sarging every mothafuckin night for hb9's not suffering from Oneitis. I'm talkin MAD Bethanys, bro. Hittin that shit all GOD DAM DAY brah fuck yea....Sorry, Stockholm Syndrome. Where was I? Deep breaths. Even if these guys ARE picking up all the time, their just feeding their aversion to connecting with females. They're intimidated by them but still want sex like any men, so they use trickery over being a person and they sugar-coat it with terms like "seduction techniques". It's so fucking SAD.
Let's continue this tragic roller coaster:
What I did right:
I went over wearing track pants and a tight black shirt so it looked like I didn't give a fuck (she usually sees me in suits), yet still looked good. Sprayed a tiny bit of Zegna Intenso cologne for the knockout punch. We sat on the couch, her on the corner and me real close next to her. I tried to make sure our legs were always touching etc. When she didn't pull away I built up the confidence to make my move. When she pulled out her phone and started showing me funny/sexy pics of her and her friends, I made sure to focus only on her in the pics of course, and pretended to ignore the friends.
At one point I just made my move and reached around and gave her a little hug and a kiss on the cheek. Started talking deep and slow, and using the usual sweet talk. At first I said things like "you look really good in your pictures" and not much else as I didn't want to risk saying anything to ruin the mood/make her feel pangs of guilt for acting slvtty. Then I just went in for the kiss and we started making out. I think the kissing part was key, if it's really good the girl gets all wet and the panties just fly off.
Other key tactics that I used: I did not become attached to this woman, who no doubt had serious issues left over from her childhood. She never knew her dad, she was physically and emotionally abused, and she had witnessed a suicide as her sister’s bf had committed suicide by filling his car with carbon dioxide. It was important to stay distant from this type of woman because not only did I protect myself emotionally, but I also made her want me more because this type of troubled woman (and all women in general for that matter) want what they seemingly think they can’t have. In essence, less was more.
So remember fellas, in a woman's eyes SCARCITY = VALUE
I'm sorry... "Protect myself emotionally"??? What a fucking spineless coward. You're proud you're taking advantage of emotionally vulnerable women with plans of leaving them high and dry? How do these fucktards sleep at night? Just say what you mean: you're intimidated by women because you don't know anything about them. The evidence is all there: you avoid emotional contact, use shiney things like ridiculous clothing as a means of distraction, you avoid in-depth conversation, you view women as a statistic and nothing more. I can being a player in your 20's. Maybe for a while when single. But nothing but pick-ups and no relationships? You think that train is gonna last when you start going bald and getting ear hair? Wrong. It will end, my friend. And it could after your child-rearing years are behind you, but then again maybe cutting your seeds from the earth isn't a half-bad idea. We have enough idiocracies brewing nowadays, thank you very much. I mean, have you ever met a Jehovah's witness or a been in the bleachers of a high school football game?
It wasn't long before I just couldn't stand their their two-faced hypocrite ways. No sane person could stand reading that jargon for more than a week, which is about all I could take. I have a lifetime of memories from it. I think in the end the final word for it is: sad. Sad, because the guys on these sites are most liars. Habitual, compulsive liars that lie about their lives to receive validation they do not deserve from other clueless liars. It's time to stop being nice about these tools, they give the entire gender of men a bad name while treating women like easily programmable Speak-n-Spell. Too lazy for social norms, choosing instead to suckle on the teat of the vapid level of the social scene,
Wean the little fuckers.
This place exists. Like the little girl in Waterworld, I have been there and have been scarred by it. And like her, I can't take you there personally. It's not because I can't remember, it's because I care about you. Even if you're Hitler. Because what was brought to my attention by members of The Idiot Board was so intelligence-insulting, so insane, and so impossibly hilarious it essentially defies the fabric of reality itself. It is the domain of the Pick-Up Artist, also known as the PUA. I have never been amongst a more delusional legion of ding-dongs in my entire life. Exploring the Internet forums of the PUAs was like descending into a David Lynch movie but with more Ed Hardy shirts. You have arrived, my friend. The End Of The Internet. Because such a final frontier as the PUA forums cannot be breached further: they are nothing short of being the work of divine intervention. They have to be.
So now I have to either destroy or at least try to expose these clowns to the vast population of those out there who don't have any idea these nincompoops are out there in droves. Myself and a few other board member infiltrated the PUA forums. Let's just say it was a short journey, but it gave me an almost bottomless abyss of comedy to laugh myself sick reading. To allow maximum impact, I will not edit spelling, remove or edit anything about the posts on these heavily-trafficked sites. Prepare to have your eyes whirl out of your skull. It all started with this:
Hi all. I'm new here, and new to being a PUA.
I've got one major concern on my mind, and that is the issue of PUA Prejudice.
I guess I'd describe myself as your typical AFC. My game is generally lacking, and I find it very difficult to close the deal. However, I honestly feel of my problems stem from the prejudices of others. I'll give you a few examples:
1. I attempted to peacock, but the bouncer at my favorite club wouldn't let me bring my giant foam cowboy hat inside. Ironically, the commotion that resulted did attract the attention of several ladies - except they were laughing at me as the bouncer shoved me to the ground. Was I simply attempting a move too advanced for limited skill set? Or was the bouncer being (for lack of a better term) "racist" towards PUAs?
2. My good friend, who has been stuck in a quote-unquote "fulfilling relationship" for 3 years, keeps telling me that I should just treat women like actual people (his words, not mine). He'll say stuff like "Darth" (not my real name lol) "maybe if you just talked to women like they were normal human beings, they'd be more comfortable around you." Does he not understand that I want to get laid? It's
difficult to hear such prejudice coming out of the mouth of a trusted friend.
3. Every time I try negging somebody, I am either called a creep, an asshole, or a jerkoff. I told a cute Starbucks barista that whatever she was using to whiten her teeth was working great, and she told her manager I was supposedly "harassing her again."
Sorry if this is the wrong place to post this, but I'm just getting frustrated dealing with PUA Prejudice. Wondering if you guys have experienced this, and how you have dealt with it.
May the game be with you,
Darth_Goatee
...You mind is blown. I hope. Now aren't you all glad you came to the show? You think it ends there, but no. These fuckers are everywhere. Blind morons that are convinced that women are machines, and once you perfect the formula to crack said machine you will simply never be shot down. Their formula is simple: wear loud asshole clothes, talk to them like an asshole, stay at arms length like a coward, suck at conversation. They apparently can score any woman they want and kick her to the curb, but they cannot answer a simple fucking question like "How the fuck do you retards think peacocking always works?" You see, here on Planet Reality when you dress in loud shit, like a gold-trimmed t-shirt, sunglasses and a fucking top hat in a bar women don't think you look cool. Instead, their Gaydar is going batshit because they've found a new friend to take them shopping: you.
You effeminate, shameless twats. LOOK at you. Look at how low you stoop just to get another sex statistic. None of that "connection" or "meaningful conversation" nonsense. Get her down, get it in, don't mess my highlights and get 'er out. That is the fantasy life of a PUA, a fantasy that very evidently corrodes their souls like a Venus acid rain. What we have here is the recipe for dying alone. Even if these guys ARE scramming mad trim, out sarging every mothafuckin night for hb9's not suffering from Oneitis. I'm talkin MAD Bethanys, bro. Hittin that shit all GOD DAM DAY brah fuck yea....Sorry, Stockholm Syndrome. Where was I? Deep breaths. Even if these guys ARE picking up all the time, their just feeding their aversion to connecting with females. They're intimidated by them but still want sex like any men, so they use trickery over being a person and they sugar-coat it with terms like "seduction techniques". It's so fucking SAD.
Let's continue this tragic roller coaster:
What I did right:
I went over wearing track pants and a tight black shirt so it looked like I didn't give a fuck (she usually sees me in suits), yet still looked good. Sprayed a tiny bit of Zegna Intenso cologne for the knockout punch. We sat on the couch, her on the corner and me real close next to her. I tried to make sure our legs were always touching etc. When she didn't pull away I built up the confidence to make my move. When she pulled out her phone and started showing me funny/sexy pics of her and her friends, I made sure to focus only on her in the pics of course, and pretended to ignore the friends.
At one point I just made my move and reached around and gave her a little hug and a kiss on the cheek. Started talking deep and slow, and using the usual sweet talk. At first I said things like "you look really good in your pictures" and not much else as I didn't want to risk saying anything to ruin the mood/make her feel pangs of guilt for acting slvtty. Then I just went in for the kiss and we started making out. I think the kissing part was key, if it's really good the girl gets all wet and the panties just fly off.
Other key tactics that I used: I did not become attached to this woman, who no doubt had serious issues left over from her childhood. She never knew her dad, she was physically and emotionally abused, and she had witnessed a suicide as her sister’s bf had committed suicide by filling his car with carbon dioxide. It was important to stay distant from this type of woman because not only did I protect myself emotionally, but I also made her want me more because this type of troubled woman (and all women in general for that matter) want what they seemingly think they can’t have. In essence, less was more.
So remember fellas, in a woman's eyes SCARCITY = VALUE
I'm sorry... "Protect myself emotionally"??? What a fucking spineless coward. You're proud you're taking advantage of emotionally vulnerable women with plans of leaving them high and dry? How do these fucktards sleep at night? Just say what you mean: you're intimidated by women because you don't know anything about them. The evidence is all there: you avoid emotional contact, use shiney things like ridiculous clothing as a means of distraction, you avoid in-depth conversation, you view women as a statistic and nothing more. I can being a player in your 20's. Maybe for a while when single. But nothing but pick-ups and no relationships? You think that train is gonna last when you start going bald and getting ear hair? Wrong. It will end, my friend. And it could after your child-rearing years are behind you, but then again maybe cutting your seeds from the earth isn't a half-bad idea. We have enough idiocracies brewing nowadays, thank you very much. I mean, have you ever met a Jehovah's witness or a been in the bleachers of a high school football game?
It wasn't long before I just couldn't stand their their two-faced hypocrite ways. No sane person could stand reading that jargon for more than a week, which is about all I could take. I have a lifetime of memories from it. I think in the end the final word for it is: sad. Sad, because the guys on these sites are most liars. Habitual, compulsive liars that lie about their lives to receive validation they do not deserve from other clueless liars. It's time to stop being nice about these tools, they give the entire gender of men a bad name while treating women like easily programmable Speak-n-Spell. Too lazy for social norms, choosing instead to suckle on the teat of the vapid level of the social scene,
Wean the little fuckers.
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