It must be said that I’m not Roosh, Vox, Roissy or even an accomplished Game practitioner. Game has done for me what it has done for many men: opened my eyes to the truth of male-female interactions and allowed me to ascend from complete shrub to someone with a modicum of desirability. It wasn’t something I learned from the so-called Manosphere or the Pickup Artist community; it was a thing I bumbled across over the course of a decade full of mistakes and bad choices. But Game and the Game Theorists provided a rationale to explain the experience. Over time, thanks to Vox and Roissy, I became aware of the link between Beta Male stupidity and Leftism, once again another thing I knew instinctively but could not articulate.
Still, Roosh would probably say I have no business commenting on the subject. The man has slept with hundreds of women, I have not. That said, I have achieved what I set out to do, and I am satisfied. And my own experience, while falling far short of Roosh, is still respectable. Yet, this drivel compelled me to speak up.
Yes. This is 20 Awesome Marriage Tips from a Divorced Man.
Really? Since when did society start taking more advice from people who SUCK at something than from people who are good at it? Great, you got a divorce, so you’re obviously the go-to guy for insights into marriage? This is the functional equivalent of letting a guy who just plowed into a telephone pole give you driving tips. “Hey man, watch out for telephone poles, they are tricky!” Yeah, we got it.
But, okay, I can give experience the benefit of the doubt. The guy who got shot in combat might have just been unlucky as shit. Maybe he has something important to tell us? Well, let’s begin.
Obviously, I’m not a relationship expert. But there’s something about my divorce being finalized this week that gives me perspective of things I wish I would have done different… After losing a woman that I loved, and a marriage of almost 16 years, here’s the advice I wish I would have had…
Give Captain Obvious a prize. He’s not a relationship expert. Well, no shit. The drunk driver who plowed into the guardrail last week probably wasn’t a Formula 1 driver either.
1) Never stop courting. Never stop dating. NEVER EVER take that woman for granted. When you asked her to marry you, you promised to be that man that would OWN HER HEART and to fiercely protect it. This is the most important and sacred treasure you will ever be entrusted with. SHE CHOSE YOU. Never forget that, and NEVER GET LAZY in your love.
Translation: Serve her. If there is a puddle, put your coat on it. And why should she pump her own gas? Just what the hell does this guy think a woman is, anyway? Pedestal-worship is the worst sort of stupidity that can infect a man’s brain. I’ve seen women beat a man down, emotionally; reduce him to a sniveling wreck, just because she could. Last week I read an article about how a sexy nurse took a dying old man’s finances for a ride, causing him to die early from the stress. No, women are not angels or queens anymore than us ball-scratching, beer-belching men are somehow paragons of heavenly virtue. People suck. Women are people. QED.
2) PROTECT YOUR OWN HEART. Just as you committed to being the protector of her heart, you must guard your own with the same vigilance. Love yourself fully…
This guy obviously spent a lot of time getting some self-love fulfillment. It doesn’t sound like his wife was doing much of that work, after all. Watch the movie American Beauty to get a sense for how tragic this can really be for a man.
3) FALL IN LOVE OVER and OVER and OVER again… Always fight to win her love just as you did when you were courting her.
Translation: Serve her. Worship her. Make her the center of your universe. You know, there’s a reason every man I know who writes poetry is kind of like a Sexual Titanic headed straight for the Iceberg of Life-long Virginity.
4) ALWAYS SEE THE BEST in her. Focus only on what you love.
Translation: She’s never wrong. If she grows a third leg or a stomach the size of a dump truck, just build a bigger pedestal to worship her on. Look, if I’m getting bigger than an Orca on a Bacon Diet, I would like a heads-up. I would extend that same courtesy to any women in my life. Ignoring mistakes made by your wife is just asking for marital trouble.
5) IT’S NOT YOUR JOB TO CHANGE OR FIX HER…
Well this is just extension of #4. Be an idiot and bow to her vagina, no matter how many better men have plowed it before you arrive with your supplications and romantic drivel.
6) TAKE FULL ACCOUNTABILITY for your own emotions
And hers, too, it would seem. I’ve seen a lot of servile Beta Males in my life, but this jackwagon really takes the cake. I’d feel sorry for him, except that if he didn’t figure it out in 16 years of shitty marriage, my pity is unlikely to help overmuch.
7) NEVER BLAME your wife If YOU get frustrated or angry at her
Once more, women are never wrong. Even when they are wrong, it’s your fault. Did you cheat on her? Bad husband! No pussy for you! Did she cheat on you? Bad husband! No pussy for you!
Allow your woman to JUST BE. When she’s sad or upset, it’s not your job to fix it, it’s your job to HOLD HER and let her know it’s ok.
What if it isn’t fucking okay? One of my ex-girlfriends once flipped the breaker when I was working on the electrical wiring in the house, because she didn’t want to miss her favorite TV show — even though I told her I was rewiring the house. I was working on the 220 volt outlets, and that fucking hurt. She was upset, and wanted to be sure I wasn’t mad at her. This man would have said “oh, it’s okay you filled with me up with enough electricity to make me look like Young Frankenstein with a mohawk” and held her close. Me? No. I told her she was a fucking moron and next time she better not do something that stupid. Honesty really is the best policy.
Have you noticed how “nice guy” Beta Male supplication could all be pretty much defined as manipulating a woman by lying to her? I don’t care if it’s the easy, comfortable thing to do. It’s functionally retarded.
9) BE SILLY… don’t take yourself so damn seriously. Laugh. And make her laugh. Laughter makes everything else easier.
I can actually agree somewhat with this. Laugh at yourself and do crazy shit sometimes. Women like spontaneity and it can make life interesting. If you can comfortably make fun of yourself, at times, then you are actually displaying a level of confidence and dominance by doing so. Just don’t overdo it and go emo. And don’t do it on a first date — that’s just asking for trouble.
10) FILL HER SOUL EVERYDAY… learn her love languages and the specific ways that she feels important and validated and CHERISHED.
Fill her soul… not her vagina, because you’ll never see it acting like this. Women don’t want to feel validated, they want to feel protected, taken, cared for. It’s all in the biology. And even if you wound up meeting a woman who doesn’t care for dominance (I’ve never met one, but let’s theorize here) she still won’t want an unauthentic supplicant who merely confirms everything she says and loves her unconditionally. You can go get a dog for that — you don’t need a man.
11) BE PRESENT. Give her not only your time, but your focus, your attention and your soul.
Again with the servile stupidity. Is he a man or a slave?
12) BE WILLING TO TAKE HER SEXUALLY, to carry her away in the power of your masculine presence, to consume her and devour her with your strength, and to penetrate her to the deepest levels of her soul. Let her melt into her feminine softness as she knows she can trust you fully.
Bingo! Now we’re on to something. Something tells me, however, that of all the advice on this list, this was the one the husband failed to do properly. This gets a whole-hearted Dystopic endorsement however. In addition to this, however, ensure that she orgasms. Learn to tell when women are faking it (there are signs). If she orgasms, you’ll be likely to see her again and in any event it’s only fair, right?
13) DON’T BE AN IDIOT…. And don’t be afraid of being one either.
Don’t be a dumbass. Okay. Got it. Why did this item make the list? You’d think this one was common sense.
14) GIVE HER SPACE… The woman is so good at giving and giving, and sometimes she will need to be reminded to take time to nurture herself.
Give her plenty of space; let her go out with her girlfriends and meet better men than you. Read her mind so you know this without her asking, then go home and wank-out in front of the computer to tranny porn while your lady meets a better man. You know, the Alpha sort of man doesn’t need to give her space — he needs space of his own, because he’s busy having some sort of interesting life.
15) BE VULNERABLE…
This never works. In the interests of science I conducted an experiment seven years ago, where I joined a dating site and sent off ten messages in which I casually insulted each woman, and ten messages in which I engaged in some self-deprecation. I received replies only from the women I insulted. One of them even went out on a date with me sometime later. Now, don’t take this as evidence that treating women badly is a good thing, but do understand that being vulnerable doesn’t do you any good whatsoever.
16) BE FULLY TRANSPARENT. If you want to have trust you must be willing to share EVERYTHING…
Wrong. Mystery is one of those things even women will admit they like, from time-to-time. They would rather read books about quasi-gay pedophile vampires that sparkle, because at least they are mysterious, than date a man who reveals everything. An old Chinese proverb states that every man has three hearts, one for the world, one for the closest people in his life, and one for himself alone. Live by that. We have all done some shameful, stupid or repellent shit in our lives, and nobody, not even your budding lady-friend, wants anything to do with that shit.
17) NEVER STOP GROWING TOGETHER…
Never stop serving her, you mean. Until she serves you with divorce papers. Then you go post romantic drivel on the internet in an effort to spam my facebook wall. Brilliant.
18) DON’T WORRY ABOUT MONEY. Money is a game, find ways to work together as a team to win it.
Take her on a trip to Europe. Buy her fancy shit. But don’t make her feel guilty about it. Look, women like money, even the ones who aren’t gold diggers. A man who can handle his finances has a marked advantage over the guy who can’t. But that doesn’t mean you should waste tons of money on her, or let her anywhere near your finances for that matter. The thing women like most about a man with money is the absence of financial worries, the removal of monetary stress from her life so she is free to concentrate on you. That doesn’t mean you waste money on heaping piles of jewels or expensive vacations you don’t want to take. But it does mean assuring her of your capacity for success in life. Wealth is a huge indicator in a man’s sexual market value, but I’ve seen plenty of well-off Beta Males who blow it anyway.
19) FORGIVE IMMEDIATELY and focus on the future rather than carrying weight from the past.
So she can be a raging bitch, but you have to immediately say you’re sorry. What a heaping pile of elephant dung.
20) ALWAYS CHOOSE LOVE. ALWAYS CHOOSE LOVE. ALWAYS CHOOSE LOVE. In the end, this is the only advice you need.
What is love, anyway? Hollywood would have you believe it is this quasi-mystical force that holds the universe together. That’s an overly-inflated, egocentric viewpoint. Humans are sapient animals. Deep in our genetic code we are wild and want to fuck like rabbits so we can make more copies of ourselves. Men would prefer hot women, women would prefer dominant men. Love is what happens when both partners in the affair think they are getting a good deal. The man is thinking “holy fucknuts she’s super-mega-hot, like dropping a thermonuclear bomb into the ninth circle of Hell.” The woman is thinking “Oh-my-God look at those muscles, and he’s so smart, and did you see the guitar. HOLYSHITFUCKNUTSOMG he’s a musician.”
That might be a slight exaggeration, but when both partners think they’ve done well in a mate, we have a satisfaction with the relationship that we call love. If one partner thinks the deal sucks, or comes to think the deal sucks later because the other person let themselves go… the divorce papers will soon follow. Hit the treadmill, ladies. Men, hit the stock exchange or the gym, or buy a motorcycle and learn a foreign language that isn’t French (preferably all of the above).
But these are lessons I am learning and committed in carrying forward. Truth is, I LOVED being married, and in time, I will get married again, and when I do, I will build it with a foundation that will endure any storm and any amount of time.
If you are reading this and find wisdom in my pain, share it those those young husbands whose hearts are still full of hope, and with those couples you may know who may have forgotten how to love. One of those men may be like I was, and in these hard earned lessons perhaps something will awaken in him and he will learn to be the man his lady has been waiting for.
You may be married again, my wayward friend, but it will be to an orca-sized housfrau of truly legendary levels of bitchiness. Your sexual value is low because you put yourself there. Your years of supplication, of worshiping women from abject submission have told her all she needs to know: she could do better, and you could not. Love is conditional. It’s one of the most bitter experiences in a man’s life to come to realize this, but it is also freeing in a way the bluepills could never imagine.
Be the type of husband your wife can’t help but brag about.
No. Just be the man she comes home to and can’t resist being with. Who cares what she said to some bat-lady down the street, or one of her ephemeral six-month girlfriends. Actions matter. Words… not so much.
Stay Horny My Friends.
Poking fun at the farcical antics of John Scalzi is normally someone else’s bit, but this last post of his on Whatever just begs for a thorough deconstruction. This quasi-socialist, vaguely male author has written considerable drivel over the years, but this one is particularly inane.
(“SJW” here is shorthand for “Social Justice Warriors,” a term which is new to me but which is defined over at the Urban Dictionary, where it is not generally considered a very polite term.)
Let me guess, this idiotic male feminist (but I repeat myself) is going to “own” this term. John Scalzi, Social Justice Warrior, crusading for all the castrated, left-leaning gamma rabbits. Does he have a business card? If so, I will happily drop it in the contest jar for the local dressmaker so he can duplicate his sacrifice of “male privilege” in front of the entire Internet for a second time.
I actually get this a lot, although usually in even less polite terms than this. I’ve got a healthy stack of e-mails from various dudebros that, once you’ve wiped the spittle from them, say something along the line of “one day all those feminists and gays are going to SET YOU ON FIRE and you’ll come crawling back to us and WE’LL LAUGH AT YOU LIKE THE GAMMA RABBIT YOU ARE.” This is then followed by comparisons to Hugo Schwyzer and/or simply more spittle.
It could only be made better if he were a transsexual wearing a redshirt trekkie uniform.
At least Hugo Schwyzer located his penis eventually. Granted, he used the thing to plow feminist sluts (but I repeat myself), which I find rather detestable, but that is still an accomplishment of sorts. The resulting self-destruction was amusing, at least, where Scalzi’s life has something of a more tragic feel to it. But Mr. Scalzi does raise one good point. It is entirely possible the feminists will never bother to destroy him. After all, his blog’s audience is somewhat… lacking. Not that mine is any better, but at least nobody here claims 50,000 pageviews and then fails to achieve even 1/10 of that number. He should thank Mr. Beale for the extra traffic from all of us “dudebros.”
1. Dude, if I ever act like Hugo Schwyzer, feminists screaming for my head is the very leastbad thing that should happen to me.
For this to happen, Mr. Scalzi would first need to actually seduce something vaguely female. Perhaps he can get in touch with his feminine side, sport another dress and go cunt-surfing at the local transsexual dive bar.
2. There are plenty of people, including feminists, LGBTfolk and minorities, who are already exasperated with me for various reasons, nor are they entirely unjustified for being so. I get a lot of attention for speaking my mind about issues of importance to them, which is nice for me but often means a)that I get spotlighted for piggybacking on work other people have done, to which I’ve added minimal additional work, b) these other folks are frustrated because my understanding of issues they feel are important is often superficial or tangential to what they see as more critical.
In other words, John Scalzi is a white male, and he will always be white and at least vaguely male. The inner sanctums of Victim Culture will forever be out of reach. But he can at least criticize himself and achieve a modicum of self-victimization.
3. And, you know what, one day I’ll opine about something regarding some marginalized group, make an ass of myself doing so, and then the Internet will fall on my head for it. Why do I know this? Because it’s happened before, and as much as I like to think I learn and grow from making an ass of myself, sometimes despite your best intentions you find new and exciting ways to make to put your head into your rectum, previously unknown to human kind. I’m going to try to avoid doing it. But I don’t imagine I’ll be perfect on that score.
So you are agreeing with Vox, then? Anyway, if his head did find itself somewhere deep within his rectum, it would be doubtful he could find his way out again. Anyway, we all know that white men are allowed in the circles of feminism with a certain amount of latent hostility and suspicion. Sooner or later he will be ostracized, whether or not his brain somehow finds itself in his ass.
I do understand that some people think apologies and acceptance of criticism means you’ve lost, and your gonads shrink and that children will throw rocks at you, or whatever. But these people are, to put it politely, stupid.
When you apologize to socialist, feminist shitstains who demand your testicles as a sacrifice before you will be accepted back into the Gamma Rabbit herd… yes, that is a loss. I legitimately feel some sympathy for Mr. Scalzi here, because he was never properly introduced to the concept of masculinity. Among men, an apology is an admission of defeat, failure and of loss. But that doesn’t have to be damning either. That is one of the greatest flaws of Rabbit culture, of these feminized men. They don’t understand that recognizing losses is of critical importance.
Everyone loses at some point in their lives. There’s always a bigger fish. But recognizing the defeat and striving to overcome it the next time allows one to become stronger. Sometimes I suspect that this is the source of Socialism’s appeal to these people. Theoretical Socialism removes the winners and losers from society — it removes the entire concept of victory and defeat. In so doing it reduces everyone to the status of Loser simply because losing is, in simple terms, the absence of victory.
4. Aside from anything else, this fellow seems to be making the assumption that all the people he’d classify as “Social Justice Warriors” are a hive mind, and will one day turn on me en masse, because, I guess, it was just my time. Allow me to suggest I am skeptical of this formulation, on several levels.
But, on the other hand, if every “Social Justice Warrior” out there on the Internet dropped on my head all at the same time, might it not be possible that they are doing it for an actual reason, and not just because they all got a message from SJW Headquarters that now it was time to devour my soul? I do know a lot of people I’m guessing this fellow would consider “SJW.” Strangely enough, in experience of them, they are not all walking in reflexively angry lockstep. They actually have their own brains and interests and motivations. So if they all suddenly aligned against me, it might be — might be, mind you — that I have indeed done some monumental fuck up. And that maybe I ought to pay attention to why they’ve all suddenly turned on me.
Internet meme culture is a strangely hive-like thing, Mr. Scalzi would do well to remember that. These people don’t take marching orders from anyone, really. They are a mob of like-minded people who move like a herd. When the herd is coming your way, there is very little you can do to redirect its wrath. It could very well be that one has done something monumentally and legitimately stupid to attract the ire of the herd. Or it could be as random as a funny-looking photo that interests them. Like moths to the flame they will come. The rabbit herd is cruel and merciless in a way no honorable man could manage.
But I don’t hate Mr. Scalzi, no more than Vox or members of the Dread Ilk do. Leftoid male feminists are objects of pity, not scorn, made all the more pitiable by the fact they don’t even realize they are broken.
“Visiting hours are from nine to six, Monday through Friday. Have your identification papers ready. Did you bring a change of clothes today? If not, check out our new mall with designs inspired by…”
The voice droned on, but all Ian could think about was Kelly’s beauty. She stood in startling contrast to the dingy confines of the Visitor Center. The oldest histories told of a very different meaning for the word “visitor.” Those same histories claimed that Cyprus had once been a country, not a prison and stud farm, and that was even harder for him to believe. But the ancient historians generally knew what they were talking about.
“Step forward, troglodyte.” A female voice ordered sternly. The last word was a common enough curse. Most men in Cyprus had been there since childhood, identified as violent offenders before adulthood and marooned on the island. His advanced command of language marked him instead as one of the more rare troglodytes, treacherous men who had committed gross infractions against a woman after Graduation. He was innocent as many such men were, but appearances mattered more than substance, and so he had found himself among the savages.
A machine scanned him for weapons, which were common enough in the prison. Another machine scanned him for sexual disease, which had been all but eradicated some time before he was born. Still, the guards were fastidious in their duty.
“He’s clear.” The other woman reported. “All yours, Kelly.” Ian heard the chuckling between the guards as they left the room. This was familiar business to them.
Kelly sauntered in, her hips swaying delightfully. There was lust in her eyes, a fire he had wished for a thousand times in the days before his incarceration. A shock of realization suddenly crossed her delicate features.
“Ian? Is that you?” She said in wonder.
“Yeah.” Ian answered, sitting down on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the dreary room. “Saw your name on the visitor list.”
Lust faded from her eyes and she sat beside him, a painful expression finding its way onto her face. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be you.”
“It’s okay.” Ian faced her. “I belong here.” And he did, it had taken him a long time and a lot of effort to get to this room.
Tears began to form in her deep blue eyes. “No you don’t! You were always so nice. I tried to get you out after the trial. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!” Kelly protested.
“You were here, getting fucked.” His tone was carefully measured, devoid of emotion, as if he were simply commenting on the weather. The anger had come and gone a decade before. Only the strongest in the prison ever clawed their way into the Visitor Center, everything else was distraction.
Out in the world he had been an accountant. In those days, Kelly had been the object of his desire, the woman he had done everything for, from fixing her air car to getting her a new job with the Orbital Authority. Once, he had thought it cruel that the one time he needed her help, she had been at the Visitor Center, sharing with some nameless inmate what he dreamed of having with her. He had been innocent once, but he would never leave Cyprus now, and part of him found that he did not want to.
“I thought you had more character witnesses, and I got my dates mixed up. Are you mad? Do you want me to leave?” Kelly wiped a tear from her cheek. “I didn’t mean for this to happen to you!”
His hand waved in the air, as if the thing were a mere trifle. “If we’re going to fuck, you should take off your clothes.” His loins stirred with need.
“You’ve changed.” She pointed out, her eyes tracing along the misshapen scar carved permanently into his cheek. Ian reflected on that for a moment and decided she was wrong. He hadn’t changed, at least no more than a baby changed by being born. A part of him had always belonged here, it had merely been a matter of time before he had arrived at his destination.
Reflexively, he touched the scar, nodding slightly. “Change? No. But a lot of pain. Seems like that should be obvious.”
Chatting was more tiresome than he had remembered. Such idle conversation was unknown on Cyprus outside of the Visitor Center. Placing a finger to his lips to silence her protests before they could begin, he stood and began to strip off his clothing. The guards had given him a shower before and washed his clothes, but they could not entirely remove the stains of sweat, blood and grime. That was probably good for business here, since women could have all the clean men they wanted out in the world. Enough still came here despite all that.
Kelly gasped, and a hint of interest crossed her features. Many women had availed themselves of the Visitor Center over the years, and now Ian understood why. Tanned skin covered painstakingly toned muscles. A myriad of scars could be found on his skin, a testament to his slow, long fight to the top of his gang, and from there to this very room. His body was a far cry from the shrub of a human he had once been. Still, those things were worthless next to what the prison had done to his mind. That primal power was what brought women back to this room over the centuries the system had been in place.
“Ian, I… don’t know.” Kelly hesitated.
“Anyone who made it in here this week belongs to my gang. Either you fuck me, or one of my men.” His hand made its way to the back of her dress, untying it and letting it fall to the bed, caught around her waist. Her bare breasts were a welcome sight, and he felt the softness of them, ignoring her faint protests. There was a noise from the guard shack, but no one moved to stop him. They could kill him if she cried out for help, it was rare but it was known to happen. Kelly would not cry out though, he knew.
“Stand up.” He ordered.
“Is this.. right? I mean…” Her protests droned on, and Ian stopped listening. She stood up, and soon her dress was on the floor. There was nothing on underneath, something which did not come as a surprise. Women who came to the Visitor Center had a singular purpose.
Adoration was in her eyes finally. It was a look that he would have died a thousand times to see before. He had dreamed of her in his arms, just like this, even for a time after her betrayal. The thing was hollow now, nothing like his adolescent fantasy.
“Ask me to take you.” Ian held her firmly, his hands slipping down her buttocks and pulling her close. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.” A sigh escaped her trembling lips. “Please…”
A moment passed, and his lips pursed slightly. Something changed in him then, and a feeling coursed through him. It was the same feeling he felt watching his enemies fall in prison, the same emotion that had pounded in his brain as he stepped onto the nearly-holy site on Cyprus, the bloodied winner of a gross Darwinian affair. Ian decided Kelly was not what he wanted, and he relished that moment.
“No.” A cruel smile crossed his features and he let her go. “Guards, I am done with this woman.”
“What?” The shock was total, and Kelly folded onto the bed, unable to grasp the rejection. Soon she realized her nakedness and struggled to salvage her pride.
Right of refusal was still allowed to an inmate, no matter how seldom it was invoked. There would be other women, perhaps even more beautiful. No one would challenge his gang for some time. The warlords had been thoroughly crushed. Weeks of pleasure lay before him.
“Inmate! On the wall!” A guard screamed, trying to project authority. To Ian’s battle-hardened ears, it sounded like little more than a shrill. But he obeyed, leaning up against the wall as Kelly’s sobs echoed across the room. The cries of anguish were music to his ears. The other guard escorted the distraught woman out of the visiting room.
“Real piece of work, aren’t you?” The guard whispered in his ear, but he could detect the undertone of surprise in her voice, too.
“You know it.” He smiled, and the guard let him up. Ian looked up to see Kelly just before she disappeared from his life forever, going back to a world he wanted no part of anymore. Adoration was in her eyes as she looked back one last time, just like in his youthful dreams. But no where in his dreams had he seen tears of sorrow mixed with that desire, nor had his dreams contained the hollow sadism burning in his heart. There was something curious about that, as if there were some great secret contained within the contradictory nature of the Visitor Center. It was the closest thing to truth he had ever known.
Aching in his loins interrupted his introspection, and he smiled with delight as the next woman on the list was led in by a pair of brawny guardswomen. The room was still his, after all, for as long as he and his gang could keep it. That, too, was his right.
The mechanical voice droned again. Anticipation flooded his awareness.
Visiting hours are from nine to six….