Here’s an excerpt from page 153 of A Dead Bat In Paraguay….

If I’m in a club bathroom with a gringo friend talking in English, there will be at least one native who understands our banter and asks where we’re from. In the Duff bathroom I ended up meeting a Chilean who studied in Los Angeles.

“Chilean girls are tough,” I said.

“Do you talk to the girls in English or Spanish?”

“I start off in Spanish. ¿Habla inglés?”

“No no no that’s wrong. Always start in English.”

“They won’t even understand.”

“That’s the point. You need to play up that you’re an outsider right away. At least for the first three minutes speak in English only. It’s different and exciting—they will laugh and enjoy it.”

“Then after three minutes?”

“Start moving into Spanish. By then it won’t matter because you got their attention. Always talk in English first.”

Then I thought back to the night in Santiago with Rodrigo where I started in English by accident and got in pretty well with the group. Even though asking habla inglés already implies that I speak English, I decided that this random bathroom guy knew what he was talking about.

Even though this lesson seems trivial on the surface, at the time I thought it was rather groundbreaking. About a week later I ended up in Cordoba where my entire existence was about getting my Argentine flag. I met another guy there named the Predator whose moves I put in the book are ones that I still use every now and then.

Here’s part of a review of A Deat Bat In Paraguay from Tyler:

There was no sugar coating or diluting any of the experiences he went through. Stories that some people would take to their grave, Roosh wrote in black and white for the world to read. That’s what made this book so funny but also so intriguing. After some of his stories, you realize he is giving you the full experience and holding nothing back.

“I sat in the front seat and the chubby girl got on my lap. I positioned her body in a way that much of her weight was against the door instead of crushing my body.”

While I was reading this book, I was doing a little bit of traveling of my own. I was up in Maine at one point, staying in this vacation cabin with a girl. One night while she was getting ready for bed I was reading through a few chapters and I began laughing. Imagining how some of this stuff went down, I was reading it out loud. She kept wanting me to read more of it.

Here’s part of a very in-depth review from Ferdinand Bardamu:

An important part of any book is its diction, and on this front, A Dead Bat in Paraguay is as smooth and pleasing to read as a good wine is to drink. An acolyte of the Hemingway school of literary writing, Roosh shies away from flowery descriptions and overblown metaphors, relaying his story with an understatement that conveys imagery and emotion in its own way. His bone-dry sense of humor pervades his prose at almost all times, with lines like “I made love with the toilet.” Roosh is awfully fond of toilet humor in the literal sense – a lot of the laughs come from his loving descriptions of the painful, explosive bowel movements he had while on the road. No mere clown, though, he also retells the struggles of his journey with a bluntness that gets the reader invested emotionally. A large part of the narrative is Roosh’s attempts to hook up with the local women in the various places he visits, only to be met with repeated failure. His constant battle to adapt his game to the cultural idiosyncrasies of the women who he tries to bed is so compelling that when he finally meets success, you’ll want to cheer.

The frankness and honesty of A Dead Bat in Paraguay is a refreshing change from the fake, phony, and fraudulent memoirs that have flooded the book world in recent years, but it also hurts the book in some ways. Any good storyteller has the ability to bullshit with aplomb, and Roosh isn’t quite there yet. His emphasis on relaying the details of his trip has too much of a “just the facts, ma’am” feel to it, as if he was writing a college paper and not a commercial book. The weakness of this approach culminates in the book’s ending, which just sucks. In fact, it isn’t really an “ending” – the book just sort of stops.

In pointing out these issues, I don’t want come off as being too critical. In a literary world full of flotsam, jetsam, and other varieties of garbage, Roosh Vörek has produced something remarkable and memorable.

And a short one from a reader:

Just finished your book. Thought it was great. I cannot give you a good review that you are able to post because it would suck if I even tried, but I really appreciated the book, and I am proud to have it on my bookshelf now. I’ve always liked how you tell it how it is and how you are completely honest with yourself. You’ve been inspiring for awhile and that book made you even more. Thanks for everything.

I thank these guys for their reviews.

You can learn more about getting a copy at the A Dead Bat In Paraguay homepage. Also if you go to buy the ebook version of one of my books, I offer my other one at a pretty nice discount, kind of like when you go to the movie theater and they ask if you want to upgrade your beverage size for 40 cents more.

Someone emailed to ask me if I was writing a sequel to DBIP, and the answer is a definite no. Not only do I not want to touch memoir writing for a while, but the past seven months have been enjoyable without the violent ups and downs that would make a good story. A book about me generally getting what I want from life wouldn’t be very compelling. I may put out a brief epilogue though after I return to Rio.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 1

The first thing I thought of was the $1,000 deposit that I authorized the agency to put on my credit card. I knew if I called them to say I fucked up and got the buggy stuck they’d want to charge me the whole thing or at least a big chunk of it.

I had a cell phone but the balance was $1.50, enough only for a three-minute conversation. Even if the agency wouldn’t eat my whole deposit, I had no idea how to direct them to where I was. Yeah I’m by some beach, partway up some hill, near some birds feasting on a hippo carcass. It would take multiple phone calls of several minutes length.

You really feel alive when the stakes are raised. I’m thinking about the $1,000 while trying to figure out a solution at the same time. My instinct was to panic but I’m a sensible man so I decided to use my brain.

After two minutes I started to panic and tried to push the buggy out myself. I got in front of it, grabbed onto the oily railing, and started pushing as hard as I could. Of course it didn’t move.

If only I could push and hit the gas at the same time! I got in the buggy, punched it in reverse, then placed a big bottle of water on the gas as I removed my foot. I stepped out and with my left hand pushing the bottle down on the gas, I used my right arm and shoulder to try and push the machine. It still didn’t move.

I studied the buggy and figured that three or four guys could probably push it out. Then I came up with the idea to find the nearest town and hire a few idle teenagers to help me.

I got on the beach and started jogging. I was hoping there would soon be civilization with tow trucks, gas stations, and a McDonalds for a double cheeseburger snack. Finally after 30 minutes of running a small fishing village emerged in the distance.

I approached the town slowly, catching my breath, and noticed people on the beach staring at me like I was the Yeti emerging from a wintry forest. I saw a handful of guys lingering near the main square and started rehearsing what I would say to them in Portuguese… “My buggy is stuck… can you help me?… I can give you that paper money.”

Before I had to say anything a buggy approached. It must’ve crossed the shallow water that I chickened out on earlier. I flagged him down and the first thing he said was, “Is that your buggy out there?” I nodded and he let out a chuckle. Then he told me to hop in, saying he’ll help me get it out. For the rest of the day we’d communicate in Portuguese.

He introduced himself as Roberto. Turns out he drives around tourists like on the tour I took in Natal. We went into the village and stopped by his house first. There I met about eight or nine members of his extended family, and for most of them this was the first time they had ever met an American. Their house was spartan but comfortable, with multiple beds to a room and religious Jesus statues on every table. I answered their curious questions and they complimented my Portuguese, saying my accent is southern, from Rio or São Paulo. I assumed that the books I was learning from gave me the southern accent.

I told them I studied every day and they asked me why. Problem is I’ve never had a good answer to why I’m learning a language. I usually say, “I want to be a cultured person,” but truth is I like the sense of accomplishment from having a conversation in a different tongue. Being able to communicate with people you’re not “supposed” to communicate with is like having a superpower, and a good conversation motivates me to keep studying to better express myself for the next conversation.

The wife handed me a glass of cashew juice (about as tasty as it sounds) and I pretended it was the best juice I’ve ever had in my life. Even though I’m still deathly afraid of getting a digestive illness because of my last trip to South America, I didn’t want to be ungrateful and ask if the juice was prepared in sanitary conditions.

Outside the house Roberto found two idle guys and the four of us hopped in his buggy. We took a backroad across some private farmland and twenty minutes later arrived at the sight of my mistake. While the three of them lifted the rear of each side, I pushed sand underneath the tires as fast as I could. Then Roberto took some air out of them, got inside the buggy, told us to push with all our might, and out it came. It didn’t take more than five minutes.

To add insult to injury, Roberto then effortlessly drove up the same hill I got stuck in. I asked him why I couldn’t do that and he said, “It takes practice.” I felt like an idiot, and imagined Roberto later telling all his friends about the gringo who got a dune buggy stuck in sand.

We went back to town and walked around the center to buy fish caught minutes before. He paraded me to everyone he knew and I answered the same questions repeatedly like a parrot, getting fast enough that people thought I was near fluent in their language. This is where I mention that if you meet a Brazilian girl who has never met a gringo before, she will be very receptive.

Roberto’s wife fed me lunch and introduced me to the Dona, or matriarch of the family. I didn’t ask how old she was but she let’s just say she has occasional dreams of the angel of death. She showed me her garden out back and how each plant treats a health condition. One plant was for heartburn, one was for impotence, and another was for eye problems. “You get the berry and then squeeze the juice right into your eye.”

I said, “This is like a pharmacy!”

“Yes, a natural pharmacy.” Then she gave me some random leaves to chew on which she said will help make me a more vigorous lover in bed. I snatched an extra handful when she wasn’t looking.

The impotence plant

View from the Dona’s house

I left not long after and got back without problems by taking the farmland route, remembering Roberto’s advice to not let the tires spin too fast, among other tips. The things he told me was what you’d hear for driving in the snow.

Compared to the $35 tour in Natal, the costs for my buggy adventure was quite a bit more:

$110: Rental
$30: Gas
$15: Boat passages
$8: Farm passage
$18: Labor costs for the two men that helped
$18: Compensation for Roberto (I offered to pay his gas money)

That’s $200, or about six times more than the tour.

The problem with tours is that nothing really good or really bad will happen. You get a controlled, pleasant experience where all you have to do is push the shutter button. If there’s a problem then you simply sit and wait while your guide figures things out. Though I don’t like judging whether an experience was “worth it” or not based on how much it cost, this was one of the most interesting days I’ve had in South America. I experienced a tough problem, had to work my way out, and in the meantime connected with locals who weren’t already spoiled by gringos. There’s not a whole lot more I could’ve asked for besides a buggy blowjob (by a girl, not Roberto).

Unless there is a chance of something going wrong, it’s hard for me to get excited about doing it. I want to feel alive, and for that to happen there has to be some type of fear or anxiety in the back of my mind that things may not work out in my favor and that I may have to use everything I’m made of to succeed (or survive). This is why I’m not in the United States. It’s true that everything is harder down here, but the payoffs are that much sweeter.

Pipa is a resort beach town in between Natal and João Pessoa, up in the north of Brazil near it’s shark-infested most eastern point. I planned to stay for only two nights but got sucked in because of the nice beaches, laid-back nightlife, and relatively cheap accommodations.

Before Pipa I was in Natal, a generic but safe city built around huge sand dunes. There I paid $35 to take a tour of some northern beaches in a dune buggy along with two other Italian tourists. During the tour we stopped every 15 minutes at some tourist station (it’s a trap!) where we had the opportunity to overpay for food and souvenirs with dozens of other tourists, mostly Brazilians vacationing inside their country.

The most irritating stop was in the middle of an enormous dune that offered impressive views of sand and ocean. Even though it was an inhabitable piece of land, there were three guys waiting right there on top of the sand mountain. One was selling snacks and the other two were selling photo-ops with their exotic animals, a bright green iguana and some sort of marsupial from the Congo. Tourists from buggies already parked paid a buck or two to have the poor creatures placed on their necks while photos were taken, screeching at the animals’ movements on their bodies.

I had a feeling the dune buggy drivers were getting commissions for stopping at every single tourist trap. This was later confirmed at lunch time when we were taken to a restaurant in a ghost town and asked to pay $20 for an all-you-can-eat buffet without any other options nearby. Turns out the drivers eat for free if they bring tourists to the restaurant, an ingenious business ploy by the owner.

I was unsatisfied with the tour. The fun seemed to be driving the buggy instead of riding in the passenger seat, so a week later in Pipa I jumped at the chance to rent one. It was a bit expensive at $110 for the day, but for several days prior I ate cheese and bread sandwiches for dinner, drank cheap Skol beer instead of caipirinhas with Sagatiba, and sold my body on the street, all to cushion the blow to my budget.

The hog (click this photo and others for bigger size)

My biggest fear was getting lost. The map from the agency was like one you’d get when entering an amusement part—definitely not drawn to scale. But turns out I didn’t even need the map. In my buggy I followed the water and it took me down well-worn paths of buggies before me, alternating between sand, rock, and dirt. I was getting the hang of driving the beast and ready to tackle more challenging terrain to see what it was made of.

Birds feasting on a dead hippo

I passed a kitesurfing area and flew down the beach going what I guess to be about 40 mph. There was not a soul around and I enjoyed the isolation from tourists, vendors, and crippled 10-year-olds begging me for money. But then the beach got narrower until finally I was wedged between rock and ocean with a shallow pool of water about eight inches high blocking my path. I had a feeling I could blow through it but high tide seemed to be rolling in and I didn’t want to take a chance.

I backtracked a couple miles and found what seemed to be an alternate sand road going up a steep hill. The sand was thick and unruly so I backed up a good ways to get a running start. I slammed on the gas and flew up the path for the first thirty or so yards, but the buggy abruptly came to a stop with the engine still screaming. I tried to reverse but it wouldn’t move. For five minutes I sat there going forward, backward, forward, backward, forward, backward. I stepped out of the buggy and noticed that I dug the rear tires a third way into the sand, with the muffler literally resting on top of it. I was hopelessly stuck, in the middle of nowhere.

To Be Continued…

Modern society has warped what it means to be a real man. The result is you have “men” who are successful on paper, who have a house, some money, respectable wardrobe, stylish furniture, and fine tastes, yet they can’t get laid with a beautiful woman. I don’t have to remind you of the hogs that a lot of men are carrying around on their arms in public, a sort of reverse natural selection that our feminizing culture is allowing. I have thought long and hard about all the qualities that make a real man, and have determined that only two are absolutely essential.

1. Ability to get laid at will. If you can’t get laid with multiple women, you’re not a real man, plain and simple. If you can’t mate with superior genes then you’re a blight on the human condition, and should be euthanized. What else is there more important to human existence than fucking? Nothing.

There was a time when I couldn’t get laid, when I was a useless parasite on the world, but then I learned and now I am spreading my seed on multiple continents. It’s true I have not had children (as far as I know), but with a flip of a switch this can be accomplished easily. In all likelihood my human destiny will be accidentally achieved rather soon.

2. Personal strength. Can you defend your lifeblood if the shit really hits the fan? Can you protect yourself against an attacker? Otherwise you are not a real man. Personal strength comes in two forms: the confidence to make a stand and the physical apparatus to carry it out. If you fall over at the slightest breeze then are you not suitable for life, and should be terminated. If I can wrap my thumb and index finger around your bicep then you a decaying organism that would perish without the nanny state to keep you safe and warm. While I am not a meathead, I am prepared to fight to the death if my being is threatened or questioned.

Real men are made, not born. If you choose not to be a real man, but instead a half-man like 90% of Western males, then you don’t deserve the benefits that come with it—sex and respect. I cannot imagine living life without either.

“So Roosh, what have you been doing since you finished A Dead Bat In Paraguay?”

I’m glad you asked.

I have completely overhauled all my game tips newsletters. I gave them a new look, edited for clarity and typos, removed fluff, and added new moves and techniques. That may not sound like a big job but all my newsletters combined clock in at 47,000 words, only 13,000 words shy of Bang.

If you’re already subscribed you’ve probably already seen the new design. Something new is that for each edition I throw in a different quote I like.

Here’s a sampling of the emails you’ll receive if you sign up:

• How to handle flakey girls
• How to pick up girls in coffee shops
• The one thing that makes girls see you as more confident
• An easy way to isolate a girl in a bar
• When is the best time to approach a girl?
• How to pick up girls on the street
• The reason why she isn’t calling you back
• Simple move to defeat bedroom resistance

There are over 30 more editions with tips on day game, night game, approaching, venue selection, conversation tips, dating strategy, and sealing the deal. My newsletters are basically a free book on game that you get in snippets at regular intervals. I don’t share your email address with anyone and you can unsubscribe at any time. Sign up on the forum below…

If you can’t see the sign-up form above then you’re probably running some type of adblocker. Simply send a blank email to roosh-game-tips@aweber.com to sign up.

I don’t think I shared the number close results from my day game workshops. Out of 397 approaches, my students got 31 numbers while on the workshop, for an approach close rate of 7.8% (1 out of 13 approaches). Considering they were using new material for the first time and approaching in tough situations (some of the approached girls knew a game workshop was going on), I think the number is respectable. With a little practice and niche finding, 20% is definitely not out of reach.

Out of all 30 students, 15 got at least one number. So half of the students got to experience the initial stages of success.

One thing I haven’t talked about is how many guys banged a girl he met on the workshop. That number is three, or 10%. Two out of those three got a relationship out of it.

- 1 one of those bangs happened from a girl met in a clothing shop
- 2 of those bangs happened from girls met in the bookstore

How many guys do you know has banged a girl from meeting in either of those places? And to put things in better perspective, I was hovering over these guys taking notes with a running timer while they talked to a girl they eventually had sex with.

I think the bang rate is impressive. That means if you took my workshop, you had an immediate 10% chance of banging a girl you meet from it.

I want to have a day game book completed by the end of 2010, but before that I have to squeeze out a short book that I’m hoping will be ready by Spring. I’m trying hard to be productive but it’s impossible while traveling.

At risk of giving the Men’s Rights virgins some ammunition, here’s an email I received the other day, edited to remove any personal information:

I lived in Brazil most of my life, read The Game 6 months ago, and since then I have consumed lots of material about pick up. I noticed some solid improvement, both dealing with women and in my social life in general, but after reading your last post I found out that my goal is impossible to achieve.

I thought that by improving my game, I would be able to overcome the insane level of bitchiness of hot Brazilian girls on expensive clubs, which, as you said on your post, are the hottest here. But your post made me believe that pick up knowledge available does not have hot/rich Brazilian girls in mind. I know from personal experience (from before and after reading any material) that the same principles apply, but I am no longer confident that what is available is enough for Brazilian expensive clubs.

[In the United States], I was amazed by how approachable American girls were, and in average they were hotter too! I could at least get a phone number from a reasonably good looking girl every night. I felt like fishing in barrel, compared to my life in Brazil.

Anyway, I think I will officially retire from my pick up studies. I make very good living, and have good social skills. I am not very good looking (a 6 or 7 I’d say), but I have been on a long term relationship with a solid 9-10. She’s a very nice girl, I just thought that it was bad timing, and that I had more of life to experience. I thought that studying pick up would have made a more mature man, helping dealing with anxiety, and evolve my social skills as a whole. I thought to myself: “when I am confident enough so that I *feel* am able to pick up any girl I want — yes, those on those clubs –, I will have experienced my feelings and will be mature enough to settle down”. Anyway, I no longer believe that that goal is achievable.

My reply:

So you’ve been studying game for six months, have not banged a silly hot Brazilian girl, and deem it “impossible” even after you’ve seen improvements? Do you know how ridiculous this sounds? You’re writing this to a man who went to South America and was basically dying slowly but still went out there and chased hard until he [DBIP spoiler]. I’m sorry I can’t respect this email at all because it screams quitter. If I was also a quitter then we can whine together about how hard life is and how hard it is to bang pretty girls but no, because I don’t give up.

Your solution is to man up, stop whining, and go do 200 approaches in the three months.

A noteworthy part of his email:

I thought that studying pick up would have made a more mature man

In six months he expected to be a completely new man! Come on people: real, lasting change takes time. You can go out there with new lines or techniques and get laid in the next month, but changing who you are is a gradual process that you won’t notice until way into the future when you accomplish some difficult task or goal using some seemingly inconsequential thing you learned from a prior experience. It won’t be obvious.

I was reading the blog of this girl who traveled through South America. The post from when she returned home said something along the lines of, “I’m so disappointed that I’m back and feel like exactly the same person.” Unfortunately people want to go out and do this big experience and feel an immediate payoff to justify it, a result of the Western culture sickness where everything is cost-benefit analyzed to death. But of course that’s not how life works. The cumulation of many experiences will gradually change you, but nothing where you can draw a line from point A to B and say, “Yes climbing the Inca Trail has helped me… get this raise at work!”

Lastly, you can’t go wrong if you do things you enjoy that keep you engaged in life. I sought out the game because it’s what I wanted, not because I saw a bestselling book at Barnes & Noble that was targeted to my age and gender. If your heart isn’t into something and you merely follow popular trends, you’ll quit before accomplishing anything meaningful.

As much as I hate to admit it, my happiness is still tied to the responses I get from women. I have been unable to achieve a complete Buddhist-like state when it comes to game, and my states remain affected by them.

If I approach a cute new girl and get her number, say in a tough day-time approach, I am pleased and pat myself on the back, thinking of my little success for the next couple hours. If I then fuck her, I’m in positive spirits for at least a day. If a new girl I thought was a lock flakes on me at some point in the seduction I get annoyed and experience a bad or neutral mood for hours. If I don’t get the bang when I’ve done everything in my power to do so, I’m frustrated.

It’s happened where a girl didn’t reply to my phone call, and I scratch my hand wondering why, only for her to finally respond and my mood to immediately lift. I want to get away from this completely, of reacting emotionally to responses a woman gives me, but I know that’s asking myself to remove a part that makes me human. While I worry less about outcomes with specific women than the average man, there is obviously a part of me that cares, mostly for my own success and sense of accomplishment.

Garden-variety apathy is a common attribute of those men who rack up lots of bangs, but I want complete robot-like apathy when it comes to the initial stages of pick-up because I know that emotions such as the ones I experience only hinder my maximum potential. The time I’m feeling down will lead to missed opportunities because I won’t be “in the mood.” The times I’m feeling up does the same because of the “I just got laid—I don’t need to try” mindset, also called Golden Cock Syndrome.

There is a negative to robot-like apathy, because to not care is to lack desire. Unfortunately at zero desire you’ll be prevented from playing the game at all and attemping anything, as you can reason that women are not needed for your existence in the first place. This is a tough point to reconcile, and it’s entirely possible that my current mindset, of caring a little, is actually most optimal.

I noticed that rich girls in South American clubs are harsher than rich girls in American clubs. One time I was in a “posh” Brazilian club with a cover band singing English songs, said something casual in English to some cute girls near by, and got flat-out dissed, even though they were singing along to the song. The bitchiness level of some well-to-do Colombian and Brazilian girls can be very surprising. I think part of it is that rich people in poor countries have a chip on their shoulder and want to prove they’re as big and bad as someone from the U.S. or Europe. They resent that they live in a developing country that many people still label “third-world.”

Easy solution: Do not step inside a club that has more than a $5 US cover. I’m rolling into clubs with $20 covers and wondering why I’m having challenging nights, but then I go into a casual bar and do great off the bat. The more expensive the South American club, the worser I do. If you balk at the cover charge then imagine what the average Brazilian or Colombian or whomever thinks about it. The only problem is that it’s tough finding those fun local bars, as guidebooks and internet sites usually spit out the expensive venues.

I think lower middle class bars and clubs are a good compromise between quality and easiness. It’s true those rich clubs have the hottest girls, but if you’re just passing by the city odds are that won’t be the source of a bang, especially without some sort of introduction or “in” to get the ball rolling. The girls there don’t give a shit you’re a gringo. Of course they’re always exceptions, but the one place your exotic gringo status is neutralized is a place where rich assholes hang out at. If the ratio of drunk guys wielding champagne bottles to hot girls exceeds 0.5, buckle down for a long night. And if you see someone with an iPhone, leave immediately.

Postscript: A Brazilian has informed me that a new iPhone costs around $1,200 in Brazil, based on today’s exchange rate.

These women are bringing a child into the world (because god knows we need more) with the knowledge that he or she will be more fucked up than the general population. Studies show that raising a child alone is the worst thing you can do to a human being, especially if that human is male. Is the woman going to teach her son how to stand up for himself? Is she going to teach him how to be attractive to women and then bang lots of them, like his genetics dictate? Is she going to give him the self-confidence to carve his own path in life? Is she going to teach him how to beat someone in the face? No, no, no, and no.

My parents divorced when I was 8, and for the next twelve years or so I visited my dad two nights a week. So when I got out of college, I was only 30% man. With much time, determination, and sex with different women, I have been able to become 99% man (yeah, I like myself a good snuggle from time to time), but it would have been a hell of a lot easier if I had a constant male influence in my life. Unfortunately many guys have been raised by their fathers but they might as well be fatherless—their dads didn’t teach them shit, sometimes because they didn’t quite know how to be a man themselves. This has happened because Western society has not demanded that men act like men.

I got to see a sad example of single motherdom in Pipa, Brazil, a small beach town in the Northern coast. There was an Italian mother and her 8-year-old boy traveling with the grandmother and aunt. Three women, zero men. They put a long rainbow-colored tassel in his almost shoulder-length hair and a piece of woven jewelry around his tiny ankle. They indulged his every whine without teaching him things like sports, play fighting, and smashing objects. He copied their feminine ways of speaking and the poolside sight of my hairy body nearly scared him to death—he literally trembled with fear like someone had dropped him into the lion sanctuary at the zoo. I’m absolutely certain this adorable little boy will be a huge fag when he gets older. Now how is that not child abuse?

While there’s nothing wrong with being gay (except the doing it in each other’s butts part), you must accept that homosexuality is on the deviant side of nature. The Italian mother was actually married when she had the future sausage jockey, but many Western women who have failed in love will be having kids using sperm donors. These self-absorbed women do not care that they are destroying a human life as long as they can attempt to relieve the immense emptiness in their lives, caused by chasing that cheddar in the corporate office instead of pleasing a real man who could fertilize her BPA-tainted eggs with a child. Thanks to their actions, society will be filled with a billion gays who wear tassels in their hair. And guys like myself will have the burden of having a lot of sex with the remaining women who are still wired to want a man who treats them like shit.

I guess this is all working out quite well for me then.