I’ve spent the last seven months in Poland and Romania. Now it’s time for something new.
Today I’m releasing a 216-page book compilation of my favorite blog posts. Here is the description:
The Best Of Roosh is a compilation of my 90 best blog posts published between August 2006 and January 2013, from a total of 1,742 that were written. They include topics on game, dating, sex, self-improvement, lifestyle, feminism, American culture, and travel.
Here is a sample of 15 titles included in the compilation:
- Two Things That Tight Game Comes Down To
- Anger Is An Aphrodisiac To Women
- The Secret To Getting Laid
- How To Deal With Crippling Approach Anxiety
- 7 Signs You Should Approach A Girl
- The 9 Immutable Laws Of Pickup
- Warning Signs A Girl Isn’t Worth A Relationship
- How To Cheat On Your Girlfriend Without Getting Caught
- The Secret To Fast Sex
- It’s Better To Have Guts Than Brains
- The United States Of Broken Women
- You Can’t Get Laid In The United States
- The Three Components Of Female Beauty
- Feminism Killed The Nice Guy
- How Culture Affects Game
The ideas, advice, and analysis in this compilation represent both a celebration and examination of masculinity and male achievement while rejecting Western society’s push to androgynize and marginalize men.
All included posts have been digitally remastered for your reading pleasure. The paperback is available from Amazon for $13.87, the Kindle edition is $2.99, and the PDF edition is free (supported with plugs for four of my previous books). Click one of the following links to continue:
Web sites come and go so I wanted to create this compilation as a way to allow my best blog work to endure. I also think the compilation serves as a good introduction to game and the red pill. Let me know what you think.
1. Take advantage of the fact that every American city has some type of foreign presence. One Polish man went to Chicago 160 years ago and now there are over 200,000 of them. One Iranian man went to Los Angeles and now there are 800,000 of them. Find out what ethnicity your city has a lot of then go to places that have those people. If the girl has an accent, your flag is waiting for you.
USA: She was a virgin with a pear-shaped body, the type of girl that I wouldn’t even notice today, let alone have sex with.
2. The easiest way to get a flag in America is to to go to salsa clubs. You don’t even need to know how to salsa, though it wouldn’t hurt. From this you’ll start meeting foreign students, interns, and international development workers that offer a gateway to Latin flags.
Czech: She was petite, but I didn’t appreciate her dimensions at the time because I was brainwashed to believe that women should have meat (i.e., fat) on their bones. It would take some time until I would hunt for petite women almost exclusively.
3. If you’re flagging in your own country, stick to your own country’s game. If she liked her own beta men, chances are she wouldn’t have left her country in the first place. She must adapt to your game and your sex speed, not the other way around.
Philippines: Her pussy was incredibly tight. I don’t think I lasted more than a minute. I pretended I didn’t come so she wouldn’t think I was a poor lover.
4. If she’s talking to you, a foreigner, it means she’s adventurous. She likes different cultures and travel. Therefore tell her stories about culture and travel. Definitely don’t drone about how you are a stable man who cares about family and office work.
Puerto Rico: She was feminine, sweet, and the first girl to ever cook for me. I went to South America partly because of my positive experience with her.
5. Erase a big game mistake by blaming your culture. If you make an error that pushes her away, tell her this is how things are done in your country and that she should be more open-minded. You can use this get-out-of-jail-free card only once.
Argentina: A bang that came after a month of heavy labor with Australian guys in a dingy Cordoba hostel. She was blonde and an English teacher. It was my first time having sex in a love motel.
6. Save the rough sex for later. While foreign girls may love vigorous sex, they prefer a lot less abuse than American girls, who don’t mind that you begin choking upon first penetration. Even hair pulling may be too much right away.
Brazil: The most beautiful girl I’ve fucked. If anyone sealed the deal in my exit from America, it was her. Sadly, she has since become a Facebook addict.
7. Select wingmen based on looks, not on skill. When you’re in America, you want a wingman who can disarm cockblockers and take one for the team, but when you’re abroad, what you want is attention. You want women to have eyes on you and to clearly notice you are an exotic man. Having a good-looking wingman accomplishes this.
Colombia: A one-night stand where she cried afterwards. I would later see her around and it was clear I was not the only gringo she had slept with.
8. Keep your openers simple. Two openers that don’t fail abroad: (1) “You look like you speak English,” and (2) “You don’t look like you are from here.” Ramble for a minute until she asks you where you’re from.
United Arab Emirates: My biggest cheat flag—a super blonde Italian girl born in the desert to diplomatic parents. She was very beautiful but I got needy and then she dumped me.
9. Tell stories that make her seem like a prude compared to your own girls. To duplicate the fast sex speed of American girls, I told foreign women how “sex is super quick” and “everyone is a slut” back home, as if sex is just about anonymous. This makes her relieved that she is not the easiest girl you have been with.
Spain: A doctor attending a month-long course in DC. She had a sexy accent and long, curly hair. She found out about my blog a day before I went to Iceland and cried on the phone.
10. The kiss has less meaning. For some cultures, the kiss is not as important as a prelude to sex as in America. What’s more important is getting her back to your place, whether you kissed before or not. That said, I like to do at least a short kiss before inviting her back just to make sure I’m not completely surprised once she comes over.
Iceland: A slut approached me when I was walking home from the club, a mere 100 feet from my apartment door. It was the easiest bang of my life.
11. If she asks if you want to have a cigarette, say yes. This applies even if you don’t smoke. For girls who smoke (and there’s a lot of them in European countries), smoking is a great rapport builder that will increase your notch count. When a girl offers you a cigarette, enter flavor country with enthusiasm. I’ve lost out on at least three possible bangs from saying no.
Denmark: I was in a coffee shop, slightly depressed that I committed two months to such a lame country. A blonde flight attendant approached me as I was leaving. We later went to my house to drop off my bag, but we never made it back out.
12. Stick to your core competency. If you are good at day game, stick to day game. If you’re good at night game, go to the clubs. You will be tempted to throw away everything you know about women when in a new place, but your existing knowledge is the foundation for foreign success. Simply make micro-adjustments after every few approaches. Therefore the more approaches you do, the quicker you’ll understand the local women.
Poland: She rejected me before she fucked me. I thought I was out of the running but I saw her in the unisex bathroom and she smiled. I smiled later in he bed, and for six months in Poland thereafter.
13. Talk about what she knows. I can’t guarantee that the foreign women you’ll meet will be smart and chatty, but I can tell you they’ll be knowledgeable about their own culture. Ask her questions about her food, drink, history, women, men, religion, and so on.
Latvia: She approached me while I was suited up and asked why I had a terrorist beard. Later, I fucked her like a terrorist.
14. The better you can get laid in America, the higher value you have abroad. Women of the world like confident men who approach them and know how to seal the deal. If you can do it in America, then chances are you can do it in other countries with occasional adjustments. Guys who fail to work on their game in tough environments are in for a disappointment when they step foot in another country thinking it will be obviously easier.
Estonia: She was unhappy with her relationship and was looking for adventure. I gave her adventure on my bed, and on my couch, and on the kitchen counter. Her face was very pleasant to look at.
15. Dates have more meaning abroad. Foreign girls are more likely to pay attention to you and consider you for sex if they show up for dates, unlike in America where you’re more a mechanism for validation or fodder for her dating blog. This is why one-night stands are less of a necessity, but always be mindful about how you’re going to transition her from the date venue to your room. If you are unable to afford a private room, work on your money game first.
Lithuania: I met her close to last call and banged her in under an hour. I regretted raw dogging her, but her body was nice.
16. Less travel is more. Until you have time and money to do major expeditions over the course of months, it’s best to limit your travel speed to no more than one city per week, and even that is fast. If your game is average, you should commit 10-14 days in one city. You will surely encounter difficulty in whichever city you pick and be tempted to go somewhere else that you feel may be easier, but the correct move is to stay and make it work with the full force of your character and effort.
Ukraine: I met her on International Woman’s Day and smashed on the first date. We talked only in Russian.
17. You will have to talk more. Foreign girls don’t give you the chat quantity that American girls give (if she does then something is probably wrong with her). You will also be dealing with girls who are more accepting of silences than you are. Understand that your culture has trained you to abhor silence, and if you keep this belief with a foreign woman, you will come across as a goof. Let the pause sink in for a few seconds to give her an opportunity to break it. If not, ask her an open-ended question.
Iran: A freebie flag. She was a horny girl who approached me with a mild insult. I didn’t care that she was on her period.
18. American-style bars in foreign countries have the ugliest women. As much as I hate clubs that are rocking the David Guetta playlist, these are the places where beautiful women go. I highly recommend these earplugs, which I credit for keeping me in night game longer than I had planned. If you don’t see yourself as a club guy, put in 2-4 hour day game sessions where you hit the malls, supermarkets, universities, bookstores, and public squares.
Finland: Sweet girl who took quite a while to bang by Scandinavian standards (over two hours). We kept in touch for months until I realized I was never going back to Finland.
19. Aim a little low. I know you want to get with the girls who wow you right off the plane, but you must crawl before you can walk. Banging foreign girls is like any other skill where success builds upon success to form mastery. There is no shame in a 5 or 6 flag. Use that flag as research to get better the next time. On the bright side, what a foreign woman may lack in looks will be more than made up for in femininity and sweetness. A foreign 6 is like an American 8.
Sweden: The best blowjob of my life. My ensuring bedroom performance was not satisfactory so she kicked me out.
20. Foreign girls care much less about money than you think. There is a long line of guys who went abroad with the intention to impress women with cash but came away completely empty-handed. Bragging to a foreign woman turns them off just as much as American women. It’s fine to insinuate that you are a man of means, but don’t expect money to get the pussy wet. The four main techniques for your flag should instead be: (1) approaching, (2) good ramble, (3) willingness to escalate, and (4) logistics. The best use of your money is locking up the best logistics you possibly can.
Norway: She was on the pill and let me blast inside. I filled her up four times. I’m glad I gave her a fake name.
21. Foreign girls don’t need to be as drunk as American girls to have sex. You don’t need to be as concerned about plying them with drink. I’ve banged many Euro girls who weren’t impaired in the slightest, and it continues to surprise me how a simple coffee date can lead to passionate sex. In fact, I try not to get them too drunk because they become less interesting and more sloppy.
England: A virgin one-night stand, my first. She was ultra feminine but sarcastic at the same time. The contrast kept me interested, until it no longer did.
22. It’s more acceptable to buy a foreign girl a drink, but don’t go nuts. Only do it when you want to a enjoy a drink with her, not because you think the drink will create attraction. If you get too loose with your wallet, you give her a green light to use you just like an American girl would. You have only yourself to blame when you put out the signal that you’re wiling to give without receiving.
Germany: She was a tall, sturdy girl who refused to come to my place. I tried to fuck her in the woods but she refused. She finally did come over and I was surprised at the tightness of her pussy.
23. Put your logistics on steroids. In the first week within a city, approach full-time and identify the spots where girls are most receptive to you, whether it’s a day or night venue. Then go on Airbnb or Booking.com and book an apartment that is mere feet away from that spot. I did this in Zagreb to achieve two new notches in one night, the first time I’ve done so.
Croatia: A nursing student who loved men with beards. She had jet black hair and slutty skin. I had to call her for a repeat because of her loud yells that suggested my penis was having a strong impact.
24. A basic apartment is better than a flashy hotel. The former says “possible businessman” while the latter says “weekend tourist.” You want to suggest permanence to foreign women who are more relationship minded than Americans. Plus apartments are cheaper, you can cook your own meals, and comfortably watch a movie with your girl on the couch.
Italy: I approached her on the street asking for a good bar. I’ve heard nightmares about how hard Italian girls are, but it was only 3 hours from meet-to-bang.
25. Be vague about how long you are staying. The dark side of flagging is that being 100% honest about your travel plans will cost you bangs. I’m not urging you to lie, but let her imagination fill in the gaps with what she wants to believe. Say things like, “I’m staying here” or “I’m looking for a long-term apartment” or “I have to travel to another city in a few days before coming back.” Honesty is fine for sluts, but the sweeter girls won’t really consider a man who will leave in a couple days.
Romania: I banged her on the first date. The approach was broadcasted on Romanian television.
These 25 tips will serve as my personal guide for the next 25 flags that I suspect will take me many more years to achieve. While you can get flags in your own country, especially if you live in a cosmopolitan city, you’ll get more satisfaction from flagging on foreign soil, not unlike how brave conquerors of the past left home with no idea of when—or if—they’d return.
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
Even though I’ve long been aware of the corrupting influence of Western culture, I believed the properties of water were in part tied to its location, that water from the East could mimic by only a small degree water from the West, but never be just like it. I was less experienced when I had this belief, for now I know better. Water that has been boiled into steam still has the molecular properties of water, and once the atoms cool down, it will readily take up its more familiar form.
Both of my eyes opened after my first month in Poland. The women astonished me with their sweetness, femininity, and reliability. It’s true that the ones who had spent time in the West were less sweet and less feminine, but they were still miles ahead of girls who grew up there. The influence of the West, I figured, was self-limiting, and that girls with sweet natures were sweet from birth.
Two years later I went back to Poland, but this time in Warsaw. It’s the capital city with expensive clubs, heightened competition from a strong need to prove oneself, and lots of guys. I saw ratios worse than Washington DC. Polish girls, who I believed had genetic sweetness, were asking me to buy them drinks with not a care about getting to know me. “Are both of your parents Polish?” I would ask. And their parents as well. Girls danced with their phones in their hands, checking Facebook every minute. They gave me their number with no intention to hang out. This was not the Poland I remembered.
The problem was easy for me to diagnose: the vibe of the capital city and the unfavorable demographics created the Toronto of Eastern Europe. It’s no big deal, really, because these macro factors can be ignored by going to a different city. I went three hours east by bus and soon received the Polish sexual pleasure that I originally came back for.
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
Usually I would go to a country and stay in the city I land in for two months, but this has led to some unpleasant stays so I tried a new strategy in Romania—one week in several cities to reconnoiter before reaching a decision on where to stay for two months or longer. After three weeks of travel, I concluded that Bucharest was the baseline, Cluj in the northwest was below, and Iasi, for a man who lives for the second-tier, was above.
No girl in Cluj asked me to buy her a drink, but two girls yelled at me. One because I didn’t move from her “spot” in the bar and another for a trivial reason that I forgot as soon as her neck cocked back and forth while yelling at me like she was a black American girl. What caused them to get so angry at me when no girl in Bucharest or Iasi have even given me a sneer? It’s the same country—are they not raised from the same stock? Or was it simply that the local conditions of Cluj, which had a surplus of men from all over Europe, allowed girls to behave in such a way but still get what they wanted? Would a girl display a single negative trait if it prevented her from finding a good man or living a comfortable life?
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
I appeared on four separate Romanian TV channels, soaking in local fame, trying to get easy lays. I was recognized more times in the ensuing two months than I ever have in Washington DC. When a girl stared at me, I wasn’t sure why she was looking, but I hoped it was because she knew of me, and it would help get into her pants as in the fashion of American celebrity culture. Very early on I get a big surprise—girls who knew of me and my writing played some of the hardest, most lethal game I’ve seen in my life. One girl stood me up. Another was testing me to the point of frustration, as kind as I was to her. Another tried to put words in my mouth, serving up challenges when I wasn’t doing the same. And then I would meet a girl who did not know me, often in the same venue, and she would be the nicest girl in the world, not unlike my first experience in Poland. I have no doubt that the girls who acted bitchy to me would be sweet to the next guy that came along afterwards, suggesting there was a sort of switch that women could flick depending on the circumstance they found themselves in and the man they were meeting.
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
Women are not born wearing heels. They are not born with the knowledge to take care of long hair or how to put on makeup. They are not born ready to honor their commitments. Such women are made, but even after that making, both macro environments and micro triggers will release what you do not want to be released, because within every woman on this planet, regardless of her education or background, is a bitch, a cunt, a slut, a golddigger, a flake, a cheater, a backstabber, a narcissist, and an attention whore that is dying to get out and that, if certain conditions arise and she is placed in a certain container at a certain temperature, will thrust her worst upon you, and this, I’m afraid, is the true nature of women. This is the true nature that will come forth if society doesn’t put constraints or limitations on a woman’s behavior and choice.
There is no other conclusion that I can arrive at when I’ve witnessed how easily women degrade into this negative condition, and—more importantly—how much they love it. How with just a little bit of practice, women love being a bitch, love attention whoring, and love exerting any bit of power they have over men to validate themselves and feed their starving self-esteem, to see men not as men but items in a supermarket that they can shop through at their leisure. If they happen to be in a sour mood, they wouldn’t hesitate to abandon a full cart of groceries and walk out, letting the stock boy put everything back on the shelves, not at all concerned about the increased headache she created for him.
Free from the shackles of acting within traditional sex roles, all women of the world would much rather act like a lazy sailor than a prim and proper lady as long as male attention continues to flow—even women who have been a lady for most of their lives, because acting like a lady is hard work that involves effort, while failing to examine the mirror before stepping out of the house or failing to exert control over an f-bomb filter does not. If a newborn baby girl is placed in the wrong container from birth, she will never get out, or even have the knowledge of what it takes to be a lady. In a modern world where even the most repulsive woman still gets affection from men, inertia causes her to remain in this deplorable condition while she has no desire to change and no thought in her mind to act with class or character.
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
A girl who has known only one container her whole life—a good container—can instantly change containers upon meeting me if my reputation happened to proceed me, and give me the worst of who she is in instant time. I have seen this too many times to discount, and I didn’t have to be a scientist for six years to conclude that if men can not keep women in the right container at the right temperature by force, through application of law or shaming, and if men can’t manage the environment in their favor, but instead allow women to have unbridled freedom and choice, their women will fall so fast that they will notice the change not in years but in months.
This change is not a metamorphosis that brings upon a new state never known, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, but a reversion to the woman’s natural, primordial state, the true order of her being. American men can tell you of this reversion with much detail, and how because of it they have given up on enjoying their leisure time with the opposite sex, resigned to watching Youtube videos on the internet instead of trying to mate. In the near future more men of the world will be able to describe it in colors as vivid as I see it today. As the women of this era find their basic needs being increasingly met, and the direction of societies moves towards one of automatic reverence to women instead of bemused skepticism of their childlike decision-making and behavior, reversions will occur across all economically rising countries of the world, much to the shock of those local men who can’t imagine women acting in any other state than feminine and kind.
Water takes the shape of the container it fills.
When the true nature of women became clear in my mind, I was deeply pained, because I realized that no matter where I go and what apparent girl I fall in love with, a certain environment or trigger will uncover the excrement hiding within my angel and she will then give me her worst without a second of hesitation or moral doubt. I came to understand that a woman’s true nature, regardless of how strong the curtain is that shields her darkness, will erupt like a volcano that everyone thought was dormant and incapable of harm, and that I must accept the natural order that I did not create, with no choice but to use my knowledge and experience to find a girl who is currently in the right container at the right temperature, and enjoy her while she is temporarily in that state, and not lament when those conditions change and she happily and eagerly fills the container that she truly desires to be in.
Read Next: The Decline Of American Women
Let’s say you sit in front of a computer all day without talking to anyone. Then at 6pm, I ask you to go to a happy hour with a few opportunities to talk to women. How will your first couple of approaches go? Well, it’s likely you won’t even do an approach. Your mind will not be primed for social interaction because the testosterone draining effects of computer work put your dick to sleep. You’ll come up with fancy excuses to not even try, like waiting until the weekend.
Now let’s say you did a different routine. You lifted weights in the morning, setting a personal record on the bench. At lunch time, you went to Barnes & Noble and picked up a magazine with bikini babes, giving you a 25% boner. You then did two approaches that went okay but didn’t result in a number. Once back at work, you had a five minute chat with the slutty HR gal, catching glimpses of her cleavage. At your desk you took breaks every 30 minutes to explore deep fantasies of sex. Then as soon as you got off work, you called a friend and talked about the approaches you did at lunch.
If you were to hit that happy hour now, do you think things would be different?
In Lublin, Poland there was a club with a ladies night on Wednesday. This is how I prepared for it:
- I nurtured my morning boner by thinking of girls I’ve had sex with in the past, but I didn’t masturbate.
- I forced myself to do my one approach of the day.
- I went to the coffee shop in the mall that is right next to a popular clothing store for teenage girls. I got a seat where I had a clear view of all the female clientele.
- I stared, lustfully, at the pretty girls coming and going.
- I did an additional approach after coffee shop time.
- I hit the gym and leered at girls wearing tight aerobic clothing.
When I went to the ladies night club after doing all this, my balls were ready to explode, even when rolling solo. My dick was my wingman. Sometimes my very first approach hit.
Consider an approach session to be a symphony that starts when you wake. The warmup gets you ready, the actual approaches are the climax of the movement, and finally your results (number, kiss, or bang) bring you back down to a hopefully satisfied mood. If the game starts with your first approach, then your warmup is garbage. You’ll be rusty with weak desire.
You know you’re doing it right when there is almost no anxiety when you start with the actual approaches. In fact, the approach is just a drop in the bucket within the entire process. It’s what you did before that first approach that will determine the bulk of your success.
Read Next: Going Out Alone
Hello, young Ukrainian girl. I saw you from across the street and then timed my trajectory and gait to intersect with you somewhere in front of this kiosk. I have much experience with such casual run-ins, so you probably didn’t notice what I was doing, though rest assured I nearly cracked opened a physics textbook to get such collisions down perfectly.
From a far distance, with the sun in my face, you looked quite pretty, but now that we are talking only three feet apart, I’ve noticed some troublesome flaws.
Your eyebrows are overly groomed. They are thin with hairs so short that I can see the skin behind them. You have also sculpted an arch that makes you seem in a state of sudden surprise.
Your eyelashes are fake. They look like thin fish netting that has been dipped in cheap acrylic paint. The attachment goes beyond your eyelids, making me wonder if you want everyone to know that they are not of human origin.
You have so much makeup on that I imagine it would be dangerous for you to give a hearty laugh. Like fissures that appear on the ground after a large earthquake, I can see breaks around your mouth when you gave a slight smile to my joke about needing to find a supermarket as big as a soccer field. If I put a plaster cast on your face, I doubt it would feel different compared to what you have on right now.
You lipstick is bright red, yet your teeth are discolored and crooked. I can’t complain much since my teeth aren’t perfect either, but the contrast of blood red and tea brown is jarring. It’s best not to force attention to one of your weaknesses.
Your nails are fake. I can tell since the nail surface rises far above the level of your cuticle. Fake nails aren’t so bad, but it sure is awkward when they come off in bed, as if you are coming apart.
Your hair color is not that blonde. I can easily see it in your dark roots. It looks like you haven’t colored in twelve days.
I commend you for taking your appearance seriously. You deserve an award for turning your 5 rating into what many guys with less experience than me would give an 8. I can only imagine how perfect your photos on VK are, especially after asking Ivan your beta orbiter to touch them up a bit with his pirated copy of Photoshop. But you just don’t do it for me, because your aesthetic is fake, with no anchor to truth and reality. You’re a billboard advertising for a product that doesn’t live up to its stated benefits, and I know I will be asking for my money back after my mind sees through your cosmetic mask.
Your false aesthetic should be enough to please some man out there, but not me. I insist on real beauty. Beauty for beauty’s sake. I’ve learned that a girl who is wearing a lot of makeup surely can not be beautiful, because why would she spend hours covering her beauty? Makeup precludes beauty. In sparing amounts it can only compliment it like a snug t-shirt does on the body of an athletic man, yet the t-shirt alone, regardless of what it costs or what design is on it, can not elevate the aesthetic of a frail man.
Consider the grotesqueness if we put a New York skyscraper in the city of Siena:
The beauty of the skyscraper depends on its environment, on what lies beside it. Your fake eyelashes, nails, and eyebrows are like constructing skyscrapers in a pleasant village that is dotted with apple trees and spacious pastures for grazing sheep. Your natural beauty is not New York City, so please don’t take on its artifacts.
I know you don’t care about what I think of you, because next month I’ll see you holding hands with a man who doesn’t mind the special effects that is your appearance, but as a connoisseur of the aesthetic, I seek the real thing. I believe all men should.
Read Next: American Girls vs Ukrainian Girls
In the past I’ve described Jante Law, a Scandinavian cultural norm that aims for true equality. Efforts to show off, brag, or display value in Jante Law-affected societies cause revulsion and public shaming. Disagreeing with acquaintances are frowned upon. Heated debates are unacceptable.
The result is a comical avoidance of generalizing, giving strong opinions, or attributing personal success to hard work instead of good fortune or being raised by the “village.” No one is stupid, just disadvantaged. No one is lazy, just lacking in educational opportunities. Running game is a delicate concern because you have to show value without showing value while simultaneously not offending the girl and her pro-equality and ultra-liberal views
The Jante Law virus—when applied in the realm of gender equality—is increasingly infecting America as women consolidate their power over men. Things I saw in Denmark a couple years ago are more noticeable in the States, and I predict that in ten years we’ll develop a ‘roided Jante Law that is even too extreme for Scandinavians, mostly due to the militant and aggressive nature of our empowered females.
There are ten rules of Jante Law immortalized by a popular Danish author. It’s not hard to share examples of how it’s being applied to American men, with arguments you can easily find on women sites…
1. Don’t think you’re anything special.
“Men are essentially sperm donors. Soon, technology will make them superfluous. Society doesn’t need them, and limiting their masculinity through new laws so they can’t hurt people would eradicate all crime and mass shootings. The world may very well be a better place without men.”
2. Don’t think you’re as good as us.
“Women excel in clerical office jobs while men flounder. It’s obvious women can communicate clearer and make for better team players. They are also very skilled at managing men to make sure they stay on task with whatever engineering or programming tasks they have to finish.”
3. Don’t think you’re smarter than us.
“Men have become intellectually lazy. They don’t even have the focus and commitment to attend universities anymore. The proof is in high enrollment rates for women. Their brain is becoming increasingly facile and better suited for the virtual world of video games.”
4. Don’t convince yourself that you’re better than us.
“Besides being physically stronger than women, you hold no advantage. Evolution has stopped at the neck and given female brains all of your strengths and none of the weaknesses. It is therefore a tragedy that more women are not CEOs when they’re obviously qualified. Quotas should be enacted to correct this.”
5. Don’t think you know more than us.
“In the past we used to allow our brains to atrophy at home by cooking and cleaning like a common slave, but now we read a lot of books. Eat Pray Love, 50 Shades Of Gray, and whatever that wonderful black superwoman Oprah tells us to read are enriching our minds and filling our souls. We don’t need to major in psychology to understand the human condition better than you to be more successful in life.”
6. Don’t think you are more important than us.
“You’ve been important for long enough. To squash the artificial superiority that has for some reason existed since the dawn of time, policies and laws must keep you down so the natural order of your inferiority and unimportance are allowed to freely flourish in society. Women must be given a head start to handle the patriarchal influence you’ve polluted our world with.”
7. Don’t think you are good at anything.
“You’ve failed to become a man who earns high wages, and now women are stepping up to fill that role. Important cultural commentators have predicted The End Of Men thanks to your inaction and laziness. The fact that women can so easily out-earn you is testament to your failure, and now these accomplished women have no choice but to entertain themselves with a string of bad boy lovers to experience the excitement that you utterly fail to provide.”
8. Don’t laugh at us.
“We are not fat—we have healthy body weight. We don’t have attitude—we are independent with strong and passionate opinions. We are not slutty—we are exploring our sexuality. Our tattoos are not trashy—they’re unique and a reflection of our individuality. We are not spinsters or cougars—we are confident women who know what we want and can easily get it while you have to travel to poor countries to sleep with dirty sluts who have herpes.”
9. Don’t think anyone cares about you.
“It doesn’t matter if little boys are floundering in public schools, if men are committing suicide at high rates, if men are being locked up for one of a thousand crimes, or if Middle East war veterans are coming back without limbs or a sound mind. It doesn’t matter if you can’t find work and are pushed to the margins of society. As long as homosexuals can marry in wonderful ceremonies with beautiful flowers and single mothers get money from the state to help them be independent, society is functioning as it should, and you better open your wallet and pay taxes to ensure this progress continues.”
10. Don’t think you can teach us anything.
“There’s nothing you know that we don’t. Just because you built civilization and all the gadgets we use, absolutely nothing you say will make a difference in our thought. By the way, even if you agree to everything we say, we still won’t put out for you, but we appreciate the support. Maybe you can also tell all the misogynists to man up and see the error of their ways and accept that equality is the true way to societal happiness.”
There exists some hypocrisies with Jante Law in that it’s applied more strictly with males, but the Danes seem almost genuine with their aim of gender equality, no matter the grotesque creation of an androgynous society where it can be hard to tell the difference between men and woman and straights and gays. In America, however, the borrowed ideas of Jante Law will only have one purpose: to put men down and give justification for programs, laws, and re-education that make men second-class citizens in a country that they built. It’s happening as we speak.
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Patricia woke up not when her body was ready to wake but when her smartphone, which she lays to bed beside her every night, vibrated and chimed with a text message from Madison reminding her of the lunch they would have later that Saturday afternoon. Her eyes began adjusting to light coming from her phone’s screen instead of the sun, to Facebook and Instagram updates of the amazing experiences her friends had the night before. She was more than excited when she noticed four new messages on Facebook, but quickly realized they were from losers. She let out a “lame” under her morning breath before getting out of bed, phone in hand.
She didn’t want to eat a large breakfast since she knew she would be having a fattening lunch later in the day with Madison at the new restaurant that was the buzz of all the local blogs—blogs she was now catching up on after preparing a small meal of two toaster pastries, banana, probiotic yogurt, and three pieces of artisanal dark chocolate. There on the center of her kitchen table was the biography of Steve Jobs, and if you look closely you can see a fine layer of dust on the cover. She received it as a gift, and though she read the first 16 pages with enthusiasm, she got distracted with something else and never picked it up again. She felt no loss for failing to read the book because her extensive blog reading and magazine browsing must surely surpass the depth and wisdom contained in the autobiography of only one man. A book, unlike her favorite blogs, also didn’t allow her to leave witty comments that other people could give her recognition for in the form of upvotes.
She arrived on time to lunch and greeted her friend Madison with “You look amazing!” The two other standard greetings she uses are “You look great!” and “Oh my god where did you get that—it’s so cute!” where the that would usually be an article of clothing or piece of cosmetic jewelry. There were two seatings that took place; first their bodies, on a square table besides the open kitchen that draws attention from patrons whenever a little fireball erupts from the grill area, and the other seating was for their phones, which they both placed to the right of their appetizer plate and silver utensils.
Their menu browsing was interrupted with snippets of their Friday night, each girl teasing with small details that would be explained more fully after ordering. Every minute one would ask the other, “What are you getting?” and the other would invariably respond, “I don’t know, what are you getting?” followed by a detail such as, “Did you see Josh recently? He lost a lot of weight!” The girl who did not see Josh pulled out her phone to find a recent photo of him on Facebook that confirmed his improved appearance.
Madison noticed there was a typo in the menu. She followed her gut instinct, which was to take a picture and then tweet it to her two favorite foodie blogs and the restaurant’s Twitter account with the text “Still working out the kinks?” She expected her discovery to get many responses but three minutes later, after their meals were ordered, there were no retweets or replies and she was surprised, because the typo was obvious and this was supposed to be a serious restaurant, opened by a chef of a famous food truck that sold Mexican cupcakes with avocado sprinkles that were locally sourced. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people using their entire lunch hour just to wait in line and buy a few cupcakes as part of the combo special that came with a bag of nachos and pumpkin salsa.
It’s around this time that the full recap of the Friday night would be expected, two continuous stories with a start and end, but it resembled more a staccato, bits and pieces that I was hard-pressed to connect to the whole. Madison was more enamored with the place settings than the story of Patricia getting into an argument with a guy at the bar who asked her for a “female opinion” on something fashion related. Madison took two photos of the table layout, selected the one she liked most, applied a retro filter to make it look more distinguished, added seven different hashtags that were various spellings of the restaurant, and then uploaded it to Instagram. It took a little longer than she liked to upload and she said “Come on” twice while Patricia browsed through her phone so she wouldn’t appear to have nothing to do while waiting for her friend to finish with her art hobby.
Patricia didn’t feel like taking photos at the moment. Instead she launched an app that would blast a status update to all her social networks. She sent the following: “Having an awesome time with Madison at the new place!” Indeed, they were having an awesome time, mostly because they could share it in real time with the entire world.
The food arrived, presented beautifully on large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce going outward like heat rays a child would leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones were out now, taking pictures from different angles. It took a few minutes for each of them to get their shots just right since the lighting was less than optimal, but post-production app filters were up to the task and produced beautiful photos that they girls couldn’t upload fast enough.
Patricia uploaded just two photos of her dish, a Cobb salad, with the colorful ingredients arrayed beside each other like bags of spices in the Indian market she buys naan bread from. Madison, coming to the realization that this day would be special, created an album with the date and uploaded four photos of her Angus burger on brioche bun that was topped so high a horse wouldn’t be able to take a bite. She ate it not unlike Patricia’s salad, picking at the vegetable ingredients until she decreased its height enough where she could replace the top bun and finish it off in the normal style of eating a burger, exclaiming “This is so good” a total of six times.
Dessert was shared between them, a large piece of chocolate cake, and Patricia got the creative idea of taking a picture of Madison when a spoonful of cake was approaching her mouth. It would have been a better photo, in my opinion, if Madison removed her oversized sunglasses, but she partied hard the night before and didn’t want people to see her sagging eyes, which would suggest she’s upset or not having fun, when the truth is that she was having—like I already mentioned—an awesome time. After the cake was finished, there was a full seven minutes of conversation when neither operated their phones, but glances were stolen at their respective devices, and with no new notifications in such a prolonged period of time, Patricia thought that she lost signal and compulsively turned on the screen. The signal was full strength. Three more minutes went by before she got a like on the status update she sent earlier, but it was from Cody, who was really creepy the other month when he displayed skepticism that free birth control should be a basic human right for women.
The most passionate part of their lunch date was when the check came and they debated how much tip should be left. The service was acceptable, but at one point Madison had no water and she had to flag the waiter to come, going so far as twisting her torso in an unnatural position to locate where the waiter could possibly be. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, she argued, and convinced Patricia to levy a 5% tip penalty from the standard 20%. (Later that night, Madison went on Yelp and left a 3 out of 5 star review, citing the poor water service and menu error as reasons that the restaurant “still had a ways to go.” She added a joke, hoping it would get “Funny” likes, but she only got two “Useful” likes instead.)
They left the restaurant and—I don’t know who came up with the idea first—agreed to take a picture in front of the main entrance. It was their luck that the name of the restaurant could easily be seen. Patricia asked a male passerby to snap the photo. He was more than happy to do so, but Madison began to get anxious because what if Patricia forgets to upload the photo? She didn’t want the opportunity to pass because she may never come back to this restaurant again after the poor service, so she asked the man to take the same photo with her phone. The man happily obliged. He hung around an extra twenty seconds longer than necessary and then thankfully went away without bothering the girls. He wasn’t good-looking.
It was time to walk off the meal by checking out the Old Town shopping center a half-mile away. Only three pictures were taken along the way and they considered buying a cupcake at a classic bakeshop but the line was too long and cupcakes are no longer in with the important foodie crowd that they considered themselves a part of. The Old Town was capably designed, they agreed, with a second level patio that oversaw a small fountain in the center of the complex. There wasn’t much else that I saw, but Patricia and Madison must’ve been moved because they excitedly took out their phones and got ready for picture taking on the patio that oversaw the little fountain. They believed that this moment must be captured with a camera sensor to not only be appreciated by their friends and beta orbiters, but also so they would never forget this special day for as long as they lived.
Patricia stood on the edge of the patio so Madison could take several shots (with Patricia’s phone, of course). Patricia examined each resulting image as soon as they were taken and grimaced each time, as if she was expecting a photo with an entirely different person than herself. After eight photos, she was finally pleased with one and then the process repeated with Madison, and then repeated again with both of them together thanks to the help of another male passerby, who was even more eager than the first. An extra “Thank you so much” was said to get him to buzz off. Not long after, in front of a Chinese restaurant, they stumbled on a display of an oversized Coca-Cola bottle, the classic bottle that can no longer be found in stores, and a handful of more pictures were taken beside it with exaggerated facial expressions.
From the beginning of their lunch date until the end, a total of 52 photos were taken. Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to various sites to garner a total of 48 likes, comments, and retweets, including a comment from the restaurant, apologizing for the menu typo. Not a bad haul for a Saturday afternoon, Madison thought proudly. She realized that through her effort and ingenuity hundreds of people—no, thousands—would not have to endure an unprofessional typo in a restaurant menu.
Patricia had a date that evening to prepare for. It was a casual date with a man she met on OK Cupid, and though she was reluctant to go since she wasn’t horny (she was getting serviced twice a week by Brody, her ex-boyfriend), she had nothing else to do. She arrived 17 minutes late to be greeted by a man who seemed slightly less attractive than his rock climbing photos suggested. She felt cheated that he uploaded the best version of himself, and while he may be able to say the same of her, since it was obvious her photos were from a younger time when the stress of her studies didn’t allow for the dining experiences she has become a connoisseur of, he was just proud to get a date out of messaging god knows how many women.
He ordered a gimlet while she ordered a mojito that came in a unique glass. She took a picture of her drink and then left her phone on the table while her date put his away. The sun was starting to fade from its peak intensity, signifying the arrival of evening, and so the texts began pouring into her phone. She was polite, only catching a quick glimpse of who was contacting her when her phone’s screen would light for three seconds before fading back to black. Her date soldiered on with his life story, talking about his recent experience in the Peurvian mountains where he took ayahuasca and achieved spiritual enlightenment. He also remarked how he accumulated a vocabulary of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important Andean wisdom from wise elders that has never been published in English. His story, however, could not compete with her phone. She responded to his prattle with a series of uh huhs while becoming more curious about the contents of her six unread text messages.
The anticipation reached a boiling point, not unlike when she was a young girl on her birthday and wrapped presents were shoved in front of her upon the ceremonial blowing out of the candles. Look, another pretty doll that she could play with for hours without worrying about anything else in the world, quieting her for such long periods that her parents would periodically get a feeling of panic that she wasn’t in the house. “I just have to check something real quick, sorry,” she said, then turned on her screen and scanned through the text messages that were waiting for her. One was from Brody, which was a pleasant surprise, since he didn’t usually contact her until Sunday evening. She decided to only answer the most important text message, the one sent by Madison, who asked how the date was going. She replied: “He’s so boring.. what time are we going to the club tonight? I want to wear my slutty dress.” She smiled as she typed this out with her thumbs, a smile that her date could not elicit from her no matter how hard he tried.
He suggested another round of drinks but she said she was tired and that she needed to get some rest from a hard week of work at the office. He was disappointed but not surprised, and when the check came he was pleased that she made a sincere offer to pay, but she actually had no money in her purse. He paid the bill and got a pleasant hug with Patricia’s breasts pressing slightly against him, completely unaware that his Monday evening “How was the rest of your weekend?” text would go unanswered. I could easily argue that the date was a waste of time for both, but Patricia didn’t see it that way. She got a free cocktail, a cool photo, and a fleeting string of conversation for her friends that would last at least 15 seconds and display how valued she was in the dating game, immediately followed by a comment about how there are no exciting men anymore, only boring ones who think doing hippie drugs, learning dying languages, or climbing mountains make them interesting.
Back at home, Patricia put on her favorite Nicki Minaj party mix and began getting ready for the club. She dressed in her Vegas outfit, the skimpy black top and skirt paired with heavy makeup and heels so high and uncomfortable that a full half-hour of the night would be spent complaining about them to anyone who would listen. While she didn’t look as good as two years ago, you couldn’t tell by increased amount of attention she was getting from men, even when she went out in sweatpants.
She stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror to take some self shots. This took a while to get right. The secret to a good self shot, she understood, was making it look completely natural as if the act of taking a photo next to the toilet bowl was a spontaneous event that came in a rare moment of artistic inspiration, when in actuality she has done this over a thousand times. I was impressed at how skilled she was at striking a pose that was the prettiest she could possibly look in spaces that rarely exceeded 84 square feet, with fluorescent lighting that would have easily highlighted her developing second chin had it not been for a precise 20 degree up-tilt of her head that didn’t decrease the brilliance of her blue eyes like a 25 degree tilt would. After fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting it just right, she raced out the door and mentally braced herself for all the idiots who would make unwanted sexual comments about her body, thinking she dressed that way to get attention instead of to feel confident about herself and who she was as a woman.
She and her crew, four strong, assembled at a lounge. There was such a flurry of ensuing activity that I had trouble keeping up with them. Guys were coming out from behind bushes, it seemed, to put in their attempt, and even Patricia began to feel threatened by the street harassment as she raced with her girls from one club to another, easily skipping the line for peasants and straight into the VIP where rich men with bottles of vodka and sometimes whiskey were waiting to pour whatever they wanted. Numbers were given to the cute and confident men and a couple of them were able to get up close to Patricia and sneak in brief kisses on her glossy lips. During all this the girls maintained death grips on their phones, usually in their left hands so they could party with their right. It would have been too risky to put their phones in their purse because the bass from the speakers would make it impossible to feel the little vibration of a “Where are you?!” text from a friend or a booty call text that would almost always start with the sentence “You out tonight?”
The fact that the girls were dancing with their phone didn’t reduce the fluidity of their gyrations or the rhythmic grinding on men’s crotches, and when a screen lit up from a new notification, even a minor one like an acquaintance not heard of in months being tagged in a photo, the dancing would stop for ten seconds and then commence again as if the interruption didn’t happen. The night wasn’t all joy, sadly, because Patricia forgot to recharge her phone midday, and now her battery level had sunk down to a perilous 14%. She couldn’t take any more photos with flash, which in the dark club essentially meant no more photography. Her night was on the verge of being ruined because her friends could record the exciting moments happening while she could only spectate.
In spite of the battery problem, which killed her phone not long after because of the irresistible urge to take just a few more group shots, the night was a raging success. Between the four girls, 266 photos were taken. Sixty-two would be uploaded, garnering 1,158 likes, comments, and so on, mostly from men. The girls gave out their number a total of 13 times, and 6 men were kissed. Patricia stumbled home alone and the first thing she did was plug in her dead phone into its charger. She patiently waited beside it to boot and then enjoyed the explosion of backlogged messages and notifications that came in all at once. They soothed her soul and validated her self-image as a popular girl in a big city.
She put her phone on silent then fell asleep, waking seven hours later. The first thing she did when she opened her eyes was reach for her phone, which lay beside her like it does every night, and already there was a text from one of the guys she met the night before. Who was it? She didn’t remember, and it didn’t much matter, because the photos, the texts, the likes, and the pleasant notification chime gave her more happiness than these men could provide for her. If you asked Patricia to forever give up her smartphone in order to meet the love of her life, the one in a billion man who would satisfy her both physically and emotionally for as long as she lived, and who would serve her like a queen until his last days, it wouldn’t take her even ten seconds to respond with a decision.
Three days later, the best self shot she uploaded had amassed 102 likes. It was a new record.