All posts by Roosh


I think it really picked up with those Rules books, when girls decided that giving affection or showing genuine interest is bad game. Successful players have many tools in their toolbox, but girls took “play hard to get” to such an extreme that they became cardboard cutouts, an outline of something that looks human from a distance but doesn’t feel like one up close. The more a girl consumed mainstream entertainment sources where these ideas were prone to be discussed or taught, the more likely she lobotomized the natural feminine instinct that men are naturally drawn into. “I must not let this guy know what I’m thinking or feeling. I must not let him know I care. He will like me then and I will be happy.”


Idiots for digesting and absorbing the absurd musings of Carrie Bradshaw, for incorporating a dysfunctional neurotic character into real life to infect new relationships like toxic mold instead of doing just a little soul searching to find meaning and substance. Idiots for purchasing books and DVDs produced by multinational corporations who care as much about them as a two-year-old cares about green vegetables. And idiots for trying to become careful, in control, and shrewd—for becoming like my dad.

A month ago I was winding down a long night in a club. As I sat down on a chair against the wall, I noticed a guy and cute girl sitting a few feet away from me. Two minutes later she slid a little towards me away from her guy friend. If a girl is going to make it that easy for me then I don’t care if I just vomited all over myself, but opening my mouth and creating speech is reflex.

Ten minutes later my arm is around her and I’m getting ready to go octopus on her. Her short dress and petite frame turned on the sleaze machine inside me.

“I was checking you out all night,” she said.

Whoa. I don’t hear that often enough, and it felt good.

“And I love your hair,” she added.


And then she started touching it (my hair!). I’m sitting next to a cute girl who is giving me physical and verbal affection as my hand is on her bare thigh and I’m fantasizing about all the ways I’m going to violate her. I can’t ask for much more than that—I was a happy man. She wouldn’t let me take her home that night but I got her number and moved her to the front of the queue. She motivated me because she showed me that she was motivated. This is how intense, fun relationships start, when you quickly feel comfortable with someone and don’t need to ration out attention like it’s a finite resource buried deep in the ground.

But why is this encounter the exception rather than the rule? Why is it so rare to find girls who put out a natural warmth and openness where you can cut through the manufactured bullshit and start to connect like two normal human beings? It’s because these girls worship celebrity idols who wear ridiculous sunglasses. It’s because they were raised by cable TV instead of their parents. It’s because they don’t trust their natural instinct and it’s because they are a product of an disconnected culture that sees warmth and openness as weakness, where the concept of community is limited to uploading staged photos on the internet for anti-social rejects to masturbate to.

My advice to the American girl: if you are curious about a guy who is curious about you, just be nice. Give him one compliment and make him feel good for talking to you. A grounded, real man will be more than happy to take you seriously, more than just a one-time fuck to blow off some steam. Imagine that.

In The Company Of Men

I saw In The Company of Men, a movie recommended by Roissy. The plot is about an alpha male who convinces his beta male coworker to help him emotionally destroy a woman. The reason is to “restore dignity” in their lives. The plan is for both of them to date her, take her out, buy her flowers, treat her nice, and then dump her at the same time. What ends up happening is the beta falls in love with her while the girl falls in love with the alpha.

At the end of the movie the girl, who is deaf, confronts the alpha about the game. He laughs in her face and says, “How does it feel?” He leaves her on the bed, crying, proud of his handiwork.

This movie has made me realize that I am a nice, stand-up guy. I don’t lie to women. I don’t manipulate them. I’m convinced I leave them better than how I found them, with short but intense memories of my bedroom. (Clarification: the memories are short due to the nature of the relationship, not because of the actual activity that… ah fuck it).

If you ask a girl about guys who like to sleep around, her blood will boil and she will say they are all jerks with mommy issues. But then if you ask her about the last player she fucked, her tone will soften. It’s because the player, with his experience and fuck style, made her feel good. You can’t stay in business for long if you are the type of guy who seeks destruction instead of pleasure. Most girls can pick up on the psychopaths that Hollywood loves to portray as smooth-talking pick-up artists. These guys end up in the corner office, not in the pants of quality women.

Girls Are So Naive

I was at some late-night restaurant shithole with a girl. We were at a booth but I was sitting next to her, hinting to the masses that we are probably not brother and sister.

Our food came (I got falafel) and I started eating when a random guy I’ve never seen before came up to our table. I tilted my head up to see what the fuck this guy could possibly want. He looked at me with a gigantic smile and said, “Where are you from?” There is an unspoken rule that you do not disturb a man and his bitch when food is on the table.

I said, “You see we’re eating right?”

He is still smiling. “Yeah but your face. I, uh, was just curious.”

We’re busy.”

He walks away and I continue my falafel meal. My casual lady partner gives me a typical chick response: “Oh my God you are such a jerk, he was just being nice.”

“He wanted to fuck you,” I said.

“What?!! No you are so wrong, blah blah blah blah blah blah.”

This guy then does the same thing to the next table where there was one girl and three guys. Fifteen minutes later, he is having a one-on-one conversation with the girl in a different language while the guys sit there in silence, twiddling their thumbs.

The waitress drops our check and I ask her who the guy is. “Oh him, he’s the busboy.”

bus·boy noun
Minimum-wage restaurant helper whose job rounds out the bottom of a capitalist economy’s totem pole

A busboy with stains on his shirt bitched out three yuppie betas whose clothing is worth more than his monthly salary. This is the most incredible moment of game that I have ever witnessed in my life. If you can not neutralize a busboy (granted, the ballsiest busboy in the world), a person whose job is to pick up after you, why are you still alive?

I Am Not In Today’s NY Times

Remember when I wrote about a script for getting out of your Verizon cell phone contract? A NY Times reporter interviewed me on the phone for a story he was doing on the topic, but I did not make the final cut. :sob:

Liza Tremblay, a 26-year-old owner of Bay Burger in Sag Harbor, N.Y., gave it a shot to get out of her contract with Verizon and avoid paying $175. (She wanted to use Cingular because colleagues told her the reception was better.) She followed a script she found on “I used a lot of big words, and I think I got across the idea that I meant business,” she said.

Getting Out of a 2-Year Cellphone Contract Alive

Spinsters In The Wild

Ari is a 34-year-old woman living in New York. She likes quality men but quality men do not like her, not lately anyway. Let’s take a closer look at this fascinating specimen.

I’m having one of those days where I feel I lost everything I wanted before I even mounted a battle for them. I’m not going to be a young mother. I’m not going to marry my college sweetheart. I’m not going to be a teen sensation.

Today, I feel like I’m too old to do anything I wanted or hoped to do. I can’t find a job I like. I can’t find a boy to kiss.

Women feel sorry for themselves in order to get sympathy and validation from other women who know what it’s like to feel sorry for themselves. Their goal is to get a superficial injection of happy feelings that stops the tears long enough to leave the house and purchase brand-name clothing products.

I never thought I’d be 34, unmarried, unemployed and childless. Not having a warm body to lie next to in September is nothing to think about. In December it’s reason enough to cry. I never thought, I never considered that I’d still have to be looking. I blithely assumed that my snatch would be snatched up! I mean really. I switched high schools at the start of my sophomore year. I nabbed myself a boyfriend the first damn day. We were together for three years and then intermittently throughout college. In college there were others, I never lacked for a date. Cute, eligible guys were never hard to come by until I actually wanted one. And yes, I know, you’ll never find anyone while you’re looking but I’m 34, I really can’t play coy anymore.


Who would have thought the attention she received when she was 18 would decrease to nothing almost two decades later? There has to be a high school course for teenage girls that brings out spinster speakers (with their beautiful cats) to scare them from trying to be players like men. If they can show pictures of diseased cocks and vaginas in school I see no reason why they can’t offer this reality as well.

And so, as my mom would say; I’m in a mood today. I have a date tomorrow night and I’m not all that moody by nature though so this feeling, it’s got to be fleeting, right?

Of course she’s still dating, since it has worked so well for her in the past. Because even at her age she deserves no less than a quality man who is over six feet tall, charming, a good listener, witty, in excellent shape, fashionable but not too metrosexual, not a game player, well-mannered, chivalrous, making six figures, funny but not a clown, a passionate lover, emotionally secure, drug-free, ambitious, nice but not too nice, not self-absorbed, athletic, and friendly to defenseless little animals.

Ten bucks this woman dies alone.


When Close Friends Don’t Accept Your Cats

Check out the second letter on today’s Dear Prudence:

I’m a 46-year-old unmarried Caucasian woman. I live alone with my three cats, whom I love dearly. My friends always pick on me because I love cats but haven’t managed to find a man who shares this love with me. Sometimes I feel very alone, although I have my cats. I feel like my friends are talking about me behind my back all the time! I’m very content with my current lack of love, but I sometimes worry that my friends aren’t. They are all happily married with children. I feel as though I’m left out of everything since I haven’t gotten married and had kids. Because of this, I’m thinking of adopting an African baby. Although I feel that I would love this child as much as I love my cats, sometimes I wonder if the only reason I’m considering adopting is to fit in with my friends. What should I do?

—Alone and Unsure

Alright which one of you guys sent that in? :laugh:

If you feel so out of sync with your married friends, instead of embarking on an ill-conceived adoption quest, seek out friendships with other middle-aged cat ladies.

:laugh: :laugh: :laugh:

Credit to Ribald for the find.

Teahouse of Horrors

Photo Credit

Over a year ago I sat down with an old friend at Ching Ching Cha Teahouse in Georgetown. This teahouse was recommended by someone who told me I had to try their artisan tea which blooms like a flower inside your cup. My flower was bright pink in color. It reminded me of those novelty pills that expand to form dinosaur shaped sponges when you drop them in water.

Our table did not have sugar so I asked the waitress if she can bring some. She said, “The owner thinks the teas taste best without sugar, so we do not have any.” Oh really?

Many of you are reading this through my RSS feed. It puts out full text of my posts so you can read at sites like Bloglines and Google Reader, or in an aggregator blog that mashes my feed with a bunch of others. If I operated this site like I did the owners of the teahouse, I would not serve an RSS feed—I would force you to come here and read my writing on my own terms.

This is like how, until recently, the music companies only wanted you to listen to music through shiny plastic discs. Their sales numbers show that control doesn’t work. Treating people like children and limiting their options without good reason doesn’t work. People want to choose how ideas or services are delivered to them, or they will vote with their legs and go elsewhere. Not only have I never been back to that teahouse, I have not recommended it to anyone.

Blogging And Sex

After two years I have finally figured out how my blog affects my notch count. If you are a guy who blogs about sex, dating, or how women are inferior to men, pay close attention.

If a girl meets me through my blog, my notch count is not affected. She likes what I write for whatever reason and is more likely to think my writing is coming from a character or persona. I can proceed with normal game: :bukkake:

If a girl meets me through other means, but then finds out about my blog before sex, my notch count is negatively affected. She usually finds out through Google, my chatty friends, or because she was snooping around on my computer. Except for one isolated case, every girl who found out about the blog has freaked out in spectacular ways. They use words like horrible, sexist, and awful. Most sentences start with “I don’t believe you would…”

So when I meet a girl at a bar, I do not tell her what I do in my spare time. She can call me shady all she wants but she’s not finding out unless she Google-stalks me. Telling a mainstream girl about my blog is like trying to pull someone out of the Matrix who is not ready. Because of a lifetime of feminist programming, she just can’t handle the truth. The girls who dig what I write are vastly advanced in this respect, and that’s why I rather touch a girl who already knows.

No Headphones

Get a pair of earbud headphones and attach it to your computer or iPod. Jam the buds deep in your ear. Then put on a song you really like, something high energy where both channels are the same. Turn the volume up so you can’t hear anything else but the music. Now listen for a minute.

Where in your head is the sound coming from? If you are like me it’s being “simulated” somewhere in the middle of your head behind your eyeballs. When you hear something out of one ear it is not because you hear it just at that ear, it is because your brain is telling you that it is probably being heard in that ear. (It can be tricked, like with firetruck sirens in a city corridor.) Your ears just contain vibrating organs—the sound is processed in your brain and then made to feel like its coming from your ears. But when you put on headphones, you can bypass this locater function so it’s almost like the sound is coming from the same place as your thoughts, which have no choice but to take a break. And that is the reason why I don’t wear headphones. It blocks the world around me, limiting my observations and thinking. I will never understand why many owners of mp3 players choose to kill their thoughts at every opportunity they can. Assuming, of course, there is something to kill.

Club Rain & The Band Theory

Virgle Kent invited me to join him and his buddies at Fairfax’s newest club called Rain, run by a group of guys who used to promote at Love. If are wondering why I would haul my ass all the way to the Virginian version of my middle-of-nowhere suburban location, it’s because I was told the ass quality is above average.

The club itself is one gigantic room playing loud hip-hop and one smaller room that is set-up like a restaurant. The crowd is 90% white. While Baltimore white girls treat me well, the white girls of Bethesda and Georgetown usually don’t, and since this crowd felt most like Bethesda I lowered my expectations. But I did do pretty well. Therefore I introduce to you The Band Theory:

If you are not a white girl’s usual type (Abercrombie all-American), she will be on your ball sack if she thinks you are in a band.

Long hair, check.
Beard, check.
Funny t-shirt that shows you don’t care, check.
Massive natural holes in jeans, check.
Weird but sexy personality, check.

Two of the whitest white girls I rubbed my erection on asked me with hopeful eyes if I was in a band. They were so white and blonde I couldn’t see their eyebrows in the dark. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t even have eyebrows. The reason non-white guys fail with white girls, according to my theory, is because they try to act white instead of looking like they are in a band. If your hair is short now, it will only take one year to get it to band-length. Just let your hygiene and physical appearance go and white girls will be all over you in a very short amount of time.

I think my failures in Georgetown and Bethesda occurred because I started to look like I’m in a band only after I stopped going there. I’ve been going to Baltimore recently, while looking like I’m in a band, and there I enjoy a level of success similar to the international areas of DC.

If you like hip-hop and white people who all look the same, Rain is your place. Cover charge is $10 and Absolut vodka drinks are $6. Get there around 10pm because they close at 1:30am. Don’t forget to look like you’re in a band.

Rain Lounge and Ballroom
10418 Main St.
Fairfax, VA 22030

Update (April 26, 2007):

I got an email from the Rain people about their new dress code.

Effective Immediately: RAIN will strictly be enforcing a new dress code.

The new dress code is as follows:

Which means:
- No Boots/Timberlands
- No Sneakers
- No Hats
- No Ripped/Holey/Torn Jeans
- No Excessively Baggy Clothes (Jeans/Shirts)
- No Athletic Gear

I guess I will have to take my holey jeans elsewhere.

Minimize Your STD Risk

More than one-third of American women are infected with human papillomavirus (HPV), which in rare cases can lead to cervical cancer, by the time they are 24 years old, according to a study being published today.

Washington Post

This means that 33% of girls you have sex with are carrying HPV. The percentage that will tell you they have it: 0%. I have learned that women will get irregular pap smears or sores but stay silent and give you hard questioning instead in what I think is a ploy to take attention away from themselves. I’m convinced the more a girl questions me about where my dick has been, the more likely she is the one who has something. But I’m not mad at women for withholding information because there is only one person responsible for my well-being: me. It is no one’s fault but my own if I have sex without protection and get something.

While some people are in the unreasonable “I’ll never get anything!” camp, I focus on minimizing risk as much as possible without robbing myself of the man experience.

1. I avoid drunk attention whores. They are high risk and are a pain in the ass to deal with anyway.

2. I study the girl’s bedroom behavior. If a girl is ready to have sex without a condom, I imagine she has raw-dogged dozens of guys before me. So I go in with an industrial strength condom. If a girl won’t even take off her panties unless I have a condom on, I figure she is probably clean. I bust out with the thin stuff that has a 50% chance of breaking during my rough sexing.

3. I don’t plan for risky behavior. The odds I will just want to “see how it feels” increases exponentially if I haven’t hand-sexed myself in a while. Add a couple drinks to a loaded cannon and you soon may find yourself asking around for a good dermatologist. I don’t recommend hand-sex on the day of a date because you do want to go in with an aggressive edge, but if your balls are always sore and heavy then you need to re-evaluate your jerking habits.

Don’t count on women to tell you the truth because they are not good at telling it. Don’t give her your disease-free snake and then whine later that she “gave” you something. Assume the worst with every girl, wrap it up, have your fun, then call her if you want. This is an amazing time for men everywhere—don’t fuck it up for yourself by being sloppy and weak.

Sloppy and weak since 1979,


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I Got Recaps


There were a lot of soldiers last night, drinking, dancing, and crossbreeding for up to 7 hours. Writing about the things that happened would damage lives. My life.


Rock Creek Rambler
Brunch Bird
Bad at life
Designs On You
Grateful Dating
Tex Pundit
Across The River

People who are writing their recap:

Freckled K

And at least a dozen others who must have talked to me towards the end of the night.

I never talked about date rape so much in one night.