All posts by Roosh

Real Man Travel Guides

I didn’t like that my South America travel guides were buried on this here blog, so I spun it off onto its own site. I’m pleased to announce Real Man Travel Guides.

I hope that doing this commits me to updating it after future travels. When I’m 40-years-old I envision a gigantic bible that many young men will use as their sole reference to plan travel. “Bro you shouldn’t go there because the guide gave it a low rating.” It’s very likely that this could be the death nail in Lonely Planet, Fodors, Rough Guide, and Frommers, but only time will tell.

What I need from you now are reports on how the girls are like in countries I haven’t been to. Only together can we conquer the world… sexually.


The Easy Way Out

This excerpt is from Bang

With any task you do, whether it be related to women or sports or any type of game, there are a certain number of times you must fail until you succeed. Each act of failure puts you one step closer to success. During an important presentation at work in front of thirty scientists, I interchanged the words lactose and lactate several times. This is akin to showing up at a meeting in the Oval Office without wearing pants. While I was embarrassed afterwards, it taught me simple but essential rules of how to plan and construct a presentation for educated professionals. With each presentation, I got better and better, until I was the preferred person to present data generated by our group. But without those initial mistakes, I wouldn’t have been able to polish my skills. Not doing anything may prevent you from failure, but because you make no attempt, it prevents you from success as well. This principle is especially important when it comes to women because you need to rack up a boatload of rejections to understand how to be really good with them. I have been rejected more than most guys I know, but I have also been with more women than most guys I know. You try more, you get more—there is no secret to it.

A week ago I got an email from a guy. He said he’s been reading my newsletters and he likes them, and is ready to put them into action with a girl he likes. He wanted specific advice for this situation so that he could succeed on his very first at-bat.

I don’t think he liked the advice I gave him, which focused on the long-term instead of the short-term.

Improving your game is not meant for any one girl, it’s meant for you. It’s meant to give you a skill that you can use until you die. Studying the game or improving for one girl is supplication. You might as well impress her with a fancy car or put on magic pig pheromones.

A lot of guys don’t understand that you have to fail a lot with the girls you want to get the girls you want. I keep tabs on the seduction community and there are a lot of products that promote instant, effortless change which appeal to the guys like the one who wrote me. They want to come across as supreme alpha stud to bang the girl in Psychology class. They want to get better NOW to get that gorgeous girl at work. He wants to fake it with a couple magic lines and live the rest of his days as a happy man with the dream girl that all other guys want. But it doesn’t work like that.

If you’re not ready to put in the work, to get rejected and allow girls to spit on your fragile ego, you will never be good. There is no shortcut.

It’s Friday. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t do at least 10 approaches this weekend. You’ll get rejected in most of them, I can promise you that, but come Monday you’ll feel like a king. You’ll be a bit closer.

Read Next: 7 Things You Can Do To Improve Your Game Right Now

11 Types Of Roosh Hate

I study my haters like a zoologist would study a population of caged primates unable to reproduce. Here are the types of Roosh hate I’ve noticed over the years…

1. Boring / lame. Here haters wonder if I was dropped on my head as a baby. Others ask if I’m ever going to write something that isn’t so incredibly boring or lame, or both.

2. Sexist pig. Seen in the early days and coming from mostly single women (Chase, hedonistic_pleasureseeker), this style of hate equates me to a cold monster who should move to Afghanistan where I can get a mindless slave women since that is what I deeply want. Or a mail order bride. Many state that no accomplished American women will find me tolerable and I will definitely die alone.

3. Overcompensation. This hate insists that I’m a fake alpha who wishes to undue years of being beta, and that I will never succeed at being truly alpha.

4. Overanalytical. These haters claimed I look too much into things, trying to piece together pieces from the wrong puzzle. I should get a life and “go outside” to enjoy things instead of writing about it.

5. Appearance. I’m an ugly, hairy, smelly, dirty beast of a man. Last year for a couple months “hairy” hate was tremendously popular, but has since died down and replaced with comments about me being greasy.

6. Bad writer. My writing style and vocabulary leaves much to be desired and I shouldn’t quit my day job.

I quit my day job and moved in with my Dad. There was an explosive surge in hate with all-new material.

7. Underachiever. Hate comments that say I am a worthless unemployed loser who still lives at home in Dad’s basement. Shows up in seemingly unrelated topics, like cinema. Currently the most popular form of hate and found in pretty much every post.

8. Sellout. I’m a money-hungry hack for having advertisements and that I should get a real job.

9. Gay. Haters claim I’m secretly gay and obviously like very large cocks in my mouth or anus.

Some haters try to aim for the gut with hate that takes some thought and time to construct…

10. I know you. This was used by only two or three accomplished haters. It combines many of the above styles of hate into a well written message that is meant to shake me emotionally. Basic formula: “Roosh, I’ve been reading you for many years now and really want to see you succeed. I think you are a smart man with a lot of potential but now you’re floundering. You’re ruining your life and now you can’t even get a job. I wish you the best of luck but you need to step up, move out of your dad’s basement, and stop being a total loser. If you don’t change things, you will be a homeless begger in a short time. Do something before it’s too little, too late.”

Interesting variant of “I know you” that I’ve seen: “Roosh I like your writing and I even bought Bang, but lately…**insert hate here**

11. Lost customer. These haters say they were going to buy Bang, but after reading a certain post they have changed their mind and will no longer buy it. This type of hater wants me to feel financial pain instead of emotional pain. A variant of this is when they say they were “just beginning” to respect or admire my work, but no longer do.

Hater styles come and go. For example “Bad writer” was prevalent in the early days but then subsided. I published Bang and it came back on the radar. “Underachiever” was suspended for the six months I was in South America but returned when the trip was over. “Sexist pig” has not been seen for some time while “Overanalytical” pops up every now and then. And “Appearance” hate continually evolves as my look changes. My haters seem to adjust to me and my content so their hate has maximum strike force, and on some days—depending on the alignment of the moon—they all come out at the same time, unleashing their internet fury on me in wave upon wave of punishing attack.

Now allow me to construct the best Roosh hater comment possible…

Roosh, we went to the same high school together, and we shared many interesting conversations. You were that shy guy and I was that awkward geek girl that developed nicely after high school. You probably remember me. Anyway I googled you and found your blog. I don’t believe what I’m reading, and how sexist you’ve become with your fake alpha male persona. You were a good person back then, but from reading this I just don’t know. Even your writing has suffered, and these advertisements lead me to believe you’re just about the money. The reason I googled you is because I wanted to hang out with you again and maybe even romantically date you, but now I don’t think so. You’ve turned into someone I no longer know or want to know. Whereas before I’d buy anything written by you, there is no way I’m going to buy your disgusting, overanalytical fuck guide, and I will tell everyone I know not to buy it as well. Do yourself a favor: get back on track, get out of your dad’s basement, stop being a gay loser beta douche, and re-enter modern society with a nice paying job. You’re capable of so much more.

A girl who cares,



Here’s some guesses for possible future styles of hate: long-term relationship (“Look how pussy-whipped you’ve become, beta boy”), moving to a another city / country (“You can’t handle it in cut-throat DC, go back to the minor leagues fucktard”), and less frequent blogging (“You’ve run out of material… hang it up bro it was good while it lasted, and by the way I’m unsubscribing from your RSS feed”).

I ban haters when they least expect it. It’s fun to watch their hate gradually increase in intensity as they gain more and more confidence. I want them to taste power. Months go by and they think they can hate with impunity, then BAM—they are banned and get automatically forwarded to a certain YouTube video meant to inflict upon them great shame, and since they are my most regular visitors, emotional pain as well.

If I still had my old corporate job, which many haters desperately want me to return to for some reason, I’d assign points to each category of hate, store a flask of sweet rum in a drawer, and turn this into a drinking game…

“Greasy hair…” sip.
“Cockgobbler…” full shot.


The Dark Knight Is A Stupid Movie

In pains me deeply to write this because friends and family I trust and respect loved The Dark Knight, but after watching the movie I believe it’s because the hype machine sucked them in along with everyone else.

But Roosh, The Dark Knight has a whopping 95%Tomatometer. What could you possibly have noticed that even professional critics could not see?

I shall explain. Allow me to bring you fanboys back into the realm of reality and reason.

Minor Problems

1. When did Gotham City become bright and lovely New York City? A place that I could live and possibly raise a family, with modern skyscrapers at 100% occupancy and busy streets full of new cars and smartly dressed people.

2. Bruce can simultaneously defeat fifty men at a time armed to the teeth, but is thwarted by a nylon net, a two inch blade, and an ill-tempered dog.

3. Holy shit is the Joker organized! He embarrasses the mob, Batman, and the police at the same time, one step ahead of everyone, planting bombs pretty much everywhere every day and able to infiltrate the deepest rungs of power to kill and maim. He drives no. 2 pencils through the skulls of man. He can take punches from martial arts master Bruce Wayne and can even kick his ass. But he can’t aim a fucking bazooka!

4. Rachel’s (Maggie Gyllenhaal) death was stupid and confusing. Batman said he was going to save Rachel but ended up saving Harvey. That forces me to believe that the Joker switched the addresses up on purpose. But then we’re sort of kind urged to believe Rachel was a sacrifice and the police commissioner was in on it. No surprise this mess involved Maggie Gyllenhaal, a co-star in Donnie Darko, the most confusing film of all time.

5. When a movie has you rooting for the villain to win and kill the hero and his fake robot voice, it has failed. Especially when said villain’s life kept getting saved by our confused hero, even if it caused him great injury.

6. Deebo the prisoner has a heart of steel but the general public are murderous, stupid animals who should be stripped of their right to vote. You are the general public.

Major Problems

1. Rachel. A homely, unlikable, somewhat masculine spinster was able to string along two of Gotham’s most desirable bachelors? And I was supposed to be sad when she died? I was quite pleased! Both men could do better than the alpha bitch whose grating presence is a bad influence on young American girls. Playing the field leads to unhappiness for women, not marriage with a high-profile male.

2. Two-Face’s Transformation. Forced, absurd, and not believable. One moment he’s risking his life to save the city but the next he turns into a homicidal maniac because his bitchy girlfriend died? And it took a private one-on-one with the Joker, the man who killed her, to do it?! The relationship between Harvey and Rachel seemed like a stiff friendship, and it was impossible to jump to the conclusion that her death sent his mind to the fiery pits of hell. Plus with his brain basically exposed from the face fire he would surely get an infection and die within two days, yet he was fully functional and even able to speak without any impediment even though he looked like a mummy in The Mummy.

3. No resolution. In any good story something has to change. The hero has to transform and realize something or the end has to be different than the beginning. This is why Batman Begins is a good movie. But in The Dark Knight the only change occurred in Two Face, a secondary character, and it was dumb dumb dumb. Batman regressed into a Big Brother figure tapping everyone’s phone and manipulating the press and the Joker will be sent to a jail that he’ll surely escape from. The very end has Batman barely escaping from… wait for it… the police! Because a dead LAWYER gives hope to a city! The real reason there is no resolution is because they want money for a sequel, which millions will wait in line for hours to see and then praise.

I’m now convinced that any movie that debuts number one at the box office is just mindless trash, engineered by committee to be liked by as many people worldwide as possible, who lap it up like an obese cat drinking milk from a dirty bowl.

It Doesn’t Matter If She Orgasms Or Not

I used to try to last as long as possible in bed. I wanted to make sure the girl got hers before I got mine, and the reason I did that was because I thought she would be attracted to me more and want to see me again.

My former brand of condom made it very hard for me to ejaculate. I’d be pumping away for more than twenty minutes until she just got tired and then I would lay in bed with a heavy set of balls. Sometimes she’d finish me off with her mouth but sometimes not, and I remember times I had to go home and jerk off after having sex. It was humiliating.

Eventually I found out about thin condoms and blasting was no longer a problem, but I had to think of baseball or organic chemistry so I could at least hit the respectable 12 minute mark. I knew how to hold my orgasm by squeezing my pelvic muscles and would do that if I thought I didn’t go long enough, even though it would eventually result in a pitiful orgasm.

Gradually I just stopped caring, and soon everything I did in bed was for my pleasure only. The only reason I’d delay orgasm is to make mine better, and I pretended I don’t hear her the first time she told me to drill slower or not to go so deep. I did whatever I wanted because I came to value my orgasm as sacred, and her pleasure as second to mine.

Do you want to guess what happened?

Nothing. Nothing happened. Girls didn’t want to fuck me more, they didn’t want to fuck me less. Not caring about their sexual pleasure had no effect on repeat calls and repeat sex.

For guys all that matters is the end, but for girls it’s the process. As long as she gets into it and can say, “I’m getting fucked good and this feels great,” then you’ve done your job. Sure if you make her orgasm on demand you’ll definitely hear from her again, but it’s not necessary and just too complicated to worry about. Keep in mind some girls barely know how to make themselves orgasm!

Every now and then I get a feeling that I gave a girl an orgasm, but I can never be sure because I don’t ask.

Not Yet Titled

True I’m a slacker, but sometimes I get work done. I just finished the rough draft of book number two, which I’ve been working on since around March. Editing takes a while so I’m thinking it’ll be done early 2009. Then I take a look at the world map on my wall and pick a place.

Bang is closing in on its 500th copy sold. It will probably happen sometime next month (it’s already been a year). I’ve been considering going the published route with this second book, but the process to get published seems so long, drawn-out, and discouraging. Literary agents and publishing houses take 2-6 months to get in touch with your query letter and after that it’s no shorter than a year by the time you see it on bookshelves. Plus most authors don’t earn anything beyond their advance, which I speculate is $5,000 – $15,000 for a never-published author.

My bet is I’ll stick with the indie route. It’s serving me well so far.

A Day At The Pool

I don’t like swimming pools. I know not everyone cleans their ass as well as I do. But swimming a few laps works my body more than running, and water offers less resistance than concrete pavement.

The kids always take up the swim lane so I wait until the 15-minute rest period to get in the water. Today there were two women still hanging around in my lane, and since it was quiet I could hear them talking. They were speaking Portuguese, and most likely from Brazil.

I watched while I waited. One had to be in her 40’s, slowly wading through the lane getting just a bit of exercise, while the other, much younger, was still. She put her back against the concrete wall and placed her arms behind on the ledge, pushing her breasts out. I did want to see more, and I had the perfect excuse.

I moved slowly down the lane to where they were, slowly only because that’s how it is when you walk in water. Looking at both I said, “Mind if I share the lane so I can swim a couple laps?” There was silence. Maybe they don’t speak English, I thought, and I was ready to mime the act of swimming so they’d understand. But the older woman spoke. “Oh she doesn’t speak English. Sure go ahead.”

“Are you two from Brazil?”

“Yes we are.”

I told them I recognized the language, said a couple words that any gringo who has been to Brazil would know, smiled, and then went back to the other side of the pool to start my swim.

The concept is so logical but yet so foreign to me: meeting people in the neighborhood. That’s how most of the teenagers did it, anyway. I was always so focused on bars and clubs that god knows how many opportunities I missed right in front of my doorstep.

I did five brisk laps before I got tired and stopped at the other end of the pool, where the two Brazilians were already settled. I was right next to the older woman, and I don’t remember who started talking first, but it started. About her country, my country, marriage, life, food, girls, guys. Our observations about American culture were similar and not so positive, but we agreed that it’s easier to have a comfortable life here. You don’t need to be rich to have a car, apartment, a million channels and the like. We talked for one hour, the sun baking me much more than her light brown skin.

She told me so many funny stories that my cheeks became sore from laughing. One was about the younger girl wading nearby, the daughter of a close friend, who came to the U.S. only a couple months ago. Fresh off the boat, uncorrupted, and shy to speak the little English she knows. Her first day in this family pool she wore a thong bikini, got in the water, and was too embarrassed to come back out after catching everyone’s attention. “You know Brazilians, we don’t like clothes,” the woman said. Yes, I know.

The younger one had the Brazilian ass, of course—seemingly muscular, with a cute young face, long hair, and smooth olive skin. She’s from Florianopolis, if you happen to know the south of Brazil. I’d be surprised if she was over 22 or so, but I never asked. While I was talking to the older woman the girl got in my field of view. She pinched her nose and then leaned backwards into the water. She came back up and slowly wiped the water from her hair with her hands. The sun was shining so strong I could only see the outline of her face. But It was beautiful nonetheless. She was beautiful. I tried to pretend I wasn’t affected.

The older woman kept saying that I need to teach the girl English, and in exchange she will teach me Portuguese. I suggested that would be a fine idea, but was careful not to appear too eager. She could start teaching me numbers, I said, so I can understand when the clerk at the Brazilian store nearby tells me how much I owe. The woman even told me their address, telling me to stop by anytime.

If nothing comes of this it won’t be for lack of effort. I already know how I’m going to do it. I’m going to buy a two liter bottle of Guarana from the Brazilian store and take it to their place. They will invite me in, minutes will turn into hours, and if there is some attraction the rest will be inevitable. That’s how I imagine it anyway.

It seems cliche almost. Brazilian girls, sensual, sexual, open, different, warm. But my experiences do not lie. I know what is in store for me if I knock on that door. Some cultures build their women for men, and some do not.


Research your bank and make sure you are covered by FDIC. If you have over $100,000 in any bank you are crazy. Remember that small, seemingly safe local banks invested heavily in commercial real estate that is also collapsing. Spread your risk and follow the news. If I had money in WaMu or Wachovia right now I’d take it to another bank because I don’t like waiting in lines.

Ten people you’ll find at a bar, including “the sunglasses at night guy” and the guy who “got off work four hours ago, but is still in his suit and tie.”

Jack Goes Forth is becoming a very pleasurable read as he finds his voice.

Meet Wayne Gerdes, a “hypermiler” who can get over 100 mpg fuel efficiency in an unmodified hybrid. He turns off the car while on the road and drafts tractor trailers, among other techniques.

“We’ve been getting a free ride on the global gravy train. Other countries are starting to reclaim their resources and goods, so as Americans are priced out of various markets, the rest of the world is going to enjoy the consumption of goods Americans had previously purchased. This is a natural consequence of this phony economy.”

Blogger Jeff Simmeron started an internet war with a local coffee chain. If his name sounds familiar it’s because he came to a couple blogger happy hours that Kathryn hosted, where he would pass out business cards with his blog on it. I thought it was a neat idea, but others disagreed. How much I miss Kathryn’s events.

Chart of virginity rates among college students according to major. Mathematics and chemistry majors are the big losers. One word: Communications.

Email Newsletter

I just passed 1,000 subscribers to my game newsletter. I’ve diverted time away from the blog to work on the mailings so that’s one reason I post less. New subscribers will get the old newsletters until they eventually get caught up with the new ones. You can sign up on the newsletter page.

Content on the blog is more mainstream / fun while the newsletter is just about pick up.

How To Pick Up Girls For Under $100 A Month

When I had a job I’d spend over $500 a month to pick up girls in bars and clubs to take them out on dates. That $500 amount is now my entire budget for the month but my horniness has not ebbed. How do I continue getting laid while living in a suburban desert without opportunities for daytime game?

Here’s how I do it…

1. Clubs are out. They’re just too pricey, even if you get in for free. With a basic vodka drink at $8 you’re looking at spending at least $40 just to get your ears blasted while repeating “What did you say?” all night long to chicks who wish they were Lindsey Lohan. It’s a stupid waste of money, especially if you’re game is talking instead of dancing. It’s important to be a competent dancer but if you are the old guy in the club your supreme dancing skills will be seen as weird and creepy instead of attractive.

2. Weekend game is out. I can’t deny that most girls I’ve laid are from ones I’ve met on the weekend, but is it because the girls who go out on the weekend are easier or because most of the nights I’ve gone out on happen to fall on the weekend? I’m not entirely sure, but let’s face it: weekends are amateur nights, for people who do nothing during the week except work and watch TV. By Friday they are way too excited to go all-out and get sloshed with a group of friends to half-ass the mating dance. When midnight strikes all the girls will be less receptive they should be (based on their quality) because they have been hit on by too many guys in a short period of time.

At the end of a weekend night 98% of all participants fail in their goal to get laid or pair bond. The puffed up jockeying of the guys and the wannabe celebrity attitudes of the girls are replaced with the fascinating late-night feeding behavior, a relatively new phenomenon not seen in our parents time. The herd begins to eat pizza, cheeseburger, gyros, and sometimes falafel, to fill their empty tummies of loneliness and failure. Many will walk out of these eating establishment with grease running halfway down their face.

Weekdays have a more laid back crowd making it easier to meet someone, with fewer guys humping a girl’s leg because of liquid courage and less girls who think they have more options than the zero options they actually have. I met a girl during the weekday at a bar and even though she was a regular she told me I was the first guy who ever approached her there. Maybe she was lying, maybe not, but my point remains.

A downside of weekday bar game is that there are fewer girls, but this is quickly compensated by approaches that are far more likely to result in a loooong conversation. You’ll have to approach two girls to get something instead of five or more on a weekend. I found a Tuesday bar that has given me bountiful fruit from just a couple visits.

Also weekdays are cheaper if you take advantage of a happy hour’s tail end. My average cost for a weeknight is $20, while for a weekend it’s $40. All else being equal do the weekends produce double the results or fun? No, they don’t. If you can find a nice bar on Monday through Wednesday then you are set, but take care on Thursday nights because those tend to be stupid college girl night.

3. Public or bicycle transportation. Cars are ridiculously expensive. You have the car payment, insurance, maintenance, upkeep (tires, battery, windshield wipers), car washes, parking tickets, DUI arrests, and gas. Even if I take taxis everywhere it’s still cheaper than owning a car. But there are two problems with public transportation:

– During the weekday the subway stops early at midnight, so I’m stuck with a hefty cab ride if I decide to ride out the night until 2am closing. This means I have to start very bright and early at 8pm, a time when things are barely getting started. (Solution: Feel out the vibe when the clock hits 11:30am, when you should know if sweet fruit will be obtained or not. Always stay flexible, like a ballet dancer.)

– Pre-drinking is a no go. If the bus ride takes an hour, drinking at home and just sitting on the bus for an hour will destroy your buzz. It will not be as good when you eventually start drinking again at the bar. (Solution: Don’t use alcohol as a crutch to talk to girls. This is something you should be working on long term.)

4. Start your dates at events, not bars. This happened by accident. In my quest to be a cultured man of the world I looked for events like the Greek Festival or European Embassy Open House. There is a lot of substance for fun conversation and you can cap it off with a couple drinks at a cheap neighborhood bar. She won’t care you took her to a dump because you were so original with your date idea. Here you are looking at a $20 date instead of the automatic $60-80 date if you take her to nice lounges like Topaz or Chi-Cha Lounge. By the way, did you know there are still guys taking girls out to dinners? Haha morons.

A good place to find events is the Events tab on Yelp which spoon feed you a wide variety of things to do. In effect you are outsourcing your date ideas, but the girl has no idea and your creativity score will shoot through the fucking roof.

The end result is I spend a third of what I used to spend but I go out less and get laid much more. The get laid more is due to factors besides the scope of this post (continually improving game, for example), so it’s possible your mileage from only going out one weekday a week will hurt your results unless you’re already at a certain level. Another downside is that it will take quite a bit of time investment to find a good weekday spot. You’ll have to experiment.

Every time a buddy calls me on Saturday night to see if I’m staying in to write and drink beer alone there is that moment when I almost say yes, but then I remember the amateurs and ugly white girls who spend so much time to look good only to wear cheap flip flops. How about Tuesday night?

Read Next: 7 Things You Can Do To Improve Your Game Right Now

Vicious Gang Beach Brawl

From a TV show called World’s Most Amazing Videos. Even the girlfriends get involved.

MONDAY MORNING CUBICLE CHALLENGE: Watch the entire video without laughing or smiling or giggling…

Women’s Magazines

Via Scholarly Reading:


I’m pro-women’s magazines because it makes girls so insecure and wrapped up in their own world of perceived flaws and lacks that they never notice my flowing ear hair, which I let shed naturally.


Re: You’re Not A People Person

After yesterday’s post a reader forwarded me an email from her friend that describes what I was talking about. To refresh your memory here is what I wrote:

Any “people person” would start getting very uncomfortable if the guy on the bus next to you starts hacking away his flem or reeking of body odor or having a loud, profanity-laden fight on the phone. Riding the subway with a rude group of kids causing a ruckus is an event that educated people must tell anyone that will listen.

The email:

I’m just getting settled in. Oh my god it was the ride from hell. First off, getting stopped by cops, put us off by a good 15 minutes. Then, I have a metal chunk of crap where my feet are to sit, and a morbidly obese man squirming not to touch me next to me. This means I get half my seat. He is generating a lot of body heat.

Stopover. Smelly looking tree planters exchange notes on their equipment, some guy tries and fails to pick the hippie girls up. Everyone’s standing outside to get the best seat, mosquitoes are going crazy, it’s raining. There are tons of fat people wandering in from *****, mullets and bleached blond hair. I contemplate asking one of the skinny tree hugger girls to sit next to me.

I chuck someone’s water bottle down the aisle under the chairs, and take a window seat, only to discover two large native men peering at me. I’ve taken their seats, and chucked their water bottle. A skinny man that looks like a gold digger from the Klondike demands to know if I was on before, and how it is I forgot my seat. I take a new seat, slink down, and stare intently at my ticket.

A girl sits beside me. Next to her, four African men reeking of cologne. They talk for the next 10 hours straight in a language that sounds like a swamp bubbling. Behind me, two native men reeking of booze and cigarettes. “With my luck, we’ll hit a tanker truck.” “With mine, we won’t.” Something starts banging under my chair, loud, at random. Then my seat starts to wobble. The natives suspect the wheel axis is coming off, and that the wheel is going to fly off the bus. They then FALL ASLEEP. I pop two codeines and eventually have to tell the driver something funny is going on. We stop in parry sound for tim’s and he looks at it, for a second. I figure I’ve done all I can to prevent my death here.

The african men get off at ******. Their luggage is not on the bus. They start bellowing and lunging at the driver, who yells back. Everyone is looking out the window, and it looks like we might have a fight on our hands after 10 hours in the bus. Driver gets on and closes the door.

A man in the back coughs a deep cough from his lungs, then swallows his snot. Someone tells him to cover his mouth when he does that. TB TB TB. I run to the front of the bus near *******, open my own coach luggage door and grab my luggage. I hurl myself into a cab before those slugs have even stirred from their slumber.

The email had complaints about body odor, flem, and fighting, among others. Eerie coincidence or validation that what I speak of is real absolute truth?

I’m positive the email came from a woman who is pro-environment, anti-war, hyper educated, a voracious reader, has donated to the Sally Struthers aid program, owns or considers owning a hybrid, and who considers herself a lover of people. Yet if a plumber in her home or a polite bus driver engaged her in conversation she wouldn’t know what to say, and that’s the issue with educated First World inhabitants who wrap themselves up in the cocoon and have no knowledge or experience of people not like them.

Next month… You’re Not As Open Minded As You Think.