All posts by Roosh

Vote On The Final Cover Of My New Book Game

The five finalists are pictured below. Click here to rate them. Your vote will help my decide which one to pick.

Game is schedule to be released on audiobook (mp3 direct download or Audible), PDF/MOBI/EPUB direct download, Kindle, and iTunes Books around September 14. I’m now reviewing it for typos and getting it ready for sale. View this forum thread to see initial impressions from reviewers who received an advance copy, including the first official review.

Click Here To Vote On The Next Cover Of Game

My Experience With A U.S. Customs Secondary Screening

I flew into Baltimore-Washington International airport in June of this year. After deboarding, I had to wait in line for an electronic kiosk to ask me questions I already answered on the paper U.S. Customs form I received on the airplane. The kiosk took a picture of me from what seemed like a one megapixel camera and printed out a slip that I had to give to the Customs agent. This time around, I noticed the slip had a gigantic X on it. I imagine they used a more subtle code in the past but the agents routinely missed it.

I waited in another line to be seen by an agent whose arms were covered in tattoos. Perhaps our government has generously offered ex-gangbangers the opportunity to turn their life around with a Federal job. He asked me no questions. He typed in a few sentences with two fingers, scribbled a code on the paper, and then let me pass onto the baggage claim. After retrieving my bag, I went into another line and handed off the slip of paper to the final agent. I already knew what was coming—I would get a secondary screening.

The new agent, also with tattoos on his arms, directed me to sit down in a waiting area. He yelled at an old Asian lady to take his spot at the line so that he could deal with me. He fiddled with a computer terminal for five minutes before calling me up. I handed over my passport but the computer system was down. He couldn’t get it to work. He was powerless to act and had to leave the terminal. Another agent, this time an Asian male with only one arm tattoo in cursive script, came to the terminal and got things working.

If you believe the propaganda, Customs and TSA agents are trained with advanced psychological techniques that can predict terrorism and other criminal behavior by identifying suspicious behavioral patterns. Did your left eye twitch at the same time your nose flared? You’re hiding something! Or maybe not, because the agents didn’t even make eye contact with me. If you asked them for the color of my eyes, they wouldn’t know. They followed the computer screen to know how to deal with me, a suspicious citizen who for some reason—probably terroristic—had decided not to live in the United States.

“Where have you been since you last left?” the agent asked.

I stated the Eastern European country I live in.

“Where do you live?”

“Same country.”

“Did you buy anything abroad?”

“A shot glass and a bar of dark chocolate.”

“What do you do?” he asked, still staring at the screen.

“I have an internet business.”

“What kind of internet business?”

“I maintain web sites that sell advertising and products.”

The IRS already knows what I do, so I wondered why Customs also had to know. Their computers must not be linked. A part of me wanted to resist the questioning. I wanted to say, “Why do you want to know what I do?” But I was tired. I was on the road for eighteen hours. Communist interrogators in the Lubyanka have long known to deprive their victims of sleep to weaken their will, a technique that the American military and spy agencies use themselves. I wouldn’t last a minute under a real interrogation.

And what if I did resist? The agent, who may have 8 IQ points more than a Walmart clerk—a quip that is sure to guarantee more secondary screenings for me in the future—would be relieved at finding someone he can exercise his power on. Will they confiscate my laptop for kicks or maybe delay my ability to exit the airport for a couple more hours? Even if I win the battle, the system would remain in place. The computer algorithm would keep telling the agents who to hassle, and nothing would change unless it came from the top.

I wondered if they were asking me stupid questions to get me to submit to them, to make me love Big Brother. No, that can’t be it, because then they would do it to others at a far greater frequency. They really want to know where I get my money. Some genius in the State department must think that criminals can be rooted out by asking someone for their profession. He didn’t even ask me what my web sites were. If I had lied, which would have been a Federal crime, how would he discover the lie without following up?

The agent typed for several minutes, far more words than than the dozen or so I said to him, before wishing me a good evening. He never looked at the stamps in my passport or examined my bag.

I’ve now had “secondary” twice in the United States. You’d think there would be some trust for a fellow citizen arriving to his homeland, but in a country where anyone can be made a citizen, and when your neighbor can be from halfway across the world, bringing with him habits that seem strange, such as cooking goat heads, trust is no longer possible. Soon everyone must be treated like a criminal. I suppose it holds true that no matter what type of prison you’re entering, whether encased in bars or open air, the guards are required to ask questions and check you for contraband.

Read Next: I Was Detained By Icelandic Police After My London-Bound Flight Redirected To Keflavik Airport

Design The Cover Of My New Book And Win A Cash Prize

I’m done with the text and audiobook of my new book titled Game. It’s a reboot of Bang where I re-tackle game with new examples and material with the acknowledgment that meeting attractive women is getting harder.

Index of the 13 hour audiobook

Before I can release Game in September, I first need a cover, so I’m doing a cover design contest on 99 Designs, a site I have used to design covers for my other books.

If you are a graphic designer, click here to read the brief and participate. Once you submit a design, I’ll provide feedback so that you can improve it before the Round 1 deadline (Monday afternoon), when I pick five covers to proceed to the final round. After three additional days, I pick a grand winner who earns approximately $400. Good luck!

Pick Only One For Your Society: Casual Sex Or Marriage

Many conservatives rightly criticize the promiscuity of modern society, but they stop far short of the needed solution: a complete elimination of casual sex. Until that is accomplished, we will see a steady decline of marriage and family creation.

If you approach marriage in the same way as buying a consumer product, you will fail. Marriage was never meant to be a form of comparison shopping as if strolling the aisles of Mega Mart with Amazon loaded up on your phone, because unlike with consumer goods, there are billions of potential mates around the world, and it would take a hundred lifetimes to sample them all. Shopping around for a husband or wife with the goal of finding the “best” means you’ll never find the best, because there is no sign, moment, or realization that confirms you made the perfect choice, unlike buying a new smartphone or car where you have less than a dozen reasonable options to evaluate based on your needs and budget.

There are dubious studies of low sample sizes that show the more sexual partners a woman has before she marries, the more likely she will divorce, but we don’t need them to confirm common sense. The more likely a person is a foodie, the less satisfied they will be with their next meal. The more experience a person has traveling the world, the less excited they will be about visiting a new city. The more sexual encounters a person has had, the less impressed they will be with any new partner.

He don’t impress her much

It’s less of a big deal to get fatigued from food or travel because they are not dependent on fulfilling your biological urge to reproduce, but when you develop high standards with dating due to excessive sexual experience, you may very well miss the boat on creating a family. What ensues is a fetishization of a perverted or hollow lifestyle, whether it be sport fucking, internet attention whoring, careerism, money obsession, traveling, or pet ownership.

The phrase “ignorance is bliss” had to be first applied to relationships. You’re not supposed to know too much about the opposite sex, because it ruins your ability to be satisfied in a relationship. The more I know about female nature, and the more that knowledge is confirmed with experience, the less likely I can ever see one woman as my ideal. On the other hand, if I randomly got married with the first cute girl I ever dated back when I was in my early 20’s, understanding women wouldn’t even be a concern on my mind—I would take the good with the bad and be less likely to see marriage problems as existential or catastrophic (until I get divorce raped, anyway). The women I write off immediately today would be a worthy prospect to a man with a fraction of the experience I have because what I see as negative wouldn’t even reach his conscious awareness. While he may get screwed over by her in the future, he will at least be able to to maintain a period of familial bliss.

Even if you agree with me that casual sex makes it more difficult for marriage, applying that lesson won’t make any difference for you unless most of society also applies it. If you refrain from casual sex while most women you consider attractive is racking up notches at breakneck speed, invariably while intoxicated, your luck won’t increase. The only exception is if you find a small community, like the Mormons, that theoretically prohibit its members from participating in pre-marital sex. There has to be a top-down mandate, cultural rule, or even law that prevents pre-marital sex.

Prostitution can be exempted, since there will always be a subset of whores in any society that will not fit a marriage norm, but they should be openly shamed instead of being allowed to corrupt society with their whorish ways like we see today.

Ask this question today and you’ll be labeled a misogynist

If you get up and leave the West for a traditional country, but are still able to obtain pre-marital sex, you are not in a traditional country. It just may seem traditional upon leveraging your passport, money, and good looks for a girl who sees you as the best she’s ever had. She dedicates herself to you not necessarily because of tradition, but because she doesn’t want to lose you in a local dating market where you’re a perfect ten out of ten. That may soon change when a new the globohomos in Silicon Valley invent a new app that delivers handsome Chads right to her mud shack within an hour or less. Until then, you’re taking advantage not of traditionalism but arbitrage, a practice that will bear less fruit as the world becomes more globalized and connected.

The only solution I see to saving marriage is to ban pre-marital sex by law. There will surely be law-breakers, such as myself, but if they’re punished with a loss of citizenship privileges or even jail time, there would be such a rush for people to marry at a young age that many of our societal problems would evaporate overnight.

Of course this would never happen, because there is nothing to suggest that a sex-rigid leader will ever erupt onto the political scene, and Christianity is too weak when it comes to matters of sex. There is always Islam, but the extremists in their lot make life so difficult for everyone that any benefit from an improvement in marriage will be nulled by economic impoverishment. It looks like we’re stuck with broken marriage for our lifetimes along with the destruction of the family unit that goes along with it, even though the fix is ever so simple.

Read Next: How To Save Western Civilization

Comfort Will Not Give You Meaning In Life

Many people plan their lives around the pursuit of comfort. Whether it comes to work, relationships, or day-to-day living, all decisions are made with the goal to increase comfort while decreasing discomfort. The problem with this approach is that comfort does not provide you with meaning. You can have all the comfort in the world but still feel bored, unhappy, or depressed.

In 2006, I was in a state of extreme comfort. I shared a big house with two other people, had a stable career that wasn’t particularly demanding, owned a car and motorcycle, and was able to take exciting vacations aborad. I had no urgent concerns besides securing my next instance of sex from weekends jaunts into the city. I achieved pretty close to the modern ideal of comfort, and yet I saw little value in it. Would comfort inspire me? Would it make me a man? Would it give me even the tiniest scrap of life meaning? Within two years, I got rid of most of my possessions and went to South America, the beginning of an ongoing tale of nomadism.

Hostel in Barcelona, Spain (2006)

Today, I find myself again in a state of extreme comfort. I live in a cozy apartment in the center of an Eastern European city, earn a basic but livable income from book royalties, and receive a mostly stable supply of sex. I experience little anxiety or genuine difficulty from my living situation. Was the point of my decade abroad merely to reproduce the comfort I had before I left? How was the same flavor of comfort able to find me again? Am I destined to grow old without ever having real concern for my survival or material existence?

Is it not degenerate to seek comfort, of desiring to sit and relax while expending the least amount of calories possible, where your muscles physically degenerate, and where you have to artificially simulate a non-comfortable life by lifting weights in a corporate gym? The drive to comfort may simply be a relic of our childhood, where we rushed to our mother’s bosom to isolate ourselves from a world that exposed our weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Comfort is a need for mother and the safety she provided us for the bulk of our lives, of running back to the first safe space we have ever known.

Margarita Island, Venezuela (2005)

The first time around, I made comfort a goal, but the second time I did not. When your ability to earn a livable wage surpasses a certain threshold, from being born in the resource-rich West or having a competent IQ, comfort will be a part of your life whether you like it or not, and any attempt to fight it will just reinforce how comfortable you really are. We live in a time where food and resources have never been more plentiful for the average man, so we will not face the survival difficulty of our ancestors no matter how hard we try. We are the house cat that can return home whenever things got too cold or dangerous outside.

Right now I’m faced with a decision of remaining in my comfortable Eastern European environment, where I no longer have to work hard to enjoy its rewards, or go somewhere different, challenging, and slightly more uncomfortable. In the past, I would pick the challenging environment to satisfy an ego that was desperate to prove it can overcome hurdles through hard work and intellect, but I no longer have anything to prove. All that’s left is asking if I want to grow old in a fashion so stable that most of the lessons I’ve learned in life will never be called upon for my survival, or if I want to venture out into the unknown and live a slightly more raw and spontaneous existence.

Hvar Island, Croatia (2016)

Either way, I know that if I deny comfort today, it will find me soon enough. Stepping foot in another new country will be like going to Corporate Gym—I’ll get an intense but short workout before walking back out to sit and eat and relax and consume limitless entertainment. My ability to earn a modern wage means that comfort will always be waiting for me. When the world outside shows me its teeth, I know that mommy earth is always ready to take me into her arms and make things comfortable again.

Read Next: How To Change The World

Conservatives Are Losers

For the world to get to how it is today, with the nearly complete elimination of tradition in favor of a globohomo world where diddling little children is becoming normalized, conservatives have had to lose every meaningful cultural war in the history of man. When someone declares themselves a conservative, they’re in fact stating that they are a loser, someone who is meant to take the fall when the left comes attacking.

Conservatives have lost on every battlefront: free speech, the military, the universities, marriage, nuclear family, child education, the media, the government, Boy Scouts, business, law and justice, Christianity, patriarchy, immigration, the welfare state, and capitalism. The right to bear arms is the only battle they’re not losing in a rout, but I’m confident they will lose that too within a decade’s time. Conservative institutions are being infiltrated and subverted, or have disappeared off the face of the earth, and there is no sign of them ever coming back.

The enemy

Why are conservatives such losers? Because they desire to merely hold the line while their enemy rushes at them full speed. They don’t want to conquer new lands, kill their enemy, or inflict real harm. They want to maintain the status quo while the left froths at the mouth to win, energized with momentum and passion. The left is so dissatisfied at the state of the world because of their deep-seated inner dysfunction that they put their entire being into trying to make it better. They don’t know how to enjoy their lives so they have to attack the lives of others.

Conservatives, on the other hand, have no momentum or passion. They just want to be left alone, which makes them easy pickings for a collective that is hellbent on achieving their nightmare utopia. In the end, conservatives are the Spartans in 300 who have trained their entire lives to lose the battle, even if they are pound-for-pound stronger than their enemy.

Conservatives have also shown to be comically susceptible to leftist ideas when it’s presented as “human rights.” Two decades ago, the vast majority of conservatives would have stood against gay marriage, but a few years of cheesy “love is love” commercials was all it took for them to change their mind. Their motto of “live and let live” is only reasonable to hold if their enemy believed the same. They give the crying baby its bottle and from that milk it gets fat and strong and decides to kill the entire family. Conservatives don’t understand that giving an inch to the left eventually results in absolute defeat. They have to psychotically refuse to give any ground, even if practical logic or fairness is staring them in the face, but we know they won’t do that.

Conservative bird feeding his enemy

Another problem conservatives face is technology, which is not agnostic but rather liberating. It allows man to rely less on traditions, family, social bonds, and religion, all things that the left hates. The more technology you have, the more you can be an atomized unit in a little urbanized box, reliant only on your service job and digital device to keep you alive and somewhat sane while using Uber and Lyft to travel in and out of your self-imposed quarantine zone. Because of technology, the conservatism of today is merely the liberalism of twenty years ago. I challenge you to find a single attractive “conservative” girl who hasn’t tried Tinder or engaged in abundant pre-marital sex. Look at the life of any self-professed conservative and odds are you’ll find a rather cosmopolitan existence that is far removed from nature and rural living.

The biggest reason why conservatives will continue to lose is that they’re still not ready to kill the left even though the left is ready to kill them. Liberals have been getting conservatives fired on a daily basis while suing their businesses out of existence while the conservative loser merely whines about it on Twitter. You may hate the left, but if you wouldn’t dare even punching them in the face because you fear losing your life of comfort, you will lose. If you’re not prepared to kill your enemy while your enemy is busy killing you, you will lose. It’s that simple. Some think that conservatives have to feel a sense of hopelessness to fight back, but by then there will be nothing left worth fighting for.

“Why would a liberal try to kill me because of my opinion? It must be some kind of a mistake!”

You don’t have to be a historian to know that conservatives will continue to lose. Simple take a look back 50, 100, or 500 years to see how much ground they’ve lost, and amplify that by a factor of ten thanks to technology if you want to imagine how much ground they will lose in the next 50, 100, or 500 years. They are such losers that if you see any sort of organized conservative “uprising” in the years to come, it will surely be a carefully managed scheme by the elites to usher in yet another monumental conservative defeat, just like we saw in the last few years with the alt right’s astonishing rise and then disastrous defeat in Charlottesville at the hands of their more capable enemies.

Since I know conservatives will not win, I do not identify as one, because I don’t see myself as a loser. I will stay under the radar and live with no label, and let the communists on the left defeat the losers on the right like they have been doing for centuries.

Read Next: Nationalism Is A Trap

All That’s Left For Normal Men Are Rotten Women

Nature has given humanity a roughly one-to-one ratio of adult men to women, but the most attractive women are being taken out of circulation to either join alpha male harems or participate in degenerate lifestyle choices. This leaves the average man practically no choice in settling down with a mentally stable and cute woman in her prime.

This is the best you’ll get

In Islam, a man is able to marry four wives, which is what my wealthy Iranian grandfather did on his way to siring 24 or so children that included my dad (the exact number is a mystery). He took away three women that an Iranian man of lesser means could have married, creating a societal imbalance, but that’s nothing compared to what we have in the modern Western world, where a single famous man can command the sexual attentions of dozens—if not thousands—of women in their sexual prime, spoiling these women for normal men who don’t have the ability to tingle their vaginas with the same intensity.

How many actors, musicians, and sports athletes are trying to plow through as much prime pussy as possible? How many Hollywood directors and music producers are leveraging their positions for sexual gain? How many club owners, restaurateurs, Arab sheikhs, and politicians are doing the same? Each one is taking way more beautiful women out of circulation than men like my grandfather, all while elevating their standards to such an extent that no average man can ever gain their love, let alone two hours—or even two minutes–of their uninterrupted attention.

We also have to account for female lifestyle choices that are designed to delay or prevent pair bonding and marriage. The biggest is career. Most girls, while embarking on a career, balance out the boredom of working a meaningless job by hopping on the cock carousel and banging at least a few men every year. By the time a girl hits 25 years old, any man who meets her will have to deal with a walk-in closet of emotional issues and hang-ups from being pumped and dumped as much as a 1930’s brothel whore.

Then there is the Instagram and Facebook lifestyle that creates crippling dopamine addiction, which causes a girl to only be satisfied if dozens of men are actively thirsting for her every day. I estimate that if a girl has over 500 followers on Instagram, she is so used to attention from throngs of men that the love of one man cannot possibly satisfy her.

We must also throw in the growing “travel blogger” lifestyle where, instead of using only her body to get attention, a girl uses pictures and video from exotic locations to enhance her beauty. Other girls, with nothing substantial to offer the world, decide to showcase pictures of pets or their tasty overpriced meals, but even that puts them on a dopamine loop that ruins their future interactions with men.

This is more pleasurable for her than dating a normal guy

By far, the most damaging lifestyle choice women make is becoming a sugar baby, a politically correct term for “prostitute.” For some easy cash, she whores out her body to the highest bidder (some women combine Instagram and prostitution in a seamless package). How can such an Instagram prostitute ever settle down with a man who has a normal salary? There are also the hundreds of women who enter porn every year, some from seemingly stable families. Sadly, men are so desperate for love that many would wife up a former prostitute or porn star, but it’s highly unlikely those women will make for stable families.

The Western world is a sinkhole for women. The prettiest of the bunch fall into the hole and get spit out years later an entitled #MeToo hag who can never be happy, making the Islamic four-wife rule seem downright egalitarian. The sad truth is that if you meet an attractive girl today, she was pumped and dumped by numerous sexy men, prefers to nurture her career than children, is addicted to attention via the internet, and has participated in some kind of scheme to exchange social status or cash for her pussy. She’s more than suitable for a bit of fun, but would it be wise to seek a relationship with her?

You don’t have a chance with her

Even with the obesity and short-hair epidemic, I still see a bountiful supply of cute girls I would happily reproduce with. I would love them, let them caress my beard, and lay my seed deep within their vaginal guts, but the problem is that those guts are not for me—they are for the Chads who would never marry her, the beta orbiters who await her newest selfie as if it were a source of food, or the rich and lonely men who would sponsor her for thousands of dollars a month. They’re taking her out of circulation at the time I want her most, and by the time they are done with her, I no longer want her. I guess I’ll try to weasel in a bang or two when she is not yet fully degraded, and enjoy the fleeting pleasure that comes from it as much as I can.

Read Next: How To Stop The Fall Of Women

I Was Detained By Icelandic Police After My London-Bound Flight Redirected To Keflavik Airport

For my June trip to Washington D.C., I chose Icelandic discount air carrier Wow Air to save $400 compared to the airline I normally use. There was only one catch: on my return, I would have a connecting flight in London’s Stansted airport. I know I’m banned from England, but it should be safe to have a layover where I don’t have to go through customs, right? Four-hundred dollars was enough motivation to find out.

The journey began with Wow Air #116, a red eye flight from BWI airport to Keflavik, Iceland’s main airport. I landed in Iceland without incident and had a brief layover that did not require me to go through passport control. I then boarded Wow Air flight #826, an Airbus A321 that was full with over 200 passengers. I sat in my assigned window seat, 6F, next to a cute American girl. I was too tired to make small talk. The plane departed on schedule and I dozed off.

Not long into the flight, I woke up to the captain making an abrupt announcement: “Flight staff to the captain’s deck.” The lead flight attendant went into the cockpit and came out a few minutes later. The captain then made another announcement: “Because of a security issue, we have to return to Keflavik. We will land in ten minutes. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.” The airplane made a U-turn and dropped altitude.

I’ve been on a lot of flights in my life, but I never had one turn around due to a “security issue.” Was it because of me? There’s no way the authorities would inconvenience hundreds of people because one writer said some mean words on the internet, I thought. But as we approached the runway for landing, I began to mentally prepare for the worst.

After we landed, I asked the American girl for some gum in case I’d have to do some talking. She only had white Tic Tacs. I took them and added, “If they take me off the plane, it was nice sitting next to you.” She gave a weak smile.

The airplane taxied to an isolated area away from the terminal. I saw one police car parked outside. I closely observed the flight attendants to see if they would give a tell by looking in my direction, but they held a stiff poker face. They must be trained to not let the “terrorist” know that he has been found out.

The front door opened and two male Icelandic police officers entered. The lead officer started counting rows as he walked down the aisle. An excited man wearing a yamaka stood up and filmed the scene with a tablet. Would I be the lucky game show winner today? The officer stopped on row 6 and looked directly at me. “Daryush?” he asked. I nodded my head.

My two seat mates cleared the row so I could get out. I glanced behind me and saw a lot of nervous faces. “Should I get my stuff?” I asked. The officer said yes. I opened the overhead compartment and grabbed my laptop bag and hand luggage. The entire cabin was silent. I hadn’t trimmed my beard in months so they probably thought I was a real terrorist trying to Allahu Akbar the plane. I kept my head down. I felt so embarrassed. I didn’t mean to delay everyone’s travel plans to save a couple hundred bucks, but I underestimated how far the UK government would go to prevent me from stepping foot into the country, even for a layover.

The officers escorted me to the police car. I sat in the backseat with the junior officer. He kept a close eye on me for any signs of illegal aggression. All my fatigue disappeared.

“I know why this is happening,” I blurted out. “I’m banned from the UK, but I thought it would be okay to have a layover there since I wouldn’t have to go through UK passport control.”

“We’re not familiar with your case,” said the officer in the driver’s seat. “Why are you banned?”

“Because of words! Because of things I’ve written!” I lowered my voice. “Theresa May is keeping me out because she says I’m a misogynist while she lets in thousands of migrant criminals. It’s so dumb.”

Icelandic people are not normally chatty and these two officers were no exception. I looked at my hands. There were shaking. I squeezed them between my legs.

The car stopped and the officers escorted me into a holding cell. It had a cot with a pillow and a short table with two blankets. They took my passport and locked me in. I looked up at the ceiling and noticed a camera in the corner. I wondered if there was also a microphone. The wind was so strong that cold Icelandic air was whistling into the room. I briefly considered joking with the officers that I would complain to the United Nations for inhumane treatment.

The junior officer came back with a cup of water and told me to hang tight. I alternated between pacing the room and sitting down. I tried to inhale deeply to relax myself but I could only manage shallow breaths. I took some pictures of the room and imagined what I would tell my mom.

The supervisor came into the room. “So after your flight left we got a call from England…”

“A call from who? Someone in the government?” I eagerly wanted to know how their border system worked.

“We just got a call,” the officer replied, not wanting to give details. “And it said that you’re on the flight and you’re not allowed in England. At first we weren’t going to do anything, but then my station manager called and said that we need to bring you back.” So the UK government receives passenger data from all inbound flights that is cross-checked with their immigration and criminal databases. It’s great that they have a locktight system to keep their citizens safe from a thought criminal like myself, yet somehow thousands of Muslim immigrants manage to enter the country to sexually mutilate and abuse females, including children. It’s okay to harm British girls with physical violence as long as you don’t trigger them with internet articles.

“I bought this flight because it was cheap. I know I’m not allowed in England, but I thought a layover would be fine. I guess they didn’t know I had another flight out of the country. Well, I’d like to book another flight if that’s possible. I just don’t want to go back to the US. I’ll go to Africa, even.”

“Okay, this will take some time.” He left the room but didn’t close the door, indicating to me that things were de-escalating.

Serving hard time in Iceland. I almost got a prison tattoo.

Ten minutes later, the supervisor came back and showed me his smartphone. It had the cover of my book Bang Iceland. I grimaced. How do I explain to him that Iceland was one stop on a multi-year fuck tour?

“I was in Iceland a long time ago,” I started, noticing that there was a female officer standing outside the room. “When I was younger, I would travel to countries and then write books about how to… date women.”

“So you have a black belt in women?” The officer grinned while motioning to his belt.

“Something like that. It’s macho talk. I believe men should be masculine and women should sub… should follow men. That’s why I got banned in England. But you can’t say that anymore. I know in Iceland the women are more strong and independent. They don’t believe in old-fashioned arrangements.”

“Are you married, by the way?”

“Obviously not,” I joked. Him and the three officers outside the cell started laughing. He left the room and told me to continue waiting.

I stared out the window and saw an airport worker driving a baggage car. One of the bags fell out and he immediately stopped the car to retrieve it.

How many more bags will fall out of my baggage car? The book I wrote in 2011 will cause me trouble in this country. The article I wrote in 2015 will ban me from that country. The meetups in 2016 will get me attacked from this mayor or that politician for cheap political points. Bags will keep falling out because of things I’ve done in the past, even if one day I become Mother Teresa.

The supervisor came back. He said, “You’re free to go. There’s no reason for us to hold you.” I served one hour of hard time. Any longer and I would have started my first prison workout.

“Do I have to get a stamp to enter Iceland?” I asked.

“I already gave it to you.” He handed me my passport.

I gathered my things and he escorted me into the airport hall. “I hope I made your day a little more interesting,” I said.

“You did, but a few of my officers were reading the news articles and got upset over the things you said.”

“The media has made me a total monster, a rapist, a horrible person. It’s all fake news. I’m not a bad guy. They ruined my reputation and…” I considered explaining further, but even if you accept the most rosy interpretation of my writing, without all the distortions from the media, can you name someone who is more extreme than me when it comes to sex relations? Maybe I really am a monster. “They ruined my reputation and… I will always have to deal with that.”

I stuck out my hand and added, “Thank you for treating me well.” He shook my hand. I walked away and sat down on a bench. I would have to book another flight, and maybe a hotel room, but first I had to call my mom and tell her what happened. She won’t believe it.

Read Next: Theresa May Officially Bans Roosh From The UK While Terrorist Sympathizers Are Let In

When You Set A Goal, You Inherit A Lifestyle

Upon setting a goal, you fantasize about the pleasure you’ll receive from accomplishing it. The problem is that only a tiny percentage of your overall time is spent enjoying the actual goal. Instead, most of your efforts goes into the tasks towards achieving it. The work you do for the goal becomes your life, not the goal itself.

Let’s say a man wants to get into game because he wants sex. He’s a night person so he decides to meet girls at bars. He imagines all the drunk sluts he will sleep with. Even if his game is good, most of his time will be spent at the bars drinking alcohol while a tiny percentage will be spent in actual fornication. His life is not one of sex, but of going to bars.

An obese career woman sits all day at work and binges on junk food at night. She is starting to have back and knee pain. She imagines being thin, more beautiful, and free of pain, so she goes vegan and signs up for Crossfit. Her life now becomes that of veganism and Crossfit, which will dominate her free time. Even when she hits her health goal, she will spend that renewed health to continue being a vegan while doing Crossfit instead of just being healthy in isolation.

Fame works the same way. You work so hard to achieve a goal of receiving adoration from the masses, but your lifestyle becomes one of self-promotion and using Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. You’re forced to spend hours a day referring to yourself in a positive manner instead of receiving the love that you imagined.

Whatever you do to achieve a goal becomes your lifestyle. The goal is the dessert, the 1% reward from your efforts, but there is the 99% that you must continually do to maintain the goal. Are you ready to labor and obsess over trivial activities so that you can reach your “dreams”? Because that’s the price you must pay when you set goals. You’re trained in the West to believe that things are “worth it in the end,” but most of the time it’s not. The goal is a way to keep you busy and distracted.

As I mentioned before, the best goal is one where you enjoy the entire process. Merely craving the end goal will not be enough. A lot of men want to get laid with beautiful women, but they can’t maintain continuous effort of hunting for them on the streets or bars. A lot of men want big muscles, but they can’t maintain a continuous program of working out in the gym or watching their diet. If these men set goals around sex or muscles, they will fail. I have a goal to finish books, and since I like the process of writing, my goal is an inevitable conclusion of what I like doing, which means I’m likely to succeed.

A man with multiple goals is stretched too thin, because all of his energy and willpower is being used to maintain multiple lifestyles. He thinks the more goals the better, because then he will reach his potential and enjoy the fruits of life, but those fruits are such a tiny percentage of his overall goal work that he’s slowly burning himself out doing things he doesn’t feel passionate about. Set a goal, but understand what lifestyle you’ll be forced to inherit while you try to achieve it.

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2 Signs A Girl Will Cheat On You

The opposite of a cuckold is a man who doesn’t tolerate his woman messing around with other men, an expectation that was reasonable up until these depraved times of open relationships and “polyamory.” If you’re like me, you don’t want to waste time and effort on a woman who will eventually cheat on you, so it becomes helpful to know the warning signs.

There are two female character traits that highly correlate to cheating. I’ve found these traits not in women who have cheated on me, but on women who cheated on their boyfriends, fiancees, or husbands with me. In many cases, I didn’t even know she had a man until after we had sex.

1. She has a high need for excitement

A girl with a high need for excitement believes that life should always be fun. She fears boredom and routine. She may share memes along the lines of “Life is short” or “Carpe diem.” The problem is that relationships are boring by their very nature. Within only a couple of months, they turn into a repeating pattern of eating, having sex, watching movies, and talking about the same group of friends. This is hard for some girls to tolerate. They will cheat not with the intention of leaving their boyfriend, but simply to live the fun lifestyle they believe is coming to them.

The same pattern occurs with a girl who is highly impulsive, meaning she needs to act on whatever random idea pops into her head so that she can see herself as “fun” and “spontaneous.” If she is in a club with friends and sees a hot guy, the impulse of “I want to sleep with him” is one she may act on, even though her loyal boyfriend is waiting at home.

Several years ago in Poland I was in a nightclub when I noticed a tall girl with nice legs staring at me. The conversation between us went well and I tried to move her to the dance floor, but there was a big problem: she had a boyfriend, and he was on his way to the club with his friends. I was ready to move on to another girl, but even after the boyfriend arrived, she kept looking my way. They all went upstairs. Ten minutes later, she came back to me. I knew she wanted to fuck so I told her to come with me to my place, which was only a five-minute walk away. I could tell it was thrilling for her to escape the club with a new man while her boyfriend was still in it.

Once in my apartment, the boyfriend called. She told him that she got tired and went home, but that he should stay in the club and have fun with his friends. She ended the call with “I love you.” We then had sex multiple times, she spent the night, and then we had sex again in the morning. She made effort in seeing me again.

2. She has a high sense of entitlement

A girl with high entitlement feels that her current boyfriend should satisfy all of her needs. If he doesn’t, then he is not holding up to his end of the bargain. She will then feel little or no guilt for fulfilling those needs elsewhere with other men.

Girls want to be satisfied in two areas: physically and emotionally. Physically, a high entitlement girl will expect you to give her as many orgasms and as much pleasure as she gives you, which is difficult unless you spend hours going down on her. Emotionally, she will want to remain in an attracted, happy, and contented state without any feelings of anxiety, regret, dissatisfaction, or fear of missing out. One man simply cannot satisfy both of these areas for eternity, but a high entitlement girl expects it. If you fail, she will cheat.

Another time a high entitlement girl cheats is after you get into an argument with her. She can’t believe that you made her upset, so in her mind it’s not wrong to feel better in the embrace of another man. If your girlfriend gets upset with you today, there is a line of five men ready to immediately fuck her. Fifty years ago, she may have only had access to the village drunk. If you don’t want a high entitlement girl to cheat on you, you must become her hostage and always keep her happy.

Not long ago I met a hippie girl in a nightclub. She wore a small backpack and had weird dance moves that suggested she was on drugs (she told me she wasn’t). Her hair went all the way down to her butt, which aroused me fully. We danced extra close but she would turn her head away when our faces got near. I didn’t push the matter and later she told me that she had a boyfriend. Things weren’t going well with him. I brushed it off and told her to do whatever she wanted, that I’m merely enjoying the moment.

When the dancing got boring, we went to my apartment for a “tea.” We ended up having sex five times. During one of the rounds, she scooped up my semen with two fingers and put it in her mouth while locking eye contact with me. Even with my level of experience, I felt disturbed. Before she left, she told me that her boyfriend has a low sex drive, but she didn’t want to break up with him. She did not make effort in seeing me again.


You may be thinking, “Don’t all girls have a high need for excitement along with high entitlement?” If you’re meeting them on Tinder or in the nightclub, then yes, most will fall into that category. If you’re meeting them in Westernized countries where #MeToo teaches them that they shouldn’t feel uncomfortable for any reason, certainly. Unless you carefully screen your women, it will be hard to avoid the cheating type.

Thankfully, there are some women who just want to find a good man and have a family. They are willing to work out any relationship problems instead of immediately jumping on a new cock, and see fun as the temporal and meaningless distraction that it is. Maybe one day I will meet such a girl.

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6 Reasons Why I Probably Won’t Get Married

Recently I spent time with extended family. A common question was, “Why aren’t you married yet?” I replied by asking them how much time they had for me to explain all the reasons. While it’s easy to portray modern marriage as a bad deal, most of my reasons are purely individual in nature.

Here are six reasons why I’m not cut out for marriage…

1. I need more alone time than a woman can tolerate

I only like being social for 2-4 hours a day, preferably at night. Once I fulfill a day’s social interaction needs, I power down and rather not talk anymore.

The problem when living with a woman is that they want to be social as soon as they get up and remain social for the rest of the day. They talk to me, ask me questions, and generally want to feel like they are living with another human being. Even worse, I’m exceedingly moody and sometimes want to go a day or two without talking to anyone. My wife would probably find this intolerable.

Possible solution: find an introverted girl who is less social than me

2. I don’t permit my woman complete “freedom” because I understand her true nature

A big reason I don’t want to get married is that I understand women. Most women are driven by emotional states and social trends—she’s your woman as much as she is everyone else’s. If my woman doesn’t have traditional values, I’ll be forced to lay down rules that block the serpent from tempting her, but that will lead her to resent me for limiting her freedom. She’ll rebel and pick senseless fights with me. A woman may want a strong man to feel maximum attraction, but she doesn’t want him to limit her lifestyle options.

Possible solution: find a traditional woman who already knows how to be reasonably good

3. I don’t like sharing my bed because I’m a light sleeper

While I can fall asleep easily, I wake up often and have trouble going back to sleep. Reading before bed, putting on white noise, and wearing a night mask help only somewhat. The problem is that women who sleep in my bed want to touch me or cuddle, but this causes me to wake up, destroying my sleep further. With one girlfriend, I floated the idea of having separate bedrooms upon marriage. Needless to say, we’re no longer together.

Possible solution: build a pillow wall in the middle of the bed so she doesn’t try to sneak in any touches while I’m sleeping

4. I’m exceedingly rigid in my daily routine and how I like things done

I’m an easy-going and flexible guy when it comes to social interactions, and many girls I’ve slept with would probably say I’m “fun,” but I’m a nightmare to live with. I want everything done my way with little deviation. My tea has to be a certain temperature, my bread has to be sliced at an exact thickness, and the sunlight coming into my room has to be just right.

I tried teaching previous girlfriends how to make things the way I prefer, but they just can’t duplicate my perfection. I firmly believe that I do things in the best way, so I see no need to compromise on that.

Possible solution: find a younger girl without rigid living habits who doesn’t mind adopting mine

5. I don’t want to be with a woman who makes my life more difficult or stressful

Satisfy me Rooshiepoo!

Let’s be honest: most women take way more than they give, and all they really give is sex and basic companionship. I don’t mind giving everything I have to the woman I love, but if she’s not actively reciprocating to make my life better, what’s the point of marriage?

Very few women are trained these days to improve the lives of men. In fact, they are trained to believe men are the enemy and they are entitled to some sort of reparation package just because they were born a woman.

Possible solution: find a traditional woman who was trained to please her husband

6. I have an abnormally high need for peace and quiet

My job requires a high degree of concentration and focus. When things get too loud, I’m unable to produce such fine writing as what you’re enjoying right now. The problem is that women prefer a background loudness in their lives so they don’t feel alone. They wake up and want to watch YouTube videos, put on music, or talk on the phone. I can’t work under those conditions, especially during the day. In the evening, a woman can make all the noise she wants, especially in bed, but upon waking I need complete and utter silence.

Possible solution: buy a house so big that I can’t hear my wife (and children) while writing or meditating in my study


Note how I didn’t mention becoming bored sleeping with the same woman. A lot of other men have this problem, but if I get horny, which still happens, I’m more than eager to put it in her after removing the wall of pillows between us.

All of the reasons I mentioned are not insurmountable obstacles, and the solution may be as simple as finding a young, shy, traditional, virgin girl raised on a farm, but I must admit that the kind of man I am doesn’t lend well to the compromises that marriage demands. If I find a woman who can handle the quirks above, she may very well be the one.

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The June 2018 Happy Hour In Washington D.C. Was A Huge Success

On Saturday I drove to the nearest Metro station two hours before the 8pm scheduled start of my first happy hour in two years. While waiting for a train to the city, I was recognized by a young man wearing a cowboy hat. We sat in the same train car and he told me how he’s doing well meeting women at dance events, though SJWs have infiltrated them. He has to be careful not to say anything politically incorrect.

I got off at the Gallery Place station and walked around until 7:30pm before posting the Starbucks meeting location on Twitter. For the next twenty minutes, I mentally rehearsed all the bad things that could happen, but I was feeling confident that the event would go off smoothly since only one media article was written about it. I learned that a substantial flurry of articles needs to be published for the elite to activate their SJW foot soldiers.

At 7:50pm, I stood across the street from the Starbucks. I saw a friend in front and waved him over. Then four more men recognized me. All five of us went inside at 7:55. Starting at 8, the stream of men flowing into the cafe was steady. If a man made lingering eye contact with me, I knew that he knew. I handed out fortune cookie slips of paper that had the location of the main event at a bar two blocks down 7th street.

A Starbucks barista came up to the group and said, “Is there anyone here named Roosh? Someone is on the phone for him.” A prank caller. I did not imagine this in my mental rehearsals. I was hesitant to admit that there was a Roosh present in case it was a trap. “There is no one here named Roosh,” I said. The barista left with a skeptical look on his face.

We spread the bathroom code “2018” amongst ourselves to take advantage of the corporate toilet policy. At least five men used the toilet, perhaps as many as eight. Many real customers confused our group for the line to buy an extra burnt coffee beverage with high fructose corn syrup. The baristas started getting visibly agitated, especially since only one or two men bought something. They started taking away the stools we were using under the guise of preparing the store for closing.

A man arrived who I remember leaving nasty comments on my blog that parroted the leftist line that I abuse women. He approached me with a smile and his hand outstretched. I told him he was not welcome to the event because of the comments he left in the past. His smile evaporated and he walked out. The fact that he expected me to forget his previous behavior suggests that haters are confused fans. Someone who personally attacks or defames me even once will never be allowed into my circle of trust.

When the group grew to 25, employees finally asked us to stand away from the front counter. They stopped short of kicking us out. If they did, I’d seek pro bono legal counsel to sue for discrimination since I’m a person of brown color.

We eventually moved outside and waited five extra minutes to catch the late stragglers. During this time, one attendee, an Indian man, said, “Roosh, you look small. You need to hit the gym.” I raised one eyebrow and looked at his overweight physique that he tried to hide with dark clothing. I replied, “But you’re fat! Get fit and then you can make fun of me all you want.” We had a good laugh. Indians are the original trolls so I stay extra aware when I’m around them.

At 8:35, I led the group of 40 men down the sidewalk to the bar. It turns out that the fortune cookie slips weren’t necessary. I said to them, “I wish I had some kind of banner or battle flag.” If we were all ISIS terrorists with powerful weapons, and took elevated positions, we could easily conquer several city blocks. Even if the only weapon is our minds, there is no limit to what we could accomplish if we stuck together, planned, and organized. This is why they stopped us in 2016.

We arrived at the bar in Chinatown. The bearded bartender was visibly excited at the unexpected influx of customers. The men started to relax because we were now in a location that was not posted publicly. I did my best to have a conversation with each one. They varied greatly in upbringing, race, employment, and life goals.

I met men fresh out of high school who were just beginning their life’s journey and others in their 50’s with children and a divorce under their belt. Some men worked in the Federal government and talked predominately about political issues (this is DC, after all), others were businessmen trying to make a career without getting shut down for their beliefs, and also present were RVF poonhounds who picked my brain for foreign countries that had the best women. It was the kind of diversity I love.

There was a brown mural of seabirds hanging in the hallway. Whenever a man asked me for a selfie, I suggested we use it as a backdrop. The hallway became a sort of gathering point to have deeper discussions. Several men gave me condolences for my sister’s death, asking me how I was doing. “As good as I can,” I would reply.

A post shared by Roosh (@kingroosh) on

A woman I didn’t recognize approached me. Apparently one of the attendees told her who I was. She was lamentably overweight but had a friendly demeanor.

“So you’re a pickup artist,” she said.

“I am?”

“Well that’s what it says on your Wikipedia.”

One of the guys started filming her, thinking that she was attacking me, but I told him that it was okay and he put his phone down. It was clear that she loved getting the attention of several men at once and wanted to keep the conversation going as long as possible, but she would have to increase her beauty for me to give her more than three minutes of my time. After showing her my “straight pride” salute, which is really the same as a black power salute, I introduced her to a man I named Chad because he was a tall and white with a square jaw. I told everyone that if I have a son, I’m naming him Chad.

As the event winded down, I started to wonder where the resistance was. Two years ago, the death threats flowed in at a concerning clip, but now there was nothing. To go from 100 to 0 suggests that liberal protests are not organic. A switch must be flipped for them to be activated in a MK Ultra style. If you told me that someone at a high level gets to decide whether an attack takes place or not, I would believe it. I now have enough experience where I think I can predict if trouble will happen via a “Defcock” Warning System that I plan on using for future gatherings.

Defcock Green: Practically no media coverage or leftist discussion online. Protesters or disruptions are not expected.

Defcock Yellow: Moderate media attention but no online organizing spotted. Stay alert at the beginning of the meetup.

Defcock Red: Heavy media coverage. Protesters have been organizing online to shut down the event. Likely police presence. Wear sunglasses to guard against doxing attempts from women with Krusty The Clown hair.

This event was Defcock Green all the way through by the time I left the bar at 1am to catch the last Metro train home. Maybe I was being too paranoid by applying counter-terrorist tactics to plan a friendly happy hour, but I don’t mind putting in the time so none of my readers are injured, doxed, or arrested.

The world is getting crazier by the year, and since we possess masculine beliefs, we have to take extra care to stay safe. I believe I have the experience to do that for the men who come out to meet me, and can’t wait until my new book is released so I can hold more events around the country.

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“My Way” Is The Most Masculine Song Ever Created

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been increasingly listening to oldies music. While the messages can be often cheesy and beta, I prefer yesterday’s innocence and naivety compared to today’s degeneracy and mumble rap.

There are many songs that were popular in their day that I’m only now discovering. One of those songs is My Way, originally recorded by Frank Sinatra, though better performed by Elvis Presley. Let’s take a look at the lyrics.

And now, the end is near
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I’ll say it clear
I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain
I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

He sees that it’s his turn to die and accepts it. He doesn’t look for miracle cures or beg God for more time. Instead, he does an accounting of the life he’s lived, and because it was rich and fill, the end is far easier to accept than if he had lived with the expectation that he could delay the inevitable.

Regrets, I’ve had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Sure, he made mistakes and lost out on opportunities. He said things he shouldn’t have said and hurt people he shouldn’t have hurt, but he did these things based on how he wanted to live his life. He doesn’t allow regrets to hang over him or make him feel guilty for who he is.

Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way

His ego repeatedly got the best of him and he was often checked by powerful forces, but he humbly took his lashes and carried on. He wasn’t ashamed of the mistakes he made because he believed he was acting righteously at the time. Perfection was never his goal.

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried
I’ve had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way
Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did it my way

His life wasn’t always easy. There was pain and setbacks, but also pleasure and love. What’s left but to see it all for what is was: a big game of laughter and tears. He moved through life with confidence, and for him, that’s what really matters.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows and did it my way

If a man is not living as a man, why he is living? If he does not act or live in the moment, who is he existing for? If a man can’t take a punch and get right back up, until he no longer can, how can he call himself a man?

I will instruct my next of kin to play this song at my funeral. I want people to be reminded that I lived life in the way I saw fit, and endured what was thrown my way. By doing so, I hope that my end will be a bit easier to bear compared to a life that was full of regret and things left unsaid.

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