On Friday, Jezebel published an article that contained a list of “hate” sites in the manosphere. They used a site called Man Boobz as its authoritative reference, a misandrist hotbed written by an overweight feminist woman with large breasts. I scored a spot on their list because I don’t always call women back after I have sex with them:

Roosh Vörek is a Maryland-raised PUA (“pick up artist”) whose specialty is sex with foreign women; his blog is a sales vehicle for his books like Bang: The Pick Up Bible and Bang Iceland: How to Sleep With Icelandic Women in Iceland, which one Icelandic feminist group described as a “rape guide.” Vörek likes to talk about his many “notches” (seductions) and such things as “American cunts who I want to hate fuck.” He adds: “I’ll be the first to admit that many of my bangs in the United States were hate fucks. The masculine attitude and lack of care these women put into their style or hair irritated me, so I made it a point to fuck them and never call again.”

The quotes-out-of-context game was played for several more sites you probably know, such as In Mala Fide, Spearhead, and A Voice For Men, though I am the only game blog to have made it (Heartiste should have been on there). Jezebel makes it clear that all the sites are “woman-hating” and “misogynistic.”

Hold on, my mistake, I’m getting reports coming in that Jezebel didn’t write this list at all. It was actually published by the Southern Poverty Law Center, an organization you may have remembered from high school U.S. history class. It was important during the black civil rights era in the United States, eventually suing the KKK out of existence. To save helpless victims of the American patriarchy, they are now attacking a group of guys who empower men, along with a bearded fellow who teaches how to score some of that sweet poonani.

Reason magazine published a response with a headline channelling The Onion: The Southern Poverty Law Center Is Now Writing About Pickup Artists as Hate Groups.

Take note, America: Having consensual sex (Roosh is not a rapist, but a seducer) with someone you don’t actually like and then never calling her/him again will land you in a reputation-ruining** SPLC report [which] gets sent to every law enforcement agency in the country

Business Insider also put up an article:

Be careful, fellas: If you use your personal blog to rant about women, a civil rights group just might publicize details about your mortgage and medical history.

Our cause is real, and it has arrived. Ironically, it is my inclusion on the list which has people gunning for the SPLC as an irrelevant organization. Here’s what the National Review had to say:

Now, piggybacking on the two minutes’ hate against Limbaugh, [the SPLC has] found a new arena of hate groups, comparable to neo-Nazis and the skinheads: the “manosphere” of misogynist web sites, including, among others, “Roosh Vörek . . . a Maryland-raised PUA (“pick up artist”) whose specialty is sex with foreign women.” As if that weren’t funny enough, one of their sources of information is—I am not making this up—something called manboobz.com.

Instapundit also weighed in. Finally, there’s a surprisingly fair article in the Huffington Post which almost makes me out to be a nice guy.

Two things I’ve written come to mind…

“Anything you do that increases your ability to be sexually successful while decreasing your dependence on dating American women will result in them trying to isolate and disparage you.” [Source]

Check.

“Being a man is already a crime or soon will be.” [Source]

Work in progress.

If a girl doesn’t like you after she has consensual sex with you, or has bad feelings in her wittle tummy, she can say you raped her. Go to jail, creep. Rape laws are intended for real rapists, but they are being applied to fake rapists.

If a girl doesn’t like your approach, there will be a law on the books that will deem it illegal (they’re currently working on it in my home city). You’ll be arrested and have to explain a criminal record of “public sexual harassment” to potential employers. It is intended for perverts, but it will be applied to normal guys like us if you happen to have the bad luck of approaching a girl with issues or other mental problems, of which a whopping 25% of American women suffer from.

Instead of banning game, an Orwellian task, your elite masters will attempt to neutralize its effects by giving women a “put him in jail” card that she can use at the beginning or end of the process. Don’t like your approach? “Officer, he assaulted me by touching me on the shoulder.” Feeling regretful for slutty behavior? “Judge, he raped me while I was intoxicated.”

It is clear that gender hate is now a one-way street. Men can hate women but not the other way around. Men can rape, women can’t. Men can be abusive, both physically and emotionally, but women can’t. Men can be misogynist, but women can’t be misandrist, a word that is unknown to most of the American population. Men can be described as lazy slobs who play video games all day, but women are perfect as-is in a country where there are organizations trying to convince you that being fat is both healthy and beautiful. Male teachers get sent to pound-me-in-the-ass prison if they have sex with a student, but female teachers only get a slap on the wrist. If you’re a man, you’re likely a perpetrator of hate, violence, and abuse to innocent American women, even if you don’t yet realize your thought crime, but never the other way around. If an American woman is being “strong” and “independent” by criticizing you, you best stop whining, man up, and accept her masculine behavior as the new normal in today’s glorious utopia.

If a group called RadFem is outed for advocating real hate and abuse to men—of fantasizing about killing men—then you should just ignore it. No media outlet will dare report on extreme feminists. They will not be put on any liberal think tank’s hate list. But if some guy teaches men how to get laid while making fun of women who have long since stopped acting like women, his name is not only put on such a list but it’s forwarded to law enforcement agencies across the country. If another man teaches men how not to get raped in divorce court or get his kids taken away, he’s advocating hate speech. The supreme irony is that the principal source for the SPLC list is a vehement anti-man web site, Man Boobz, whose main audience is lesbians and transsexuals. This is who they consult when constructing a report that may have serious consequences for those heterosexual men mentioned. It would be like President Obama asking me to construct a list of gay guys who have may have said meanie things in the past.

Look back ten years. Do you remember hearing about false rape accusations? Was there a such thing as “street harassment”? Now imagine ten years into the future. How much more “progress” will they make? My only hope is that the sites who made the SLPC list will attract a larger audience who helps push back feminist attempts to outlaw normal male behavior. This arduous process, for the most part, is unacceptable to me. Life is too short to fix a broken culture, to change the minds of so many brainwashed people who are primed since birth to deny reality. I believe the only real solution is expatriation. Until that solution can be achieved for you, learning game and carefully choosing women you get involved with will suffice.

When I first found out that I was on the SPLC list, I laughed. I accepted all the congratulations from my readers on Twitter and on the forum, but at the end of the day I felt depressed. I felt depressed because I know that my ideas will never be widely accepted in my lifetime, that as long as I write I will be constantly attacked. I was attacked in Iceland, I was attacked in Denmark, and I was attacked by neo-Nazis in Estonia who called the police on me for having a drink at the club. And now the establishment in my own country is on the verge of declaring my writing and ideas to be illegal. I don’t know exactly how I got here, but I have a feeling that this is just the beginning.

If I knew years ago that blogging about getting laid and travel would put me on a hate list by a civil rights organization, I would have stayed anonymous. Too late now. I will be silenced at some point, but until then I will go on with my big head held high. I’m far from done.

I remember when I’d never get approached by women, even when I went out four nights a week. I accepted that I was not a good-looking guy whose looks alone could propel a woman to start chasing. I didn’t cry about it since I was still able to get laid by approaching, but it did gnaw at me that other guys had to put far less effort than I had to.

Then slowly, as I optimized my look and improved my body language, posture, mannerisms, and so on, more girls approached me, or at least gave me steady eye contact. Unfortunately it wasn’t from the girls I wanted (their attractiveness was in the 4-6 range), but I welcomed the attention anyway. Their approaches were usually very simple, along the lines of asking a question about the bar or making a compliment about something I was wearing.

These days, the quality of girls who approach me has jumped up a bit to the 5-7 range, with the once-in-a-blue-moon 8, yet it’s still not frequent enough or at a consistent quality that I can stop approaching myself. In the past two years I’ve noticed another change: American women have started using negs on me. Of course no one knows how to really use negs, so they just come across as insults. Here are some recent examples:

“Did you just come from an ugly sweater party?” (I wasn’t wearing what I thought to be an ugly sweater.)

“I want the chair you’re sitting on.”

“Why are you wearing my dad’s tie clip?”

Sometimes the girl is not using the neg as an opener, but as a failed attempt at teasing early in the interaction. They make fun of my hairy arms or my retro flower shirt or whatever else I’m wearing without using a scrap of charm or humor. We’re talking straight-up insults.

When this happens, I look at the girl and say, “Does that pick-up line usually work? Because it sucks.”

“Uh, uh, it’s not a pick up line! You wish it was!”

Reverse the genders. That little dialogue sounds familiar, doesn’t it? We’ve come full circle my friends.

Now allow me to trace the history of girls using negs:

1. The Game was released, teaching guys to go around insulting girls. Negs were the main principle of the book mentioned in dozens of articles and television reports. Unfortunately they don’t work like newbies thought they would. Maybe it did work at some point on a certain type of girl that Mystery approached, but it doesn’t any more. Negs are like punching a girl in the face and saying “it works” just because you got a reaction. Truth is playful teasing remains king in building attraction at night.

2. American girls, who have become increasingly clueless on how to flirt, learned about the neg concept via the media and figured it would be suitable to use on guys. Girls are stupid in that they think there are no gender-specific rules or techniques. Believe it or not, they still think us guys judge them based on things like their career and stability.

The men have no idea how to act like men and the women have no idea how to act like women. They learn mistakes from each other, and neither get what they want as the culture slowly loses knowledge of how to efficiently mate with the opposite sex without copious amounts of alochol. It’s sad if it wasn’t so amusing.

It’s 2011 and everyone is trying to use negs. The neg is officially dead.

My favorite post of the year from Monday’s list was excerpted on Jezebel last week. I was called “possibly the worst person we’ve encountered” and “downright psychopathic.” The post was viewed about 30,000 times and was the most commented post of the day with over 600 comments (99% were of the anti-Roosh variety).

Here are my favorite reader comments. They range from funny to mommy-please-protect-me:

This is what happens when you give a serial killer a blog. Seriously, the way this guy hates women I wouldn’t be surprised.

I really can’t get over it. Not just his hate for women, but his hate for other cultures, the people he deems to be “poor”, etc.

Also sad? His books have mostly positive ratings on Amazon. I hate to think that there are a lot of guys out there who think like him.

—

When you first alerted us about this idiot, I thought it was a bit over the top; I mean, what’s the big deal about another troll? However, after your next entry, I stand corrected; this bonehead is truly bananawackos and quite possibly dangerous. I am sincerely creeped out.

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I find it very, very hard to believe that two books worth of women have slept with this man.

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Sexist AND racist? Can we have a Bigot of the Year award? Please? I think this man would take the cake. The prize should be a clout on the head, along with a lifetime supply of floppy, untoasted PB+Js.

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But ladies! He was born on FLAG DAY! OMG we need to fuck him out of patriotic servitude!

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I feel like most of it I can just laugh off, but when he says, “he rapes two women a month. But hey, a notch, is a notch.”… and then starts talking about how violence is the way to keep women in line. As a former sexual abuse victim, he is filth, and I will stop here so I can go scream outside.

—

So he has an untreated personality disorder, is what this looks like. He should seek help.

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Oh god, this guy lives in DC? I must find out his real name so if I ever meet him I can suckerpunch him in the dick.

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I’m wondering if his blog is violent enough to notify the DA’s office.

—

Oh. My. God.

Roosh has been active in the DC blogging scene for YEARS. He is the king of despicable bloggers, and made it is personal mission to degrade and humiliate as many women bloggers as possible (and male bloggers that he deemed “beta”).

Well done on calling him out. He’s the worst of the worst.

—

Though I completely support where the “worst person in the world” title is coming from, we’re giving this guy way too much credit. He’s just another incredibly angry, miserable, ignorant, misogynistic, self-hating, lonely, complete and utter asshole whose only way of soothing his crippling feelings of inadequacy is to channel his anger into putting down women so he can, for once, feel superior to someone. There are a million of these guys out there, and they all deserve the same treatment: ignore them. The only thing these people hate more than themselves is the idea that they might–god forbid!–be shouting their ignorant, hateful, misogynistic cliches into an empty room.

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Oh no! He has a little brother! Is there a way we can contact this persons mother? Maybe she will keep the person away from the boy. Golly!

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If you look at his uploaded video there is one where he appears personally. Take a good look at his face, that’s what a piece of shit looks like.

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In Brazil, we have strict immigration rules to keep sex tourists like you out, Roosh. I hope other countries in South America act similarly. You fucking sicken me.

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Reading this guy and watching his video is like taking an accidental fall in the woods and landing with my hand in a pile of maggots and decomposing animal. His affect is serial-killer flat and he hates everyone.

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Wait a fucking minute. Is this guy trying to say that the United States is FULL of fags and butch women? AND NOBODY TOLD ME?

Do you guys have room for one more Canadian?

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CROTCH HOLE DOES NOT WANT. [lol my personal favorite]

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Is he trying to impress us by saying his birthday is on FLAG DAY? No offense to minor “National Holidays” but if you don’t get a day off from school/work, no one cares. Hell, even Presidents’ Day gets car sales.

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…after his comment on the rape game, it’s possible the cops should do a little investigating, maybe get a warrant for his DNA and see if he matches any open rape investigations. It’s evidence in his own words, after all.

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Even if the women this man encounters are not physically abused, at the very best they treated as slaves at his behest. It’s too horrible for words really.

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I was so much happier before I knew people* like this existed.

*And I use the term “people” very loosely when referring to massive buckets of anal discharge like this guy.

—

Can’t help but feel sorry for this fellow; not only is he full of hatred and venom, but he’s also a no-talent hack who dreams of being a writer. Although the line “…chest hair crawling up to the neck sees tremendous results for yours truly…” made me laugh out loud.

—

I think Roosh is a great example…

of what doesn’t make a man.

of what every person who considers themselves decent and worthy of life, love and happiness should avoid thinking and doing.

of what truly needs to be purged.

—

After taking a moment to calm down and stop punching my poor abused walls, I feel as though I can finally coherently respond to this post and the related ones with what I feel is something that needs to be said. These men are not just sociopaths, and American women are not just lucky to be freed from the desires of said sociopaths: these men abuse and kill foreign women. They are responsible for some of the most egregious crimes committed in the name of Western Civilization on the face of this Earth, but being afraid to commit their heinous crimes at home they turn abroad where there are no laws and no hope for their victims.

Here’s a picture of the average Jezebel reader hating on me from her Apple laptop:

Jezebel posting about me is like tossing a piece of meat to a bunch of hungry hippos—the editors knew the knee-jerk reaction they’d get. I’ll admit it was fun reading through the hater comments because it’s like I had my own roast on Comedy Central.

The person who wrote the post is Sadie Stein. Here’s a picture from her Twitter:

You know you’re a cliche when the exact neighborhood you live in can be guessed with high accuracy from a tiny picture (Brooklyn). Here’s a bigger picture:

What would you give her on a scale of 1-10? 4? 5? I don’t know enough to really hate on her, but I will tell you a quick story.

Towards the end of summer I was at my favorite bar when a girl asked me to take a picture of her friends. I usually decline, but I felt she wanted to talk to me since she gave me “the eyes” earlier. I took the picture and then talked to her for a while until she introduced her friend. The friend was cute with a nice body, but wore these ridiculous old lady glasses that enveloped half her face. I suspected it was the new hipster style.

I tried to listen to her tell me about photography, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid the glasses looked on her. It was impossible to focus on her words and my brain simply shut off, even though she wasn’t particularly dumb or grating. All I could do was stare at her glasses and smile, fighting back laughter.

She looks like an extra on The Brady Bunch set.

Those look like novelty glasses they give out at baseball games.

A half-blind girl living in a slum would rather stay half-blind then accept these glasses from a charity organization.

And on and on my mind went, all because of her glasses. She might as well have had a gigantic green booger hanging out of her nose. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore, and asked her if other men gave her a hard time for her “unique” glasses.

“Oh my god yes. They always try to take them off.”

“I wonder why,” I said, with only 15% sarcastic tonality.

Then I asked if she gets compliments about them.

“Yeah a lot. But other guys say they look like old lady glasses. I don’t care because I love them. I wear what I like.”

I wasn’t surprised she made herself look ugly on purpose because I know all too well how American girls want their vaginas souls to be taken seriously instead of their appearance, but I couldn’t even take her seriously for two minutes. She was like a clown to me. Hell, even clowns don’t wear those types of glasses anymore.

So Sadie, it’s possible you’re a smart and interesting person, and I really am the worst person you’ve ever encountered, but when you wear those glasses you look like a clown.

I have recreated another awkward social situation with teddy bears. It happened in the same bar as the previous video.

Background: I approached a girl and we ended up talking for about five minutes. She was a medical school student but appeared slow and ditzy, only giving me one-word answers and blank stares. I figured she wasn’t interested, so I ended the conversation with, “Well it seems like you want to head back to your friends, it was nice chatting.” The night was young, no big deal.

But then fifteen minutes later she got right next to me. She was so close that her back was rubbing against my drink-holding hand. This is what followed:

As you can see I fell into her trap. She wanted me to keep trying, and I took the bait (albeit reluctantly). It’s surprisingly common how often a girl gives you encouragement after a failed approach by coming closer or giving you more eye contact. Needless to say, it’s a trap. She’ll just reject you again. This is how women get their kicks, while for men it takes at least getting our dick sucked to achieve the same level of satisfaction.

Props to you if you can steal my drink without me noticing. My mind must’ve been elsewhere to not give a damn about the product of my hard labor. But if I catch you stealing my drink, and you double down, then we have a problem.

There is a bar in Rio called Ovelha Negra (Black Sheep) that doesn’t sell beer, wine, or spirits—just champagne. It was embarrassing for my Danish roommate when we went the first time and he asked for Skol, a cheap Brazilian beer you can get for $1.50 on the street. He realized the type of establishment he was at and quickly adjusted, adopting more of a nouveu rich accent that would have the King of Denmark proud.

The bar has only one room in the shape of a long rectangle. There are little tables on one side and then a big table in the middle where most of the action happens. Starting at 6pm the place packs with the professional happy hour crowd. Almost everyone speaks English and $1,000 jailbroken iPhones make constant appearances.

It can be challenging to pickup here because everyone is in large groups, but really it’s not because those guys with the girls are usually coworkers. Girls are looking to flirt, and Danish and I have done well enough that we’ve become regulars. The young bartender with the moppy haircut greets us with a thumbs up whenever we come in but I keep forgetting his name. I think it’s Thiago.

It was so packed one night that we ordered two bottles to ride out until closing. A lot of people go to a place like this and get the second cheapest bottle of champagne, or at least something that’s not the absolute cheapest, but we always get the cheapest (R$ 37). We don’t know the difference between a champagne and sparkling cider and we’re not going to pretend like we do. Is it making us burp? Are we feeling tipsy? Garçon this is great champagne!

My roommate likes to start his approaches with a cigarette angle. If we’re outside he asks for a light and if we’re inside he asks to bum a cigarette. He did this on one girl and she walked out with him to find smokes from a street vendor, leaving me with the bucket of two open champagne bottles. By now we had finished one and was about to get started on the other. As usual the bartender put a salt solution in our bucket, ensuring the second would be near freezing temperature when we were ready for it.

The bucket was on the communal table and I stood in front of it behind a high bar chair. To my right was a girl that looked cute from the back—I was working on getting facial confirmation—and to her right was an obviously drunk girl in a white dress. Sitting next to her was a guy petting her back, her boyfriend maybe, or at least trying to be for the night. Across the table were three more of their friends.

I’m standing there with my champagne glass, trying to act cool, when I see the drunk girl in the white dress reach over and grab the neck of our full bottle. Good thing I was watching it, I thought.

“No no no excuse me that’s our bottle.” I said it very loud, almost shouting, because I know how drunk people can be hard of hearing when it comes to things that hint at possibly limiting their alcohol intake. My face had not a hint of humor or generosity or kindness or anything to suggest I wasn’t serious. I was a father scolding his little girl.

The bottle was now out of the bucket, dripping with icy water as it very slowly traveled past the girl next to me and directly in front of white dress. It approached her glass. There was no time to think about specific actions. No time to devise a battle plan. The autopilot light in the cockpit burns bright orange and your belief system take over.

“Hey hey no, that’s mine and I’m sorry but you can’t have any.”

From the side of her face I could see a quick frown, but she kept going. Her right hand began tilting the bottle towards her glass. She looked at me, squinted her eyes, and then made the “just a little bit” sign with her left hand. She didn’t care what I said and was going to take whatever she wanted.

Slow motion. I’m moving. The weight of my body shifts to my left foot and then I take a big step with my right. I’m next to her friend now, touching the side of her body. My hand shoots like a rocket from my hip. It’s flying through the air across the table. I’m leaning. The back of my right shoulder hits the chin of the girl next to me. She scrunches her face and flinches backwards. White dress is beginning to pour, an entitled, upper-class smirk on her face. I make contact with the neck of the bottle. My hand muscles tighten. Death grip. My knuckles are white. I tilt it upwards. I’ve stopped breathing. Now I’m snatching and pulling. Pulling away. It’s raining champagne like New Years on my arm, on the drunk girl, on the girl who got sidearmed, on the guy who wants to get laid. Cheap champagne on the dark wood table, on professional work clothes. I’m pulling still, and bring it safely back to my side. I step back. Less than a second.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING YOU DON’T JUST STEAL SOMEONE’S FUCKING BOTTLE LIKE THAT WITHOUT ASKING WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE I DON’T BELIEVE THIS SHIT!”

I’m flailing my left arm in the air like an excited monkey. My right hand is still squeezing on tight to the cheap bottle of champagne. My arm and hand is wet and cold. Then silence.

White dress is beginning to cry. Her five friends are staring at me with their mouths gaped open. Half of the bar is looking at me. I’m the bad guy, the arrogant, angry gringo who doesn’t know the capitals of European countries and comes to Brazil only to bang prostitutes and do cheap drugs.

Fuck you all I don’t care what you think.

All her friends gave me the “calm down” sign, apologizing. I pursed my lips and nodded my head up and down. I took a deep breath then put the champagne bottle back in the ice bucket.

I looked at her glass. Only a few drops made it in.

—

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View from my kitchen

I live on the edge of Favela Dona Marta, a “pacified” slum where police operations two years ago have removed all drug gangs. There is a police outpost inside the favela and also one right outside, and it’s not uncommon to see them traveling to and from the posts with guns drawn. Once I saw a officer walking alone with a gun in each hand as if he’s seen too many Hollywood action movies, but not once did I hear a single gunshot for the first six weeks I lived there.

One night I was trying to fall asleep around 3am when an explosion went off. It seemed similar to the fireworks that the teenage boys usually set off so I thought little of it and went to sleep.

Six hours later I woke up to the sound of a helicopter circling overhead. I’ve seen helicopters before but it was so close to the ground that it felt like something out of a Vietnam war movie. The blades made a very intimidating and ominous sound, suggesting that any attempt at escape would be impossible. I looked outside my window and saw a black helicopter with the word “Policia” written on the side. It climbed up the hill and then there was a quick burst of gunfire followed by small explosions that created big balls of smoke. Then silence.

On the other side of my window in front of the building there was a tank with the BOPE insignia and fifty officers mingling nearby with their M-16 rifles. BOPE is the elite special forces of Rio that is basically a war arm of the police. They get called for special protection missions and also to extract suspected gang members. They’re so efficient at killing people, including innocents, that human rights organizations have complained about their “shoot first, ask questions later” policy and alleged use of torture during interrogations. Basically if BOPE gets called there will be loss of human life.

A plains-clothes man with shorts and a wife beater seemed to be directing the officers. He had a walkie-talkie in his hand. Maybe an informant? Then the helicopter began firing again. The soldiers started up the tank, made a terrifying war cry, and started running up the hill behind it. The helicopter continued to circle overhead. Here’s the exciting footage I managed to catch before I hid in my closet and curled into a fetal position:

The guys came back down, regrouped, and then went in again an hour later. I didn’t understand why they repeated the same procedure. Was it a training exercise or an enemy they simply could not take out? I got a little excited about living in the middle of an urban combat zone and imagined how many panties I’d make wet by the telling of this story if I somehow survived. Then my Brazilian roommate came home and I asked him what the fuck was going on. “Oh, they’re filming a movie.”

Damn.

I wasn’t the only person who missed the memo as there was a big dustup about everyone thinking it was the real thing.

For the next day I heard the sound of helicopters everywhere. My ceiling fan was a helicopter. The running shower was a helicopter. The airplane flying overhead was a helicopter. And when I thought of the helicopter I thought of gunfire. I now have a better understanding now of how post-traumatic stress syndrome works. If I am exposed to the brutalities of war for an extended period of time I’m certain I would be permanently damaged. Someone slammed a car door… fire in the hole!

Turns out they were filming Tropa Elite 2, a follow-up to an excellent movie. “I saw the filming of Tropa de Elite 2 because it was right outside my place.” I’ll take it. At the end of the shoot they took a crew picture right in front of my gate. My humble shack is famous.

POSTSCRIPT: I got body searched by the regular cops two nights ago while walking home (second time it’s happened to me in Brazil). It included a very rough crotch inspection. As much talk as there is about America being Big Brother, I’ve never been searched in the States. On the bright side, Brazilians don’t have tazers—if you give them lip they merely beat you with batons.

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My screening process malfunctioned on a mentally unstable American girl I had a one night stand with and then banged a few more times after, including once on a bus where I ejaculated inside her (she insisted). I dumped her when I got bored and got to pay the price by being stalked on the street and harassed via phone and email.

I will keep her identity secret since it would be a serious dick move to destroy her life, but I will say that she is taking steps to out herself through her blog, such as trying to brag like a groupie how she “personally” knows me and has met Virgle Kent and Roissy. There is a 25% chance she’ll end up posting a hilarious confessional after reading this post and be known forever in D.C. as one of “Roosh’s pump and dumps… who he came inside of.” God knows what exotic disease(s) she has now!

The background to this story is long and boring but all you have to do is grab a drink and read this unedited email that came a few days after I told her never to contact me again. I promise that you will not be disappointed.

to: roosh@rooshv.com
date: Thu, Sep 10, 2009 at 5:38 PM
subject: what’s up sand nigger?

dearest roosh fucking v,

hello pussy, how goes it? you get your say and me not mine? don’t think so.

you waste my time, insult me with lame ass, un-funny humor delivered from an awkwardly skinny, ridiculously hairy body and weak persona…

the nice act that feels pity for all things kind and soft and snugly…nope, not me. an act. I’m from New York, remember? I was raised on harder shit than you could ever throw. but your throwing regurgitated, unoriginal shit stolen from bigger and better apes than yourself did not spur me to be inspired to toss sarcasm and wit your way. why waste this body and brain with my best game, eh?

you’re a child-man. I chuckled nightly to myself with how you had to launch into a character of Borat to exchange words with a girl like me. you’re also a complete idiot because I would have fucked your brains out. free tip: sometimes it will be in your best interest to let the girl lead in bed. I have been fucked hard and right for many years and give the best head this side of the mason-dixie line for sure. we northern girls keep our boyfriend’s cocks warm at night as The Beach Boys sang about. ’tis true.

my answer to your unimaginative, pathetically structured robot hate mode was to be soft and sweet to counterbalance. they say to hug a bully.

you don’t know the first thing about me and you never went deep enough for my pleasure. but I kept quiet as to not scar your tiny manhood that proves itself to be deeply insecure due to the overcompensation of such a large, fake ego. I knew boys like you in high school and they and you reeked of dorky, sweaty, limp-nervous dick and they salivated as I walked by their lockers. I winked and said hi anyway but always dated much older guys because I had already been fucked, pinned down, slapped, spanked and rode up against a wall by real men and could only muster a yawn at the thought of potential sex with those boys. I slow danced with them sometimes and it always took them point two seconds to engorge with just a drift of fermions from my delicate, feminine, graceful neck.

I present myself humbly, quietly, chicly and cross my slender yet shapely legs so that my toe points with elegance to the floor. I am never loud or vulgar but have been unsuccessful in breaking my habit of cussing. I love to swear. It brings me oral satisfaction. I expose just enough skin in my tight clothing to elude to the potential of my sounds in bed and let my gaze linger on those whom I may find interesting. Every detail in the way in which I sit, stand and slither through the crowds is taken from the study of the Geisha, ballet and models.

I get approached so often I am a professional at turning guys down kindly, yet firmly. I am not the prettiest I know, nor am I the most curvy I know, but when watched by men (and I am watched…I can feel eyes on me in every bar, every country, and every public place) long enough they sense the signals of what lays underneath my outer shell. This weeds out the dopes, dorks, boys and tools because they don’t stand a chance. I’ve landed a structural engineer, a financial annalist, an architect/signed musician and a political economist who was published and on television for his work done at Duke University. I play in the big leagues, period. I have high standards. A girl like me doesn’t fuck around because I don’t have to. They come to me. Like I said, my confidence comes from my amazing experiences throughout my life of which I sought out and made happen and from the fact that I’m naturally gifted at singing, dancing, drawing, sports and style. I was not the average girl in school or anywhere for that matter, ever. I graduated with honors, played first singles position on the varsity tennis team and went to state play-offs, was a principle dancer in theatre, headed up the popular click but never followed anyone but myself. I did it with originality and with an artists edge, always. people copied me and they continue to.

I am one part elegant, one part down-to-earth, one part blue-collar raised, one part fashion-ista, one part boho, one part tom-boy, one part sally home-maker, one part girl who fucks you in the bathroom stall, one part girl who makes love to you at a five star hotel soft, sweet and slow with only your pleasure in mind, one part adventurer, one part ballet dancer, one part salsa/ hip shaker, one part mosh-pit jumper, one part punk rocker, one part jazz listener, one part wino, one part club goer, one part take home to meet your mother (while I dirty my knees in your former teenage bedroom behind the door closed), one part analytical, one part emotionally impulsive, one part spontaneous trip taker, one part drug doer, one part health nut, one part yoga instructor, one part older sister, one part faithful girlfriend, one part curious cat, one part explorer, one part designer, one part artist, one part lounge singer, one part care taker…..and always adding to my parts.

you see roosh, we are alike. we are geminis. I can’t stay in one place or with one person due to my inner spirit that calls to grow, evolve and seek. we’ve got one life. that’s why I preach quality. one life so bullshit doesn’t fit into my schedule or plans or time. I seek the best, most complicated and interesting people because I myself have formed me this way. I am a contradiction with passion, heart, mind and body and am searching for the same.

this will be the only time in which I will show an ego. mine is not fake because I truly am fucking cool. always have been too…was born with an inner something that was ripe for the sculpting. I don’t have to carry it on the outside because my quality is real. that’s why the boys stay with me for years. duh.

you’re a clown. you wasted my time and nothing offends me more. grow the fuck up and have real, adult friendships. our trip was a waste. I hate waste. you’re a drama queen and your inner loser leaks out at times. I saw it but gave you the grace of looking away so you could morph back into the actor you are. I bow and all the while I am the higher being. your loss. you live loss and will continue to. so go fuck YOURSELF. I know you have a callused right hand and you only get forgettable, typical and unintelligent girls. I would never claim or brag about the girls you get. you fucking failure.

if you try to pull anything with my personal information I will have you beaten. In all seriousness, I have someone waiting for my check (and I will pay) to hunt you down in Medellin and kick the living shit out of you. I have instructed them to focus on your dick and balls mostly so that you may never reproduce. also: given my group of nerdy friends your blog may come down with a virus that would cause it’s demise. if you go away quietly then noting will happen. my ex is 6’4″ (no kidding, seriously) and out-weighs you by 50lbs and will gladly whoop you mercilessly when you return to DC. I have your mom’s address and I will copy and mail your lovely e-mails along with my sob story to her and beg her to get you psychological help. I will post your photo all over DC and Jorge will post it all over Medellin saying you put drugs in girls drinks and to stay away from you. you are known by the owner now of La Octava and they will be watching you. Jorge’s whole crown including Clara ( who laughed hard at and shared yur line of “I’m 30, doesn’t that scare you?” in which she replied; “my ex boyfriend is 32″ ) know you’re a tool and are laughing hard at your ridiculous blog. you want hate…you got it bitch.

this wasn’t for the last word, you’re more power hungry than I…it was for the truth because your dumb ass never got it.

delete and done.

XXXXX

p.s. I faked my one and only orgasm because I felt sorry for you

She’s a real catch no? That last sentence was like a dagger in my heart!

Just one correction to her email: my line is a tongue-in-cheek “Are you intimidated by older men?” and not “I’m 30, doesn’t that scare you?”

I didn’t respond to this email or others but she continued to write me daily from new email accounts, usually excerpting poetry or quotations from Ayn Rand. (I’ve saved them all in case I need to file a restraining order against her when I return home.) One of her last emails stated:

My love for you knows no boundaries or limitations and I wish to help you find your soul again.

Bunny boiler alert!

Eventually she stopped because my forwarding of her emails must’ve made its way around D.C. and to her friends. I’m guessing they ran a “He’s no good for you girl!” type of intervention, and just like that my daily ego boosts were over. In the end I hold absolutely no ill will towards her and sincerely hope that the psychotic bitch gets the help she needs.

POSTSCRIPT: It has been brought to my attention from a friend that in the comments of her blog she is talking shit about my parents in an attempt to psychoanalyze why I dumped her. I may have to destroy her now. Let me see how my mood is later, but first I have to hit the gym, sunbathe, and then do some laundry.

I was in a Brazilian club recently with a group of Brazilian guys. Most of them were in college, around 22-years-old, and I thought of myself as the wise elder of the group. To foster conversation and build rapport I asked them questions about Brazilian women that I already knew, pretending that I was learning information that was completely new.

A couple hours into the night the group scattered and I found myself with only one of them, a short but muscular engineering major at the local university. He overdrank a bit but overall I found him to be a good, fun kid.

Following him through the club, he opened a group of five girls, a tough approach in any country. Instead of dealing with the entire group he focused on the girl closest near him, a logical move since the music was too loud to attempt to engage everyone. About fifteen seconds into his approach, the ugliest girl of the group raises her hand into his face and makes a goodbye motion, telling him in so many words to fuck off and die.

Now if she did that to me then I’d accept it and move on because I almost deserve it for all the women I’ve used and abused over the years, but this guy was harmless. He only tried to have a conversation instead of going for cheap feel. He didn’t say anything sexist or mean. The ugly girl had no reason to treat him like trash.

I saw the ugly girl’s hand hanging in the air and my vision focused on her chubby fingers going back and forth in an undulating wave pattern. That bitch… who the fuck does she think she is? Does she think she’s better than him? I became enraged. I couldn’t believe that this undesirable human being would disrupt the normal flow of nature and prevent an attractive person from getting with another attractive person. Just because she can’t stop stuffing her face with Hot Pockets doesn’t mean she should interrupt the game of someone who can.

In one quick motion I put my hand on top of her wrist and pushed down.

You could only see the shock on her face for less than half a second. She quickly glanced at a far off spot in the club and started to dance again with a forced grin as if nothing happened. She didn’t look in my direction again. Of course the approach was over but I taught that bitch a lesson: do not disrespect a man who didn’t disrespect you. I guarantee you that for the rest of her life she will never do that again. Part of being a real man is teaching lessons to those who sorely need it.

Now imagine if all men would stand up to disrespectful women, whether it be cockblocking or just general bad behavior. Most of the problems that we bitch about would eventually disappear, all because we stopped accepting it. If we don’t punish what deserves to be punished, it will merely continue.

I have no sympathy for guys who always whine about getting cockblocked, because they’d remain silent if I ask them what they’ve done to stop it. Have you called out cockblockers? Have you made it uncomfortable for girls to continue cockblocking? Have you put the nasty fat bitches of the group in their place? Have you ruined her night by teaching her a lesson she’ll never forget? If not then as far as I’m concerned you’re part of the problem. You have done nothing to stop it so you don’t deserve for the problem to stop affecting you.

One night at a time, one girl at a time, we can change the world.