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.

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.

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.

At risk of giving the Men’s Rights virgins some ammunition, here’s an email I received the other day, edited to remove any personal information:

I lived in Brazil most of my life, read The Game 6 months ago, and since then I have consumed lots of material about pick up. I noticed some solid improvement, both dealing with women and in my social life in general, but after reading your last post I found out that my goal is impossible to achieve.

I thought that by improving my game, I would be able to overcome the insane level of bitchiness of hot Brazilian girls on expensive clubs, which, as you said on your post, are the hottest here. But your post made me believe that pick up knowledge available does not have hot/rich Brazilian girls in mind. I know from personal experience (from before and after reading any material) that the same principles apply, but I am no longer confident that what is available is enough for Brazilian expensive clubs.

[In the United States], I was amazed by how approachable American girls were, and in average they were hotter too! I could at least get a phone number from a reasonably good looking girl every night. I felt like fishing in barrel, compared to my life in Brazil.

Anyway, I think I will officially retire from my pick up studies. I make very good living, and have good social skills. I am not very good looking (a 6 or 7 I’d say), but I have been on a long term relationship with a solid 9-10. She’s a very nice girl, I just thought that it was bad timing, and that I had more of life to experience. I thought that studying pick up would have made a more mature man, helping dealing with anxiety, and evolve my social skills as a whole. I thought to myself: “when I am confident enough so that I *feel* am able to pick up any girl I want — yes, those on those clubs –, I will have experienced my feelings and will be mature enough to settle down”. Anyway, I no longer believe that that goal is achievable.

My reply:

So you’ve been studying game for six months, have not banged a silly hot Brazilian girl, and deem it “impossible” even after you’ve seen improvements? Do you know how ridiculous this sounds? You’re writing this to a man who went to South America and was basically dying slowly but still went out there and chased hard until he [DBIP spoiler]. I’m sorry I can’t respect this email at all because it screams quitter. If I was also a quitter then we can whine together about how hard life is and how hard it is to bang pretty girls but no, because I don’t give up.

Your solution is to man up, stop whining, and go do 200 approaches in the three months.

A noteworthy part of his email:

I thought that studying pick up would have made a more mature man

In six months he expected to be a completely new man! Come on people: real, lasting change takes time. You can go out there with new lines or techniques and get laid in the next month, but changing who you are is a gradual process that you won’t notice until way into the future when you accomplish some difficult task or goal using some seemingly inconsequential thing you learned from a prior experience. It won’t be obvious.

I was reading the blog of this girl who traveled through South America. The post from when she returned home said something along the lines of, “I’m so disappointed that I’m back and feel like exactly the same person.” Unfortunately people want to go out and do this big experience and feel an immediate payoff to justify it, a result of the Western culture sickness where everything is cost-benefit analyzed to death. But of course that’s not how life works. The cumulation of many experiences will gradually change you, but nothing where you can draw a line from point A to B and say, “Yes climbing the Inca Trail has helped me… get this raise at work!”

Lastly, you can’t go wrong if you do things you enjoy that keep you engaged in life. I sought out the game because it’s what I wanted, not because I saw a bestselling book at Barnes & Noble that was targeted to my age and gender. If your heart isn’t into something and you merely follow popular trends, you’ll quit before accomplishing anything meaningful.

A random comment I made on the blog In Mala Fide has made the rounds a bit. It was in reference to the “Men’s Rights” blogs and forums that I notice popping up everywhere. Here’s the comment:

I’m not against Men’s Rights, but a lot of these blogs are written by guys who have no game and can’t get laid, and serve as just an outlet for being a lifelong sexual loser. It’s like women who get around in their circles to complain about about how men aren’t sensitive or caring enough.

These guys dedicate their time to complaining about feminists or marriage, yet they have zero experience with either! I suspect they are anti-social, bitter virgins who simply don’t have anything else to do with their bountiful free time, too fearful of putting their fragile ego on the line to be a man and actually get laid. They have draining corporate gigs and the only thing they have to look forward to are weekly visits to Chipotle Mexican Grill.

In fact you will not go wrong in life by not listening to a man who can’t get laid. He can be very intelligent but his thoughts are not based on the “real world” where there are guys banging and traveling and starting businesses and having a good time with life. Thinking without doing is nothing but masturbation, something that I suspect these MR bloggers do a lot of.

Now I want you to brace yourself for what I’m about to tell you.

You braced?

A lot of guys in the Men’s Rights community do not believe that game works. Yeah I spit out my vitamin water on the monitor too.

Don’t believe me? Try wallowing through these threads:

Is the “PUA” approach to women valid?

Why the PUAs are winning

(This is a good opportunity to gripe about the misuse of the acronym PUA. It stands for pick-up artist, which is a man who uses the art of game to pick up women. If you say, “I don’t know if I believe in PUA,” you’re saying “I don’t know if I believe in pick-up artist.” That doesn’t make sense. Game is a philosophy (or lifestyle) that is mastered by guys who can be called pick-up artists or players or whatever. I prefer the player term, though it doesn’t seem to be popular among white males.)

Pretend you’re me for a second, and you’ve read comment after comment by guys who don’t believe in game, when you yourself have made a complete 180 because of it. What further proof can I offer than myself, a sexless wonder who started getting laid only after studying and practicing game?

Unfortunately no proof is enough for Men’s Rights followers. I can film my pickups from start to end, using several lines that are word-for-word what you can find here or in Bang, film the resulting three-minute sex act and declarations of affection from the girl, and they’ll still find some way to rationalize that I’m not using game at all. They’ll say I’m a natural, when they don’t understand I’ve been working on my game every week for going on nine years.

They’ll say, “Roosh is naturally funny, or charming, or okay looking. I’m sure he would do well even without game.” Wrong. I’m “funny” because I’ve practiced my jokes on hundreds of girls. I’m “charming” because I’ve measured the reactions of women to see what works and what doesn’t, and kept only that which got the result I wanted. I’m “okay looking” because I work out, tried different styles, learned how to carry myself, and have rigorously experimented with different hair and beard configurations. I can tell you right now where a Jesus haircut would work well for me versus a hipster shag cut.

If you see me pick up today it does look very natural because I’ve integrated all these game component parts into something fluid that works a good percentage of the time, but there was absolutely nothing fluid about my initial attempts to overcome my inability to get laid.

I don’t hide from you guys that I’ve been rejected a million times. Of course I still get rejected to this day, by girls who for some odd reason don’t want to bang me. If you’ve read A Dead Bat In Paraguay you saw how bad it can get. But I’m very open to learning, and I continue to do so no matter how satisfied I’ve become with where I’m at. For example I used the lessons from those tough six months in South America to come to Colombia and do pretty well with the women. In fact I almost wish I had more troubles so that I would have a “problem” to base a sequel on. But there are none, and I know no one wants to read a memoir about a guy who is happy and getting what he wants.

Then the Men’s Rights guys will say, “But he is SELLING books.”

Yes because anyone who’s passionate enough about a topic to spend months or years to compile their life experiences into works that teach others cannot be trusted. If someone has written a book or produced anything of value, do not listen to them! They’re ruthless businessmen in disguise! I wouldn’t even listen to someone who has a blog because they’re obviously doing it for the fame of receiving many visitors or comments (and in the case of male bloggers, groupies). Or else they would simply maintain a diary that rests inside their nightstand. They blog mainly for their ego. Same for people who post on the same forums for years. They have an ulterior motive of wanting to feel special in knowing that other people respect their four-digit post count and are getting something out of their words.

In fact if you think about it, anyone who shares knowledge is suspect. Lately I only gain knowledge from homeless men who talk outloud to themselves because they’re not doing it for money, fame, ego, attention or any type of satisfaction that comes from helping others. Approach anyone else’s words with extreme hesitation.

Hyperbole aside, all men can learn and improve, whether it’s in business, women, sports, or Chinese checkers. To think that getting laid is genetically determined and that you can’t improve—what a horrible way to live! If I had to accept my lot I would probably be in some shitty job not getting laid and feeling miserable about how “unlucky” I am while complaining about how much women suck. I would be a Men’s Rights follower. I would camp out on blogs and forums all day posting “intellectual” comments for other guys who are socially awkward because they are too scared to step away from the computer monitor for one minute and take some social risk by practicing conversation with attractive women.

But if you tell them, “Bro, you need to approach a girl and get some action,” they’ll say, “Stop using shaming language on me!” That’s their comeback. It’s like a little boy on the playground saying, “Don’t make fun of me! I like eating my boogers!” For guys who supposedly love using logic, they are completely unable to properly defend their lack of action, and have insulated themselves in a protective internet bubble where they gang up on the slightest bit of dissent by saying it makes them feel ashamed. They can’t get laid, they supposedly don’t like women (especially Western women) and don’t want to work to bang them, yet they whine and bitch about women all day long.

Now I’ve whined and bitched about women plenty on this blog, and I think it’s especially fun to get on feminsts and American women, but at the end of the day I’m also banging feminists and American women, drinking with them, having a laugh with them, and cuddling with them until I get bored and need a break from their sense of entitlement and masculine attitudes. Variety is the spice of life and the reason you’re reading me right now is because of the wide range of experiences I’ve had with many different types of women. While I wouldn’t mind being a one-hit-wonder by wearing my plaid shirt every night and going to a hipster bar in D.C. to get laid with minimal effort, there wouldn’t be much advice I can share for men of the world.

The bottom line is that a real man puts himself in new, challenging environments and pushes the limits of his ability and character to get what he truly desires. I greatly admire the 21-year-old who goes onto my forum and posts about a brutal rejection, but perserveres and weeks later shares a success story. I admire the three guys I met in Medellin who all rolled up with little Spanish but got their flags in less than two weeks after approaching like machines day and night. I admire the guy who I saw do his first ever bookstore approach and get a long-term girlfriend out of it. You think they give a shit about Men’s Rights? No, because they use game to get laid with the women they want. They believe in action to accomplish their goals, not mental masturbation with a bunch of guys who have trouble telling you what a vagina feels like, yet can’t stop obsessing over it.

One of my most interesting day game workshops took place this past weekend. My student was Jessica’s kid Jack.

I was a little surprised when Jessica asked me to teach her kid day game. I told her I thought he was a little young, but she was insistent on giving him a head start and I’m not one to turn down money being thrown at me. She volunteered to pay my round-trip ticket from Colombia and also threw in a little bonus in case Jack went potty on himself during the workshop. He’s almost a year old.

The workshop started in the coffee shop with three hours of lecture material. It’s there that I felt that Jack wasn’t really comprehending my teachings. He couldn’t stay focused and sobbed loudly through much of the session, drawing dirty looks from many patrons who probably assumed I was his father. He definitely went potty on himself and with the help of Starbucks personnel I got him cleaned up and ready for the hands-on session where he would chat with girls.

I asked him multiple times if he was ready for the approaches, but he would just give me blank stares while smashing his Spongebob Squarepants toy on the table. I took that for a yes.

He wasn’t exhibiting any approach anxiety (suggesting a possible natural ability), and opened an extremely attractive young 20-something girl next to our table. He completely blew the line I taught him, instead mouthing off gibberish that even I couldn’t understand, but unbelievably it worked and she turned her body completely to face him with a giant smile. She complimented his appearance and touched him immediately and incessantly, something that has never happened to me in coffee shops. For taking absolutely no notes during the lecture portion (instead he gnawed on the pen I lent him), his first approach was proceeding quite splendidly.

The girl tried to lift him up for some reason and that’s when we both noticed that he went potty on himself again. I figured the approach was over and we’d have to leave, but she cleaned him up with some moist toilettes left over from the last time he went potty and resumed playing with him. I was in total disbelief that his technique was working, and started furiously taking notes on what I was observing. The girl eventually gave me her number, telling me to call the next time Jack wanted to play. Weird thing is Jack never asked for her number, and it’s here that I suspected Jack was using an inner game technique.

Jack and I then went to the Urban Outfitters. He started to wreck many of the display cases and the staff wasn’t all too pleased with my sheepish apologies. I distanced myself and let him crawl amok while I pretended to shop for extra skinny jeans. Out the corner of my eye I saw three beautiful girls rush to his side from nowhere and say, “What are you doing little guy?!” There were encircling him, all on their knees, asking Jack questions like what’s his name and how old he was. The girls definitely were interested but Jack was more into his beloved Spongebob, now heavy with drool. They gave up after trying hard for five minutes, possibly more. I started to doubt Jack was completely truthful earlier when he remained silent after I asked him if he had any prior pick up experience.

We left Urban Outfitters and went to McDonalds. He didn’t eat much (half his French Fries ended up on the floor), but he killed his Coca-Cola. The sugar and caffeine energized him for our next venue, the street, which any guy knows is the hardest place to pick up.

Here’s where it gets a little weird: Jack didn’t have to do the approaches himself—the girls approached him outright. Not only that but they lavished him with compliments on his physical appearance, saying he was “cute,” “adorable,” and a “handsome little man.” I was flabbergasted as neither myself or my previous students have ever been approached on the street like that. Even when he wasn’t being approached, the amount of eye contact he got was more than I received in the past week. Jack didn’t seem to be too interested in the girls though and declined to close any of the them. I started to feel a bit insecure that I was being somewhat upstaged by someone who supposedly had no prior field experience.

The effect of the carbonated beverage was wearing off so I figured we only had time for one more venue—the bookstore. Once inside he immediately went off to the children’s section and grabbed Goodnight Moon. I advised him that it’s better to put down the baby book and grab an interesting one that he can use as a prop for conversation, such as The Omnivore’s Dilemma or Eat, Pray, Love. He yelled at the top of his lungs, which I took as a no, and rampaged through the store while crumpling the book’s pages. I had to assure the staff that I’d purchase the now-destroyed book, which I would later bill to Jessica.

During the rampage we both took notice of a gorgeous Eastern European girl, presumably on vacation (she had a plastic bag from one of the Smithsonian museums—Air and Space if I remember correctly). I was ready to throw Jack under the bus to game her myself, but she slid up next to him before I could make a move and asked him, “What book do you got there?”

Jack showed her his work of destruction and the girl, who turns out was from Poland, was so enamored that she started reading from the ruined pages. Then suddenly I was hit with a most offensive wall of fecal odor. The Polish girl stopped reading (she was at the page where the cow crashes through the window), and said, “Someone went doo-doo in his pants!” Apparently Jack took a massive dump.

I’ll be honest: I felt a little pleased at his accident because I was tired of his nonstop success, but then without warning the Polish girl embraced him and then carried him to the bathroom to clean his bottom. They came back and were laughing hard, and I can swear they were making fun of me but exactly how I do not know. Then the Polish girl looked at me said, “Here’s my number. Call me if you need help with your handsome little man.”

“Oh I don’t think I’ll need help,” I said. “But if want to grab a drink tomorrow night we can….”

“Uhhh I don’t know. But if you have Jack around then I’ll come.”

Yeah that stung a bit.

The Polish girl left and I tried to give Jack closing remarks on a table in the cafe, but he just drooled all over the material while putting two pennies in his mouth that he found on the floor. I called Jessica and she came to pick him up not long after, thanking me for my service.

I sat alone in the bookstore coffee shop for a while staring at an Ernest Hemingway poster that was up on the wall, trying to piece together exactly what happened and why the past seven years of my life studying game was challenged in a few hours by someone who used nonsensical gibberish to communicate, soiled his pants repeatedly, and destroyed shit like a crazy maniac.

But then I thought about it more. Jack beats to his own drum. He shows disinterest. He has his own hobbies that he’s 100% commited too, like drooling and bashing things. He’s a straight-up alpha dog, and that’s why those girls threw themselves on him. There’s no other explanation, or else I’ll have to admit that my entire lifestyle is a sham.

There are many ways to skin a cat and Jack has shown me that a simple “Bahhhhagooboopsshhh” is just as effective and saying something like, “So what qualities do you have which make me want to get to know you better?” And here I thought I knew everything about game. Thank you Jack and Jessica, for teaching this old man some new tricks.