Bartender-blogger-columnist Jack recently posted about a pair of ladies who criticized unmarried men over 30-years-old, a group I will be part of in under a year. The ladies have failed to realize that their snark could easily and brutally be spun back onto themselves. In fact, all they did was point out their own misgivings.
Hi! Me Unmarried Man Over Thirty. Call me UMOT! You pretty lady! I act same way I did 15 years ago. I hang with buddies, drink beer, smoke pot, play video games. Maybe in band? Play music! UMOT no want to grow up! I want to bang on my drum all day!
If a man rather drink beer, smoke pot, and play video games rather than take you out on a date, what does that say about you? Human beings are animals that respond rather predictably to punishment and reward—if there is no reward in trying to fuck you then men will choose other activities. I don’t think this is an insult to the man, but to the woman who has not worked on herself properly to be more interesting than Halo 3.
Sometimes UMOT get sad. UMOT’s friends get married and leave UMOT! This makes UMOT question fundamental lifestyle choices! Maybe UMOT should no have sold all personal belongings to follow Phish for three years/live in Costa Rican Jungle/hike the Appalachian Trail? UMOT do what UMOT want to do. That it! I no like do things I no like doing!
Are you sure the man is questioning his choices, rather than his friends? The risk of marrying an American wife is so great, as this modern institution is so decidedly anti-man, that the only acceptable option is to go with a foreign bride who is not well-cultured in materialism, entitlement, and celebrity personalities. I’m told there is a country called Thailand where slim yet slightly curvy women are physically resistant to aging. They trip over themselves to marry even beastly American men whose legendary sexless streaks coincide with lunar eclipse events. What do you bring to the table that motivates this beast man for your vagina?
Let me put it this way: if there was a Old Pussy stock traded on the NYSE (ticker: OPSY), it would have been kicked out of the exchange ages ago for consistently trading under a dollar. Take a look at this photo, of a man who purchased 10,000 shares of OPSY thinking it would rise up in price. How do you think he feels now?
If a man really wants to get married (not sure why when nothing can be gained through marriage that can be had by simply shacking up), a foreign bride is the way to go. American women are great for casual dating and easy sex, but make for horrible wives. A foreign bride will give you a good ten years before she becomes corrupt, and even then you’ll at least get home cooked meals. You always have the option of buying another bride, maybe her younger sister, for something like three donkeys and a bag of potatoes.
UMOT likes sexy with ladies but UMOT no want commitment. That why I date women who younger than me by 7 years minimum. They no make me feel immature. They no threaten poor decision making skills. I no commit to nothing besides beer, spliff!
I remain unconvinced that fucking young pussy is a “poor decision making skill.” It costs less, comes with lighter baggage, and is not as demanding. If men are choosing younger women instead of you, it’s time to find out what qualities that young woman has that you don’t. Actually I’ll tell you what it is: pristine youth, something you wasted and lost, for all eternity. The boat has sailed, and instead of buying a new ticket you are hoping for the captain to notice your high-pitched shrieking and turn the ship around. He won’t. Why don’t you do something productive like knit a sweater or write a romance novel? You gotta leave your mark on the world some way, because we all know you’re not having children.
I make baby in 10 to 15 years with pretty young lady who make baby easy! No lady my age need apply. You make UMOT uneasy with independence, intelligence. Scares UMOT. I no like lady my age! Go away lady my age! Go away!
Independence and intelligence are great qualities in men and women who want to excel in the corporate boardroom, but are horrible for those men who want a relaxed, easy life, where not every little thing is a life or death debate that can be traced back to something Gloria Steinem wrote 30 years ago. Women need to understand that men don’t want independence and intelligence. Men want femininity, excellent sex, a hot body, homemaking skills, and compliance with minimal talk-back. Women need to stop deluding themselves that men what the same thing in a mate as themselves.
Nice to talk to pretty lady! Maybe I text later? Maybe hang at my studio apartment? Make sexy? Okay, me tired now. Me drank PBR, tequila until early morning and must sleep now on second hand mattress. Night, night, pretty lady. UMOT go Dreamland. Me text later.
The reason I text you is because you are not worth my time. You are not worth the energy to pick up the phone and make sounds with my voicebox. You are boring and expendable, just another hole I want to fuck to pass the time. If you want me to pick up the phone and take you seriously, you can start by cooking me a meal from scratch and deep throating my veiny cock against the back of your throat. Until then, good luck finding a man who is willing to put up with your shit.
With this right mix of youth and experience I have a good feeling about the future.
I need to tell you what happened the other night at the club. I was standing in the middle of the bar, minding my own business, when your girl walked by and gave me a little smile. She stopped near me and then out of instinct I said something about her being in my dancing space (since I need a lot of space to “show off my moves”), and she laughed and asked me what my name was. Eventually she ran back to her friends and I went back to standing and staring. About an hour later, while I’m still at the bar watching my friend get sloppy with some Ohioan transplant, guess who walks up to me? She said, “I just wanted to say goodbye,” but here’s the thing: she wasn’t leaving. That was just a line.
I noticed some rather deep wrinkles around her eyes. I looked at your girl and I said, “Be honest, how old are you?” She said 31, which as you know is a lie. How old is she really? 36? I don’t call her out because the fact that she is lying means the aging process is already traumatic for her. I also noticed the huge rock you gave her, which sparkled when hit by club lights rotating on pods attached to the ceiling. It’s so nice of you to buy her such a pretty ring. You must have a good job.
I wasn’t in the mood to dance so I let her rub up next to me. I touched your girl on her shoulder, her back, her waist, the top of her ass. Not once did she pull back. Her body was a little soft but not too bad; I can tell she makes the effort to hit the gym about once a week (though remind her that to tone up that ass there is nothing better than the stairmaster). Her friends lingered around but they were extremely trashed and wouldn’t have noticed if your girl did anything with me or any other guy in the bar. What a pathetic sight you missed!—five women rapidly approaching 40 stumbling around the bar like hungry dogs, doing anything to get their face licked by a younger guy. But you know what though? For being over 35 your girl doesn’t look bad. She’s bangable, at least.
It got a little interesting because while I was talking to your future wife this other old bitch starts gawking at me. She probably thought that since I was talking to one oldie I’d get with another, as if I was a member of the cougar club or something. They didn’t know that I strongly prefer girls under 25. (There was that 32-year-old I fucked three weeks ago but her body was just so curvy yet petite that I couldn’t resist. I never called her after we smashed though.)
I take a break from your girl to talk to the new cougar, and get this, she actually brags that she dates younger guys. Like that’s going to make me want her cellulite ass even more! I get tired of her because she was trying to attract me by showing off her supreme confidence (as if I value that), and went back to your girl, whose attention I still had. The fact that I talked to another girl didn’t hurt my cause. I looked at your girl and I said, “So are we making out or what?” If I really wanted to kiss her I would never reveal my cards in such a way—I just wanted to see how she would respond.
“No we’re not, but if I were to make out with a guy in this club tonight it’d be you.” How sweet, no? I looked at her and said, “Well, it’s obvious to me that you are breakable, but…”
And then something catches my eye. It’s a much younger girl standing six feet in front of me. Nice body, so-so face. She was with a friend who was dancing with some guy, meaning she was either lonely or bored and would be pretty open if I went up to her. It was an easy decision. I walk towards her before finishing my sentence, because your girl is not worth it. Not even for a sloppy make out. And you’re going to marry her. What a stupid fuck you are.
“Missions are stupid, Tereza. I have no mission. No one has. And it’s a terrific relief to realize you’re free, free of all missions.”
-The Unbearable Lightness Of Being
There used to be no obstacles in my path to sex. I had the strong desire followed by unlimited will that allowed me to sleep with a lot of women, something that I felt was necessary to make me a real man. I put up with all sorts of attitude, bullshit, flakiness, and frustration to make it happen.
Now the path is obstructed with debris. She’s not putting in enough effort. She’s not from the right country. She’s stupid. She lives too far. She’s too old. She’s not sensual or emotional. She has fat arms. She’s a lawyer. Something is always in the way of putting in a full effort, whereas a couple years ago it never came up.
It wasn’t long ago that I cherished the vagina (the organ, not the woman attached to it). I’d take almost any abuse for the chance to abuse it. I didn’t mind doing whatever was necessary, whatever the cost. The pursuit was completely pure.
The problem came about when I realized that women are as much of a source of unhappiness as happiness. Most are simply not worth the time, squirting vagina or not, and the costs associated with laying 95% of them exceeds the sexual benefits gained. And the benefits go down with increasing age: what was exciting when I was 22 is an afterthought at 29. There is little thrill in sticking a new vagina.
I’m at the stage where there is nothing left to prove or accomplish. No additional notch will make me a better person or more of a man than I am now. I’ve hit the point of diminishing return. As a result I have this basal level of game effort determined by my physical needs alone. It’s a lot lower than when I had something to prove. When I had a chip on my shoulder.
I was at a club with a friend and I told him how I’m barely motivated or inspired. He gave me a vigorous pep talk and told me I needed to stop being a lazy bitch. To get what was mine. I was pumped. That night I went to sleep ready to do what it takes to build a massive harem of girls. But the next day I woke up as apathetic as ever.
My mind refuses to allow me to work on something where it knows there is little gain. I’m afraid I’ve passed the peak of sexual conquest. Of quantity. Unless the girl is special or different in some way, or gives me a flag for better understanding of the world, then I can’t just go through the motions.
It feels like I’ve lost my main purpose in life.
Dear Retired Pimp,
What a difference a couple years make! I don’t believe you’re going to be a dad. While I’m not sure myself about getting married and having children, the fact that you married a foreign bride who from day one cooked, cleaned, and served your needs means I’m not too worried about your future. I don’t see your marriage winding up like the typical, sad case where once a month you pump through your wife’s hand as she reads gardening magazines.
I don’t have any marriage or relationship advice for you. That’s not my specialty. But you recently told me you’re having a baby girl. This is where karma could potentially bite men like us in the ass. If you do a good job raising her then she won’t end up the neighborhood bicycle like many of the girls we’ve smashed. Remember that one night we pulled this old broad to my place and almost tag teamed her? All three of us were half naked at one point. She was straddling on top of you and while you played with her breasts I gave her a shoulder rub. I think I was sitting on top of your thighs. I wonder if our friendship would have changed if she let…
Here are some parenting tips:
1. If you don’t give her enough attention, she will be insecure and go after any smooth talker who calls her pretty. These men will eventually use and abuse her. She won’t leave because she’ll have no self-esteem. But if you spoil her rotten, she will gravitate towards the assholes who don’t give her any attention. I’d err on the side of giving too much attention short of creating a princess.
2. Being a good parent is not hard, it just takes time. This is why most take the easy way out and stick the kid in front of the television. All that will do is train her to be an obedient consumer. Her brain is like a sponge and it’s up to you on what she soaks up. My little brother’s favorite foods happens to be processed shit made by Kraft and McDonalds. His attention span is shorter than a cat’s. Coincidence?
3. Buy a gun. After she goes through puberty, there are going to be men knocking the door, especially because of her exotic background. Be strict about dating but not too strict because then she will just do it behind your back. (She’ll rebel by screwing some dude she doesn’t care for in the first place.) I see no harm in following her around town. By then it won’t be necessary because they’ll have GPS devices you can attach to her belongings.
4. Watch the show WifeSwap on ABC. It’s not particularly good but it offers a fascinating look at how parenting styles shape children. How does that saying go… “Our lives are a continuation of our parents’.” With everything you do to your daughter there will be an effect, sometimes unintended.
Oh on the show you’ll also see that most parents are so retarded that it will be pretty much impossible for you to raise a complete screw-up.
5. If you tell her who not to date, it’s a 100% guarantee she will bring that type of man home. Trying to fix things when she is already of age will be hopeless. Her mate selection will be determined by the way you raise her (see no. 1).
6. You will be completely gray in a few years. You don’t strike me as a patient man but you will now learn. Either that or you go insane. The next five years until she starts school will be especially tough. If you need to take a break I can babysit her for $15 an hour including meals and unlimited pay-per-view entertainment. My resume includes babysitting my younger siblings. It’s true: I didn’t even flinch when my little brother did doo-doo in his pants three times in a span of four hours. I cleaned it with a big smile each time.
7. Consider private education. Have you been to a public school recently? I have and it’s not pretty. I recently confused my 12-year-old brother’s writing for the 5-year-old because his handwriting was so bad. I felt bad at first but now I regularly make fun of his chicken scratch to shame him into improving. I made a really good joke the other night which I’d like to share with you right now.
The 5-year-old is practicing his letters so his mom bought him this huge workbook where he writes and colors each letter of the alphabet. It’s the size of a poster board. When both of the brothers were in the same room I flipped open the workbook and gave approving nods. Then deadpan I said: “[12-year-old], I’m looking at your recent work and I really like how your handwriting is improving.” I flipped through another couple pages. “Your B’s and E’s are getting especially good. Keep it up brother I’m proud of you.”
He’s getting pissed and the little one, not yet able to pick up sarcasm, is yelling, “No, it’s mine!!! It’s mine!!! Those are my letters!!!! Not his!!! I did it!!!” It was beautiful. Now the little one thinks his handwriting is better than a 12-year-old’s. Two birds with one stone I say.
Anyway, they didn’t even teach the older one to write in cursive like we had to learn. He can barely read it. And this is Montgomery County we’re talking about. It has gotten much worse since our days.
8. Delay as long as possible until she has her first alcoholic beverage. Studies show that the sooner a person tries alcohol, the more he or she will abuse it. You don’t want her ending up like so many of the girls we’ve met who get sloppy, stumble over bar stools, and need to be carried out by friends. They wake up with sore vaginas and don’t know why. If she is the type of girl that slams shots and then stumbles off the bar and it’s not her birthday, I’m afraid you’ve failed.
The person she will become is almost entirely in your hands my friend. In a sense you are now a god.
What is the ideal cutoff age for having a child? If you’re a woman with at least a masters degree, you’re probably thinking 40, but reality will deal with that notion soon enough.
Trust me when I say you don’t want to be approaching 50-years-old with a hyperactive monster running around crying his eyes out because he wants another ice cream cone after the first got smashed into the screen of your new LCD television set (seen in a million times). You don’t want to have a kid when you’re on the decline and rob him or her of a parent who has energy to take it outside and play for hours instead of forced playtime once a week in the filthy McDonalds ball cage.
My father is my test case. He had me, his first (and favorite), when he was 26-years-old. He had my last brother at 50-years-old. I feel bad for the little one because his father, while the same as mine, isn’t the same. My Dad used to take me and a soccer ball out for hours at a time, but my little brother gets 30 minutes of digging for worms while Pops watches from the steps tending to his garden.
“A healthy 50-year-old can’t match the energy of even a tired 30-year-old,” my dad said to me. I think by tired he meant lazy and by 30-year-old he meant me, but I understood his point. He’s old and tired, and while he loves the little butterball he’s at the age where he just wants to relax. The internet and television is raising my brother more than it did me.
I accept it: if I don’t have a kid by my late 30′s then it’s not going to happen. It shouldn’t—it wouldn’t be fair to the kid. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I’m wholly incapable of giving decades of my life to another human being and making sure it comes out right in the world. While I am growing a very nice basil plant, I admit my failure as a member of this species and will have to find some other way to leave my legacy, if I care to do so. Bless my parents for doing what I cannot.
I see him at least six days a week. He walks into the door and makes a pit stop by my table for two minutes of small talk. He thinks I’m a hard worker because that’s what it appears I’m doing whenever he comes in, but most of the time I’m staring at the screen thinking about what mediocre baked good snack I’m going to buy when I get hungry.
He gets the exact same thing every time. A cup of coffee and lemon pound cake. Sometimes twice a day. One time I joked that I just got the last piece of lemon pound cake and added how delicious it was. You should have seen the look on his face—it’s like his heart stopped! I never joked about that again.
His legs are thin like my wrist, but he never uses a cane. He walks slowly, his arms halfway outstretched to maintain his balance. Those steep curbs get him. He needs to hold on to someone’s forearm to lift his foot six inches off the ground. I told him I see men much younger than him using canes, and he smiled and said he doesn’t need one. Once you hold a cane, you hold it until you die.
He still drives, he brags, and I’ve seen him drive. With my teeth clenched I could barely watch him reverse out of a parking space and almost jump over the curb. It’s a miracle his car doesn’t have a scratch. Next week he’s going to Florida for a little vacation on his own. He will travel alone because he is alone. I told him that’s the only way to travel.
I looked him in the eyes one day and said, “When I become old I hope I become you.” And I meant it. And he laughed. I hope to be his age and independent, to be spared the brutal effects of aging that appear more cruel than death itself. To have every system of your body shut down unmercifully, to decompose before your last breath. I fear aging more than death, for in death there is no mirror to see how wholly unhuman I have become. I can only wait and see what nature has in store for me, but I hope that when my time is up, and I have lived my life to the best of my being and I’m nothing but an mere container, that I look at death right in the eyes, and beg it to take me. And it does.
My friend was born in 1917. He still has a long way to go.
I found a post that commented on my latest video. It’s titled Ruining Roosh, which I fully expected it to be a hate-fest. Let’s take a look. (If you haven’t seen the video yet then you might want to watch it first.)
The first thing I thought was, “Wow, his hair is even WORSE than it looks in stills!”
The second thing was: even if I were an aspiring PUA, I’m not convinced this guy would have much useful to teach me. Sure, the techniques he recommends sound plausible and may, in fact, work for someone like himself. But what the videos, taken in neither a sexual nor even social context, indicate to me is that he is already building on a base of raw charisma that would be extraordinarily difficult to teach or fake. It’s hard to articulate the source of the charisma. The tenor of his voice, at a minimum. The structure of his face. Maybe body language is involved, in that he didn’t do anything obviously off-putting. The point is, the attraction for women is obvious. I can totally believe his tales of conquest; what I don’t believe is his claim that the psychological manipulation he employs would be met with the same success when used by people without his natural advantages.
First, I appreciate the flattering comments, especially since many haters have arrived at opposite conclusion. I wanted to address the comment that I have “natural advantages.”
You see my appearance in the video. I look like Teen Wolf spawn and except for my height everything the modern 20-something American woman finds attractive in a man is a quality I don’t possess. Girls make fun of my hair almost every night I go out, but they still compliment me in the end, something that I noticed is increasing. Don’t get me wrong I feel very comfortable in my skin, but when I’m banging a girl I don’t believe it was because of my look. I believe it’s because I said the right things with the right attitude, with the right moves, and with the right body language.
I think a girl will rationalize a man as more attractive when there are subconscious forces at play (body language, tone, etc.). For example, if I had a blog called RooshVirgin.com and every day I told stories about how I never get laid and cry myself to bed most nights and then made a similar video, would the blogger have seen me in the same light? Neil Strauss, author of The Game, is an ugly man with an appearance that is best described a rat. If you’ve heard him speak he has a high-pitched, annoying voice. (I hear him talk and I truly feel bad.) But have you caught yourself looking at him, after knowledge of his success, thinking “Oh he isn’t that bad”? He actually is that bad! He’s hideous and I even found myself rationalizing his success by saying, “Well he’s written a couple articles for the Rolling Stone before The Game. That’s why models were banging him.” Doubtful.
Last point I wanted to make: charisma is a learned quality. You don’t know charm without hundreds of sexually charged interactions with the opposite sex. My early experiences with women were rough and awkward and I had trouble smoothly stringing together sentences that kept a girl’s attention. But now I can do it without trying and it’s not because I was born with it but because I’ve had so much practice.
Every year it’s getting easier for me because every year I get better, even as the lines on my face get deeper with age and my physical appearance has long since peaked. I have a feeling my 30′s will be the best, easiest years of my life when it comes to women.