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.

While I don’t thing it’s hard for a book to change your life, enhancing it in some way, I do think it’s rare for one to completely alter your future and put you on a different path than you had intended. This latter type of book ultimately causes you to take a risk that increases the likelihood of an earlier death. Books that have done it for me include Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynmann, Walden, and A Death In Brazil. They instilled enough curiosity and provided enough motivation to quit my job and hit the road for South America. My book A Dead Bat In Paraguay has also done this for a handful of guys, too, sending them to third world swamps of disease that are less safe than their pleasant suburban cubicle. Malaria, anyone? It’s possible that some men may have their life expectancies shortened thanks to me. Cool.

It looks like I may have to add a new book to my list: The Exile: Sex, Drugs, And Libel In The New Russia.

I have a close Russian friend who would tell me stories about the motherland, but besides mentioning the occasional vacation to Moscow, he hasn’t ever given much detail about what goes on inside the country. I was always curious yet never motivated to visit. Then I read The Exile.

The book is centered around Mark Ames, a self-described loser from California who goes to Moscow to get away from America. He’s soon joined by Matt Taibbi, who you may know from his recent articles in The Rolling Stone. For nearly a decade they go on to publish the most controversial newspaper that post-Communist Russia has ever seen.

The story begins with Mark Ames and his 9-month ordeal with butt scabies in the “European Care House,” where he mooched off his foreign girlfriend and her mom. Afterwards, he leveraged his stepfather’s death from a brain tumor to land a shitty job in Moscow, eventually winding up as a personal assistant for a smelly Pakistani mogul. After a gig with an English rag called Living Here, he started up his own paper called The Exile with the help of a shady Russian investor.

Drug use is featured very prominently in the book (the launch of The Exile involved bountiful supplies of methamphetamine to meet deadlines). The authors prefer heroin, speed, and cocaine to alcohol or marijuana, and even go so far as to detail sociological reasons why speed was more likely to take off in Estonia than Russia, for example. In fact, most of the newspaper was written under some type of substance (the graphic designer drank one beer for all 24 pages of the publication, passing out at his desk upon completion). I’m not big into drugs, but some passages made me want to score some smack and inject it directly into my veins for the hell of it.

The expatriate mentality is a tough thing to explain easily. Any affluent or even middle-class American who renounces the good life of sushi delivery and 50-channel cable television to relocate permanently to some third-world hole usually has to be motivated by a highly destructive personality defect. Either that, or something about home creates psychological demons that in turn create the urge for radical escape.

While Ames was working as a slave for the Pakistani, Taibbi played professional basketball in Mongolia. He returned to the States for surgery and then jetted off to Moscow to work as a writer. Ames steals him from Living Here and the synergy that results takes us on a wild ride through Moscow’s corrupt government, the two-faced expat community, and the techno club scene full of teenage girls who were eager to copulate with Americans. Of course I couldn’t get enough talk about Russian girls, with my favorite part of the book being when they describe ladies night at the Duck Bar. It was dubbed “rape camp” by the expats, a place where “you got laid even if you didn’t want to.” Rivers of puke, massive brawls, police raids, and sex on tables were the norm. “The Duck changed people,” they said.

Included are dozens of full-length Exile articles to give perspective on the stories, which are just as fun to read as the main text. This is one of those books you didn’t want to end, so I made sure to read all the articles to prolong the pleasure.

Of course Russia is better off now, but I decided that I must (eventually) visit a country where “even the policewomen are hot.” Fuck places like Prague, a safe destination with cheesy, Western-owned businesses that’ll remind me of Buenos Aires (Ames describes how Czech women are far inferior to Russian women, anyway). To top it all off, Ames hates American women. In the chapter titled “The White God Factor,” he shreds them so bad I don’t advise any American girl to read the book unless they want to be put on suicide watch. Quotes like this only put a smile on my face:

All American women, and practically all the European women, are socially and sexually devasted by Russia. They’re at a massive disadvantage for the first time in their lives. They didn’t expect it at all. None of us did. We all came here expecting to skim the top, showing the poor savages how to work, eat, dress… But things started to happen to us. We—the expat men and women—veered off in wildly different directions, on to nonintersection planes.

…

Expat women like my old girlfriend get hit with a double-whammy of shit luck in Moscow: First, they’re physically outclassed by the Russian girls; and secondly, the Russian men are slouched, pasty, unkempt, and, in most Western women’s eyes, the ugliest men in Europe. And yet… even the Russian men don’t want expat women. Which leaves—exactly no one wanting expat women. That’s right: no one.

Just a couple weeks ago I was at a coffee shop when a tall Russian woman walked in. She was just barely cute, and could stand to lose a couple pounds, but she had on a sexy red dress and four inch high heels. Her makeup and hair were immaculately done, and it was only two in the afternoon. Even though there were hotter American girls in the coffee shop along with her, she made them invisible and almost worthless. She was the only girl that entire day that I’d work for in order to lay, and it was no surprise that the American man who came out to meet her (internet date, I suppose) couldn’t contain his excitement. He wore a cheesy grin as if to say, “I don’t believe my luck!” Hell, I felt lucky just to witness her, like a zoologist catching two endangered animals mating in the wild without having to use binoculars.

American women have been raised to believe that traditional qualities of femininity—appearing as though you are trying to please the man by caking on makeup, wearing tight short skirts that show off your legs, speaking in a high voice, giggling, and deferring to his desires—as well as characteristics usually used to describe sluts—high heels, heavy perfume, sleeping with a man on the first night without demanding he use a condom—are not only atavistic and repugnant but, ultimately, unsuccessful tactics in the competition for Mr. Right.

Ames and Taibbi paint a portrait of Russia being the last known wild west, where death or dismemberment is a real concern. I know things have changed since the book was published in 2000, but as long as I avoid uber-rich Moscow, I think I can capture some of what they experienced over a decade ago. The fact that they make a place like Brazil seem like Disneyland on family fun day means I have no choice but to visit, sooner than later. I highly recommend The Exile, one of those rare books that makes me want to be a part of the story. After you read the book, check out theVanity Fair exposé that acts as the epilogue.

Not until I was back in the U.S. for five months did I go on a date with an American girl I hadn’t already slept with. My game up to that point was only one-night stands and late-night meetups, and while it was serving me well, I was essentially porking the same girl over and over again.

This new girl I took out was a little different—classy and elegant with superb body posture developed from years playing the piano. I initially approached her at a coffee shop and we connected on various levels: we both have traveled extensively, we both speak Spanish, and we both hate D.C. The first date would be judged as a success by most people, with kissing at around the two-hour mark and enough gas left in the tank to keep it going for far longer.

I have a bad habit when I kiss a new girl without sleeping with her (i.e. when there is still sexual tension). For the first night I think about her. I imagine how the relationship would pan out along with all the nice little moments we’ll have, until I snap out of it the next day. But with this girl, my brain wouldn’t go along with my cheesy routine. I struggled to conjure up any sort of future scene between me and her even though we matched quite well on paper. I started to think of the reason why.

If I showed up looking nice on a date with a Brazilian girl, she’d compliment my appearance. An American girl would ask if I was a “hipster,” or make some otherwise neutral comment similar to one a random elderly lady might give in a grocery store line. Do I need a girl to make a positive comment about my appearance? No.

If I was having a great time with a Colombian girl, she’d touch my thigh and say she was having a… great time. When an American is having a great time, she’ll tell a convoluted story about how her friend is dating some guy she met on the internet. It’s my responsibility to flesh out some underlying metaphor that is supposed to represent her feelings for me. Do I need a girl to make a statement telling me she’s enjoying my company? No.

If a Puerto Rican girl likes me, she’d invite me to her home to bake a dish from her country that she suspects I might like. An American girl will offer me her Chipotle leftovers or make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, untoasted. Do I need a girl to cook delicious food for me? No. I don’t need a girl to do anything but spread her legs, but these optional things hit the provider buttons of my brain, telling me that I can put more effort and investment into the girl. They tell me to take a short break from the game and enjoy at least a little bit of time with this new person.

Two days after the date with the American girl, I was out, prowling harder than ever. While she kissed me with enthusiasm and let me begin to make explorations of her petite body, the interaction had the same staleness I’ve become numb to. There was nothing about it that instilled any type of hope or feeling that my happiness would increase if I spent more time with her. The best analogy I can give you is that we were colleagues trying to hide an affair from everyone in the office. It didn’t matter that we were in the dark corner of the bar or isolated in a car, but it’s as if people she knew were watching and judging her, and she was not allowed to say pleasant things or initiate a touch that could be considered “strong interest.” And forget about displays of natural human vulnerability—that’s simply not allowed.

Maybe we were starring in a reality show and she wanted to solidify a hard-as-balls reputation so that she would get a future book deal with an idea she had been tinkering with for the past couple of years: “How To Be A Cutthroat Independent Woman In A Cutthroat World. Did I Mention Cutthroat? Cutthroat!” There wasn’t a scrap of feeling or emotion, and any opening up on my part by making positive but non-needy comments about our interaction would be severely punished with her not returning my texts or calls. Opening up to a Colombian, Brazilian, or Puerto Rican girl would be rewarded with reciprocation and a further deepening of the relationship.

The connection I get from one month with a Brazilian girl is the same connection I can get from spending one year with an American. The former starts calling me “baby” by the second date, something I started to do but actively repress for American girls. I’m two different men—one cold and unaffectionate to get some cheap fucks that tide me over until I’m rewarded for being a passionate, confident man to a grounded woman who knows how to be happy in a relationship.

I’ve dated too many American girls like the one I’m describing to you, so many “coworkers” who wanted to stay professional. (The only time that mask comes off is when I penetrate her—then she adopts a completely different persona that is best described as porn satire.) One reason I have tolerated this behavior recently is I was only interacting with them for a short time until getting to sex. And most of that time was under the influence. Prolonging the process with long-form dating reminded me of how challenging it is to accept this masculinity and lack of warmth, especially when you’ve discovered that it’s not real, that women are really not like this. Believe me when I say I’m not angry, bitter, or sad—I’m only disappointed that the women of my birth country have been destroyed through the work of intellectual man-haters. Or is it the fault of suits in power who go along with the anti-man nonsense to lock up the female vote? All I know is that winning the lottery is only marginally harder than finding a woman who can serve her man like in the not-so-distant past.

Read this profile and tell me if it was written by a man or woman:

I’m an ironically-self-proclaimed “bright young thing” in Washington DC, by way of the midwest. I currently work as a researcher/analyst/Intelligence and Reconaissance Ninja for a social media PR agency, where I anxiously await the DotCom Bust 2.0. I also frequently find myself on the fringes of the DC libertarian movement, having begun my life here as an intern for the free-market think tank mafia. My favorite pastimes include brunch, blogging, sharpening my wit, terrifying people with my charm, self-parody, and digesting the absurdities of the world around me. And in case you were curious, I’m much sweeter in real life.

If you told me this was written by a man, I’d raised my left eyebrow (the only one I can raise independently) at the “much sweeter in real life” statement, but I wouldn’t be particularly shocked. It has the hallmark style of a guy trying to be witty and smart to impress whomever might read it—with the intention of sparking interest in a girl who desires someone with a stable job. Well it’s in fact written by a woman, a term I have no choice but to use loosely these days. After taking several hours and a dozen drafts to get it just right, I guarantee you “she” congratulated herself for coming up with such a powerful! and impactful! description of who she is. While I have no doubt that sexless dweebs who didn’t notice her misspelling of reconnaissance are lining up to shower her with attention, her profile is what I think about when I want to get rid of a persistent boner, or when I want to last longer in the sack while I’m fucking a girl.

I won’t neglect to mention the flip side of the detached, professional woman because I just met her a couple weeks ago—a young lipstick feminist educated in an expensive university. She was sexy but had the bad habit of biting my lip, and not the sensual nibble that increases pleasure, but a sting that caused me to instinctively pull my head back. “Don’t bite my lip like that,” I said the first time it happened. “Oh come on,” she replied. It was my fault I didn’t enjoy the bite, even though it felt like the prick of a novacain needle before getting a cavity filled. She did it again. I’m serious don’t bite my lip. She was insulted. How dare I question her chomps of passion!

She calmed down for a couple hours, but then it came again much harder than before. You might as well have taken a binder clip meant for a stack of papers and put it on my lip to pinch off a piece of flesh. I flipped out and the interaction terminated. I’m certain she went home to complain about me to her friends: “What a loser I met tonight! When am I going to find a real man who can handle this jelly!”

During the five days it took for the little scab to slough off my lip, I wondered where I could score some of the testosterone she must be injecting so I, too, can adopt a take-no-prisoners attitude that she was taught will get her what she wants out of life. In reality the testosterone is not injected directly into her skin—it’s absorbed by her brain through the culture, which is rewarding young girls when they display go-getting aggressiveness that men used to possess. At the same time it punishes the easy-going, compliant qualities that are necessary to maintain fulfilling relationships and sane households. Even basic human traits like charm and flirtatiousness are like abstract paintings in America, nebulous constructs that no one wants to figure out or work on.

I thought back to the Colombian girl who was too meloso (affectionate) after just a couple weeks of dating. Not used to this behavior, I sternly told her to tone it down. I still remember her response—it was the same as a newborn kitten adjusting to earthly light: scared and confused. What a heartless monster she must’ve saw me as! Thing is I was a monster. They say acceptance is the first step, and with each foreign woman I date, I come closer to being a man that I would’ve never been had I not peeked around the corner into the “bad” neighborhood that all the cool kids seem to be sneaking out of.

Grab a random man off an American street. Take away the penis, broad shoulders, and body hair. Add breasts, a crotch hole stingy with its lubrication, and a tendency for inane chatter that is insignificant to all forms of life two minutes after it’s uttered. You have an American woman. I’m not attempting to be funny: I sincerely cannot feel the difference between the men and women of this country once you take away the clothing and hair. Men look and act like fags while women act like men of yesterday, all to make a lot of money in an office park that contains a Starbucks. If you draw a venn diagram of both genders the circles might as well completely overlap. My expectations with women here are so low that going out with one is like spending time with my 7-year-old brother: as long as she doesn’t piss her pants and embarrass me in public, the date was a great success.

The man who doesn’t mind American women is cold and disconnected himself, hopelessly confused about his masculinity and his place in the world. I’d be an easy cheap shot for me to say “they deserve each other,” but the truth is no one else wants them. If a Brazilian man couldn’t fuck an American girl, he wouldn’t spend a minute with her on a beach in Rio while educating her about his culture. If a Russian girl couldn’t get a greencard from an American man, she’d rather put up with the alcoholic trolls dying off like flies in her own country than swallow her pride and post a dating profile on the internet.

An American man mating with his own kind reminds of when I saw two stray dogs having sex on a South American beach. The male had a little bicycle tire stuck around his neck which was attached to a long rope that trailed behind him (put there by some teenager I imagine), while the female was a nasty little thing infested with boils that finally let the male mount her next to a heap of trash. Locals and tourists were laughing at the scene, rushing to grab their cameras to take pictures. The dogs finished their business oblivious to the mocking.

One day later and the tire and rope was still attached to the male. I’m certain he died with it. The American man is not as helpless—he is free to remove the tire and rope, but decades of brainwashing have led him to believe that a fucking tire around his neck is the way things should be and that there is no alternative. Like the feral dog, he will fade into oblivion unaware that people are laughing at him when he copulates with the man-beast he calls a woman, or worse, a wife.

While traveling I rather say I’m a dirty Muslim Turk than an American. Seeing drunk douche bag Australians pull over my American counterparts is all the proof I need that the people from my country turn off others. Our culture of money and flash is universally admired, but the ignorant, fat, and lost populace that make up 99% of this country is wholly revolting to those who accept what it means to be human. The less American women I date and the more steps I take back from what it means to be American, the more I feel like a real person.

A video making the rounds is a girl who got arrested at a Washington DC metro station. You only need to watch the first minute:

I was conflicted after watching it. On one hand I agree that police overstep their boundaries, letting their ego make decisions on who they arrest and how, but on the other hand girls like the one above need to understand that the world doesn’t exist to serve their unreasonable demands.

I’ve seen a lot of police brutality videos on the internet, and 90% of the time they get me riled up. Fucking police state! Who do those cops think they are! Yet my encounters with policemen in America have been uneventful affairs. The reason is because I act respectfully around police: I don’t curse, I’m not sarcastic or condescending, and I obey instructions. Plus I’m white. I’m going to defer to an officer’s authority because he has a significant amount of power over me, and angering him would make my life more difficult than it needs to be. While I agree with standing up for your constitutional rights, you can do it respectfully in the courtroom instead of getting tazed in the anus. If you’re white and get rough-housed by the police, you did some seriously stupid shit, and I’m afraid to say that most likely you deserved it, whether you’re a man or woman.

That said, the girl above made two grievous errors:

1. Mouthed off to a cop she already angered (the video depicts only their second encounter, well after the cop told her to leave the station).

2. Snatched her arm away when he decided to arrest her, and then further resisted when he tried to handcuff her. I know cops say “stop resisting” just to cover their ass, but she did seem to be resisting. If that was me I’d shut the fuck up and put my hands behind my back.

Even when viewing this video from my anti-authority lens, I can’t conjure up much sympathy for the girl. She did something I’d never do, and had to pay the consequences of her actions. Welcome to the real world.

Since I’m familiar with the area this happened in, allow me to fill in the details. The girl is 23 or 24 years old and a graduate of George Washington or American University. Her rating on the attractiveness scale is a 4 at most (see 3:45 in the video for a view of her rotund size—a likely explanation at why it took so long for the cop to completely restrain her). She drank herself stupid nearby at either The Green Turtle or McFaddens, two cheesy bars that are like the McDonalds of the DC nightlife scene for recent college graduates. She got hit on all night by a predominantly frat boy clientele, boosting her already unreasonably high ego to stratospheric levels. With the alcohol in her system I’m sure she felt like the queen of the ball, but did not take home a guy that night because her stumpy lady friend executed the vicious cockblock right after last call.

Still on a high, she got rowdy when entering the metro system, forgetting that the Gallery Place stop is heavily patrolled by policemen because of regular fighting by bored urban youth. Treating the cop like one of the dweebs she turned down in the bar, she decided to give him the same cuntish treatment, even performing a practiced backturn that I’m sure has incurred feelings of rejection on dozens of men before. Some guys have been persistent, though, and tried to regain her favor after such a rejection, but her white knight in the shorts is always on the scene, lingering in the background, ready to soothe things over like he tried to do in the video when he begged the cop to “just let her go.” Even with his display of bravery, he still did not receive the pity fuck once mommy and daddy bailed her out the next morning.

Did she learn her lesson? Let me phrase it this way: do you have any doubt that every time she interacts with a policeman in the future her heart beat and blood pressure will increase, her skin pores will produce more sweat, and she’ll ultimately think twice before acting like a spoiled little princess to someone with authority? I have zero doubt. The irony of all this is if she was properly put in her place beforehand by real men, she wouldn’t have the courage to go hard on a policeman. When I watch a video like this all I can do is shake my head at the kind of woman society is producing.

And then I laugh. What an dumb bitch.

Here’s an email I received recently:

I hope you’re doing well back in DC. I’ve enjoyed reading your writing, books, blog. Overall you speak well to the frustrations of contemporary American masculinity’s condition. However, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—I enjoy more than your rants about American women. I went to an international themed rooftop happy hour last night, and though I was able to comfortably pull the hottest girl there to another bar afterwards, my overall takeaway was utter disappointment at the wasteland of the scene: washed out cougars starving for attention, fat chicks, and 3s acting like they’re 6s because they know politics and work for a think tank. Disgusting!

I guess the only upside is that most of the guys don’t have any game to speak of, and work with the sole purpose of appeasing value-inflated cows. So though I have minimal game, it does help. Even my friend who invited me to this event seemed to just accept it as reality, but as I’m sure you know it’s impossible to talk about these things with most people. Anyways, that was on my mind today, and then I saw this article in my google reader: 15 Ways To Charm Her. I couldn’t read it all the way through for fear that it might taint my burgeoning alpha identity, but I wanted to send it over your way, in hopes that it might spark a burst blood vessel in your brain.

Allow me to offer a reasonable rebuttal for each item…

1. Stand up for a lady. Actually, this doesn’t just involve chairs.

Be worth standing up for by not being overweight or sloppy. Visit the dermatologist to clear up your acne. Go to charm school if you don’t know how to act like a lady (if you were born in the United States then odds are you don’t).

2. Know that the SEC has the best football TEAMS IN THE NATION. Big 12 fan? Hmm, perhaps you should keep walking.

Develop a skill or talent of your own instead of obsessing over athletes (or celebrities) who don’t care about you, or know that you even exist.

3. Kill bugs. Delta Burke as Southern belle Suzanne Sugarbaker on Designing Women said, “. . .Ya know, when men use Women’s Liberation as an excuse not to kill bugs for you. Oh, I just hate that! I don’t care what anybody says, I think the man should have to kill the bug!”

Put on a pair of latex gloves and kill grease stains along with mold rings in the toilet bowl.

4. Hold doors open. This goes for elevator doors too.

Wear something that highlights your toned backside so I’ll look forward to holding the door open for you.

5. Fix things or build stuff. I once watched in awe as my stepfather built a front porch on the house he shares with my mother. He knew just what to do, cutting every notch, hammering every nail. The project was complete by sunset.

Fix up yourself so you don’t look like a hag when you go out.

6. Wear boots occaisionally [sic]. Not the fancy, l-paid-$l,000-for-these kind. We’re talking about slightly mud-crusted, I-could-have-just-come-in-from-the-field boots.

Wear only high heels after the sun goes down.

7. Take off your hat inside.

Grow out your hair.

8. Grill stuff.

Cook things besides chicken nuggets and Hot Pockets.

9. Call us. If you want to ask us out, don’t text and don’t e-mail. Pick up the phone and use your voice.

Why? You’ll spread your legs regardless.

10. Stand when we come back to the dinner table. ”Just a little half-stand is enough to make me melt,” my friend Stephanie says.

Suck my dick without me having to tell you.

11. Pull out chairs. Wait, that’s not all. Scoot them back in before we hit the floor.

And then swallow my load and tell me how much you loved the bleach-like taste. Please your man with enthusiasm and he may want to return the favor.

12. Pay the tab on the first few dates. ”If you ask me out, you pay,” Stephanie says. “If I ask you out, you should still pay.” Listen, guys, it’s just simpler this way.

Put out on the first date.

13. Don’t show up in a wrinkled, untucked shirt. Care about your appearance but not too much. Don’t smell better than we do. Don’t use mousse or gel. You shouldn’t look like you spend more time in front of the mirror than we do.

Don’t show up in Target flip flops. Smell good. Fix your hair up. You should look like you spent more than five minutes in front of the mirror. You should look like you own a mirror.

14. Never get in bar fights. Patrick Swayze might look cool in Road House, but in reality, bar fights are stupid and embarrassing. You don’t look tough. You look like an idiot.

Don’t sleep with tough guys who like getting into bar fights?

15. Know how to mix our favorite cocktail JUST THE WAY WE LIKE IT. Fix your favorite too. Sit down on the porch (it’s okay if you didn’t build it), tell us how your day went, and we’ll tell you about ours.

We truly don’t care how your day went. You should feel lucky that we even acknowledged it with a nod or eyebrow raise. Enjoy our cocktail then let me ravage you in the bedroom. When we go out, act the courtesan and don’t let on that you’re a dirty girl I love to make gag.

Whether this list is humorous or not, nowhere within the post or comments does a woman chime in to share what she would exchange in order to have a man who follows each item (every other comment is “Love this!” or “OMG so true!”). Like the German terrorists in the original Die Hard, today’s woman doesn’t want to make any concessions. She will not change if you honor her demands. She wants to continue bursting with masculine attitude from her fatty pores, not possessing any redeeming skill besides paper pushing in the meanwhile, and yet still land the handsomest prince of them all. Unfortunately, they do not realize that by being poor catches themselves, they encourage men to let themselves go, too, quickening the pace at which the entire American species will be unfuckable in less than one-hundred years. In the end, women are planning to blow the roof whether the FBI helicopters arrive or not. Assholes.

I lose interest in a movie if a bumbling beta attracts a beautiful female (e.g. every Adam Sandler movie ever made). There has to be a chance that the relationship would happen in real life or else I’m watching a science-fiction flick that depicts a parallel universe where the immutable laws of attraction are suspended. This is why I like La Dolce Vita, Gloomy Sunday, When Harry Met Sally, movies by Pedro Almodovar (Broken Embraces, Talk To Her, Volver), and a couple by Woody Allen (Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Hannah & Her Sisters, and Annie Hall). A silly movie with cringe worthy dialogue like Before Sunset will get cut off after 10 minutes.

I recently saw Broken English, a movie centered around an American woman named Nora who is panicking because she’s in her 30′s and has no hope of finding a man. Even though her best friend is extremely unhappy in her relationship, Nora becomes desperate to settle down. (Fittingly, she had a chance at her friend’s man years ago but passed on him). Written by a woman, the movie nails a lot of the American female qualities which I have been beating here to death lately:

-plain clothing
-not sexy
-oversized sunglasses
-anxious
-overly logical
-not well-traveled
-slutty but unaffectionate
-neurotic and jittery
-snarky
-doped up on pharmaceuticals
-unable to control alcohol consumption
-distorted view of the relationship between sex and attraction

Nora reminds me of about 20 girls I’ve dated. She’s played by Parker Posey, your stereotypical pretty American girl (before the obesity epidemic). She’s reasonably cute, someone who you wouldn’t be ashamed walking down the street with. Wrinkles are starting to show on her face, but most men would sleep with her if given the chance (I would). With the right hairstyle and outfit she could be classified as extremely attractive.

As she wonders “What happened?” to the past ten years of her life, so does the viewer. How many guys did she pass on while in her physical prime? How many “actors” did she date until she realized they were no good for her? Why didn’t she take her mother’s advice sooner, who was at least successful enough in love to bear her? The movie doesn’t explore her past, just her current dating mishaps of getting pumped and dumped and going out with a man who has serious baggage. She becomes bitter and jaded, closing off her mind to potential suitors.

Approaching the depths of loneliness, she reluctantly attends a party thrown by a coworker. There she meets an artistic Frenchman who has classic direct game more common with his Spanish and Italian counterparts. American women are taken off-guard by this game at first (Nora calls his approach “intense”), but commonly break down to the persistent charm and affections of these men. (Sorry, a European accent or some otherwise exotic quality is needed to run this particular style of game. Trevor with the striped shirt would be laughed out the bar if he went around telling girls he wanted to kiss them.)

The Frenchman’s direct game is world class, and it doesn’t take him long to dismantle her bitter shield and get right down to business. We would expect a pump and dump in this case, but no—he’s smitten and spontaneously asks her to return to France with him. She says that she can’t because of her oh-so-important event planner job, among other logistical reasons, but we know it’s because she’s deathly afraid of being disappointed yet again.

The film falls apart after that, which is probably why you’ve never heard of it before. It could have been the spinster manifesto up there with Sex and the City, but instead gets tossed into the indie yarn stack behind Chasing Amy. Nonetheless, if you like my blog, you’ll like the movie. The game performance by the Frenchman is alone worth a viewing (note his body language, his devastating use of silence, and his tonality). Completely ignore the fact that in real life a handsome Frenchman wouldn’t fall for an aging spinster who, frankly, was a bitch to him for most of their time together, and enjoy a pretty accurate take on American hook-up culture from a woman’s perspective. It makes me almost feel bad for them.

A fellow American I met in my Belo Horizonte had an odd complaint about me: he said I talked “too much” about girls. I scratched my head because the only two safe topics that you can talk about with just about any guy in the world are sports and pussy. What else am I going to talk about? Art? Style? I wondered if he was homo. Did my gaydar fail yet again like it did really late at night with that Colombian guy?

Yes, yes it did.

He eventually told me, “Dude, I’m gay,” as if he was annoyed I didn’t figure it out on my own. It wasn’t obvious anyway—I’ve met straighter guys who acted more gay than he did.

One morning we got to talking at the dining room table and I asked him when he realized he was a homersexual. He said, “I didn’t know until really late. In college I tried to date girls but had trouble connecting with them. After college I couldn’t even get dates. I thought something was wrong with me. Then I experimented with a guy and it felt more natural. It felt right. It’s so much easier for me to meet men than women.”

“Do you catch or pitch?” I asked, in the most empathetic tone possible. “You know it sucks when you’re gay because only one guy is getting the pleasure.”

“I like to receive, but you know what… it is very pleasurable. I love receiving. Mmmm very very good.”

“Okay I’m going to watch some porn on my computer now.”

Let’s put his story through the Roosh Translator™:

“I was tired of being a virgin.”

How many men are there in America whose failure with women made them “realize” they were a homosexual? Thousands, I’d estimate. These are guys too disillusioned with the American female to put the game work needed to penetrate their holes. Guys who concluded that these girls are not worth the effort, and that they rather get banged in the butt than deal with them or figure them out. I have a feeling these gay boys had gay tendencies before their conversion, but how many guys in Brazil converted to homosexuality because they couldn’t get laid? Colombia? Russia? Italy? Significantly less, I imagine.

How many other guys have given up on dating and rely solely on prostitutes? And how many others put their cock in a lockbox until they can fly away to bang foreign pussy? These guys are withdrawing themselves from the dating market, making it even harder for the educated middle-class American woman to find a partner with the same socioeconomic background as her own. The problem that only exists for African-American women (finding a long-term mate within their race), will now become one for white women as well.

I know some American girls are cool, sexy, and attractive, but that small percentage is shrinking to where living in a city of a million people is no guarantee you’ll find one. If you have then great job, but most guys are not as lucky, something that seems to be a growing factor these days. As a whole, American women are deficient in so many areas that men are choosing homosexuality instead. I wonder what this means for the future of the white American race.

1. They’re fat.

2. They’re constantly glued to their phone.

3. They cut their hair short.

4. They’re more impressed by a crappy DJ than a doctor who saves lives.

5. They think being funny and witty is a quality that men love.

6. They listen to magazines like Cosmo when it comes to pleasing men.

7. They don’t know how to cook.

8. They wear flip-flops even when they’re not at the beach, pool, or in their house.

9. They have condoms in their drawers because they expect to have random sex with strange men.

10. They cannot dance. They also do not know how to sing or play basic musical instruments.

11. They idolize drug addicted celebrities, mimicking their brain-dead behaviors.

12. They acquire pets instead of putting effort into landing a quality man.

13. They don’t know how to be sexy.

14. They have standards way beyond their level of attractiveness.

15. They think having a good job means they’re a good catch.

16. They wear pajamas in public.

17. They like Twilight and The Secret.

18. Their idea of travel is going to the beach or France.

19. They have too many trashy tattoos.

20. They are proud to date multiple guys at the same time, as if they were men.

21. They are not close to their family, and would rather die than take care of aging parents.

22. They say filthy things in bed when you hardly know them.

23. They cockblock regularly.

24. They make lame excuses for not putting effort into their appearance.

25. They obsess about the environment above what is reasonable, even though they pollute more than 90% of people in the world.

26. They always lie by saying, “I’ve never done this before.”

27. They confuse being a challenge with being whiny and annoying.

28. They are acne prone.

29. They watch way too much TV.

30. On their way home from work, they put on dirty sneakers that don’t match their outfit.

31. They only dress up for special occasions, like a friend’s birthday, Presidential inauguration, or a Sex and the City movie premiere.

32. They like to age their skin prematurely through frequent tanning.

33. They insist on eating pizza or otherwise fattening food after a night of binge drinking.

34. They’re obsessed with cupcakes.

35. They care more about maintaining their career than a good home.

36. They rarely wear high heels.

37. They think dining out and eating food slathered with butter and salt makes them cultured.

38. They don’t speak a foreign language.

39. They are uncomfortable in their own skin.

40. They like Ikea furniture.

41. They have the intellectual curiosity of a dung beetle.

42. They go on and on about the stupidest shit.

RECOMMENDED: The United States Of Broken Women