Ari is a 34-year-old woman living in New York. She likes quality men but quality men do not like her, not lately anyway. Let’s take a closer look at this fascinating specimen.

I’m having one of those days where I feel I lost everything I wanted before I even mounted a battle for them. I’m not going to be a young mother. I’m not going to marry my college sweetheart. I’m not going to be a teen sensation.

Today, I feel like I’m too old to do anything I wanted or hoped to do. I can’t find a job I like. I can’t find a boy to kiss.

Women feel sorry for themselves in order to get sympathy and validation from other women who know what it’s like to feel sorry for themselves. Their goal is to get a superficial injection of happy feelings that stops the tears long enough to leave the house and purchase brand-name clothing products.

I never thought I’d be 34, unmarried, unemployed and childless. Not having a warm body to lie next to in September is nothing to think about. In December it’s reason enough to cry. I never thought, I never considered that I’d still have to be looking. I blithely assumed that my snatch would be snatched up! I mean really. I switched high schools at the start of my sophomore year. I nabbed myself a boyfriend the first damn day. We were together for three years and then intermittently throughout college. In college there were others, I never lacked for a date. Cute, eligible guys were never hard to come by until I actually wanted one. And yes, I know, you’ll never find anyone while you’re looking but I’m 34, I really can’t play coy anymore.

Who would have thought the attention she received when she was 18 would decrease to nothing almost two decades later? There has to be a high school course for teenage girls that brings out spinster speakers (with their beautiful cats) to scare them from trying to be players like men. If they can show pictures of diseased cocks and vaginas in school I see no reason why they can’t offer this reality as well.

And so, as my mom would say; I’m in a mood today. I have a date tomorrow night and I’m not all that moody by nature though so this feeling, it’s got to be fleeting, right?

Of course she’s still dating, since it has worked so well for her in the past. Because even at her age she deserves no less than a quality man who is over six feet tall, charming, a good listener, witty, in excellent shape, fashionable but not too metrosexual, not a game player, well-mannered, chivalrous, making six figures, funny but not a clown, a passionate lover, emotionally secure, drug-free, ambitious, nice but not too nice, not self-absorbed, athletic, and friendly to defenseless little animals.

Ten bucks this woman dies alone.

Almost every girl I know has told me a “Some guy at the bar put something in my drink” story. And I never believe them.

The purpose of date rape drugs is to render a girl unconscious. But to isolate the girl where he can rape her, a guy has to pick her up on his own and leave the bar or club with her. If he is already able to leave the club with a girl, he doesn’t need drugs to have sex with her because she’ll have sex with him anyway. Do girls honestly think a random dude they never met is drugging their drinks so she will pass out randomly on the dance floor, making a discreet rape impossible?

A few months ago I was with three other friends at a bar when one of them was accused by a white girl—who he didn’t exchange a word with—of putting a roofie in her drink. Even though no pill was found, the bouncer kicked him out because their policy states that the accusation alone is enough. But this only applies to men because I reverse accused the same girl of putting a roofie in my drink and she got to stay. There was a policeman there and I told him that if my friend really did that then why doesn’t he investigate and arrest someone. His response: “Get out of my face or I will arrest you.” Girls don’t hesitate to make up false accusations because they always get the benefit of the doubt (they are honest angels) and there is no punishment if they are caught lying.

“I think I was drugged” is just a convenient excuse for girls to binge drink and lose self-control. The girls you see stumbling in the bar and vomiting on the street are victims, not morons. Well now we have a study which proves these girls are not getting drugged:

Women who claim to be victims of ‘date-rape’ drugs such as Rohypnol have in fact been rendered helpless by binge-drinking, says a study by doctors.

They found no evidence that any woman seeking help from emergency doctors because their drinks were allegedly spiked had actually been given these drugs.

Around one in five tested positive for recreational drugs while two-thirds had been drinking heavily.

Next time a girl tells you she thinks she was drugged because she passed out or can’t remember anything, remind her that those are side effects of alcohol. Then watch as her face fills with contempt because you don’t agree that deep inside every man is a rapist. Women want to be seen as equals but they are not willing to shake the “I’m a helpless victim” mentality.

Postscript: Full text of “A study of patients presenting to an emergency department having had a spiked drink” published in the peer reviewed Emergency Medicine Journal. Number of girls who are going to read it: zero.

I’ve been following the Carlos Mencia–Joe Rogan drama. Rogan has been accusing Mencia of stealing other comedians’ jokes, and recently went on stage during a Mencia performance to call him out. He made a video of the confrontation which makes a pretty good case that Mencia is indeed a joke stealer. It’s 10-minutes long but worth it (look for the Amazing Racist cameo):

So The Comedy Club in L.A. banned him and his agent let him go. But not Mencia—Rogan. Because Mencia has large audiences willing to pay to see him, Rogan has pissed off the people that Mencia is helping enrich. It doesn’t matter how noble or honest your cause is—if you get in the way of the green, you will be stopped by those who have power. Lesson in this is to always have a savings account, just in case your character gets you in trouble.

—Joe Rogan’s blog

A man dates some broad. A few months into the relationship she announces that she’s pregnant and informs him that he is the father. But he was vasectomized. This story, if true, has two morals:

1. Never trust a woman, especially an American woman.
2. Never blast inside a woman even if she is supposedly on the pill. Girls are human too and they forget to take it every day.

The only pleasure in life I deprive myself of is not letting my creamy delicious sperm come into contact with vaginal tissue. But I dream about it every day. It’s unfortunate that the only way I’ll be able to continue my unprotected stroke to the very end is by sleeping with an old woman who has been through menopause.

Vasectomy: $400. Speechless look on her face: priceless.

I’ll try to sum up a funny story that happened a few years ago:

I got a vasectomy.

I met a girl soon afterwards. She was nice and attractive but with a selfish streak that raised a big red flag. She was 32 at the time and I could practically HEAR her biological clock ticking. Regardless, she was a good lay, easy on the eyes, and reasonably good company.

I did NOT tell her about my vasectomy and I always used a condom with her to protect against STDs. She assumed, obviously, that the condom was only used for birth control. Silly girl.

We date for a few months. I never made any move towards commitment but she brought it up ocassionally. For me, this was a casual but pleasant relationship. For her – as I was to find out – it was part of life-changing series of events that she was planning very carefully.

Four months into dating, I get the “I’m pregnant” talk. She’s going on and on about how the condom must have broke and now we really need to think about getting married “for the baby”. She’s positively giddy. She has a baby in her and she thinks she’s gonna have a good meal ticket (me) to go along with her new 7lb annuity.

At this point, I’m just as giddy. I get to pull the reverse “oops” on her. I figured that she slept with some bad boy and got knocked up. Good thing I was using condoms! Better still that I have a serious mistrust of women who can’t think beyond their own uteri.

So I wait a couple of days to “think about all this.” I meet her again. I say I don’t want kids and that she should have an abortion. I know where this is going and sure enough it goes there. She goes completely batshit insane on me. There were the usual insults about my manhood. There were threats of legal action. It was all very ugly and I was loving every minute of it.

Well, I let her stew for a few days. She leaves me nasty messages on my phone. She sends awful emails. I’m laughing hysterically.

It was time to drop the hammer. While she was stewing I was busy. First I get a notarized copy from the urologist who performed the vasectomy. Next I get a notarized copy of the TWO test results indicating a “negative test result for sperm” to show I’m sterile and shooting blanks. Finally, I get a letter from a shark attorney stating he has seen the other documents and is prepared to litigate against this woman if she continues to communicate with me in such an unpleasant manner. Also, the letter states that we will insist on DNA testing to show that the baby is not mine. I’m ready.

I meet with this woman at her place. I bring flowers and a small bit of jewelry to show I am willing to reconcile and assume my responsibilities as a new father. I also have stuck in my pocket the documents I have prepared.

She’s all giddy again. Her plan is going perfectly – or so she thinks. We talk about our future. We have some pretty good sex. Then, as I am about to walk out the door, I ask her the $64,000 question. “Are you sure that this baby is mine?”

Well, she goes batshit insane again. Hell, she ought to. Her plan could completely unravel if there is ANY question about my paternity. Oh, she’s really screaming now. How dare I question her morals. Do I think she’s a slut. I’m just trying to weasel out of my responsibilities… blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m not really mad. I’m kind of embarrassed for her. But since she won’t shut up and the neighbors can hear all of this, I ask her to step back inside and sit down. She sits on the sofa and calms down a bit. She is glaring at me with all the moral self-righteousness that only a woman can muster up. She thinks she has me trapped. She is 100% convinced her plan has worked. Oh, the tangled web of lies and deceit she has wrought around herself and I am about to hack through them with a few pieces of paper.

I reach into my pocket slowly. I extract the three pieces of paper and unfold them slowly and deliberately.

I tell her simply, “You’re screwed”.

Her look doesn’t change. There is no way she can fathom what I have prepared.

I continue. “I am sterile”

Her look changes just a bit. Something is beginning to sink in. Naturally, she reverts to women’s logic. “You’re full of shit. You’re trapped and you know it.”

I hold up the letter and the test results. “Three months before we met, I had a vasectomy. Here is a notarized letter from him stating what I had done. Here are two test results showing that I tested negative for the presence of sperm. Blanks. I am shooting blanks. That baby inside you is simply not mine.”

This woman is not to be swayed by logic and clear documentation. “Bullshit, those are fakes.”

I was ready for that. “No, they are real. This last piece of paper is from my attorney. It’s a simple letter to you that states if you pursue any kind of legal action against me for child support that I will insist on a DNA test to prove paternity, that is, to prove that your baby is not mine.”

I give the woman all the documents. She reads them slowly, deliberately. With each passing second she can feel in her soul that she has made a very bad mistake. With denial swept away, she started to cry. It’s a small cry at first. Then it becomes deeper and more painful. By the time she gets to the letter from the lawyer she is sobbing.

I had no sympathy for her. I turned and walked out the door. Even after I closed the door I could still hear her sobbing.

Epilogue -

I never heard directly from this woman again. I did hear through my friends that she did indeed have the baby. I also heard that the real father was some guy in a band she had met. I assumed that after 30, women stopped going after musicians, bikers, criminals, and thugs. Silly me for thinking the best of American women.

The Moral of the Story -

Get a vasectomy but keep it a secret.

Every white guy who graduates from college must read this and print it out:

Look at my button down striped shirt! Fucking look at it! This shirt means one thing! I’m coming home with some pussy tonight! That’s right! It’s been a long week at the office and it’s time to blow off a little steam! I am a Junior Vice President! I have business cards that say “Junior Vice President” on them! They’re glossy and magnificent! Here! Have one! Take it!

My boys are coming out with me tonight! They all have striped shirts too!

I figure we’ll kick off the night with some Golden Tee! I am going to smack the shit out of that little white ball! It’s going to be so fucking loud! I’ll bet I can drive that pretend golf ball 600 fucking yards tonight! I’m that fucking pumped!

Read the whole thing here.

If you are a white male I want you to say the following: “I am a unique individual. I do not have to dress like other white boys. Blue is not the only color in the rainbow.”

Good job.

I’ve known about Pastor Ted Haggard for a couple years now so I’ve been closely following the recent revelation of his drug-fueld tryst with a gay man.

For those of you who only read my blog and nothing else, he started his New Life church in the basement of his home with only one church member. He then built it up over many years to a 14,000 follower behemoth that holds services in a stadium. (New Life also has affiliates in other countries.) He led the National Association of Evangelicals which represents 30 million Americans. He had policy discussions with President Bush. He was an extremely powerful man. His decisions not only affected his followers, but Americans not under his leadership. Short of becoming President himself, there are not many ways he could have increased his power here in the United States. This is why his downfall is so amazing. How can a man so close to God have so little self-control?

A lot of people like reading stories of how people succeed. But I like stories of how people fall. And it’s not because I’m a sadist, but because the success that everyone loves to praise and masturbate to is often built on weak character that cannot survive the test of time. The success is a fluke, an aberration. In a couple years Pastor Ted will be that crazy guy on a university campus trying to get the attention of passerby’s. The next hypocrite who replaces him will lead people who memorize thousands year old scripture as fact, but can’t seem to remember how many religious leaders have fooled them in the past twenty years.