Game Will Kill the Left

In the comments here, Peppermint articulates a thought (lightly edited) that a lot of men on the red pill right have had over the last five or ten years:

In order to have sex or get to the point of having sex or even get the attention of a woman with options you need to not behave in the ways that every leftist says you should.

Women seek domination. They don’t want you to convince them that everything they were told in school by teachers who wanted them to sleep with low quality men is false using facts and logic. They want you to simply believe in yourself and believe in the things you believe so that they can believe in you…

The #1 reason the left is dead is young intelligent men have to behave in non-leftist ways to hook up with the women they want.

I don’t know if it’s the #1 reason, but it’s certainly a reason. And this is excellent.

And aside from the advantage it gives us fighting the civil war in this particular society in this particular time and place, it also is a beneficial fact for the human species in general: It implies that there is always a biologically instantiated negative feedback mechanism to prevent any set of ideas from becoming too metastasized: Young women want rebels. Therefore, to get sex, young men have to be against the prevailing norms. Therefore there are very strong incentives for young men to set themselves against whatever is the prevailing orthodoxy. This is true of all men in general, who are a significant demographic group, obviously, and especially young men: The fighters.


Feminist: The Players Are Right

Via The Rational Male: Feminist Sheryl Sandberg (of “Lean in” fame) admits that PUAs are right about the nice guys versus jerks thing:

When looking for a life partner, my advice to women is date all of them: the bad boys, the cool boys, the commitment-phobic boys, the crazy boys. But do not marry them. The things that make the bad boys sexy do not make them good husbands.

Of course, she quickly reverts to standard feminist form:

When it comes time to settle down, find someone who wants an equal partner. Someone who thinks women should be smart, opinionated and ambitious. Someone who values fairness and expects or, even better, wants to do his share in the home. These men exist and, trust me, over time, nothing is sexier.

At the end she couldn’t resist a parting shot of standard feminist BS, so she says that women find men who “value fairness” sexy.

Overall, though, it’s interesting and encouraging that even feminists now admit that the playahs were totally right all along about the bad boys thing. (I use the plural “feminists” because Sandberg isn’t the only one who has admitted this.) Though I imagine it’s not politically correct in feminist circles to phrase it as, “the playahs were totally right.” Of course, the accusations of misogynist women-hating rape ideology will not cease, even as feminists say the same things. Orwell was not exaggerating about double-think.

Red Pill in Fiction: Red Pill Romance

I now present to the world my Romance novel written with Red Pill theory in mind.

Title: Ashley and the tall, muscular, preselected leader-of-men tough guy who’s gruff at first and used to be a thug/criminal with a rap sheet, but turns out to be misunderstood and is now reformed (due to our heroine’s appearance in his life!!!), secretly more wealthy than you’d think construction dude

Short title: Canonical Female Porn Romance novel


Ashley looked out the window. The construction crew was generating a skull-splitting quantity of noise, ripping up the sidewalk with a jackhammer at 6:30 in the morning! (Something about the word “jackhammer” made Ashley a little warm, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Never mind.)

“Can’t believe it,” she muttered darkly. She threw on her bathrobe and strode purposefully out the door, slamming it to announce her presence. (Something about the word “slamming” made Ashley a little warm, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Never mind.) She was a strong, decisive, modern woman, and she’d show those construction workers who was boss!

The slamming of the door hadn’t been heard over the sound of the jackhammer. She was forced to walk up to the man operating it and tap him on the shoulder.

He switched off the jackhammer, turned to Ashley, and removed his ear protectors. “Yeah, what?”

“That device is keeping me from sleeping!” Ashley said. “And probably the rest of the neighborhood too!”

“Sorry, miss,” he said. “Gotta do the job.” He put his ear protectors back on and turned back to the jackhammer. She tapped his shoulder before he could start it up again. He turned back and removed the protectors. “What?” His tone was annoyed.

“Sleep,” Ashley repeated. “Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. It’s something humans need. Didn’t your alien overlords tell you that before they sent you here?”

He put his protectors back on. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to file a complaint with the…” the rest of his reply was lost as he had already turned away and started the jackhammer up again before he had finished.

All right, that’s enough. If I were going to actually write this, which I don’t intend to do any time soon, I’d have it go something like this:

1. Boss of the construction crew comes over and asks Ashley the problem; she tells him. He orders the jackhammer dude to turn it off and do something else. (Leader of men.)

2. However, his behavior toward Ashley is gruff, uninterested, and a little irritated. (Jerky. Plus, uninterested: the girl has to win the guy over.)

3. Ashley tries to go back inside and realizes that she accidentally locked herself out of her apartment when she slammed the door. Thus she looks “charmingly dorky.” (Chicks think “charmingly dorky” is an actual thing. They picture themselves as Meg Ryan or Winona Ryder in one of those shriekingly boring “cute” RomComs from the 1990s. Women! Fuck! [Sorry, ladies. I’m not lactose-intolerant, but sometimes entertainment for women is so cheesy that my reaction makes me feel like I am. The point being, that women make me fart. No, that’s not the point. The point is, God, the cheesiness!]) This auto-lockout on Ashley’s part lets the construction boss – Mike HardPec – do something clever to open the door, thus revealing that he used to be a thief. (Bad boy bad boy bad boy bad boy bad boy ZOMG all hands on clit deck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

4. Over the next few days, it turns out that a few other construction dudes are totally attracted to Ashley, but she is not interested in them. (A woman loves the idea of lots of men wanting her but unable to have her. This contrasts with a man, who wants lots of women to want him so he can go ahead and bang them all.)

5. One morning some dude tries to mug Ashley as she leaves for work, but Mike HardPec beats him up. (Tough guy.)

6. The next evening Ashley sees Mike HardPec in a dive near her house, Mike having gone there for a beer after working on her street. He has a hot babe sitting on his lap when Ashley walks in. The babe is physically perfect in every way but for some reason Mike doesn’t seem that interested in her, at least after he notices ASHLEY WALK IN!!!!!!!!!! ZOMG!!! Ashley would never enter such a low-quality establishment in the normal course of events. (She does, however, have an occasional drink in an expensive, “classy” bar frequented by high-priced lawyers and hedge fund billionaires and so forth, where Ashley goes with her group of three girlfriends, just to get out of the house, mind you, not to put themselves in the proximity of high-socioeconomic-status men, though such men come on to Ashley ALL THE TIME, which she, mind you, just finds tiresome.) Tonight, however, Ash has to go to the dive because they also sell, let’s say, anal dildos. NO!!! Because they also sell Coke and Ashley needs some caffeine to finish the project that…

7. …Her TOTAL BITCH of a boss is making her do faster than is reasonable. Ashley is of course going to defeat this enraging manifestation of intra-sexual competition by the end of the novel. Ash is also going to get a promotion out of it somehow. Also, the bitch boss’s boyfriend is going to totes fall for Ashley, even though Ash has done absolutely NOTHING to encourage this, because she’s such a nice, demure girl, and by the way, is totally not a slut. Rather, the bitch boss’s boyfriend just can’t help himself because Ash is so totes hot. Thus BitchBoss is humiliated as well as defeated.

8. Meanwhile, Ashley’s ex-boyfriend, who is a quintillionaire, is still pining for Ashley. She broke up with him a few months ago. Note SHE broke up with HIM. It was because he was too possessive, because Ashley is so, so desirable. Her ex is tall, good-looking, and well-built, but somehow he just can’t find another woman and forget about Ashley. It’s almost as if Our Heroine is forced to choose between two attractive men!!! Which will she choose? WHICH WILL SHE CHOOSE!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

9. In the end she chooses SURPRISE!!! Mike HardPec. Mike explains that when he was acting all angry and standoffish back in Chapter Ten, it was merely because Ashley is so very attractive that it confused him – he felt like he was losing control of his emotions, it was just so overwhelming how desirable Ashley is – so he freaked out and had to get away from Ashley. But because Ash is so totes awesome in every way, he has now gotten over his committmentaphobia and wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

(Note to women: Men don’t really behave like this. If you’re hot, then I’m going to bang you. It’s simple. “But mightn’t a girl be so overwhelmingly—” Nope. Not after a man is experienced enough to know what to do. (A twelve-year-old boy might get freaked out because he doesn’t know what to do about that chick that has a crush on him. But that’s about lack of experience; different thing.) “But shouldn’t there be complications and dramatic—” No. If you look like Greta Buz and you’re ready to go, then I’m ready to go. I speak for 100% of heterosexual men here. “But you can’t actually speak for 100% of heterosexual men.” Yeah, actually, I can.)

And as they drive off in his million-dollar Ferrari, he explains that he has a lot of money due to inheriting it from a wealthy relative who has died.

Who was a duke in some European country, so Mike now bears that title.

And he finally confesses to her that he’s in a rock band, which is why he had to sneak off all those times – it was for concerts, not to cheat on Ash.

Also, he confesses that he’s a vampire and so has supernatural powers.


I am definitely NOT releasing this into the public domain. Someday maybe I’ll write it and make a shintillion dollars. (A shintillion is a bazillion to the tenth power.)

A Twofer from the Chateau

Good Chateau post here:

It starts with a good classic red pill quote, and in the last paragraph, Heartiste NAILS the difference between freedom and license.

First, the quote from Cato the Elder:

Woman is a violent and uncontrolled animal, and it is useless to let go the reins and then expect her to not kick over the traces. You must keep her on a tight rein… Women want total freedom or rather – to call things by their proper names – total license. If you allow them to achieve complete equality with men, do you think they will be easier to live with? Not at all. Once they have achieved equality, they will be your masters…

This quote illustrates what has happened with feminism: When we gave women equality, they wasted not a microsecond before they started forcing men to support children that aren’t theirs, legally discriminating against men in hiring, removing the presumption of innocence for men accused of rape, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. There can be no equality with women; it simply isn’t a Nash stable situation. If men don’t put limits on their participation in social decision-making, before you know it feminists have taken over everything. Now you’re in jail because you and a woman each had a glass of wine and then had sex… but her wine removes her responsibility for her actions, neutralizing her consent… But your wine doesn’t remove your responsibility for your actions, so YOU’RE A RAPIST!!

Next, Heartiste nails the difference between freedom and license:

License is different than freedom in that it grants the recipient a reprieve from personal responsibility and from the consequences of one’s actions. License means basically the removal of moral agency, so when women demand license what they are demanding is blamelessness.

That is beautifully precise. Freedom, properly speaking, would mean that you have the right to get your dumb ass drunk and stupidly hook up with someone you normally wouldn’t bang. Then you wake up in the morning, regret it, and deal with the consequences of your own behavior like an adult. Many women are willing to do this, of course, but too many aren’t. They want the right to say “I was raped!” to blame their fuck-witted choice on someone else. That is not freedom; it’s license.


NOTE TO SELF: TAG RED PILL, REDPILL, AND RED-PILL. Also La Pill Roja and LLIP DER, just to be safe.

Via The Chateau at

someone named Sage Moon (seriously) has written a…

No, wait.

Someone named Sage Moon has let her hamster off the leash and allowed it to write a screed about…

No, wait.

Someone named Sage Moon has fed her hamster crude oil, radioactive waste, anabolic steroids, Hamster Growth Hormone, positrons from the solar wind of an anti-matter star, Mountain Dew, methol-flavored crack, and concentrated essence of Acapulco Gold, and let it off the leash and allowed it to write a screed about how awesome imprisoned killers are.

It begins like this:

To call it ‘life-changing’ diminishes my experience. This was soulful. Raw. Nothing but absolutely human at its core.

I maintained arm’s length distance from Carl and stared into his eyes. We’d been in prison together for nearly nine hours though Carl had already spent 11 years behind these walls. Jason Mraz echoed from the speakers as we stood on the cold concrete of the sterile gym at Valley State Prison in Chowchilla, CA.

“…I won’t give up on us

Even if the skies get rough

I’m giving you all my love

I’m still looking up…”

Carl never took his eyes off mine, and I never took mine off his. Tears streamed down my cheeks but I smiled through them; I radiated every.single.ounce of love in my being to every man in that room.

“…Cause even the stars they burn

Some even fall to the earth

We’ve got a lot to learn

God knows we’re worth it

No, I won’t give up”

As the song ended, Carl handed me a yellow rose. I breathed in, making sure to forever associate the intoxicating smell of the flower with that precise moment.

Dear God. Does she realize she’s verbalizing an orgasm in public?

Also, if you’re a dude who hasn’t taken the red pill yet, here’s a question to ask:

Has a woman ever reacted like that to a friendly nice guy?

Next there’s a photo of La Moon smiling at a prisoner. Her caption:

(super unflattering picture capturing 12 hours of tears and pure love as Carl gave me that rose)

(Parentheses in original.)

Later we get:

But, what truly transformed me is the deeply intimate humanity I shared with people whose goodness and ability to love I doubted… What transformed me is that I looked into the eyes of other humans, I felt their love, and I wanted to be love for them, and I wanted the room to be love so bright that it pulsed along with the collective love that fuels our existence. So I chose to be love. And as soon as I did, that love hit me hard, and it was overwhelming in a way that I can’t express.


I wanted to experience the pulsing as they all thrust their ideas into my mind, forcibly ramming through my preconceptions, plunging into my, um, left parietal lobe as fact after fact pistoned into my prostrate, stretched-open, uh, mind. Oh God! OH GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHD!!!

Huh? Wha? Where was I? Oh yeah, I was appreciating Carl’s turgid, thrusting, penetrating, ah, insight. And humanity.

Again, if you’re a dude who hasn’t taken the red pill…

Next it gets somewhat surprising, even for me, and I was expecting a thug-loving nuclear hamster. They played a game called Step To The Line. The prisoners and the visitors face each other near two lines on the floor. An announcer calls out questions. You step forward to the line if your answer is Yes. Or, if you’re already on the line from the previous question, you stay there. Here’s Moon’s account of part of this game:

“How many of you have taken another person’s life?” I looked into my partner’s eyes, he stayed on the line.

“How many of you haven’t forgiven yourselves for something you’ve done?” He stayed on the line, I joined him. Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down my face. Through silent validation, both knowing our ‘something’ was worlds apart, we smiled, and we cried, and we shared so, so much love in that moment.

She’s sharing so, so much love with a confessed killer. Think about this. Now has a woman ever reacted that way to a friendly nice guy?

Yes, I know she’s not typical. (At least, I don’t think she is. Sometimes I wonder.) But note that the distribution of female sexual response – let’s stop being coy about what she’s expressing here – encompasses this killer-lusting woman at one end. It does not encompass a nice-guy-lusting woman at the other end. No woman has ever reacted like that, with that kind of of BLAST of sexual arousal, to a nice guy, and no woman ever will.

She stood face to face with a man who confessed to having killed a person, and she’s so turned on her socks are wet.

I could end this here; I think the point is made. But let’s keep going a little more.

Throughout the day, several men shared their stories. One man… ran away, and he joined a gang, and he got involved with drugs. Ultimately he took someone’s life and was convicted before he ever even learned how to drive. Maybe you can relate to some of his story, maybe you can’t. I can’t. And my heart completely broke listening to his journey of self-forgiveness.

Ah yes, “his journey of self-forgiveness.” What about the person he killed, you estrogen-torqued whackjob?!

This does make the point, though, that women simply don’t give a shit about the victims of violent men. That person gets no consideration from her. But thank goodness the killer managed to forgive himself! Phew!

There’s more in this vein; I haven’t quoted all of it.

Seriously, take the red pill.

“We like nice guys! We don’t like jerks!”

“We like nice guys! We don’t like jerks!”
“What about that time you slept with Chad?”
“That was just because I was drunk! Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Jason?”
“That was just because he was sooooo hot! Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Eric?”
“He’s not really a jerk, he just seems that way sometimes because he had a really difficult childhood and (blah blah)… Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Martin?”
“That was just because I was on the rebound from my breakup with Fred! Doesn’t count!”
“Speaking of Fred…”
“That was years ago! I was young and confused! Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with John?”
“That was just because he was really good at putting up a front. He really seemed nice at first! Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Adam?”
“That was just because I was on a huge dry spell and super-horny. I had no judgment and just grabbed the first guy who came along. Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Rob?”
“I knew he was a jerk, but thought I could change him to a nice guy. Doesn’t count!”
“What about that time you slept with Neurotoxin?”
“That was just because all my girlfriends told me what an enormous cock he has! Doesn’t count!”
“Doesn’t count!”
“Doesn’t count!”
“What about–”
“Doesn’t count!”
“Are you noticing a pattern in this–”
“Doesn’t count!”
“Doesn’t count!”

Notice the one consistent pattern in all this, ladies: It was a never a nice guy that you hopped into bed with in all those “exceptional circumstances.” It wasn’t a nice guy you fucked because he was “sooooo hot.” It wasn’t a nice guy you fucked because you were young and confused. It wasn’t a nice guy you fucked because you were on the rebound from your breakup with Fred. It wasn’t a nice guy you fucked because you were on a huge dry spell and super-horny. No, somehow the men you hopped into bed with under those “exceptional circumstances” always just happened to be jerks.

The stupidest excuse of them all is “I knew he was a jerk, but thought I could change him to a nice guy.” There are tons of guys out there who are already nice. If you really wanted a nice guy you’d simply have grabbed one of them. These nice guys are all available, too. Which also makes my point; think about it.

On that note: Last year my woman and I were catching up on some DVR’d episodes of the first or second season of Agents of Shield. [MAMMOTH SPOILER WARNING.] Ward has been revealed as a merciless remorseless utterly inhuman sadistic psychopathic serial murderer who tried to kill all his former comrades and who did kill many Shield agents, not to mention his own brother and his brother’s family. So my woman starts analyzing him as if he’s a normal human being. “Oh, it’s like his older brother forced him to threaten his other, younger brother, so he had to turn off his emotions and (blah blah blah).”

I sat there staring at her, agape, almost unable to believe what I was hearing. My chick is actually an intelligent person. But because she was born with two X chromosomes, observing an utterly remorseless multiple murderer shuts off her brain’s ability to think and auto-kick-starts an excuse-making algorithm. Colloquially, we call that the Hamster, but the name will make the Hamster surprise you. It’s not a friendly, furry little guy who makes women do cute, silly things. It makes them find excuses for multiple murderers. Filtered through female neural mechanisms that evolved in the African savanna half a million years ago, “multiple murderer” parses out as “dominant male.” He has the physical ability, and the ruthlessness, to kill and get away with it.

People who think the Manosphere is excessively negative about women need to actually observe women in the real world.

(Well OK, parts of the Manosphere can, in fact, be excessively negative about women. But still, anyone who thinks they don’t have a point really does need to observe actual women.)

In fact, we need an expression to replace “the Hamster.” “The Hamster” is far too harmless-sounding. A now-defunct blog (In Mala Fide, IIRC) once referred to “the world-shaking amorality of the gina tingle.” While “gina tingle” is too comedic, “world-shaking amorality” captures the reality we need a tag for.

Females Initiate by Display

From the Dark Herald:

The thing about a major convention is that the cosplay girls are there to put themselves on display. This is perfectly right and proper. The thing to remember about girls is this, the need for male attention is instinctive in the female of our species. They have no choice about this, it is a genuine biologically driven priority because a female that doesn’t gain male attention, will not reproduce. Simple but there it is. Sex is receptive for a human female, they initiate by display.

If you’ve been to college you know that’s not the only way they initiate, but it is a main way, arguably the main way.

The real question is why they deny it. “I know it’s 2 degrees out, but the reason I’m wearing this low-cut blouse that shows everything but nipple is to keep cool!” Who do they think they’re fooling?