The Alpha and the Omega
7 JulI read a lot of “man-o-sphere” blogs. Roosh and Chateau Heartiste and stuff like that. It’s part of the reason why I write about getting laid so much, or failing to get laid– because I like these blogs. You read shit like that and you want to write about it yourself. Screeds about internet fatties and so on. Yelling at women for not having a sense of humor.
You read enough of this stuff and you pick up an adversarial tone toward women. Or rather, it brings out the natural hatred and resentment of women in a guy who thinks he doesn’t get laid enough. A guy who thinks other guys are getting laid more than him. Who thinks this relates to his own deeper worthiness, the judgment of some drunk chick. Your failure to get her to act on some base impulse when another guy was successful at it. It means you are a loser. It affirms your own deeper self hatred. And you get pissed off.
The weird thing is, I get laid plenty, and I still feel like this. I get more ass than a toilet seat despite my self-loathing being pretty dead-on in a lot of respects. I am an underachieving mean-spirited layabout and chicks still like me. Why on Earth do I get so mad at them– they like me a lot. Most of them end up fucking me, and they call me, and I don’t call them back. Why am I so resentful of women who are supposedly not wanting to sleep with me, when they are in fact sleeping with me. I’m the one blowing them off. You have to create more and more elaborate standards to keep considering yourself the victim. You become angry that nineteen year old girls under one hundred twenty pounds with small noses and perfect facial symmetry want to sleep with some famous guy in a band rather than you. You become angry that guys with so-called “game” are getting laid more than you, when in fact game is completely accessible to everybody and if it were such a big deal, why didn’t you just learn it. You become angry that guys with small noses and perfect facial symmetry have an easier time getting laid than you. Not that they get laid more than you, but that they have an easier time of it. Like being rich by your own hand and getting pissed at people with inherited wealth. Continue reading
John Wayne Gacy
31 MayDid you know that John Wayne Gacy got married, by the way?* He married a fan who wrote him nonstop in jail and sent him sexy pictures. Did you know that this not-good-looking multiple child rapist/ murderer managed to find someone to settle down with, while your faithful correspondent Cornelius J. Tacos— a reasonably tall, not violently bad-looking young man who is capable of holding court about Narwhals or the Electoral College or WHATEVERTHEFUCK YOU WANT, people, I will have an intelligent conversation with ANYONE about ANY FUCKING TOPIC and charm the goddamn pants off you, and I have an IQ three and a half standard deviations above the mean and 11% body fat and many fine, interesting hobbies, and am generally a well-rounded and not unpleasant human being— this distinctly non-child-raping-and-murdering young man has been making A REAL MOTHERFUCKING EFFORT for several years and still can’t find a decent goddamn girl to give him the time of day? Were you aware of this? Probably. Continue reading
OKCupid: Girls with Kids
27 May
My best friend, whom I met off OKCupid, has a kid. And I have discovered that I enjoy the fuck out of going over to her house, cooking a 1950’s housewife dinner for her and her kid, and then we all sit around the table talking quietly and politely about how his day was at school and making sure he eats his vegetables. He’s like fourteen, so, he is close to being a fully formed human being and is at the cusp of a cool time in his life when he will drink his first beer, make out with his first girl, get his heart broken, and etc. I enjoy spending time with this young man and his mother. It has awakened some deep yearning for domestic life that I never would have suspected. Now I want to come home every day to a family, have a woman hand me a martini and talk to my son about baseball practice or some other Leave it to Beaver shit.
So I would gladly date a girl with a kid, because at forty grand a year for eleven hours per motherfucking day someone else’s kid is the closest I am ever going to get to this. But here’s the problem with kids: who is the father. A girl of dating age who has a child who is fully formed enough to enjoy had them young, which means they were impregnated by someone whose last words will be “hold my beer, watch this.” Someone with tons of tattoos who had to quit his band because he broke his fingers on some guy’s face and now has to send three hundred dollars per month of his landscaping income to some actress/ waitress. Or a Nicaraguan barback who drives Denzel’s car from Training Day and carries a switchblade and wants to kick your ass. Continue reading
Diary New Year’s Day 2011: I Am a Massive Fucking Chickenshit
26 AprI should have kissed Anne at midnight. What threw me was her talking about needing to find a guy to make out with. This means: not you. But still. I could have done it. I ended up sleeping at her place. I don’t remember going to bed, but I woke up next to her, surprised. And I thought she might think I was her ex-boyfriend, and wake up and realize it was me, and be shocked and appalled. But no.
She was an excellent sleeping partner. She was wearing tights and would like, wrap her top leg around mine as we were spooning. And put my hand in a comfortable place near her boobs. I keep thinking- maybe I should have fucked her, but how? I would have been too drunk to get a boner at night and in the morning my mouth tasted like rotten tequila. Cut yourself some slack, dude. You don’t have to fuck everybody.
Diary: New Year’s Eve 2010– Never Tell Me the Odds
26 AprFuck- anyway. Going to Anne’s. I will not be fucking Anne. Right? Or I mean, what if I will be fucking Anne? That would be awesome. But I will not be fucking Anne.
I mean, she just broke up with a dude—what does this mean? Why do I care? She is not going to be my girlfriend. I don’t want her to be my girlfriend. But I would like to see her naked.
I’m excited just to spend time around other human beings. Especially chicks, who—like, a lot of my friends are hot chicks. But there is literally no chance of me fucking them. An earthquake could happen, and they could be splayed out naked, and I could also be naked with a boner and a beam from some building could fall on top of us at a serendipitous angle and force my dick into them, but still somehow I would not be fucking them. Whereas, Anne, and that friend of hers, there is merely a 99.99999 % chance that I will not be fucking them. Somehow this is exciting to me. Like, if pussy were money, I would be the guy who spends the last dollar from his welfare check on scratch tickets. Continue reading
Reader Mailbag: Do You Actually Like Women?
23 Apr“Jess” asks:
Also – do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can’t tell if you actually like women.
I mean, sometimes.
Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don’t like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can’t stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can’t stand all the “drama,” etc.
So I like women. But then I don’t get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he’s saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn’t call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl’s tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the “nice guy” who doesn’t get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a NiceGuy™– a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.
Continue reading
Throwing in the Jizz Towel
16 AprSo– I no longer give a shit about getting laid. Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny. Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal. We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing. I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.
Except I don’t, because that’s the thing. Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid. I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid. I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid. Which I’m not. Trying to get laid.
Like– twice in the past few weeks I’ve had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I’ve gotten along well with. Perfectly solid girls. 4 stars on OKCupid for sure. Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn’t take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her. So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn’t happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night– sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED. And both times, I blew it off. I did the thing that girls do to me– I texted them that day that I couldn’t make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out. Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass… I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates. I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree. Too much work. These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when I was already drunk basically.
New Book
delicioustacos 