Roosh is back at it with a trio of new travel guides, focusing on the Baltic nations of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Even better, for today only, he’s selling all three of them in a bundle for just $3. Whether you’re planning a vacation to eastern Europe or you just like Roosh’s writing, read on to see what I think of these new books.
This is a guest post by Tim.
Learning any subject requires time and effort. But there are many parallels between learning one subject and another. I’m not yet skilled in game, but I do know some things about fishing.
What can we learn about game through fishing?
I view this as a first part in a series.
I’m starting to think I chose the wrong part of the country to relocate to. First it was Madison that I fell in love with, and now Minneapolis has left a better impression on me then a city in the Midwest not named “Chicago” has any right to. Enough of an impression that as soon as my situation at the moment is squared away and I get some time off, I’m splitting back east for a vacation (a vacation from a vacation? Wut?). That, and the Twin Cities are the closest major urban area where I am aside from Calgary, and fuck Canada.
Mojo asked me an interesting question last week:
Matt, serious question:
How do you get so many haters?
I really want more haters, so I can add their insane ramblings to my ‘reviews’ column. But I seem to only ever get friendly comments. What is it, specifically, that you do to generate such hate?
From what I can tell, having good haters requires two crucial ingredients:
- Tell the truth.
- Be an awesome individual.
This is a guest post by Vicomte.
“Can you check my closet for monsters? Please?”
“Of course I can. Don’t I always? Do you think I would let you fall asleep without duly making sure there are exactly zero monsters present in any given closet within range of your tiny snoring sounds? What kind of father do you think I am?”
So am I.
Im my specific case, getting the snip is both possible yet unlikely. It’s possible in that I still have health insurance. Yes, that’s right: the guy who’s hitchhiking across the country and living out of a mountaineering backpack has health insurance. It’s unlikely in that while I am single and child-free like all the aforementioned guys, I’m far younger then they are: Mentu, Danny and the Captain are in their thirties and Private Man is a Civil War vet. Given the elaborate ruse Mentu had to concoct to get his doctor to tie his tubes, nothing short of a fake wife and some forged child support documents will help my case.
The benefits of a vasectomy are obvious. I can blast inside any woman with impunity. No pregnancy scares. No having to split the cost of an abortion. No having to pay child support. No shotgun marriages. And frankly, I’m not sure if I want to have kids. Beyond the obvious fact that having even one little womb-turd would seriously cut into my drinking time, I have enough self-awareness to know that I’d make a crummy father. And there’s the not-inconsequential fact that most women are unfit to be mothers as well.
So what’s stopping me from taking the plunge?
Realistically, what’s kept me from exploring vasectomies is my pathological fear of having sharp objects near my fleshy bits. But there are arguments against it that don’t revolve around my squeamishness. Here are the ones I could think of.
1) Your parents expect you to give them grandchildren. If you don’t, you’re letting them down.
This is probably the only concern I could give a damn about. Like Mentu, I’m my parents’ only son; if I get the snip, the Forney name dies with me.
But why should I care?
Filial piety implies that I “owe” my parents for having raised me and putting up with all my bullshit, but this logic unravels when you consider that I wasn’t given a choice in the arrangement. I didn’t ask to be born and neither did you; one day, your parents had one too many apple martinis, got naked and nine months later, you were thrust crying and screaming into this world. Debate over the personhood of the unborn notwithstanding, fetuses and zygotes aren’t known for their negotiation skills… or doing anything aside from floating in amniotic fluid.
If you kidnapped a homeless man and made him do your housework, no one would call you a caring or kind person if you fed him in exchange. They’d call you a sick, twisted fuck and you’d probably go to jail. Sure, you’re keeping him alive, but he didn’t ask to get snatched off the street and made to scrub your toilet every morning. Yet, we congratulate people when they bring children into this world and then force them into a life of indentured servitude.
I’m well aware that these arguments are goony as hell. The desire to procreate is something that goes beyond rationality and sober thought. But why am I forever required to slavishly obey my parents, even after I’ve grown up and moved out of the house?
2) The white race needs more babies to outbreed the dusky hordes! You’re contributing to the coming idiocracy if you don’t have children!
This comes from the Kinist/Stormfront types who (literally) think that I should be a walking sperm dispenser, in anticipation of the Day of the Rope. Get married and pump out babies for the white race! It’s your duty!
Putting aside the idea that I should be loyal to the mass of mouth-breathing Mongoloids that comprise the white race, if it’s pure numbers you want, the traditional nuclear family is the worst possible method to get them.
Were I to get hitched today and immediately start knocking up my betrothed, assuming she was in my age range (18-24), we’d be able to get out at most 18-20 kids over the course of our lives, accounting for a nine-month pregnancy and “cool-off” time between each birth. On the other hand, if I were to donate sperm, I could father exponentially more children; hundreds or even thousands. Granted, some of them might end up with shitty mothers, but again, since all the Stormfronters care about is quantity, who cares?
3) God says you’re immoral if you don’t have children.
A favorite argument of the traditionalist set, one they curiously never deploy on slutty women. I’ll let guys like Dalrock and Mentu who are better acquainted with the church slam these white knights.
4) You’ll be lonely in your old age if you don’t have kids.
In the blogosphere, I’ve never seen someone who actually is old make this argument; it always comes from naive kids my age who took the red pill then coughed it back up. The idea is that life is like a Disney movie and that I’ll spend my last years surrounded by smiling grandchildren who will lovingly ask me about the bad old days, when we only had weak 4G smartphone Internet and we had to use earbuds to listen to our iPods instead of having the music downloaded directly into our brains. If I selfishly get the snip, I’ll die alone and unloved plodding to Bingo Night at the Presbyterian church every Friday with no one to comfort me as the Grim Reaper drags me into the underworld.
In what universe does this actually happen?
Here’s the reality: if you have kids, ten-to-one they’re going to move to another city or another state when they grow up to get away from home, chase economic opportunity or both. If they marry and settle down, they’re going to do it far away from you. You’ll see your grandchildren once a year at most (at Christmas), and they’ll have absolutely no interest in talking to you, because to them, you’ll be just some weird old guy nattering on about what things were like back in your day. When you devolve to the point where you can’t even wipe your ass without help or remember your own name, your loving children will shove you in a nursing home to get manhandled by underpaid Mexicans all day. And when you die, they’ll have a brief funeral, ship your carcass off to the crematorium, then stash your ashes in the back of a closet after fighting for weeks about how best to divvy up your estate.
Please tell me how this is any better from not having any kids.
Either way, I’m still going to end up alone and unloved, the only difference being that if I have kids, I’m going to have to break my back for 18+ years to raise them. Somebody explain to me how that’s a good bargain.
5) There are marriageable women out there, you’re just looking in the wrong places.
This is a favorite among old farts, woman-centric as they are. It’s why the phrase Not All Women Are Like That exists: whenever a man points out how screwed up modern women, it’s always made out to be his fault. It’s his attitude that’s the problem. It’s where he’s going that’s the problem. “Well, maybe if you stopped chasing bar skanks, you’d find a decent girl.” Because as we all, people who go to bars and clubs are an isolated minority with nothing in common with the general population.
Arguing with these people is a waste of time.
Listening to your parents on this topic is a dumb idea, because almost everything they have to say is wrong. I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but I learned more about dating and women from a month of reading Roissy/Heartiste than a lifetime of advice from them.
These are all the arguments I could think of. Got your own arguments that you want to destroy? Post ‘em in the comments. The case for getting the snip when I’m old enough to fool the doctors is looking stronger and stronger.
Read Next: Choose Your Own Sexuality!
I love writing, I love sharing my ideas, and I love listening to the ideas of my readers. But I simply no longer love blogging. Instead of feeling gleeful anticipation when writing up a post, I feel nothing but dread. There’s a group of people out there (google the ironic term FtBullies to find them) devoted to hating me, my friends, and even people I’m just vaguely associated with. I can no longer write anything without my words getting twisted, misrepresented, and quotemined. I wake up every morning to abusive comments, tweets, and emails about how I’m a slut, prude, ugly, fat, feminazi, retard, bitch, and cunt (just to name a few). If I block people who are twisting my words or sending verbal abuse, I receive an even larger wave of nonsensical hate about how I’m a slut, prude, feminazi, retard, bitch, cunt who hates freedom of speech (because the Constitution forces me to listen to people on Twitter). This morning I had to delete dozens of comments of people imitating my identity making graphic, lewd, degrading sexual comments about my personal life. In the past, multiple people have threatened to contact my employer with “evidence” that I’m a bad scientist (because I’m a feminist) to try to destroy my job. I’m constantly worried that the abuse will soon spread to my loved ones.
One of the things I like about bloggers like FFY and Dagonet is that they talk about their fuck-ups with women just as much as their successes. Reading a tale of sexual conquest can be entertaining, but tales of failure are instrumental in improving your game by showing you what not to do. They’re also humanizing, showing us that these guys, as smooth as they are with girls, struggle with the same problems that we grinders do.
This is my own personal fuck-up story.
Manospherians might be aware of a certain super master rama-lama-ding-dong PUA named Social Kenny. Kenny fashions himself a pick-up coach and “seduction god,” despite the fact that he regularly gets blown out by the most hideous of fat girls. Not even Nigel himself would dare to stick it in the kinds of hochunks that Kenny fails to lay on a daily basis. He also claims to be a “grammarian” fluent in three languages, despite the fact that his English is so bad it makes E.L. James look like Shakespeare.
But the kid from Bang-ville has one redeeming characteristic: his frame is utterly unshakeable.
While this is technically a hitchhiking trip, before last week, I hadn’t hitched in two months, having spent a month-and-a-half in Madison and the two weeks prior to that in Chicago. I’d been planning to hitch to Des Moines after busing to Minneapolis, but FFY texted me during my last week to inform me that Bronan was coming down for Labor Day weekend; not wanting to miss the action, I immediately canceled my last two days at the Madison hostel and got my bus ticket refunded.
Man, that was a fun weekend.
With my usual penchant for sloppy planning and questionable decision making, I stumbled out of Des Moines last Tuesday and made it to Minneapolis the following Saturday. Here’s what transpired in the time since I departed Wisconsin.