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A review by kinikos
The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists by Neil Strauss
1.0
“You’re boring. You’re a non-entity. Look at you, what do you have to offer? You don’t know magic. You haven’t been skydiving. You don’t even register on people’s radars. And if you hang around long enough for them to realise you’re there, you only repulse them. That’s why I’m giving the lessons and you’re probably spending your Saturday nights watching porn, getting your sexual gratification via a middle man. That’s why I’m balls deep in pussy and you’re only EYE balls deep. Now if you want to go home to your diary and lament over that sweet-voiced girl from the book store you spoke to one time, by all means do so. But if you want to learn how to get a woman to pay to suck your dick, then do everything I say and for the love of Christ, don’t back talk.”
He stared at me, mouth open.
“Good,” I muttered, “now take this.” I produced an envelope from my jacket.
He took it and opened it up. “What is it?”
“Take a look,” I said, as he flipped through its contents. It was various photos in which I had photoshopped my new recruit’s face. He stopped at one. It was a sun-tinted image of Dealey Plaza.
“These are obviously fake,” he said, “I wasn’t even alive during the Kennedy assassination.” I winced. With each objection I could feel his chances at getting laid diminishing. This was the eternal virgin I warn people about on the message boards. A walking cautionary tale. If he keeps this up people will mistake his ineptitude for hyperbole because no one could be that much of a jackass. I tried to hide my disappointment and continued.
“Not if you’re immortal, which is what you’re going to tell those women.”
“What?”
“Yeah, immortal. Tell them you’re the Count St. Germain. Talk about Julius Caesar like you were best buds. They’ll be hanging on to every word. It’s the perfect opener.”
“Look, this is too ridiculous. There’s no way anyone will think I’m sane, let alone believe me.”
I sneered. This chump was questioning me again. As if all my conquests didn’t speak to the success of my tactics. Didn’t I email him the spread sheet? I have so much pussy lying around I’ve resorted to giving it away to charity, which is exactly why I’m running this workshop. And this charity case refuses to let me help him.
“Trust me,” I said, “look at this crowd. These girls are probably bored out of their minds with the men here. Their vaginas are as dry as the Sahara right now, I guarantee it. And what they need,” I paused, “is a little bit of Gatorade.”
His face turned upwards and he eyed me like I was a madman. “What? That’s disgust – “
I cut him off. “I forgot to tell you. That’s your new nickname: Gatorade.”
“Nickname?” he sputtered. “Why do I need a nickname? Is that what you guys – “
“Everyone in the community has a badass nickname. Usually we just go by screen names but yours was pretentious as shit. No one cares that you read Philip K. Dick. You need a nickname like the rest of us. There’s Rasputin; I was chowing down on some snatch with him just last week. In a hot tub, no less. Then there’s Sex Offender, he’s great.”
“Why can’t I just go by Ewan?” Poor kid. That’s exactly the type of dumb question I’d expect from a Ewan.
“Listen,” I said. “You’ve entered a secret world here and we have our rules. What you don’t understand is that 99% of the pussy is owned by 1% of the population. I am that 1%. The community is that 1%. Regular jack-offs aren’t aware of this. If they were, there’d be protests outside my house. People would take to the streets in outrage. I took enough pity on you to take you under my wing, to invite you to the message boards, to show you this world. I didn’t have to but I did. I did because you remind me of a younger me.”
“I guarantee you I d – “
“Shut up, exactly like me. An Average Frustrated Chump. You like True Detective? Well, I’m the Rust Cohle of fucking and I’m gonna ruin your day so listen up. When people talk about chemistry in relationships, they’re literally talking about chemistry. It’s all oxytocin and dopamine and serotonin and a fuck load of testosterone. There’s nothing more to it. People need to get their rocks off and an actual vagina is preferable to the post-masturbatory existential despair that I'm sure you’re all too familiar with.”
He looked offended. I think I was finally getting through to him.
“Bottom line is this: when I was your age I was playing the game like everyone else and getting nowhere. You know how many women I would drive home from work? Tons. Literally – I couldn’t even get with fat chicks. Then I finally decided to look at the answers at the back of the book and my life’s been one big, raging fuck spectacle ever since.”
He was dumbfounded. Again, he looked at me like I was insane. I was used to it. Every innovator received that look at some point in their lives. Isaac Newton probably got that look every day, and now he’s revered as one of the top alchemists that ever lived.
I thought about another genius. “You read Dostoyevsky?” I asked.
“Yeah?” he said, obviously curious as to where I was going with this.
“Me too. See, we get it. Now let's go FMAC some girls."
And after a declaration of 'Strauss be with you', I dragged my reluctant recruit into the club...
He stared at me, mouth open.
“Good,” I muttered, “now take this.” I produced an envelope from my jacket.
He took it and opened it up. “What is it?”
“Take a look,” I said, as he flipped through its contents. It was various photos in which I had photoshopped my new recruit’s face. He stopped at one. It was a sun-tinted image of Dealey Plaza.
“These are obviously fake,” he said, “I wasn’t even alive during the Kennedy assassination.” I winced. With each objection I could feel his chances at getting laid diminishing. This was the eternal virgin I warn people about on the message boards. A walking cautionary tale. If he keeps this up people will mistake his ineptitude for hyperbole because no one could be that much of a jackass. I tried to hide my disappointment and continued.
“Not if you’re immortal, which is what you’re going to tell those women.”
“What?”
“Yeah, immortal. Tell them you’re the Count St. Germain. Talk about Julius Caesar like you were best buds. They’ll be hanging on to every word. It’s the perfect opener.”
“Look, this is too ridiculous. There’s no way anyone will think I’m sane, let alone believe me.”
I sneered. This chump was questioning me again. As if all my conquests didn’t speak to the success of my tactics. Didn’t I email him the spread sheet? I have so much pussy lying around I’ve resorted to giving it away to charity, which is exactly why I’m running this workshop. And this charity case refuses to let me help him.
“Trust me,” I said, “look at this crowd. These girls are probably bored out of their minds with the men here. Their vaginas are as dry as the Sahara right now, I guarantee it. And what they need,” I paused, “is a little bit of Gatorade.”
His face turned upwards and he eyed me like I was a madman. “What? That’s disgust – “
I cut him off. “I forgot to tell you. That’s your new nickname: Gatorade.”
“Nickname?” he sputtered. “Why do I need a nickname? Is that what you guys – “
“Everyone in the community has a badass nickname. Usually we just go by screen names but yours was pretentious as shit. No one cares that you read Philip K. Dick. You need a nickname like the rest of us. There’s Rasputin; I was chowing down on some snatch with him just last week. In a hot tub, no less. Then there’s Sex Offender, he’s great.”
“Why can’t I just go by Ewan?” Poor kid. That’s exactly the type of dumb question I’d expect from a Ewan.
“Listen,” I said. “You’ve entered a secret world here and we have our rules. What you don’t understand is that 99% of the pussy is owned by 1% of the population. I am that 1%. The community is that 1%. Regular jack-offs aren’t aware of this. If they were, there’d be protests outside my house. People would take to the streets in outrage. I took enough pity on you to take you under my wing, to invite you to the message boards, to show you this world. I didn’t have to but I did. I did because you remind me of a younger me.”
“I guarantee you I d – “
“Shut up, exactly like me. An Average Frustrated Chump. You like True Detective? Well, I’m the Rust Cohle of fucking and I’m gonna ruin your day so listen up. When people talk about chemistry in relationships, they’re literally talking about chemistry. It’s all oxytocin and dopamine and serotonin and a fuck load of testosterone. There’s nothing more to it. People need to get their rocks off and an actual vagina is preferable to the post-masturbatory existential despair that I'm sure you’re all too familiar with.”
He looked offended. I think I was finally getting through to him.
“Bottom line is this: when I was your age I was playing the game like everyone else and getting nowhere. You know how many women I would drive home from work? Tons. Literally – I couldn’t even get with fat chicks. Then I finally decided to look at the answers at the back of the book and my life’s been one big, raging fuck spectacle ever since.”
He was dumbfounded. Again, he looked at me like I was insane. I was used to it. Every innovator received that look at some point in their lives. Isaac Newton probably got that look every day, and now he’s revered as one of the top alchemists that ever lived.
I thought about another genius. “You read Dostoyevsky?” I asked.
“Yeah?” he said, obviously curious as to where I was going with this.
“Me too. See, we get it. Now let's go FMAC some girls."
And after a declaration of 'Strauss be with you', I dragged my reluctant recruit into the club...