Amused Mastery and Queen Street Corner


There’s a mess of men waiting down Queen Street. Saturday fight night celebrations. Bartenders scrambling between pitchers and dispensers and the screams of young ladies in the mode. The young waitresses snaking through fat bellies and high heels, drinks and food held high between the drunks and the tokers. The old men slapping each other’s backs and the young ones giving fist bumps or handshakes too complicated for their clothing.

I find the last stool left and hop up to the bar. The man behind the bar offer’s me a pint of Blue, drink of choice during cheap pint nights. I nod and look up to the screen. The Prelims are over. Two beat ugly chicks stand in the middle of the Octogon. Glad I missed that. To my left, a group of four of Niagara Falls finest common women chat up a storm with a giant plate of cheese drowned nachos before them, already half eaten. None of them particularly attractive, but cute enough, except for the obligatory fat friend with a string of melted marble hanging from the corner of her lips. Reminds me of bad porno.

The night could swing that way. Talking to what’s available, getting in to trouble with some psycho cunt like the last one I picked up from here. I could drink too much, lose sense, and go for what I can instead of what I want. Nodding to long, bitchy stories, hoping for a little pussy after taking their verbal beating. I could be the man at the end of the bar with the dog faced woman swinging her hands in anger at some slight long forgotten by the man hoping to sleep with her. I could be the stumbling man and the manjaw with spiked hair “female” slipping hands between legs in a booth, shot glasses scattered on the table. I could be the hipster puking in the bathroom, drink still in hand, alone holding his leaking pride.

I watch the fights instead. I drink a pint, I eat and I yell at the TV. Watching tough men with no killer instinct “fight”. The old man next to me agrees. We talk and laugh. We pick winners and end up right.

A tiny, strong-faced chick with a tad too much makeup, but an excellent body walks up directly between my senior friend and myself. High on the crowd or already drunk, she tries a smile at me. The old man, born years beyond the taint of modern femininity, offers up his food to the lucky lady. Her friend, a nerdy type, shy as a nun, grabs some as well. He offers his seat up. Another time, another way of manners.

Roy Nelson knocks out Chieck Kongo. Sonnen gets his ass beat. I order my last beer, the tiny chick basically laying in to me, drunk as fuck. No talking, just looks. She leeches off the old man while getting her attention from me. I slide out of my stool, making sure she feels my departure and go outside. I sit at the newly bought plastic patio chairs. The entertainment is about to begin.

It begins with a shouting match. A small group of guys close, but visibly on two sides. On the edges are the females of the pack, chatting fast, growing to screaming. In response, the rivals start to scream, barking like little dogs on the wrong side of a fence. The crowd grows. The bouncer shows up. I sip at my Blue, laughing. Someone swings, the women screech and yell in fear. Shocked faces from the others on the patio as the street fills up. The most exciting moment of their week is happening. The safety of their world is smashed for a few seconds as a war seems to descend on the corner. I smile at the nearest woman, “I love UFC nights.”

I go back inside to finish my last pint. “You’re back?” the bartender asks, since I paid my bill a while ago.

“I never left. I stay for the entertainment.” He laughs.

I sit again and beside me is the two girls from before. The whole of the old man’s food order before them. The tiny one is shitfaced, head on her arms, arms on the bar. The nerdy one is keeping her eye contact isolated. No one should look at her, her darting eyes say. I play with the change I have left in my hand. Enough for another drink for the ladies beside me, enough for a drink for me as well. I finish my beer and slide the glass to the edge and place the money beside it. Life is good. Life is getting much better. My gut tells me to pay it forward to the deserving and that would be the hard workers in front of me, not the parasites beside me.

I hop off the stool once again and tip my hat to the nerdy chick who quickly looks away. I smile, amused by everyone around me. This is how it works, I realize. This is how you should feel. Not neurotic. Not insecure. Not scared. Not fearful. Not worried about what you said or what you did to scare off a girl. Not caring that a fight is a foot away from you. Not caring about anything but your own relaxation and joy.

The common way to decribe this is feeling like a king. I’m no king. Kings are authority. I feel like an outlaw. As I’m breaking the rules of the world. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the smile on my face, the spring in my step and the steel blue looks I give to the ones I deem worthy of my time.

I Dare You


No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far


There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.


On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

The Hurricane Date

The wind was howling. The rain was sideways. Everyone was inside except for me. I was in my car waiting for Ariel. We were both costumed up. I dressed as a biker: leather jacket, gloves, black boots, the works. She came out of her front door as a Spanish madien. Decked in red, a hat with those tassles cocked on an angle. For a 34 year old wall victim, she looked good. Niagara Falls only has so much to offer a poor white boy.

The plan was to visit a bar neither of us had been to before. I chose Longshots OTB. A horse race betting bar in my neighborhood. As the rain killed visibility, we hydroplaned our way to the gravel driveway. She was nervous. She’s always nervous. We talked for a bit. I was getting IOIs left and right. More than the first time we met, minus the slut shield. Tonight would be a interesting night.

The second we walked through the door I was.transported into a sitcom. The room was intimidatingly tiny and yet 20 fat old dudes fit in it, several of them playing pool. The moment seemed to pass like hours. Every eye was on us, espically Ariel. The only chick in the room. I was freaking out in my head.

“Hello!” she said in her bad Spanish accent. The room returned the greeting.

I noticed there was another door and began to inch ourselves to it. In full character, she acted the part of a snob Spainard visiting “the natives”, as she called the group. They ate up every word.

The larger back area was deserted. Most tracks were closed due to Sandy’s wrath, but the old folks kept on hoping their pensions would double on a lucky number. We grabbed drinks and tried to find a spot that wasn’t being watched by a disapproving eye.

The next 10 minutes was quiet conversation about how creepy the entire place was. The whistles of angry wind in the backround added to the atmosphere. There was simply no way to redeem our chosen bar. If we stayed any longer we’d probably run out screaming.

Back into the fray, in our way to the (Carrion) Croft, she slid her hand over mine. After our shared experience her comfort level skyrocketed. I remained loose and calm through the storm.

The Croft was dead. We ordered drinks and she fit neatly onto my lap. Getting drunker, we talked. The more we told histories, the closer she got. Soon, my hand was between her legs, her voice inviting me home.

I left her place near 1am with a freshly blown dick and a large light of pride inside. Within a week, I had number 8. Today, she begs for my attention. Her hands tear at me. The hamster runs like a beast, but with all my practice I have this self-delusional hippy professing control one minute only to submit under me the next. And, most importantly, I’m having a lot of fun.

It won’t last. Her insecure hamster will eventually drive me off, as most do, but in the meantime I can declare that I’ve leveled up. No longer slump busting or barrel scraping, after a year and half of hard work, I’m picking and choosing. A place all men should aim for.

The Redneck Achivement

Detestable Friend. The best name for a woman, a thing, that was secondary to the target. At Grand Central (of course), I came across them having a girls night out. Two girls, hammered, chatting loudly, screeching laughter. A dye job redheaded 6 and her mother hen.

I was deep in the slump buster mode. The First decided to be a big girl and she got in a relationship (that lasted about a month, more on that later). I was without a girl. And being with out a new notch since 2011, I was ready for almost anything.

I went after the 6 pretty aggressively. She was so hammered she didn’t mind it, but the walls were still up. She refused to cross any line that would upset her husband. I’ve got to give her credit for that. So being drunk I turn to the mother hen. We started making out within 20 minutes. At the end of the night cheat gave me her number. I woke up the next day and told myself I wouldn’t do that for a slump buster. There’s got to be something better.

Fast forward a few weeks. I run across them at Grand Central again. I’ve had no luck in between. Fuck it. With every disgusting intention to sleep with this person, I take the aloof route. Least amount of work for my gain. Like the last time the night ends with us making out. I text her a couple days later and its on.

After a few other meet ups at Redhead 6’s place we rounded second and third, she’s wanting to meet up but her boyfriend is always home. For 40 bucks I got a shitty motel room. Probably cheaper to do that then get to go back to the bar and not have a sure thing. She shows up and we fuck for about an hour. Pretty uneventful. We get our clothes back on. She took a cab, so I offer to driver her someplace. “Sure, can you take me to…


So what was just fucking an ugly chick in a cheap motel room turned into a surreal moment of cosmic comedy. This detestable person, oh white version of a Detroit welfare queen, fat ugly in loud, tops it all off by wanting me to drop her at fat ugly loud central. As soon as the door shut I was laughing. My mind couldn’t comprehend the pure luck. New notch. New story.

As I drove to Grand Central, going straight back on the prowl after getting laid, I looked up and whispered a thank you to the jester that apparently runs my sex life.

Rule #2: Don’t Chat Up Women You Don’t Want

She stood there, eyes glazed like a dog as he dies under the porch. I leaned on the patio’s fence, my beer in one hand, a satisfying smoke in the other. Like most of my outings, it was going miserably. Few girls to approach, fewer that were receptive. I made buddies with a 40 something hippie. He ranted on and on about moving to Victoria, British Columbia. How we were all dead in 20 years from chemicals and rising seas. I had never seen him sober. I don’t think I ever want to.

The chick looked to me and opened a paragraph of vitrol about her friends. They had left her behind, allegedly. I listened with the most uncaring eyes. I was more interested in the tits she was displaying. Chubby tits. Full of McDonalds and KFC left overs. They were tits and I was drunk. Such is. She vanished a few minutes later. When I left I saw her at a table, alone, on her phone, looking sadder than a dying Ethiopian child.

I wasn’t really attracted to her. I just wanted to take the chance to tame her home and that was my mistake. No hormonal investment. I was being lazy and my game suffered.

When it comes to women, you need to be able to draw a line. At a job, sure, talk away. In my line of work networking means employment. I talk and keep all the females happy, even the cunty one. But if you’re on the hunt, don’t go for trans-fat fruit. Aim for the things that will drive you to make an effort. Like working out, don’t do what is easy. It gains nothing. Push yourself to go that little bit farther and you will thank yourself later.

Don’t Be Tom

Tom is a friend of Kay, a girl I’ve written about here on occasion. When I met Kay last year driving back to Canada, we fucked. She’s a monster in bed. The kind of girl where starfishing means she’s dead or in a coma. She’d been pursuing Tom for a long while, so when they finally got to the business, she was elated. Then, Tom started this:

T: Hiii

K: hey

T: kisses
Come let me love on you baby

Come let me love on you baby

Tom isn’t a bad looking guy and his notch count is quite decent for having game like that (around a dozen lays in his early 20s). But, he’s never encountered someone like Kay. Tom has fallen in love with every pair of legs that opened up for him. When he rides the train through the mountains, he screams his undying amore to the tunnel before it deposits him on the other side. Whatever lets him in, he can’t help but want to stay there. And Kay’s pussy is like firewater to a Cherokee.

Kay has a boyfriend now. And, of course, Tom’s transmission goes from drive to “BE WITH MEEEEE!” This gem came after Kay was bitching that her boyfriend doesn’t talk to her much.

T: Keep trying [with him]? Its a two way street. He’s just dagling you around on strings like a puppet
You have me. That’s all that matters

They had one fucking session. One. I’ve seen remoras with less attachment than this guy.

Hey, wanna get married?

There was plenty of time before the boyfriend came along for poor little Tom to get some more. He wanted more, of course, he has a cock. But that cock doesn’t think for him. His dumbass brain does. Or, “heart”, as the romantics like to say:

T: What do you want really?
K: sex
T: Only sex?
K: what else would you have me say? I don’t have to want your friendship … I already have that


And then, it was over before he could even unzip his pants for a second time…

T: But yea. I really do think you are beautiful
K: thank you
I don’t feel like it very often but thanks
T: Your bf is super lucky
I feel stupid I didn’t try sooner with you
K: not sure he knows that but I thank you
T: You’re special to me
K: I’m not sure what to say to that

No, please, don’t close pussy. I love you. I LOVE YOU!

When pussy comes your way, don’t be Tom. Follow this simple addge:

Fuck her hard
Fuck her sore
And when you’re done
Fuck her some more

Its what they want. Its what they always want. Give it to them and they’ll be your slave.

Don’t Fuck With A Man’s Pride


Where do women get off at the idea that they can attack a man’s pride, a man’s honor, and we’ll just let it slide?

Probably from everywhere. Its on the TV, its on the radio, its in movies and video games. Ray. Ted Mosby. Commercials for light beer and microwave dinners. Bumbling, fumbling men and their expertly trained, angelic wives who tolerate their foibles because of the Hallmark version of “love” says you gotta love what you hate.

Guess what, guys. Ray Romano would of been cheated on and divorced by the end of every season if it were reality. Ted Mosby can’t find the perfect girl through 8 seasons because he fails to realize HE is his perfect girl. No, Coors Light, Bud Light or any other of those “drink this to become manly” companies will make you attractive to women. It’ll make you pathetic. Light beer is like light cigarettes. A product made for vaginas, but since most men are vaginas, they buy it in droves. Grow some pubes and pick up a real beer, or a hard liquor.

The reality of everything comes down to this: people take advantage of the weak. Everyone. Mother Teresa survived on the tears of poor children. Every charity, every food bank, every blood drive, every single beautiful humane thing anyone has ever done including throwing themselves on a grenade is an act of personal advantage. May it be mental, physical, spiritual or financial, people use people. Its only the ones who see the light that know that being the user, or in some cases the used has, advantages.

Women, biologically, are made to be used. Weaker, panic-stricken, prone to fuck shit up, they aren’t exactly the pinnicle of human development. BUT, they have one thing men need: pussy. For the specices, women are the future. They carry and care for our DNA. So, men have protected women, their women anyway, since the dawn of time. From animals, from other tribes and other humanoid species.

Back then, pussy was worth having your dick eaten by a tiger.

Today, its much different. Women are more male than men. is it worth dying in an office, on a construction site or crossing a busy downtown street for this?

Lulz. The HTML says this is the large version.

Weak men die in urban cages for ungrateful, undisciplined women who loathe them. Soldiers die for ugly whores who fuck while they’re in country. We recovering betas wasted money, thousands of dollars, on ass that came with navigation instructions. We do this because we had no pride.

Pride is a man’s soul. Proud of what he’s done. Proud of his scarred hands or his trophy buck. Proud of the old car that still runs better than a Prius and gets better mileage. Proud of the clothes he wears and the swagger of his walk. Men are biologically driven by pride, otherwise why even roll out of the hut when feeding the bitch or yourself has no meaning?

Women fuck with our pride because they have the law behind them. They can call you a homo one minute and hide behind the nearest cop the minute you look angry. For decades, this has turned us into mice in front of their imaginary atomic bomb of disappointment. We fear it’ll go off, and we’ll have to deal with a legally sanctioned attack on our human right to happiness (UN approved!)

But we don’t have to. For those in the know, we are the reason they live. The reason they have meaning. The reason our species didn’t die out. Yeah, they carried kids and collected berries, but the swinging dicks fought off everything for 100 000 years, keeping them alive. War after war after war. From disease to beast to invading horde. Men fought them all. Every man has a warrior’s blood in him. No man ever should ever feel in danger from a woman. Ever woman should feel fear when they see a man. We are the history of human survival, and we should fucking defend it.