Ramble On / Battle Cry


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I was signing in to Soundcloud from my phone to listen to The Christian McQueen Show (props to Christian and Dagonet, its funny as fuck and has great content). I pressed on the profile button, not thinking much of it, and up came this. My old music from the aftermath of my marriage. About a dozen tracks of mediocrity and/or down right bad beats, but all an expression of the pain, loss and loneliness of a blue-pill beta world being ripped from his hands and turned to ash.

Where has the time gone?

I was three years ago last week I crossed the Canadian border with $36 in my bank account, a shit-ton of debt from my ex, my drinking and my irresponsibility and no hope other than a familiar bed and familiar place. I moved my entire life in a single Dodge Stratus, having trimmed a lifelong partnership down to what I felt was the most important. Grasping to the things I felt that made me.

Three years is a long time.

Last week, I was adventuring in the wilds of British Columbia, my last week there. My instinct about this exchange being spot on. Soon after that post, I was notified I had two weeks left due to budget constraints. I don’t blame anyone, the bosses or the newbie or the culprit. When the anger past and I looked at it all clearly, this woman in a position of power had no idea what she was doing, or how it fucked me over. It wasn’t a conspiracy, it wasn’t a vendetta, it was something so much simpler. It was just selfishness. Selfish actions, narcissism and an utter lack of self-awareness. Everything that we know about the typical Western woman. Instead of showing me that she was worthy of her title, this woman showed me all she was no different than the leopard print legging, frayed UGG wearing zombies I see at Wal-Mart.

It did not deter me. When my adventure was over, I told my parents (my ride) that I walked on an ancient glacier, I climbed kilometers of forest, I flew in helicopters to the top of the world and drank pristine water. I did my job right and I did it well. And, when they brought me back to their house, my old house, I recouped for no more than an hour from my long flight. Soon after, I grabbed what packages I had ordered, my car and headed back out. By the end of the night, I had not gone to my own home, but to that of a girl, who happily greeted my return. I finally unlocked my own door at around noon the next day.

Since then, I’ve been on a spree of gear buying, organizing and planning. My room is no longer a pigsty of work, clothes and plain laziness, but a thought out collection. My fridge is full of the right food, not pizza boxes and pop as it was when I cleaned it out before leaving. Hooks and shelves. Roughneck tubs and tape labels. A rucksack being build up to tackle the great big world that lives outside the streets of a city.

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Three years ago, if I hadn’t put myself on a path to accept the harsh realities of women, and people in general, what happened to me would of destroyed me just as bad as the end of my marriage had. I had done right, worked hard, played on the team and done my part beyond what I was told it would be and, like the end of my marriage, it was the selfish needs of a woman and her missing self-awareness that ended a good thing way too soon. But, because of people like Christian and Dagonet, like Rollo, Dalrock and the long-departed Solomon II, and the countless others I’ve been inspired by, I was able to push myself to become a better me, and through that a better man.

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Walk the Line

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The veins begin to grow on my neck, blood pumping through every tube at high speed. My skin burns and your eyes widen. Everything comes to a slow crawl, there is nothing left inside but the fire of the animal. Go for the kill, it says. DO IT!

I twitch, no one sees. So close. GO! GO GO GO! But, I rest, time speeds up to normal. And there is her long, horse-like face, sans makeup, sans any redeeming quality. A person again, nothing more than a person. And her words.

Cunt, the human says as she turns away. Whorecunt.

My boss, out of nowhere, for no other reason to wave her non-existent dick in front of the new blood, insulted me. Told me I was awful for camera and that I should be doing lighting instead. With her new, nubile, inexperienced assistant at her side, she told me to “Get out of the way. Woymn are here!”

Could I have said something? Of course. I was within my right to. I could of lit the fire under her feet and let the whole place burn with my words. It could of cost me my job, this train of money into my account and work with this company, but it would of been justice on a woman who has made everyone’s life out here beyond difficult on top of our normal duties.

But I withheld. I eyed the boss of bosses talking to the moneylenders, trying to keep the chaos in check. I eyed the other camera head talking shop with one of the producers. I had no back up. I had no exit strategy. My fire would be put out quickly, the arsonist blamed and strung up, and wounds treated and pampered (more than she’s been already). The net benefit would be a second of personal satisfaction and six weeks of punishment, at best. Home and poor again, back to square one, at worst.

Status and respect do not go hand in hand. To those not in the tyrannical cross hairs of a mentally ill feminist, her title comes with all the respect I give to the others who’ve earned it. The others have recognized my hard work, my skills and my loyalty, and given the respect I deserve. She dismisses it all, because I have a penis, a penis that gets in the way of her political and mentally deformed ambitions that we all must suffer through.

Could I have said something? Only if I wanted to be like her and sabotage the job for personal gain.

I held my place, shut my mouth and walked away. Saving my words for another day. A day when the system is not at her back. A day when the line can be crossed, happily and with purpose.

I Dare You


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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

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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.

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

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…

…Walmart?”

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.

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

DUDE. SEX. ITS SEX. FUCKING. PUSSY. SHUT! THE! FUCK! UP!

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

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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.

The Yamaha Mentor

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Its one thing to read and teach yourself the lessons we all have learned. Its another thing to hear it espoused by a guy you just met in a bar or at a party. But, watching it happen before your eyes: its like the slap across the wrist. The pain echoing through your body. You’ve been living in books, my friend. Its the big leagues now.

I had gone to Grand Central to watch the UFC fights. The place was packed at 10pm and just grew and grew until the main event. I was going in for drinks and coming out to the patio to breathe air. Only when Griffin vs Ortiz and Silva vs Sonnen came on did I venture into the TAPOUT shirts and their hanger-ons. None of the fights were that exciting, thought it was joy to see Ortiz lose his last fight. Guy is a talent, but too much of a primadonna to make him anything but hated.

Going in and out, one guy I shall call The Mentor stood by at one table with a pint and a pack of smokes. About my height, not exactly a cover model, but not someone who needs a Ferrari to get attention. He talked to some guys he met about his divorce. Debt is not separated, but assets are. So, he went out and got a motorcycle with whatever credit he had left. A Yamaha. Apparently, that counts as debt, or his ex-wife would now be giving it to whatever boyfriend-of-the-week she saw fit.

He, two other dudes and I talked UFC and other things until the fights were over. The time was barely past 12:30, so I said I was going to head off to another bar until last call. I had Double Ds in mind. A dive across from Mints, the worst of the strip clubs in the Falls. Cheap local pints. My mind was as far from game as possible. I wanted to drink more and go home, but he had other things in mind. He told all of us about Big Texas, a country bar on Lundy’s Lane at the edge of the tourism area. “Chicks in daisy dukes.”

“I’m in.”

An hour later, we had all trickled in and ran across each other. The Mentor had already caught a few eyes, while the other two just hung around and I, so out of the mindset, just had beers and smokes and sat. The urge to go home was nasty. I had no drive.

“I can read people.” said the Mentor. “I’ve always been good at it. Can I try you?”

“Sure,”

He nailed it. I’m enjoying the single life, but still not good on approaches. I’m confident, but not THAT confident because of what happened. I want to get the chicks, but there’s something keeping me back. It was like a kick to the head.

Moments after, two decently cute girls, blonde and brunette, walked behind us and chatted to each other. A dude in a full sleeve stripped shirt chatted them up.

“Watch this,” He moved about two inches and the dude recognized him from their work. We all introduced each other. He leaned in to me, “The brunette is a runner or something. Look at the legs.” Then, as quickly as he told me, he asked her if she ran or figure skated.

“I used to figure skate,” she said.

The stripe dude said, “Do a triple sow cow right now!” She got about as far as lifting her leg up before laughing.

The blonde kept looking at me, but it was the brunette who put out her hand, “Have we been introduced?”

“Yeah, I’m Jordan. I think you forgot.”

“No, I didn’t” she said defensively with a smile. “What’s on your shirt?”

I had worn my new “Why Does This Look Like Shit?” t-shirt under a cheap button up one. I told her I worked in TV.

“I have a lot of ideas.” she said, but the blonde started to tug on her. “Aw, man. We have to go.”

The Mentor saved my ass. “You still need to tell him your ideas.”

“Alright, here’s my number,”

And just like that, there it was. Something new. Out of the rut and into the road. Before we parted ways, he told me that the most important things for guys like us: divorcing/divorced, is to just lay low. Basically, go our own way. Live, but don’t tax yourself. Bank money. Relax. Enjoy.

Yesterday’s night out was needed more than any chick I could of gotten from POF or OKC. Low-bangers. Rotten fruit. This man broke me and put me back together in seconds. Something I couldn’t do myself. Something no one can ever do themselves. All the blogs and books can teach you theory, but when its put into action in front of your eyes, it clicks. It becomes real and you have no excuses now to stand back and watch.