A man of our times


On a recent Roosh post about how men are wasting their time chasing women unproductively, commenter Guile says (all quotes slightly edited):

. . . I like being a rootless loner.  I like being able to walk around the city anonymously and never see the same people twice, or to go to the country and not talk to anyone for weeks.  I don’t care what my neighbors are up to.  I’m glad to now have a tiny social circle and few responsibilities.  I don’t want to be the leader of anyone buy myself.  A woman’s love is fleeting and has no lasting value.  Was I programmed, or just born at the right time and place? . . .

LoneRanger responds: Read More

Oxfam whores

For reasons some of you may be aware of, I upload posts many months after I have written them.  Hence my topical articles are stale and I have to remind you what they’re all about.

Cast your mind back around eight thousand years, to the heady days of February 2018 when some Oxfam staff got busted rooting Haitian whores.  Remember that?  No?  Well, look it up while the rest of us get on with it.

There are many curious and interlocking layers of hypocrisy involved.  Let us peel back the onion layers until we cry.

First, everyone pretended to be Read More

Absolute Power

Most civilized people have certain convictions about themselves. They think that they would never harm or kill another out of pure spite. They think that they would always be loyal to their wife (this one is mostly for Americans). They think that they would never steal. They think that they are not especially selfish, capricious or arrogant.

And these things are probably true of most of them, most of the time. But what choice do they have? How often is forty-something Joe Average seduced by a Read More

Arab Hypocrisy

If you inquire of the average Arab, he’ll assure you that Westerners are weak, degenerate, drug-addled, drunk, unfaithful, generally sinful and in rapid decline. In this he will not be entirely incorrect.

But hang on there one Arab minute. What about you lot?

Let’s start with the Saudis, as they are the largest and most waddlingly vulnerable target. Saudis are absolutely notorious for going on trips to Bahrain and Read More

Dirty Old Man

The first thing you notice about South East Asia is the dirty old men. Men aged 50-plus (and I mean plus), fat, balding, bespectacled men in tent-sized Hawaiian shirts, men who would not look out of place playing lawn bowls at a Gold Coast retirement home or mowing around the jacaranda in Mount Waverley. Enjoying the Wednesday parma and pint at the local RSL club with their nasal-voiced, leather-skinned and blue-rinsed wives. You know the kind of men I mean. The kind who say ‘How’s your strength?’ when you walk past because they need your help lifting something. The kind who still say ‘Jap’ and ‘wog’. The kind who, when in mixed company of their own age, converse exclusively about their operations and the recent operations of others.

These salt-of-the-earth men strut the streets of Phnom Penh and Phuket with girls in their early twenties, girls whose professional genius disguises even the most subtle indications of disgust. What I find most odd about these gents is their complete lack of Read More

Twists and Roundabouts

I’m wrenched awake by a gut-churning headache. It might be the altitude. I’m in a tent somewhere in the mountains, long before dawn, far from home. I fumble around in my backpack for my ‘Vitamin I’ (Ibuprofen) and realize that I’m all out. Oh, shit.

I force my agony-fogged brain to calculate.

Continuing the hike as planned goes in the ‘ha ha’ basket. Once I get a headache like this I need drugs or I’m out of action for days. For this reason and many others I would never have survived in the pre-industrial era.

I can drive into the nearest town pretty easily. Problem is, it’s 4am. Pharmacies won’t open until 10. I could get home by then, take the drugs there, then sleep in my own bed.

Can I get home? Physically, can I drive that far in this condition?

Maybe not, but it looks like the best of a bad set of options. My study of the Stoics shall be tested. I cannot control painful events, but I can choose how to react to them. On this occasion I choose to react by spitting obscene language and furiously kicking objects that get in my way as I start gathering my stuff.

Bending down is a really bad thing for headaches. Probably that’s what extraordinary rendition camps do to suspected terrorists. Induce a headache then scatter a bunch of irresistible goat porn on the cell floor. You know what else really requires a lot of bending down? Packing up a tent. My condition worsens until I

Read More

In which I post while drunk


Image credit: WikiCommons

How much gin does will take to make my soul come back?  I think it might be four shots, five at the outside.  Depends how quickly I drink.  Need to reach that sweet spot between feeling drunk but still depressed and the moment when I begin to vomit.

I’ve been a couple of weeks without sex, mostly due to lack of effort on my part, and that old incel rage is coming back again.  It shouldn’t take effort.  There should just be a button.  Whoever programmed this universe is a cunt.  Probably laughing at us.  If there’s a way out of our universe to his, he’s fucked.

Gin is horrible but it’s too hot for whisky.  And my whisky is too good for ice.  And I am too good for cheap whisky.  I deserve to win the lottery.  I’d set aside an annual budget of $12,000 for whores.  Then I’d never need to speak to another woman again.  Never get a message from my ex who’d said she wanted a break, now saying Read More

Schrödinger’s Pussy


As in the quantum thought experiment Scrödinger’s Cat, a woman’s sexual decision exists in a state of uncertainty which can only be described according to statistical probability.  Before being observed, she both does and does not want to sleep with you simultaneously.  The blur of statistical probability only collapses into one or the other definite state once observed; that is, when you bust a move.

Let’s demonstrate with an example back here on planet Earth.  Shortly after formulating this theory I went on a date with a nice looking lady.  We met in a cafe and she told me that in ten days she would be heading off to spend a year in New Zealand.  Oh, I thought.  She just wants to practice some English conversation before she leaves.  What a waste of my time.  I considered making an excuse for an immediate getaway.

Then I remembered my theory.  She does not yet know whether Read More

Candy Crush


Is Wendy beautiful?  I cannot say.  She wears a tiny orange singlet that covers part of her slim torso and a matching skirt that covers little more.  Comic book eyelashes, long coloured nails and a cosmetic disguise.  She sits at the bar of the dismal Boomerang playing Candy Crush.  She has no drink.  Khe Sanh is blaring in the background but she doesn’t know what it’s about and she doesn’t care.  Some silent, dull eyed ancient blokes around her sit up slightly as though they’ve heard the opening strains of the national anthem.

She’s usually here from around six.  If it’s quiet she’ll try the nightclub around the corner instead but she prefers it here.  The Lotus has too many girls; they have to fight over each guy.  Not at the Boomerang.  The Boomerang is easy, so long as it’s not too quiet.

Wendy has no interest in working at the hostess clubs.  She could never work for somebody else.  She chooses her customers for herself.  Any barang is okay; young, old, fat, whatever.  But no Asians.  Not even rich Chinese or tall Koreans.  Certainly no Cambodians or Vietnamese.  No Philipinos.  No Thais.  No Japanese.  She lists every East Asian country, ruling out the men from each.  What about Indians, then?  No.  Only barang.

Both Wendy’s parents were absent during her childhood so her grandmother took care of her.  At sixteen she took positions in Malaysia and Singapore doing domestic work, nannying, cleaning.  She worked for strict mistresses and naughty children.  It was tiring.  She returned to Cambodia at eighteen.  That year, her high school teacher fell in love with her and married her.  He was in his twenties.

The teacher-husband did not work out.  Wendy knew nothing of sex.  At night she would Read More

The Waters In Which We Swim


You’re all freaks.  You.  The people who write blogs that I enjoy.  The spirited wordsmiths whose amusing polemics break up the monotony of my day and prevent me from thinking about those things I have chosen to forget.

When I begin to enjoy the honesty and rawness of your blog, you jump out with, I’m a heroin addict!  I’ve never had sex!  I have Elephantiasis!  I was brutally raped by my auntie throughout my childhood!  Or something like that.  Which makes me think, what am I doing here, lurking among the bio-luminescent creatures of the deep?

I don’t belong here.  I’m normal.  Let me tell you how normal I am, you fucking freaks.  I’ve had Read More

A Bedroom Suprise


“Roaarr!” I growled as I grabbed her, throwing her across the bed.  The woken cats fled in annoyance.  She giggled as I tried to pull up her singlet, squawked when I took advantage of her distraction to pull down her pants, flip her over and get in one quick spank before she escaped.

Launching herself back over the bed, she lunged at me, trying to pin me down and hold me by the balls.  I got out from under her but still she had my balls, a fierce grin on her face.  The struggle continued until we both started shivering and retreated under the covers.  Her leopard-skin patterned quilt was too thick for a man on such a mild evening but it would take time to warm up.

I seized her for more roughhousing and felt something cool lying under her body, on her side of the bed.

“What’s that?” Read More

Being a Gigolo


We’ve all wistfully pondered it (or is this just my abnormal life), but have you ever countenanced our most ancient trade as a realistic financial option?

Image a wealthy lady of advanced years offers you $200 to entertain her for an hour.  She will ensure the venue is discreet and comfortable.  You are only expected to engage in vanilla sex acts.  What do you think?  For those of you who said no, what about Read More

She Upstairs

A long time ago I lived in a two-story share house.  It was a cramped hovel with shared facilities and strictly enforced shower times.  Such is the poverty of the parsimonious.

Immediately upstairs lived Sarah.  There some interesting things to note about Sarah.  On their own they fail to startle but seen together they make a curious and intoxicating combination of traits: Read More



Another girl, in another city.  I’d met her three hours ago.  As we strolled near my hotel I pondered which line I would use – come in for a cup of coffee?  Before I could say a word she pushed the elevator button and marched straight on in.  She reclined on my bed and watched a Korean drama while I had a shower.  I lay beside her and wrapped an arm affectionately around her shoulders.

She gaped at me, shocked.  “What are you doing?” Read More

Dried Blood in My Sink


Part I.


Chloe had told me she couldn’t come around because she ‘had a little crush on me.’  I decided to play the game.  Now knowing she loved the troubled bad boy (her ex was a violent alcoholic) I told her she was speaking shit.  I claimed to be suffering a mental illness and to have gone off my meds.  I said, come around or I will block you forever.  Could such an approach possibly work?

Read More

A Tale of Two Girls


Not these two. Image repossessed from https://isaminorthreat.wordpress.com/

I am dating two women.

One of them really likes me.  She can’t resist me.  She would accept either a friends-with-benefits arrangement or a long term relationship.

The other is less keen.  She constantly weaves mind games and throws up every obstacle between here and my bed.

One of these girls I’m quite besotted with.  She’s such a cutie; I’ve an eclectic taste and she fits it.  The other is not my type.  I find her irritating to be around and not particularly arousing.  Also, her room is messy.

Can you guess which is which? Read More


the night is young so are the girls

Image confiscated from http://2.bp.blogspot.com/

Somewhere in the third world, Isaiah is on a four-day bender.

Typically, revelers realize they were on a bender once they regain consciousness in agony; sober, penniless and suffering mysterious injuries. Not Isaiah. He is a deliberate and intelligent man.

He has six days off work – a very responsible job in education administration. He has scheduled four days of binging and two days of recovery. On Monday he will be back at work, shaven, sensible and competent.

While a bender necessarily contains random elements, he has it roughly plotted out. There is the pub, the Last Chance Saloon, where most of the work will be done; a venue where his colleagues will not turn up unexpectedly and where he can usually find a fight or other entertainment. There will be some trips to other favorite haunts. There will be drunken slumbers broken by ten a.m. returns to the Last Chance Saloon where the hair of the dog will gradually accelerate to an evening crescendo.

I meet Isaiah because I’m staying upstairs and eating downstairs. The pub is in an impoverished country that attracts ex-pats with its cheap beer, ‘happy’ pizza and general lawlessness. Read More