Last weekend I took a much needed trip to Las Vegas to blow off some steam with a couple of buddies I’ve known for the better part of two decades. It was a weekend to remember for sure, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t share the crimson capsule crusades that ensued the minute I landed in Sin City.
The 2015 version of the Vegas Swat Team was as follows:
“Paul” is a tall, good looking dude I’ve known since my college days. I mentioned him near the end of this article. He’s a stone cold assassin and red pill to the core.
“Doug” is a good friend of Paul’s whom I’d never met before this trip. Paul told me about some of the red pill knowledge Doug had inadvertently dropped in the past so I knew he’d be a solid guy to roll with. Upon meeting him it didn’t take long to discern that he was as advertised.
“Norm” is a good friend of mine who resides in Las Vegas. I’ve known him as long as Paul. He was a slut slayer back in the day but unfortunately, he’s failed to evolve with the changing landscape of the sexual marketplace and holds onto many of the Disney-esque fallacies of the present.
So now that we have our players, let’s get to it.
Most men are white knights…even your friends
I landed in the 702 on Thursday afternoon, where I was scooped up at the airport by Norm. Paul and Doug weren’t due in until later that night so we decided to grab a burger and a beer on the strip and shoot the shit until the rest of the crew arrived.
It didn’t take long for the conversation to steer in the direction of women when Norm revealed to me he hadn’t gotten laid since February. When I asked him why he told me he couldn’t find a girl who stimulated him mentally. In other words, he wanted an “intelligent girl.”
I chuckled and explained to him that all a man needs from a woman is her body and her compliance and that they’re not good for much more than that these days (Paul, Doug, and I would later bust his balls about being concerned with a girl’s SAT scores). To my surprise he looked at me like I had insulted his mother.
Over the next hour and about a half a pack of cigarettes, I explained certain aspects of the red pill without actually identifying them by name. I took care to tread carefully because Norm was obviously new to these concepts, but I could tell they made sense to him. He is a man, after all.
He did his level best to refute these truths but I swatted them away like low-level shit tests. When he finally realized he didn’t have any more ammo (read: he knew I was right) he said:
“Look dude, you make some good points, I’ll give you that much. But all girls aren’t like that.”
Right then and there I realized I had a bona fide white knight on my hands.
Club game is difficult
Okay enough about Norm and his beta-fied ass. Friday night the crew (sans Norm) hit a club a few blocks from where we were staying on the strip. We threw on our best threads, pre-gamed with a few shots of cheap liquor, grabbed a few beers and headed to the night spot.
To that point we’d seen very little talent in the way of good looking girls in and around the strip but upon entering the club, we saw a market uptick. Hot girls were everywhere, including in the elevator we took to get the the roof. It looked like it was going to be a great night.
Unfortunately we were dead wrong. Like most clubs, it was loud and extremely crowded. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But the one factor that stopped us all in our tracks was that it was a sausage fest of epic proportions. We didn’t do an exact headcount but I estimate it had to be at least a 5-to-1 dude to chick ratio that night.
Most of the girls worth spitting game at were either in the VIP section surrounded by oil sheikhs or they were there with other dudes. The girls who weren’t attached to men already didn’t give any of us much play, as I was personally blown out twice in about a one hour period.
It wasn’t all bad, however, as Paul was hit on by a land whale and an anorexic, nerdy looking black girl, so of course I had to egg him on to arrange a threesome (a skill he’s recently acquired) with the two of them.
What that night showed me was that my club game had atrophied badly. Sure, the abundance of sausage, my lack of female accompaniment (which I usually have when I hit the club), and the crazy loud music (which completely eliminated the one of my strongest game elements…my gift of gab) certainly played factors in my lack of success.
However, men like Troy Francis have showed us the ins and outs of club game. It’s difficult to be sure, but it can be done consistently and effectively.
The bottom line is that I’m man enough to admit that my game was straight up weak sauce that night so I definitely need to brush up on my night game and maybe hit the Francis chronicles for a refresher course.
Batman vs. Superman
Paul and I have had our fair share of conversations about girls, game, and pickup over the years. An analogy we apply to ourselves is Batman and Superman. Me being Batman, him Superman.
I’m a good looking guy but I’m not the text book Anglo-ideal women are looking for. As a result, I rely heavily on my wit and game-relevant banter skills to snag poon.
Paul, on the other hand, turns heads everywhere he goes. He’s got underwear model looks (no homo) and utilizes this to his full advantage. This isn’t to say he doesn’t have game, but in a lot of cases next-level game isn’t as necessary for him to get laid.
The juxtaposition is that Batman can’t go after the bad guys the way Superman does, lest he be quickly disposed of. So he relies on his intelligence, keenness, and razor sharp instincts whereas Superman’s immortality allows him to fly right in with a reckless abandon and start tearing shit up.
So the night after the club Norm dragged Paul and I to some ridiculous POF mingle at a bar not far from the MGM Grand. As expected it was slim pickings, as most women who show up to these shit shows are at the bottom of the barrel—which is why they’re there in the first place.
There was, however, a solid 8 who grabbed the attention of both of our boners. Since there were no other prospects worth pursuing (we didn’t have our beer goggles on yet) we clinked our drinks together and declared: “May the best cock win!”
I was up first (me being a “mere mortal” and all). I sat next to her and struck up conversation with her and her friends. As soon as the subject of age came up I knew it was time to access my utility belt and throw out my go-to escalation line.
“How old are you?” I asked her knowing exactly what her response would be.
“How old do I look?” She predictably replied. I faux-surveyed her for a second, shrugged my shoulders and said:
“I dunno….38?”
“Ohhhhhh my Gaaaawd!” she squawked as her jaw hit the floor. Her eyes twinkled with intrigue as she hit me no less than three times calling me an asshole. “I can’t believe you just said that!” she said delivering every word with a smile.
Her friends had similar reactions with their hands over their mouths in disbelief confirming their hot friend had never encountered such boldness. I leaned back and smirked at Paul who raised his drink at me with a facial expression that read “touché.”
Asshole game was this chick’s drug and the more I threw at her, the more she liked it. She said to me on multiple occasions (and I’m paraphrasing here) “You’re such a dick but that’s why I like you!”
To which I replied : “And you fucking love it.”
Later in the set, I upped the ante and got my phone out and started scrolling through a text thread from a girl who was sending me naked pics every few minutes. My target couldn’t help but lean over and have a look.
“Is that your next conquest?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “If she plays her cards right.”
Her arousal was palpable. A blonde sitting on my other side allowed me to utilize the push-pull technique to perfection. I’d make conversation with the blonde for a while and completely ignore her, then turn back to her and neg her into submission. Standard asshole game.
I channeled my inner Kanye and she ate it up
It wasn’t long before Paul had his phone out taking pictures of me with both girls kissing my cheeks (never miss an opportunity for photographic evidence of pre-selection, gents).
I had this girl eating out of my hands. I’d drink out of her drink without asking (she was “shocked” the first time but offered zero resistance the next few times I did it), told her to hold my drink while I used the bathroom, and every time I told her to grab her phone to take a picture she never hesitated to comply. I never asked her to do anything, I instructed her and she loved it.
I ran to the corner of the ring and tagged Paul in. He eagerly ducked under the turn buckle and took his place next to her while I sat across from them to observe him in action.
Paul immediately went to his strong suit: physical escalation. He wasted no time establishing comfort with her through touching and playful flirting. He freely touched her pretty much wherever he wanted to and she couldn’t help but follow his lead.
The score was tied at after the first inning but as the night drew on Paul began to increase his lead. She bounced back and forth between us as we walked down the strip, telling me “we need to get you drunk and back to your room” (at which point I number closed her) then going back to Paul to continue their touchy-feely evening but eventually it became clear her preference that night was The Man Of Steel.
Recognizing my imminent defeat, I went from PUA to wingman. I took Paul aside and told him that Norm and I would run interference on her two friends to clear the way for him to work his magic. The plan would have worked to perfection…except for the fact that a trilby hat wearing, neck beard sporting, annoying ass beta schlub managed to weasel his way into our group and effectively cockblock Paul faster than a speeding bullet.
Yup….that’s him.
All was not lost, however, as Paul managed to not only successfully arrange a meet up with her the next day, the sly bastard gamed her into buying a plane ticket to fly out to the ATL at the end of this month where he will most assuredly turn her into a slutty Lois Lane.
Well played, Mr. Kent.
Straight from the horse’s mouth
Rewind back to around 11 PM that night at the singles mingle on the rooftop bar. I was in the middle of my second or third at bat with Lois when I spotted Norm chatting up a couple of decent looking (maybe 6s) blondes at a nearby table.
Knowing Norm like I did, he was probably boring them to death with philosophy talk and books he’d read. Mind you, these certainly aren’t bad topics of discussion. I enjoy talking philosophy as much as any man out there and I really enjoy reading.
Today’s women, on the other hand, have neither the interest, nor the capacity to take up reading or philosophy as a hobby much less have an intelligent discussion about them……on a roof top bar…..on the Vegas strip. They’re simply not going to fuck a guy who yammers on about the philosophical irony of the works of Tolstoy.
Great conversation starter with men. Girls?….no so much.
Norm’s a sharp guy but he just doesn’t understand this. Seeing the boredom on the faces of his targets was the last straw for me but rather than trying to spit some truth to him (which had fallen on deaf ears to that point), I instructed Lois to go over talk some sense into him, and she happily and promptly obliged.
I gave Paul a quick, sharp nod to grab his phone to get this on video. Lois walked right up to Norm and pulled him away from his lecture to which he answered “What the fuck?!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Lois asked laughing.
“I’m talking to some girls, what’s it look like I’m doing?” Norm replied laughing as well. (Though this quasi-intervention wasn’t a joke, the whole exchange was fun and light-hearted)
“You’re fucking boring them to death with your book talk.”
“What? No. They’re totally interested. One of them’s an exchange student from the UK. She’s totally digging me.”
We all laughed because we all knew that was far from the truth. Lois then delivered the most potent dose of red pill truth Norm had received all weekend:
“Listen, when girls come to Vegas they don’t want a fucking history lesson. They come here because they wanna get drunk and get laid. So pull out your dick, stick it in her ass and shut the fuck up about books and shit!”
Her words verbatim…and I didn’t tell her or coach her on what to say or how to say it. She knew exactly what to tell him without my input.
Most of the time it takes a woman to deliver red pill truth through her actions or her words for a man to wake up and realize he’s been bamboozled by his own culture. Even then there’s a better than average chance he’ll stay in his slumber holding out hope for his Disney fantasy.
I can only hope Miss Lane’s shiv drew blood in Norm’s flawed ideology because he is my friend and I wish him the best. But I’m not holding my breath…
Where was Doug during all this?
At this point you’re probably wondering how Doug factored into all this because his name is noticeably absent in each of these misadventures. The truth is, with the exception of the singles meet on Saturday night (he spent five hours at the poker tables at Planet Hollywood), he was with us every step of the way. However, he wasn’t on the prowl because he’s got a quality girl back home so he decided to pass on the shenanigans the rest of us partook in.
Yeah he was at the club with us, walked the strip with us, drank the entire time, and took in all the sporting events with us from various high end casinos. But it was clear he had no intention of violating the trust of his woman.
You see, gentlemen, that’s the other side of neomasculine awareness. Pussy plundering is a great. But if a man knows he’s got a good woman at home he doesn’t have the need or desire to seek female companionship.
Game 7 of the NHL Eastern Conference Finals between the Rangers and Lightning at Caesar’s Palace
Girls would do well to emulate Doug’s girl. She locked him down the right way, continues to prove herself as a quality woman and doesn’t rest on her laurels or take for granted that he could skate at any time. He solidified this by coming to Vegas with us and you can bet your bottom dollar she sucked the life out of him when he touched down in the ATL.
And for those of you thinking Doug may be on his way to contracting oneitis, think again. He made no bones about the fact that being single when we go back next year “wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” He smirked when he said it.
Conclusion
From the smoking hot poolside cocktail waitress at the hotel pool who said she would date a nice guy over an asshole (her boob job, tattoos, and profession betrayed her attempt at snowflaking), to the young beautiful women we saw with old rich guys, to the story of Norm’s sister, a stripper, who married a man who ignored her for days at a time and cheated on her all the time (probably still does), the red pill was all around us.
Viewing Sin City through this prism only further confirmed the doctrines I abide by. I’m very much looking forward to next year’s visit.
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