Death of the Soul of Man




I’ve been blacklisted by the Ruler. His Game Majesty!


Roissy, Chateau, Heartiste…whatever he’s called today. When I try to join his legion of commenters, my comment goes directly into the pending approval bin and never makes it to the site. I realize this is not something considered boast-worthy in the blogosphere. Doing so risks publicly impaling yourself with the indisputable wisdom of those who have traveled before. It is akin to denouncing the church. My utterances may be heresy or just meaningless. I cannot get a word edgewise at the temple of Game.


Sucks, sorta. Well, not really.


I enjoy Heartiste’s writings. He most nobly explains the tightly-wound intricacies of gender relations with that uniquely nuanced narrative. He is a skilled manipulator of the English language. If he would only close his comments I might not shudder every time I visit his page. Heartiste commenters represent the uproarious din of disgruntled and bitter helpless man-itude that I simply cannot bear. Heartiste’s writings are high-minded gems. However, his commenters should attempt to venture out into the wild planet and cultivate some aged seasoning before they commence each tiresome mission of keyboard jockey-dness.


Yesterday Heartiste posted Game Trumps Looks, a fashionable and excruciating blood-letting of hope from the hearts of deprived men who would piss their pants if a woman smiled at them. Mankind’s greatest enemy in this primordial sliver of 21st Century time is his own indecisiveness and hesitancy. This sickeningly unmanly outlook expresses itself as modern urban meekness and compliance when it comes to dealing with women. Rather than offending or disagreeing, modern man has been ingrained to behave like a sick dog. He must put his head down and allow his master (pussy) to beat him over the snout with the folded newspaper of foiled masculine aspirations. The problem here is that the boys most likely to benefit from Heartiste’s wisdom are the moste immature and helpless, and thus, in need of the strictest guidance. Heartiste is only a blogger. He can only lead the way. Leading is inadequate because most of these young men have no clue where to begin the journey. The Soul of Man was swept away long ago. Men born today have not the slightest generational memory of masculinity. They read of it, they try to recreate it and fashion a rudimentary working model from the written word. They act a part without the script. Heartiste does a wonderful service, but it’s not enough. Most PUA’s have good intentions, but they neglect the nexus of the problem. They are turning men into a cast of actors and puppets. They haven’t rehearsed the lines; or read the book. They are merely mimicking.


Today’s Heartiste post is illustrative of the predicament modern man faces. Ostensibly, the post is about “ugly” or “unattractive” men succeeding with women, but as Heartiste advised men about the archetypal 1st coffee date, “you don’t want coffee to mentally stimulate her recall of her 463 bullet point checklist.” What this means is that for most modern, urban women, they can always, and I mean always, spit up reasons a man is not good enough. 463 sounds like an exaggerated figure but it’s probably spot on. Women, empowered by the hollow draped wizard of pop culture, don’t believe there is anything malicious or counterproductive about holding mankind to the fire when it comes to their own personal fantasies. When your fantasy becomes reality, you are fucked. And…women are fucked. When the next global calamity strikes us down in all our presumed civilized glory, women will once again face their womanly burden. Meaning that civilized society is no longer there to catch them or decorate their kitchen.