The Game

as men—they’re just better at hiding it.
    “I got hurt a lot when I first started picking up,” he continued. “I’d meet an amazing girl I really liked, and we’d talk all night. She’d say she loved me and was so lucky to have met me. But then I’d fail one shit test, and she’d walk away and wouldn’t even talk to me anymore. Everything we’d built up over the last eight hours would just go down the drain. So it hardened me.”
    There are men in this world who hate women, who do not respect them, who call them bitches and cunts. These are not PUAs. PUAs do not hate women; they fear them. Simply by defining oneself as a PUA—a title earned solely by the responses of women—one becomes doomed to derive his entire self-esteem and identity from the attention of the opposite sex, not unlike a comedian’s relationship to audience members. If they don’t laugh, you’re not funny. So, as self-esteem defense mechanisms, some PUAs developed misogynist tendencies in the process of learning.
    Sarging could be hazardous to the soul.
    Outside the window, Cementjaw held the sandbag as Mystery flailed at it with long, limp punches.
    “Harder,” he yelled at Mystery. “I want to see more aggression!”

Beyond Project Hollywood, the whole community appeared to have taken on a dangerous, unstable edge. Field reports became not just about meeting girls but about getting into fights and being kicked out of clubs. Community members began living vicariously through the drama taking place in Project Hollywood, as well as through the distinct writings of Jlaix, a shotgun-toting, karaoke-singing, Elvis-looking PUA whom Tyler Durden and Papa had discovered in San Francisco.

    MSN GROUP: Mystery’s Lounge
    SUBJECT: FR—Jlaix’s First Stripper (Drugs Sold Separately)
    AUTHOR: Jlaix

    I just flew back from Vegas, and I’m fucking exhausted. I was thrown out of a karaoke bar last night for rolling on the floor and crying during the bridge of Journey’s “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart).”
    But this post is not about karaoke. It is about fucking a stripper. So let’s get right to it, shall we?
    I got into town on Wednesday afternoon and began drinking. Some guys from work and I were staying at the Hard Rock, just like the characters on The OC did in this week’s episode. We got ejected from the Hard Rock Café for making meat cocktails and daring each other to drink them. A typical meat cocktail contained beef, bacon, beer, mashed potatoes, more beer, ribs, ice, onions, mustard, A-1 Sauce, salt, pepper, Nutrasweet, and perhaps a little vodka. After one of my co-workers puked on the table, we all went to the strip club Olympic Gardens.
    I was pissed because I wanted to sarge, not get some lame-ass lap dance. I’m always saying what a great pickup artist I am to the guys from work, and I needed to show them I wasn’t just talking out of my ass. I’d been training for this thing hard and was frankly a little nervous that I’d look like a tool if I didn’t pull on this trip. Furthermore, I don’t like strip clubs because I refuse to pay for sex of any kind. But I went along for the ride and sat there with a beer while the guys had their fun.
    So this girl sat down across the booth from me. It turned out she worked there, but decided to take the day off because there weren’t enough customers and there were too many chicks in the place. I started running routines on her and busting her balls. My friends were looking at me like I was insane because I kept calling her a dork.
    She kept saying, “You are so cocky!” and started really getting into me. My friends watched this happen with their jaws dropped open. I told her we were going back to our hotel and she should come and call some of her “hot ho friends.” She got pissed that I called her a ho, so I instantly changed the subject. “Oh my God, my friend is so weird. She eats lemons whole, just like an orange blah blah.” And this made her forget. More routines—boom, boom, boom. This went on for a while. We all left together.
    Outside, the manager was trying to get her to go back in and work. But I pulled her away, and we got into a cab. She said, “I’m a stripper with a brain!” I ran Mystery’s “we’re too similar” on her, then Style’s Cs versus Us.
    When we got back to the hotel, I told her we should drop her shit off in my room. Up there, I did the cube on her. Then I told her, “When I did this on Paris Hilton at the taco shop, she said