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My understanding of Roosh’ life includes at least one advanced degree in either zoology or biology, which means he’s probably at least one standard deviation brighter than I am (I studied math and physics in undergrad because that was the way I could get out of taking any life science courses – no shit). I also understand Roosh to have been offered a 6-figure job by some biochem or pharmaceutical company right out of uni. That certainly beats my story.
So, Roosh is brainier than Boxer. He’s also (objectively speaking) a better and funnier essayist. While I know I can get as much sex as I want with women who meet my standards, probability suggests that the author of Bang Yugoslavia has fucked way more 8s and 9s than I have.
No arguments on any of the above points from me.
What bothers me about Roosh’s life — and by extension, the lives of all the “game” gurus — is not their real or perceived superiority to me. It is rather the presupposition that they are superior to me simply for fucking lots of skank-ho wimminz.
Roosh had a biochem M.S. and a 6-figure job as a guy in his early 20s. Now he’s a 40-something old man. What has he done in the interim? The answer, of course, is nothing. He has no real-world achievements, other than doing a bunch of stuff that even a mediocrity like myself can manage.
Rather than concentrate on his career, and achieve excellence in his field, Roosh decided to drop out, wander around the world like some postmodern hobo, and screw lots of wimminz. Roosh did some writing, while he was living the hobo life. Jack London and Jack Kerouac did this, and they wrote about it too, but their writings were also funny and insightful. Instead of dedicating himself to writing meaningful stuff, Roosh wrote solely about screwing wimminz. I’ve read a couple of Roosh books. There is no substance there.
Having abandoned his grandparents’ honorable faith (Muslim or Christian it doesn’t matter) and having abandoned the degrees and career, Roosh is a 40-something old man, with nothing to show for his life. Not only do I not envy Roosh, I am compelled to feel sorry for him.
I am down for having sex with skanks myself, and don’t make any pretense of virtue, but I decided (many years ago) to take the advice of Epicurus, and make these indulgences a special-occasion thing, for weekends and holidays. Spending all day in the brothel makes sex become a chore, and while the master knew this, Roosh is apparently only now finding it out. I think that’s a pity, and I hope none of my readers follow him down his path. It’s a way to uselessness and nihilism.