Not everyone is prepared for happiness out in the boondocks:
Archive for Table for One
You won’t hear Jack Baruth — or, for that matter, me — singing that. But the fact is, things have changed, and I’m not prepared to say that it’s for the better:
I grew up in an era and environment where moms spent their lives raising children and dads bought them cars to make that task easier. We didn’t know that we were racist and sexist and evil tools of the patriarchy. Our moms looked after us and our dads sat in the recliner in the evenings after earning the daily bread. Everybody was pretty happy, as far as I could tell. Most of my friends who grew up in this antiquated, hateful state of affairs grew up to be attorneys and doctors and successful businessmen.
Since then, however, I’ve been properly re-educated to understand how hellish and repressive the suburbs truly are. I’ve learned that women are only happy when they focus on their careers until the atomic clock of their fertility reaches two minutes to midnight, at which point they stop the game of musical chairs, marry the guy who happens to be sitting in said chair, and immediately pay a fertility specialist $250,000 to get one designer baby named Kayden with strong signs of autism-spectrum disorders and a light case of measles from lack of vaccination. How this is better than being one of the pretty 27-year-old mommies of my youth in Columbia, Maryland, I don’t know, but my opinion on the matter is no more valid than, say, that of the GEICO caveman, and for pretty much the same reasons.
The truly hard-core, of course, would prefer it if that chair were occupied by someone who isn’t a guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
And the hellishness and repression of the suburbs will be deemed Properly Corrected at the moment the residents therein stop voting for Republicans, and not one second sooner. Feminism isn’t about women anymore; it’s about being the largest Democrat voting bloc. Despite wearing the sacred D (as distinguished from others) for four and a half decades, I’m considered obsolete, passé, my eyes incorrectly sparkled.
Almost certainly you’ve seen this before:
I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don’t know how to cook or clean, don’t want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?
American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.
This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women.
I sum him up this way: “He wants you to know he’s taken the Red Pill. He doesn’t want you to know that he begged for a chewable version.”
The Oklahoma City Philharmonic stuck this up on their Facebook page with the promise that it would improve your dating life 110 percent:
After that much sightreading, I could use a rest.
“Why just this year?” is my only comment to this proposal:
If I were an activist of any stripe, and someone who people actually listened to, instead of, you know, me … I’d put out a call to “cancel” Valentine’s Day this year.
Not for any reason about frustration with romantic love (though there is that, and I get tired of how V-Day is all about the romance, and so those of us who have none in our lives are left standing on the outside of the restaurant on a cold night, looking in at the happy couples eating good food in the warmth).
No. It’s because I see precious little love in the world: humanity, at least the US culture form of it I see, is becoming more separated and fractionated and I’ve said several times this week that maybe the future of humanity is for all of us to live solo, with as little contact with other humans as possible, because it seems we can’t do interpersonal stuff without it turning into either a fight or a virtue-signalling contest.
Nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
State Duma Deputy, Yelena Mizulina from the party “Fair Russia”, Chairman of the Duma Committee on Family Affairs, Doctor of Jurisprudence proposes to introduce a penalty for men for failing to perform their marital duty.
“The family is a social unit,” says Mizulina. “Evasion of execution of marital duty is an evasion of duty to the community. If a man for no apparent reason (eg health-related.) systematically fails to fulfill his conjugal duty, or executes it carelessly to get done with it — he must pay a fine to the State. This measure will further strengthen the family and improve the morale in the country. And adultery must be punished as treason — by imprisonment. It is proposed to set the quota of execution of marital duty in Russia for men aged up to 45 years — to 1 time per week. For older people, this rate can be reduced.
Admittedly, this is a Snoopy + Google Translate version, but I still quail at the term “execution of marital duty.” Snoopy, for his part, doesn’t:
I would suggest that for the public to get into the spirit of the thing, a few public executions here and there, from time to time, would be helpful.
Might improve compliance, at least at first.
What happens — or, perhaps, what doesn’t happen — when the entirety of your love life proves to be virtual.
I don’t know if this would actually work, but I’d be interested in seeing it being tried:
I’m confident that if Trump really wants to found his own party, and make sure it never loses another election, he should immediately create his own version of the Bund Deutscher Mädel. Give women social sanction to be feminine again, and the rest takes care of itself — no more Pajamaboys, no more Bronies, no more whatevers calling xyrzelves “xyr.” Suicide rates would crater, birth rates would skyrocket, and two young folks will be able to make googly eyes at each other without needing three cameras and a lawyer present.
“Yeah,” you say, “but … Hitler Youth!”
Trude Mohr, the group’s first Reichsreferentin:
Our volk need a generation of girls which is healthy in body and mind, sure and decisive, proudly and confidently going forward, one which assumes its place in everyday life with poise and discernment, one free of sentimental and rapturous emotions, and which, for precisely this reason, in sharply defined femininity, would be the comrade of a man, because she does not regard him as some sort of idol but rather as a companion!
Your garden-variety feminist would of course hurl at this, but then she has no desire to be the companion, let alone the comrade, of a man.
And bronies, I suspect, will persist regardless.
I’m tempted to argue that you can sum up all of pop-feminism with “we think we’re cuter than we actually are, and we’re going to get the government to force you to agree.”
See also Steve Sailer, similarly:
“The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.”
At this point, Nightfly sees an opening:
Is it that they think they’re cuter than they are, or is it that they realize they’re not cute enough to get by on cute alone, so they are determined AT ANY COST to make “looks” a dirty word — or even a punishable offense?
The dreaded Male Gaze. They despise it at least as much as they despise the male who withholds it; the only true joy in feminism is to find some way to humiliate men. (See about every fourth article by Robert Stacy McCain.)
We’re talking about lasses who could work their way into the 5-6 range, right? Well, that means that, in college, their absolute best efforts would leave them behind at the quarter pole of life, though with diligence they could be in that second wave of ladies who settle down (emphasis on “settle” in their minds) in their late 20s or early 30s with guys whom they would have considered beneath them in school, but who are also the only ones left once all the good catches are made.
This is at the heart of Garfunkel and Oates’ “29 31.”
And it’s not, you should know, the creation of those horrible folks with the Y chromosome either:
[M]en aren’t the builders of this game, contrary to insane assumptions — we’re just fellow players. Just as there are plenty of women who can never land a Mr. Darcy, there are plenty of guys with no prayer of securing a Ms. Bennett. We all face this realization about our own status in life. I mean, do you think all men are equally handsome, equally ambitious, equally smart, equally accomplished? Plenty of us had to take stock while the top catches had their pick of our peer group, and quickly figure out what else could capture and hold someone’s interest. (Or, not so quickly. I was pretty much 35 years old when I got married — I’m not exactly Dr. Genius McQuarterback over here.)
For a while, I came off as more interesting than I actually was; at least, that’s the only explanation I can find for having any notches on the bedpost at all.
Some things never, ever change:
Haha! Looks like Jaxon has his first crush! 😂 pic.twitter.com/F6tDKnHyXs
— Purpose Tour Europe (@purposetourEU) October 14, 2016
Dear Jaxon: Just a warning. This way lies madness. I’ve been there.
It pictures a sprig of festive mistletoe with the tagline “Implied consent.” Many people on Twitter and Facebook, where a picture of the dish towel has been widely shared, say it makes light of a serious societal problem and promotes rape culture. Others wrote it off as a simple joke, misinterpreted by political correctness.
It all started when College of Charleston student Caroline Connell, 21, noticed the dish towel on display at C’est La Vie on Market Street on Saturday. She snapped a picture of it and posted it online.
“literally WHO signed off on this???,” Connell wrote on Facebook. “why is this the first thing you see when you walk in c’est la vie on market st.???? wildly inappropriate.”
As always, the marketplace came up with the definitive answer:
Connell told The Post and Courier she went back to C’est La Vie on Monday and spoke to the store manager. She said she attempted to explain why some customers would be offended by the towel. She said he told her it was already sold out.
If you’d like to scare the dickens out of a coed, the towel comes from Jake Witzel Wooden Monograms in Fort Worth, Texas.
(Via someone I should have kissed at the time, but didn’t.)
Gagdad Bob is reading Extravagant Expectations: New Ways to Find Romantic Love in America by Paul Hollander, and he reprints an improbable-sounding personal ad:
These women are so perfect, one wonders why they have to resort to advertising their qualities. There are dozens to choose from — they’re everywhere! — so I’ll just pick one at random:
“Blonde, slender, tall, willowy DWF. Very attractive with graceful lightness of heart, refined intelligence, smiling eyes. PhD/academic. Optimistic, elegant, physically sensual, aesthetically attuned. Lovely profile, long legs. Considered great package: head, heart, spirit. Puts people at ease.” Etc.
I’ll bite. What’s the catch?
“Progressive worldview, passionate about social justice.”
I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t exactly put me at ease, if you know what I mean.
Seriously, I hope she (1) exists and (2) finds someone with a compatible worldview. Were I looking — God knows I have no reason to look — I’d probably look elsewhere.
I just wish there’d been a photo.
There are alpha males, and there are beta males, and the two are generally fairly easily distinguishable from one another.
The introspective, the unusual, the unattractive, and all too often the bitter. Gammas are often intelligent, usually unsuccessful with women, and not uncommonly all but invisible to them, the gamma alternates between placing women on pedestals and hating the entire sex. This mostly depends upon whether an attractive woman happened to notice his existence or not that day. Too introspective for their own good, gammas are the men who obsess over individual women for extended periods of time and supply the ranks of stalkers, psycho-jealous ex-boyfriends, and the authors of excruciatingly romantic rhyming doggerel. In the unlikely event they are at the party, they are probably in the corner muttering darkly about the behavior of everyone else there … sometimes to themselves. Gammas tend to have have a worship/hate relationship with women, the current direction of which is directly tied to their present situation. However, they are sexual rejects, not social rejects.
I suppose I escape this definition by dint of never actually “hating the entire sex.”
But a lot of that hits just a hair too close to home.
I mean, who would have ever thought so?
— New Real Peer Review (@RealPeerReview) September 15, 2016
Elsevier will sell you this paper for $35.95, or about a buck and a quarter per howler.
(Via Michelle Catlin.)
It’s still, however, a bit disquieting:
— COVERGIRL (@COVERGIRL) October 11, 2016
But maybe that’s just me and my aversion to things hanging out of one’s nose.
To the likes of me, anyway:
Just five minutes alone with an attractive female raise the levels of cortisol, the body’s stress hormone, according to a study from the University of Valencia.
The effects are heightened in men who believe that the woman in question is “out of their league.”
Cortisol is produced by the body under physical or psychological stress and has been linked to heart disease.
Hmmm. How did they check this?
Researchers tested 84 male students by asking each one to sit in a room and solve a Sudoku puzzle. Two strangers, one male and one female, were also in the room.
When the female stranger left the room and the two men remained sitting together, the volunteer’s stress levels did not rise. However, when the volunteer was left alone with the female stranger, his cortisol levels rose.
I know where I’m going to fall on this scale.
(Via Glenn Reynolds.)
From early 2003, I deal with one of Barbara Dafoe Whitehead’s assertions about guys:
BDW: Several women mentioned that at times in their life they felt that their intelligence or intellectual achievement seemed to work against them in their romantic relationships with men, but most women felt that there were some men “out there” who would be attracted to smart women. The problem was finding them.
CGH: The inference, as I see it: all else being equal, we guys would prefer to be the brains of the operation. This is certainly true of some of us; historically, I have often been drawn to women of greater intelligence than mine, but there’s always that nagging thought in the back of my mind: “If she’s that smart, what in the world would she want with the likes of me?” The author does in fact touch upon this phenomenon; asked if some men felt they “were being spurned because they aren’t impressive enough,” she replied:
BDW: [S]ome men did, yes, but they tended not to be four-year college graduates. They were guys who were not quite so well-educated and felt that many women looked down on them.
CGH: I think there’s more to it than that — I don’t think I’d be any more desirable (or, more precisely, any less undesirable) with a sheaf of postgraduate degrees — but frankly, what would a plumber have to say to an art historian? Or, for that matter, what would an art historian have to say to a plumber?
Have things improved in the intervening decade and a third? Not a chance:
A recent study from the Warsaw School of Economics, located in Poland, suggests that men are intimidated by clever women.
Yeah, that’s right: Study findings suggest that after a woman reaches a certain level of “clever” or “smart” behavior, there is no longer a positive correlation on how attractive her potential partner finds her.
The guy from Psychology Today explains this thing in terms of the methodology used:
[The] most interesting result was that there is a clear point at which men stop valuing a woman’s increasing intelligence. We have seen that, when it comes to women’s preferences, more is better: a man is more likely to be chosen if he is more attractive and more intelligent. As far as women’s preferences are concerned, the sky’s the limit. Women may be happy to trade intelligence off against attractiveness, but they will always be more likely to choose a man who is that little bit more attractive or intelligent. Not so when it comes to men choosing women.
To illustrate this, let’s track the chances of one woman being chosen by a man at a speed-dating event. This woman scores a 6 out of 10 for attractiveness: about average. Now, if her intelligence rating is a lowly 2 out of 10, she has only a 20 percent chance of being chosen. Let’s imagine that her intelligence increases 2 points, to 4 out of 10: now she has a 30 percent shot. Boost her intelligence by another 2 points, to 6 out of 10, and she now has a 40 percent shot. But a further 2 intelligence points have virtually no effect: she is still at 40 percent. And maxing out her intelligence to 10 out of 10 reduces her odds of being chosen, back down to 30 percent!
To sum up, our hypothetical woman with a 6 out of 10 score for attractiveness will do best with men at a speed-dating event if she scores around a 7 for intelligence: if she is any less or any more intelligent than this, men will be less interested in her.
I would argue that a 7 for intelligence is no slouch, and that average appearance is more like 5 than 6. Still, I know enough women smarter than 7 — they’re smarter than I am, and I figure myself to be about a 7 on this scale — to be properly intimidated.
By the way, this isn’t only true of women who are of average physical attractiveness. The same pattern holds true for very attractive and unattractive women. At every level of attractiveness, the optimum level of intelligence is somewhere around 7 out of 10. For very attractive women, the optimum intelligence level is slightly higher; for unattractive women, the optimum intelligence level is slightly lower. But it’s always the case that a woman with a brain the size of a planet will be less appealing to men than a woman who is equally attractive, but less intelligent.
My interest in this realm, of course, is purely theoretical, as I expect women, irrespective of intelligence, to give me the cold shoulder.
I doubt the authenticity of this clip, but not its wisdom:
Happy Wife, Happy Life. pic.twitter.com/QalbtQmDn7
— The Saucee Sicilian (@SauceeSicilian) September 24, 2016
Some people like dump trucks.
Noah, it seems, fantasizes about Zoë. Zoë, we may be certain, is Not Interested:
My friend who's a 5th grade teacher just sent this to me! I'm dead!!! pic.twitter.com/FSDBxs9Vtq
— Denny Dimples (@WhosDenverJones) September 15, 2016
Noah, dear lad, I feel for you. Believe me, I do.
There is, I suppose, something to be said for knowing that I won’t leave some poor woman a widow; but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.
I wrote once an essay on “The Modern Spinster” — a class to which I added women who had (by war and accident) long outlived their husbands. Born, typically, before the turn of the last century; widowed perhaps in the Great War; some had survived into the 1980s. They were impressive figures of pedagogical authority. We had, even here in the once admirable Province of Ontario, women I would rank with empress-dowagers of China. They were irreplaceable pillars of a society that I have watched disintegrate, over the decades since. Not one of them was a feminist, or could be interpreted as one by any fanciful act of the imagination. Each was instead not an ism but fully a Woman, without mistake or compromise.
There are two converging strings, which I shall try to knot together here. First, that their power can be neither appreciated nor understood, in a society that has so far degenerated that sex (not imposed grammatical “gender”) is dissolved in an androgynous slurry. Second, that there can be no such thing as an independent woman, who exchanges her position for that of a little man. For it was the function of such women not to seek “equality” with these strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures we see today — whining, whimpering, whinging and wimping off to their “safe spaces” whenever reality approaches. Rather, from a station of absolute moral superiority, that Modern Spinster would corner and intimidate; leaving them a choice between personal resuscitation, and complete psychic annihilation.
“Be a man, or get away from my nostrils,” is what e.g. a certain Edith Carson, of blessed memory, could communicate by no more than a slight inflection of her sensitive nose. She and her like were, and with God’s grace will again be (after the collapse of progressive disorder), bestowers of the White Feather. They were guarantors, not only that women will be women, with their privileges defended and intact; but too, that men will not dare to let their women down.
“Equality,” while we weren’t looking, got redefined as “interchangeability” by individuals of the female persuasion who failed to grasp the concept, reinforced by several of those “strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures” who pass themselves off as feminist in the vain hope that it will win them an occasional ejaculation. This is something else in dire need of correction.
… this coming from one of those execrable “PUA” sites (PUA = pick-up-artist, which means “a guy not actually looking for a relationship but seeking a bit of fun and maybe a good-looking woman to impress his friends with”) about talking to women with headphones. And my slightly-sad response was that there have been plenty of times I wasn’t wearing headphones and would actually have welcomed someone talking to me (well, maybe not a pick-up artist, but I’m not the type of woman they would be interested in anyway) and no one does.
Given my own distinctly non-PUA approach to the matter, I think I’d just bring along a set of headphones — I have a spare — and see if I can direct the conversation this way:
Me: “Here, put these on.”
Me: “I’m afraid I might want to talk to you. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
I have, of course, no reason to think this would actually work. But it does fit my modus operandi almost perfectly.
A teenage boy has died after getting a love bite from his girlfriend.
Julio Macias Gonzalez, 17, began convulsing at the dinner table with his family in Mexico City after spending time with his 24-year-old lover, The Sun reports.
It is thought the woman gave him a hickey earlier that evening which caused a blood clot that travelled to the teen’s brain, triggering a stroke.
Paramedics were called to the scene but Julio could not be saved.
I expect this will show up in the appendices to all those Thou Shalt Not books that nobody actually buys.
[A]lmost without exception every man over 50 in this country appears to have the same basic approach:
Hi, blah blah you’re very pretty blah blah … (hugely passive-aggressive discussion of everything his ex-wife did to him)
It’s just proof positive that the 85/15 situation that one encounters in one’s college and young adult years, where 15% of the guys are sleeping with 85% of the girls, just never ends. The world is full of lonely old men. They send photos of themselves that look like nightmares an eight-year-girl might have about her creepy uncle; taken from below, triple chins in evidence, crazed look in the eyes, backlit. They talk about their feelings a lot. Whatever characteristics once distinguished them from the bland mashed-potato mass of humanity have long since disappeared or been rendered vestigial. They are jealous, petty, needy. Many of them have hydraulic-pressure issues that only resolve briefly, in the occasional sunny morning. One wonders why they continue living.
At least I don’t send photos of myself, a lesson I learned half a century ago after sending a photo of myself to a cheerful Canadian girl from whom I never heard another word.
I do, however, talk about my feelings a lot, which can’t be a good thing.
One is also reminded that human society evolved to its 1950s (or whatever) apex for particular and specific reasons. You’re supposed to be happily married when you’re old. Or, failing that, just married. There’s not much dignity in old-person dating. Not much joy, either. Even the sorrows are diminished — and that’s a shame, because sorrow in a relationship is the engine that has powered many a creative effort since time immemorial. Still, one question remains, put to you by a man who is staring down the rifled barrel of forty-five himself. What is better: to fade away into harmless grey sexless irrelevance, or to be tormented until death by a mind, an attitude, a spirit that is essentially and defiantly teenaged? Do you want to come home to old age with your shield, or on it?
I’m fading, though the torment occasionally breaks through. (The spirit pretends to be willing, though the flesh checked out years ago.)
Our 45-year-old correspondent, however, has some distinct advantages:
Even when I wasn’t really single, I was able to fill my dance card and as five minutes looking on this site will demonstrate, I’m a hideous fucking chud who weighs an eighth of a ton, has the speaking voice of a ten year old girl, and is fundamentally incapable of being pleasant to anybody.
We should all be so fortunate.
They met on Tinder; they had a wonderful time together. And then he sent her this the next day:
Thanks for a wonderful evening last night. I really enjoyed your company and actually adore you. You’re cheeky and funny and just the sort of girl I would love to go out with if only my body and mind would let me. But I fear it won’t.
I’m not going to bull***t you … I f***ing adore you Michelle and I think you’re the prettiest looking girl I’ve ever met. But my mind gets turned on by someone slimmer.
Shallow? It’s not meant to be. It’s the same reaction you get when you read a great author or see an amazing image, or listen to a piece of music you love, it has that instant reaction in you that makes you crave more.
So whilst I am hugely turned on by your mind, your face, your personality (and God … I really, really am), I can’t say the same about your figure. So I can sit there and flirt and have the most incredibly fun evening, but I have this awful feeling that when we got undressed my body would let me down. I don’t want that to happen baby.
Shallow. I mean, we’re talking bas-relief here.
I did appreciate this bit from her return volley:
What truly concerns me, the real reason I’m responding so publicly, is the fact that you have a 13-year-old daughter. A talented illustrator, who collects Manga comics and wants to visit Japan as soon as possible.
I want you to encourage your daughter to love, enjoy, and care for her body. It belongs to her and only her. Praise her intellect, and her creativity. Push her to push herself and to be fearless. Give her the tools to develop a bomb-proof sense of self-esteem so that if (I’ll be kind, I’ll say “if”) the time comes that a small, unhappy man attempts to corrode it, she can respond as I do now.
She shoots, she scores.
Oh, there are pictures at the link. She’s not at all a tub of lard.
Every time I think I’m the least-successful guy on the planet, dating-wise, I hear tell of someone like this:
Walt The Pituitary-Enhanced Uber-Creep: You’re a very attractive woman.
me: Uh … thanks. Your total is $6.69.
WTPEUC: I mean it. *to the waiting line* Ain’t she the best thing you’ve seen all day?
me: Stop that. $6.69.
WTPEUC: You need a man like me telling you that ever day, you hear me?
me: I don’t want to be told anything, I just want $6.69.
WTPEUC: I bet you go out with a whole lot of men, doan you?
me: I’m married. Very very married. Unavailable. Is this cash or debit?
WTPEUC: Food stamp, ‘course.
me: Yeah. Okay.
WTPEUC: I’m coming back. You wait and see. I cain’t see that face only once.
me: Holy shit.
Next Guy In Line: What the hell?
me: Commerce is a dangerous world.
And to prove she was right, he did come back. Sheesh.
According to OKCupid, a majority of their users are liberal. This makes sense, because it is so unlikely that anyone who actually knows a liberal would want to date one. The kind of guys who vote Democrat are such dangerous creeps that women who know them in real life avoid them, and so these weirdos end up on OKCupid. Research indicates a male-female ratio of 3-to-1 on OKCupid, and women users say that 80% of the men on OKCupid are “below average” in looks. Of course, these men are also below average in intelligence, because in real life the male-female ratio is 1-to-1, so an average guy actually lowers his chances of success by dating online, where the odds are always against him. This is why there are no decent guys on OKCupid. If a guy was decent, he’d already have a girlfriend or, at least, he’d be sufficiently optimistic about finding a girlfriend in a real-life face-to-face encounter that he wouldn’t bother with OKCupid. Because the available pool of men in online dating is such a notorious swamp of inferior quality, only women who are truly desperate for companionship would sign up for OKCupid.
Disclosure: I had an OKCupid account for several years, but let it lapse.
I’m not sure which is worse: that she asked this in the first place, or that she asked it in Cars & Transportation/Maintenance & Repairs.
You probably don’t want to try this at home:
On your next date, you might not want to try vomiting bioluminescent mucus, but for male crustaceans called ostracods it works like a charm. The female ostracods like it, say some researchers.
Makes for some semi-compelling video, too, even from Other Species:
“When you’re there watching this display it’s spectacular. You can have up to nine species all in the same area displaying at similar times. I don’t know how the females do it, but they’re really good at figuring out who is their correct male,” explained Emily Ellis. She and Todd Oakley are scientists at the University of California, Santa Barbara who study ostracods in the Caribbean.
A giant squid was not available for comment.
Bonus points for starting with the verb “screw”:
Screw going to the doctor for your bedroom performance problems. You can fix them yourself WITHOUT worrying about expensive costs or side effects.
Don’t believe me?
All it takes is concocting 3,000 year old drink recipe that consists of:
1. 6 herbs
2. 2 fruits
3. 1 amino acid
Whip it up. Put it in a cup. Drink it down. And watch your woman’s sexually frustrated frown turn upside down.
Best of all, this drink only costs 30 cents to make. But I guess you want to know the specifics, huh?
Well, no, not really.
Extra spam words with the package:
/Medvedev/ folgende /eid /earlier /profile /hike /thank /please /stations/ wave /morning, reset /format /Turner/ core /date /customer/ jullie /dirty /hist /Va /virtual /gloire /quits /soumises /musique /argot /659 station /sweater /sorten /regulation /priest /Schumacher /orde responsibility /aan /welle /outside /everyone /driven /3 /HILFE /idbzymo /unfiltered hitchhikes /zxyxhjg /315-1952 /pesa /unhopedly /xkawgiygzs /ductive /hastening trinken /attendance /300-3314 /Candido /restaurant /vuwdn /weighs /dll /spread /in FILETIME /Food /3D /completed /1BC31C80 /signing /Thanks /PLEASE /buys /bens cameronian /1em /01C2DDA1 /2 /version /subscription /buckmast /matamoros /that’s Visit /cfm /elevation /is /example Howells /JENNIFER /led /Thank /second /general /lyngbyeae /multiplies /disastrous PermSize /desto /al /OK /XX /3D3D128m /Iran /regular /beenBelleville /axhwjvf ozyys /scroll /parliamentarians /other /James /Courts /verdriet /separately /Moz collector /filth /P’North /ghzyrr /EMAIL
Followed by several hundred more. This might be explainable, but not by me.