Dating: Who?

In the previous section of Dick Masterson’s Guide to Manly Dating, I covered the all-important where of dating.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the greatest mountain climber in the northern hemisphere, if you’re trying to beat the world record in the Bonneville Flats, you’re shit out of luck. That’s why I covered where first. It’s the most important. It doesn’t matter if you’re the best player in the world, if you’re trying to sell premium sausage at a pie eating contest, you’re shit out of fuck.

In addition to being one of the most crude sentences ever written, that last thought is also one of the most poignant.

What is “dating women”. When is “never” because it’s unmanly in the first place. And where is “anywhere”. Women are easier to find than trashcans. Walk through the London underground with a puppy in one hand and an empty soda in the other and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.

That leaves us with who and why, which I will be answering directly.


When women hit 13 and their brains turn permanently from Thinking to Dating, they also begin weaving the first threads of an elaborate and fantastically predictable mental tapestry that is to map out the rest of their lives. Whether this tapestry actually tells the future is uncertain, but at least when they’re old and alone at night — or soaking in a cooling puddle of shame and bartender — it will keep them warm.

There’s as much sugar and spice in women as there are natural ingredients in Red Vines. Denial, however, is packed into their veins like corn syrup.

What’s Your Type?

If you’ve ever answered any of the following questions, you might be a woman:

What time should we get there?
Would you like smoking or non-smoking?
What’s your type?

Thread number one in a woman’s delusion is called picking a “type”. And dating like a man means not having one.

All women are fucking nuts, and “crazy” has a way of ruining all their other crappy qualities like the smell of throw up in a car. No one ever says Charles Manson was a beautiful singer. They say he was a whack-job with shit carved into his forehead. A woman would call that the “artistic” type.

As a man, your type is exactly how hot a girl you can afford and simultaneously put up with. End of story. No matter how hot she is, someone can’t afford her or someone is sick of putting up with her shit. Either way, you don’t get to pick which side of the manquation you’re on, so why bother? Cancer hasn’t been solved yet. Think about that.

And “game” has got nothing to do with it. “Game” is a myth invented to sell dick manuals to guys who already have all the advice they need on reruns of I Love Lucy. Fred Mertz took his wife to a boxing match on the night of their anniversary — after he told her to get dressed up because he was taking her somewhere special. Do you know what Ethel was doing in the next episode? Making Fred a fucking sandwich.

The bottom line is, every man’s “type” is one better than what he has. Someone once asked me how pacemakers were invented and I told them they were invented when men didn’t want to die anymore because of a shitty heart. I know what the actual answer is, but when you give a man an answer, you shut him up for an hour, when you give him a manswer, you shut him up for a lifetime.

Man Zen.

Pimps have some of the greatest “game” the world has ever seen, but it’s still hard out there for a pimp. What does that tell you about “game”?

What kind of girls do pimps like?

Girls with low self-esteem. When it’s low enough, you won’t even be able to tell.