Hello, and welcome to The Man Boobz Fiction Workshop! Today we will learn my foolproof two-step method for writing believable fiction. It’s as easy as pie — well, easier, since pie can take a bit of finesse — and it is absolutely GUARANTEED to work.
Here it is.
STEP ONE: Write believable fiction.
STEP TWO: If step one fails, write a story that makes a woman look evil and foolish, and post it to the Men’s Rights Subreddit as a true story.
If you don’t believe me, check out this little story from a fella calling himself the-final-word — a Redditor for less than two weeks, with only one previous comment to his name — in which a highly successful gentleman happily humiliates an ex-girlfriend trying to steal his money with the old “baby” ploy.
Take a look at the thread itself to see how eagerly the Men’s Righsers eat up his tale of victory over evil womanhood!
That is the beauty of my two-step method. If people don’t believe your bullshit, find a more gullible audience. And there are few audiences in this world more gullible than Men’s Rightsers.
I should note that I had nothing to do with the-final-word’s story, nor did I sneak into the Men’s Rights subreddit to give his story 47 upvotes and a bunch of positive comments.
Thanks to hackattack92 in the AgainstMensRights Subreddit for pointing out this wonderful example of shitthatneverhappened.txt
This, of course, is what it’s like being hit on by a clarinet player.
RE: Amnesia
Oh, and we finally got a new marimba. It was about time.
You could’ve sold it if you’d cut that last line. *was in pit, back in the day*
@LBT
I know, right? *fellow pit fist-bump*
Seconding!
He’s obviously using Tempo Escalation Game.
My band director got some kind of a grant when I was a senior and used it to commission a piece of music for the band and took us all on a whirlwind tour of Europe. But the marimbas were still falling apart.
All the true stories make me laugh so hard! Keep’em coming!
I’m not a band person, so…why marimbas?
The techies are worse, we have all the dark backstage and the dressing rooms are empty most of the time. Actually factually true story —
Me and three other people where in charge of opening and closing this three story tall “wall” during scene changes in Kiss me Kate (it hide the Shakespeare parts of the set). It absolutely required four people. So one night I’m trying to figure out where in the FUCK person number four is. Turns out he’s getting a blowjob in a dressing room. I grabbed the most reliable non-busy tech and gave him the direction of “follow my lead”…we pulled it off.
Ten years later I still want to know why he picked right then when he wasn’t busy for a solid ten min before and after that scene change.
You pit folks are stuck down there during the show, the debaurcery happens backstage!
One of the commenters says that his “daughter is f***ing awesome”? But I thought that “All Women Are Like That.” AWALT, except for their OWN daughters?
And the person who says we should at least feel sympathy for the toddler gets jumped on, and told he’s a fool for feeling sympathy for the woman’s misery. No, he specifically said the innocent child.
Sad, sad, sad.
Also, this story has totally been done before. And the fellow always has the medical records to prove it. Because, obviously, he HAS to prove sterility to prove that the woman was cheating, and the child is not his, rather than telling the woman, “Hah! Prove it, lady,” and watching her jump through all the hoops, and expense, only to find out in the end that she chose the wrong target. If I were writing such a tale, I would make her WORK for her ultimate humiliation, you know? So much more drama that way, and a more “satisfying” pay-off at the end. For the readers, you know.
RE: katz
I’m not a band person, so…why marimbas?
Because marimbas are generally the LARGEST, HEAVIEST of instruments to ever be involved in a marching band, and they don’t get replaced very often. Probably because their use-to-cost ratio is not so good as other instruments, and if a key breaks, the player can, theoretically, just play around it. My freshman year in high school, I played a vibraphone with broken middle C and Eb keys. (For those of you non-musicians in the audience, those are two of the most commonly used keys in the history of musicdom.)
RE: Amnesia
*fistbump* We were a bassoon in concert season. You? Also, oh man, our equipment was in sad shape. Our bass drum only had three wheels, plus holes in it, we had cracked cymbals that were known for inverting on us, plus the damned vibraphone…
RE: Argenti
I dunno, constant practices and the quasi-privacy of buses and drum rooms and storage trucks… I mean, one of the snares freakin’ set himself on fire in the drum room once, just for the hell of it, so sex would be easy.
Wow, that’s a pretty crappy techie you had their, Argenti.
Broken middle C? I just hope nobody had to learn on that instrument.
LBT — ok, if you have the time to set yourself on fire >.< you have the time so sexytimes
grumpycatisagirl — yeah, lucky one of the other three in that group was super reliable and his best friend was also a tech, so grabbing his friend actually gave us a more reliable fourth, despite his "training" being "mirror what I do"!
High five for bassoon playing LBT! I loved playing it, super simple and if a reed was only minorly damaged it didn’t really affect the music like the single reeds did for sax and stuff.
Cat butt???!!! LOL. You know just how to appeal to my juvenile sense of humor.
Did you guys see CDZA’s Musical Puns? LMAO at Flutacris.
Well, well… I didn’t think I would see this Craigslist story repeated on Reddit. Perhaps I have them turned around. Something tells me aside from gullibility MRAs are also guilty of being unoriginal.
Note to MRAs: if you want tips on writing bad fiction I hear GWW is a romance novel writer. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to supply you with implausible ideas.
In my teens and 20s, I was a total beta dude — only 5’6″, bad skin, a hump on my back, and three arms. (I asked my doctor about it, and he said sometimes the arm factory just goes into overtime, and there’s no good reason.)
I never had a girlfriend, but this gorgeous cheerleader used to make me give her manicures and pedicures, AND wax her pubic area. (That third arm really came in handy.) All the while laughing and screaming, “You can look but don’t touch, Beta Boy!!! That real estate belongs to my black rapper boyfriend with the gold teeth!”
When I turned 30, a brilliant invention I totally invented made me $7 billion, I grew six inches, my skin cleared up, my hump transferred to my omega neighbor, and I had my third arm removed and re-purposed as a coat rack in my fancy house built to look like a French chateau, except with an automatic garage door opener.
Two days later, the formerly gorgeous cheerleader showed up on my doorstep with a 27-year-old she said was my daughter. I stared at her silently for 2 hours. Then I said, “Not only isn’t that my daughter, she is actually YOUR MOTHER!”
And then my handsome ex-marine son, who’s totally mine but I NEVER HOVER AND HE RIDES A MOTORCYCLE came out, laughed at her until she cried and the 27-year-old aged 30 years right in front of us. And then he hugged me, and said “You are so totally alpha.”
Then it turned out that all my incredibly wealthy (but not as wealthy as me) friends and neighbors were there to throw a surprise party for me because I was so rich, so they all saw this, and then they all laughed at her.
Then a SWAT team arrested her for false accusations.
Then a gorgeous model walked by and asked if she could sex me in any way I wanted, with no strings attached and after signing an iron-clad pre-nup.
I have to confess, I fell asleep grinning that night.
“The bit about the daughter in the kitchen, though, really adds that last bullshit flourish to his complete crap masterpiece.”
I’ve noticed that a lot of MRA stories have to throw in the bit where a woman agrees with them to make the story more believable. It’s gotten very predictable on their part. For a movement that hates women, they seem to chase after female validation an awful lot. Including a feminine voice also enables them to say, “See, I’m not a misogynist, my daughter/mother/wife/girlfriend/female friend totally agrees with me!”
Y’all must have had VERY different marimbas to us if y’all are using them in marching bands. I went to google to find an example of the marimbas that we used, and the first result I got is from my old school’s band, featuring my old music teacher who passed away 2 years ago.
If you’ll excuse me, Ima just float a lil on this nostalgia.
My version of an MRA story, complete with spelling errors (which are hard to do with auto-correct) and various forms of bigotry (TW and my apologies to all members of groups to whom such bigotry may be offensive – I don’t mean it, myself, but as an example of what I have seen on such MRA stories):
“When I was young and stupid, and still a beta, I got involved with a girl who wanted a meal-ticket. I wasn’t rich, but I had a steady job, and she was only a four, so she decided to take what she could get, and poked holes in my condoms. Yep, I was on the hook for a baby. My buddy told me I ought to at least insist on a paternity test, because he was sure she was doing the whole chess club (because she couldn’t bang any of the football team – chess clubbers were all she could manage). I did insist, and yeah, the kid was mine. Being a stand-up guy, I paid the bitch the legally required extortion money, and even visited on the court-appointed days. Kid needs a masculine figure in her life, right? Anyway, somebody has to raise the brat to learn how to make sammiches, iron shirts, and generally not be a twat.
“Shortly after that, I got sick. Real sick. Turns out, I had the mumps, and since I was already past puberty, it rendered me sterile. YAY, MUMPS! At first, I was shocked, but then I realized that I no longer had to worry about scheming females puncturing my plastic, and since I already had a kid to carry on my jeans and inherit my hard-earned money, I didn’t need another. Pity it was a girl, so she can’t carry on the family name, but then again, feminists these days, they think it’s some sort of demigration to take their husband’s name, if they even bother to get married in the first place, so she probably will carry on my name, anyway. So, I realized I had it made, after all.
“So, my daughter was visiting me during her break from college (she got a cheerleading scholarship, of course), because she totally prefers being with me, now that I’m alpha, rather than staying with her pathetic loser mother, and the loser boyfriends she always brings home. She was in the kitchen, making me a sammich, when the doorbell rang.
“I was feeling generous that day, so I answered the door myself, so little Jill could stay and finish making my pastrami on rye. At the door stood an ex gf, holding a toddler with dark skin and nappy hair. Did I mention I’m blond? Very Anglo-Saxon. This kid couldn’t possibly be related to me, even as a third cousin tiwice removed. Still, I just knew where the bitch was gonna go with this.
So she says “You need to take responsibility for your child. I lost my job, and I need a place to stay, and food for the baby. You gotta let us move in with you. Oh, yeah, and we need to get married, right away.” Yep, she went there.
Thanks to the Mumps, I knew I was safe, but I only raw-dog it with virgins, because of STDs, so I just laughed in her face. “Hah! Prove it lady! I used a condom.” And I slammed the door in her face. My daughter brought me my sandwich, and quietly whispered that she was so proud of me for standing up for myself against the crazy bitch. “Perhaps, Father, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, you might consider choosing better sexual partners? After all, sir, you are clearly an alpha, and can mate with any 10 you desire. Why choose a crazy bitch, instead?”
“Eh, I was wearing beer gofggles at the time,” I answered, and gave her a swat on the boottum, for daring to correct me. She was totally out of line, but then again, she did spend most of her time growing up with that bitch mother of hers, and she developed some bad habits I’m trying to break her of.
“Anyway, the crazy bitch comes back the next day, with a lawyer. He told me that she was suing me for paternity, and that I would be on the hook for 90% of my income. I just laughed. “You go right ahead and do that, Buster. And then I’ll beat you up, cause I’m totally buff and stronger than you, plus I have a black-belt in Karate and Jew-jitsu, and when I’m done with you, I’ll beat up the crazy bitch, too, cuz she totally deserves it.”
The lawyer tried to take a swing at me, but he’s totally beta, and I beat down his ass. The bitch knew I would beat her up next, so she ran away, while I was beating her lawyer. But my daughter knew her duty, and tripped the bitch, as she ran away, to slow her down. Still, that crazy bitch was pumped on drugs, or something, because she ran really fast, and got away. No matter. I knew she’d get hers, eventually.
“The next day, the police came, and serv ed me with papers. Said I had to show up in court the next week, for child support. I told them the kid wasn’t mine, and they said it didn’t matter. The law is the law, and it supports women, when they claim the kid belongs to some man. If I had sex with her, I owed her, because you have to pay your whores. I said that only applied if wet were married. They shrugged. “We’re cops, not lawyers. Tell it to the judge.”
“I did tell it to the judge, and he admitted that I knew the law. The plaintiff has the BUrden o f Proof, and she had to prove her case against me, before she could make me pay, because I was not sstupid enough to marry her sorry ass, first. He congratulated me on being wise enough to avoid that trap, and admitted that if I had married her, I would be on the hook for the child support, no questions asked. That was one reason the crazy bitch wanted me to marry her right away. so I’d always have to pay child support for any puppies she pushed out with whatever betas she was pumping on the side. That, and the fact that I was making a bundle then, and she wanted to lie the high life.
“I thanked the judge, politely. Obviously, he was another alpha, deserving of respect. So, he ordered the bitch to prove her case. She and her lawyer brought up all sorts of dates and times, and witnesses to prove that I had f—ed her. Well, I knew I had, so I thought, “Why bother trying to deny it? But then I figured I’d make her work for it, so I got one of my girlfriends to lie for me, on the stand, and give me an alibi, so she’d have to work harder to prove we actually banged.”
“Finally, she managed to convince the jury that we had done it, but I just grinned. “Yeah, lady, we did it, but that doesn’t mean the kid is mine. I mean, look at me,” and I pointed at my tall, handsome, buff, white, blond body, and look at the kid, and I pointed at the short, squat, FAT, ugly dark nappy thing. Hah! Poor little girl would gorw up to be a 2, at most.”
“She is yours!” the bitch shrieked, and launched herself over the table, to attack me. It was great! I tooke her down easily, and got in a few punches, befoe the bailiffs hauled her ass of to jial. After all, she attacked first, right in front of the judge, who was an alpha, and smart enough to know who to blame in all this. So, he gave her 30 days for contempt of court, and I got a month to relax before round two.”
“So, after she got out of jail, she came back and had to try to prove my paternity. She demanded a dna test, and I told her to get stuffed. So, she got her lawyer, again, and they served me with papers. I’m sure it cost her a bundle to put all this through court. Being a lawyer, myself, I didn’t have to pay for it, so it was no skin off my nose, but I knew how to run up her legal bills.
” I made her work her tail off to get the judge to order me to submit to a dna test, and I finally did it. Of course the kid wasn’t mine, and the judge charged her with false accusastions, wasting the court’s time and money, and she got sent to jail again! It was brilliant!”
“As the bailiffs where leading her away, I called out to her, “Hey, BITCH! Just so you know, I’ve been sterile since I was 21, and I have the medical papers to prove it!” The look on her face, as she realized I’d been stringing ehr along the whole time was priceless!
Shadow, the Maribas go in the pit, you don’t march with them. You wheel them out to the front of the the field before the show starts and wheel them off after.
And if anyone is ever in charge of a high school or college music program budget: Never buy Amati sousaphones.
RE: SittieKitty
Woo, yeah, double-reeds for life! I wasn’t the band member in the system, but I’ve got all the memories, and we still wear her old bassoon charm on a chain in memory of her.
RE: katz
OMG that made my day. It wasn’t even me who did most of the music (it was a system member who has since… departed) but I still enjoyed that. The bassoonists were great too!
RE: Shadow
Marimbas come in various sizes. The ones I see in the vid mostly look to be smaller ones, played by only one person at a time. Back in my high school, we at first owned only one marimba, which was made to be played by two people. It was probably a good ten feet long, a beast of an instrument that was TOUGH to get onto a football field alone. Our best friend at the time became section leader, and she developed an uncanny ability to get the thing to make turns.
RE: Shadow
Also, that was beautiful music to listen to. Damn, it’s weird feeling nostalgic for things that weren’t even MINE! The weirdness of multi, I suppose.
RE: baroncognito
Were those the fiberglassaphones? Man, those things were ASS.
To MichelleCYoung – now that is a believable step 2 story, Sis! 🙂 Of course, it’s not a good step 1, but you could certainly get a few bites on an MRA site, I’m sure.