Sorry. A LOT.
Let’s let him explain:
I don’t give a shit about sex. Any broad can spread her legs.
You know what I do care about? Holding girls to a higher standard.
Why? Because my seed is liquid fucking gold and I don’t give it out like its god damn tap water.
And … I’ve already lost my appetite for dinner.
I got news for you girls. For a guy with any clue, finding sex is as easy as finding a pizzeria in New York, and like pizza in New York, its all pretty fucking good.
Wait. I take that back. Pizza sounds good.
Sex is everywhere and anywhere I want it, I don’t give a shit about yours.
It takes more than a nice curve of the ass or a bat of the eyelashes to earn my seed.
This last sentence is even more awesome if you imagine it being read aloud by Morgan Freeman.
Huh? Am I right or what?
Oh, but it gets better. Read the next paragraph in the voice of your favorite somber-voiced actor:
My salty essence and genetic code is a gift from my father, and his father, and his father, and on it goes. Its the sticky genetic code of self-sufficient men who have protected and provided for family, women and children. Its the haplogroup of men who built civilization. I have the genetic lineage of warriors, business owners, firefighters, blacksmiths, farmers, herders, poets, politicians, soldiers, artists and even chefs. Hard jobs that help build the world, thinking jobs that help build a culture, they’ve all been done by men in my bloodline. My ceiling for accomplishment is limitless.
And yet your great accomplishment is writing overheated, inadvertently hilarious, paeans to your spooge on the internet.
I’m not some average guy begging to give my seed away. My seed is valuable and I know it.
Men of lesser genetics may be able to afford spraying their seed anywhere; I allow myself no such atrocities.
My sperm could populate an entire society of strong good looking altruistic people and any girl who takes it in would be lucky to be a vessel towards that new world.
Ah ha ha ha ha ha.
Also, since when are the gals you’re casually hooking up with looking to have babies with you? I mean, don’t you want this precious sperm of yours to have pretty much zero contact with her babymaking equipment? Also, you know, safe sex?
Whether or not our sex is intended to end in pregnancy makes no difference. Just the sheer fact that it could makes me demand the same high price.
Ohhh. That makes sense. By which I mean “no sense.”
You better have enviable genetics yourself- I don’t breed with inferior stock. Beauty is the minimum and you better know how important that is. Long hair grown to impress me, healthy diet and exercise to maintain your figure and viability of your eggs.
Slow down a minute, Darwin. I’m pretty sure that the length of a woman’s hair has nothing to do with her genetic “worth.” Also, there’s not really much evidence to suggest that exercise helps to increase a woman’s fertility; and some even suggests that too much exercise can reduce it.
But the beauty that draws the stares, stutters and drools of lesser men won’t capture my attention for more than a millisecond.
Really? Because when I read LaidNYC I picture a dude who spends a lot of his time drooling.
I expect impeccable hygiene and classy style. A body tainted by tattoos and excessive piercings and slutty clothing signals you are available for sex to lesser men than myself. I’ll have none of that.
Only freshly showered nuns for him!
I demand a low N count to show you value your body and sex, and the seed I am about to give you will be appreciated on the level it deserves. A low N count shows both intelligence and confidence as you are smart enough not to give your body to charlatans and scoundrels, and confident enough to wait for the high value man you know you deserve.
How exactly do you figure that a dude writing a 9,000-word* screed on the awesomeness of his man juice on the internet fits into the category of “high value men?”
I expect manners and grace. No swearing, drunkenness, burping, sarcasm or anything else unbecoming of a lady. I spend a lot of time working with and competing against men in my daily life, the last thing I need is the company of a woman who acts like the men I must compete with. You exist to soothe, not to grate.
Wait, wait, wait. You work with guys who compete with you by swearing, getting drunk, and burping a lot? What sort of job do you have, exactly?
A year from now I will be richer and fitter and more socially respected in the Kingdom, but your beauty will have faded a notch. I demand that you treat me with the humility and respect that this biological reality dictates.
I suspect the only Kingdom he’s respected in is the Kingdom Up His Own Ass.
Ok, a bit of a warning here, LaidNYC is about to get all jizz-on-the-face on us all:
Finally, there is nothing I despise more than a woman who shows any disgust for my jizz.
It is the Royal Essence and you better enjoy every last drop.
If it lands on your face, chest or back, consider it raindrops from heaven, a rope of Holy Yogurt.
Holy Yogurt, Batman!
Again, give this shit the Morgan Freeman treatment for maximum effect.
If you are lucky enough to get it in your mouth, savor it like the nourishing nectar of the Gods.
If I shoot it inside you consider it the greatest compliment of all. You will feel an immediate buzz.
My jizz is to women what Walter White’s pure blue meth is to junkies.
Hey, I’m only caught up to season 3 of Breaking Bad. NO SPOILERS PLEASE.
You’ll take my seed, sweetly tell me “thank you sir” and buzz with happy feminine energy for the next day while you iron my fine shirts and indulge in memories of me.
Wait, so you only date women who work at the dry cleaners?
Some girls don’t want to respect a man that much. They have been poisoned by feminism or never had a strong male figure to look up to growing up or they have already taken far too high a volume of cock to revere their next one.
How exactly do you measure volume of cock? Do you have to use the metric system? I don’t really understand the metric system.
I have no use for those girls. Even a one-night stand with them is worthless beyond the ten-second orgasm, itself not worth the time spent to get it. Leave them for the men who have a low enough opinion of themselves to not demand such respect.
For guys, I don’t give a shit how many girls you’ve fucked just like I don’t give a shit how many pizzerias you’ve eaten at. A man is measured more by the pizzeria’s he refuses to eat at, the prices he refuses to pay for average pizza, if you know what I mean.
Yes, that’s right.
A MAN IS MEASURED BY THE PRICE HE REFUSES TO PAY FOR AVERAGE PIZZA.
I wonder if LaidNYC gets into arguments with pizza delivery guys all the time.
Remember, you set the price of your seed.
Mine is fucking gold.
Yet somehow I suspect alot of it ends up on wadded-up kleenex.
Sorry. A lot.
* I can’t count.