Learning Day: 7 Strategies to Develop Your Masculinity (Patreon)

We’re halfway through Love Month, and dying. Every expert’s worse than the last. Reality TV and comic books, education’s core, have failed us. We’ve missed surplus candy sales by a week. There’s one refuge left.

Manosphere self-publishing. We’ll uncuck our minds, so that our loins can fly.

And by loins, I mean credit scores. I want guru money. Love consultants have the last sane workweek. We just need a veteran’s guidance.

Who’s our sensei?

Got it.

Nerds say Earth has eight billion people, but does it? I’m thinking fifteen. As in “15”, not “15,000,000,000.” Everything about Jon Anthony echoes ten other suspects. The Tate Farm League is crowded and competitive. We’ll have to study hard to stand out.

Luckily, Jon’s focused. Seven tips imply lean, precise mentorship. The book’s only 51 pages long, so ten might have been better. But Jon’s too busy winning for emotional dumping.

That’s not dumping. He’s just setting the stage.

I’ve been wrong before! We’re getting a full memoir. You may suspect that I refused to bear knowing when Jon found his first bump alone. No, this is about retirement. Still, you, me, and one untipped escort now share one shame.

Today, we become real men. Then we can bone, and teach others to bone. Any pre-salvation sex doesn’t count. You probably made eye contact and everything. Jon grew up without Kenshiro, and now strives to spare others the pain and indignity of being Jon.

Granted, you might not want to be a real man. You may even have escaped tradition’s straightjacket. Lovable Jamaican mores tell me you’re wrong, and need correction. Forward.

Odd start. Even if you dig racial fanfiction, Jon cut the bit about the father watching overnight. This paragraph’s the 97th greatest colonial crime, and breaking the top 100 takes work. Grit. A pure sense of purpose. Now I’m certain that Jon’s worth studying. He’s a linguistic conquistador.

Let’s sit before the tree of knowledge. Blindfolded, with hearts and wallets open.

Maybe later. Pre-lecture reading reeks of homework.

I think I get it, but I skipped the reading. Could we wrap that in vague mysticism?

Much better. A little D&D, but adjusted for the illiterate.

That also sounds like homework.

Filler homework, at that. The kind assigned to mask a lack of content.

Followed by what, a book report? What I did this summer? A gratitude journal? Twitter stoicism’s best/only pitch is “less navel gazing.” Play to your semi-strengths.

Besides, Frank Miller’s Spartans didn’t do take-home tests. They had slaves to manage. In fact, I’m told reading smothers testosterone. I scream jokes at an iPad, and let transcription take the wheel Siri stop recording nice another banger Siri why can’t I sleep please help me the nightmares won’t stop

It’s fucking homework.

Struggling with this chart is a bad sign, and I don’t just mean IQ. Jon’s describing himself, in his book, to an audience he needs to funnel into subscriptions. Yet he rephrased “dating coach” five times.

I’m not giving up. If Jon can do this, so can a gerbil.

There. Can you teach us now?

This isn’t a rehearsal, Jon. You can’t be too lazy to paste. That’s impossible. A grindset salesman can survive the journey between C and V. Everything I click or write is me doing your job for you.

But fine, I'll click. Let’s Scheherazade this shit. How do I actually achieve my–

FUCK.

Fine, but this is the last time. Here’s three goals:

But that’s all long-term. In the short run:

To be fair, this detour moved me to register my flat feet, total blindness, gun allergy, and early death. I’m already progressing. Thanks, Jon. Back to layer one of Inception.

Sweet. This tip gets a free pass.

Maybe I stuttered in text. You can stop at “punching’s fun and stereotypically masculine.” I believe you. This book can be 1/7th coherent.

Failure, from the jaws of victory. We’re zero for two.

At best, an adult athlete let an insecure child have a moment and created a monster. The lesson: when facing children, crush them. Set the topic for years of therapy. Spam handstand taunts like Eddie Gordo afterwards. You’ll spare countless college parties tragedy. Especially the ones Jon attends after graduating.

I was wrong. Bring back the homework.

Easy.

What’s next?

No.

But I get it. Big man carry big club, kill big tiger. If you buy into the mission, it makes sense. All Jon has to do is stop talking, and we’ll have our first solid tip.

Alright, more of Bruce Wayne’s youth. Maybe there’s an early Riddler cameo for some worldbuilding. Or at least a new Joker origin.

Some restraint! Jon could’ve invented another flawless victory. Instead, he used Conqueror’s Haki to send a tweaker packing.

We can teach this wisdom. We won’t apply it, because I’m not going fucking camping. I was born after porcelain for a reason. But things are looking up.

If you don’t count preachers, Jon’s early to this insanity. Good for him. The reading list’s a little thinner this round:

Three disjointed web pages and a subreddit. In academia, they call this “horseshit.” In ads, we preferred “horseshit.” In fashion news, we called it “an exclusive interview with Machine Gun Kelly.” He’s dumber off-camera.

Do we need a drill for not beating off? The absence of shea butter? We’re only at #4, so I assume this gets nuttier. Save some madness for finals week.

Jon's old answers are “martial arts, reading, and meditation.” But his current secrets are his own, and he’s done holding our hands. I’m guessing “Camping, vagrant staredowns, and erotic memoir.” But four tips in, Jon’s got senioritis.

We’re still in the game. Here’s my lineup:

Hopefully we’re done with No Fap. If not the idea, then at least the term. After 3000 years of Abrahamic religion, there must be a less stupid phrase for hand-celibacy.

Where would I find time for porn? You assigned two years of paperwork and a trip to nowhere. Unless I make headlines unzipping mid-flight, I’m more concerned about getting enough sleep to survive than cranking it.

Game? Oh shit, right! Sexual failure. This book’s about dick eczema. I’d forgotten while writing my nofap term paper from a tent in the Amazon. Let’s learn some game. There’s a cute poacher downstream.

A straight flush of Jon’s earlier, shittier articles. Forgivable, because we’ve hit gold. The prized and resellable formula for sexual dynamite. All the pointless, meandering bullshit defended one secret from the unworthy:

The rich flavor of paint.

I expected something backwards, or criminal. But this textbook’s uniquely pointless. Even for the dorks that believe in it. If each word were peer-reviewed, Vatican-canonized, Times-misquoted consensus reality, it still wouldn’t be worth typing.

7 Strategies had to deliver here. Alphas/Sigmas/Zero/Megaman might wax about elbowmaxing and black recasts, but that’s all spice. The foundation is expired condoms, and Alternative Yoda’s best sex advice is sex.

There might be something here.

Let’s exit our thriving harems and assess. Jon asks us to brainstorm, do six writing exercises, do background reading, master the fist, camp, fight a vagrant, reread his old work, go to Vegas, learn social skills elsewhere, and have sad Vegas sex. This isn’t a shitty pickup guide. He’s making us write the shitty pickup guide. 7 Strategies is a breakthrough in desperation literature. The neolithic revolution for con artists. Fleecing agitated non-masturbators will never be the same.

It’s like Madoff skipped stocks and sent trust fund kids a bill. We’re co-authoring this scam.

Hit me with the homework. I’m back in.

We’ve unlocked the Sexpest Aptitude Test. No longer mandatory, but a good score helps your rush chances.

Luckily, pointless exams are my sixth strength.

This section’s a little too powerful. With monster game, I’m stuck dating half my hometown. My legitimate and bastard offspring are fierce rivals, united only by alimony. It’s a life-eating doom spiral. But I’m still not rich. We have to push further.

An entire field? Stuffed into one chapter I’ll write half of? I respect this scam’s scope, but start small. I don’t think Jon even defined game, or how camping gets you laid.

This smells like astrology.

Or Jung, explained by a cat. To HarperCollins. Then back to another cat.

You can’t. I was kidding about homework. But dodging star charts is this worldview’s only upside. You’ve invented spiritual horseshoe theory.

It’s my fault. I tempted God by building up a tolerance for evil. Now he’s all in on stupidity. I’ll read the pureed thoughts of home school dropouts forever.

Only a massive pile of money could make this worth it.

Finally! Franchising! Let’s get our retirement grift together.

All is lost.

I would prefer not to.

Like all sane adults, I don’t care about my wolf sign. I care about robbing the desperate. I learned everything about masculinity when a fire marshal said “you die first.” An alpha morning ritual has all the appeal of a glass-eating workshop.

Maybe I’m missing the screaming, neighbor-waking point. But step one’s half of One-Punch Man’s joke workout. And all my hometown brides say battle manga isn’t real. You can’t warp reality with poses. After hours of pointing, my stand hasn’t come out once.

The 36th chamber of Shaolin? T-posing. Give it a shot, we ditched dignity four tips ago. Maximize your hand-to-crotch distance. The spirit bomb stance does everything 15 pushups won’t.

Victory posing sounds like nonsense. But when meth zombies menace your Filipina girlfriend, you’ll need extra test to boost your karate-aura. Don’t let her death drive you back to masturbation, or your inner Sadist might smother the Divine Child before your Magician rises. As they say.

I just wanted new shoes.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Mark Mahoney, who can dominate any gorilla with his stare of celibacy.  

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