When it comes to being a bachelor, the best benefit—without question—is that one hundred percent of your free time is one-hundred percent yours. Outside of your professional obligations, not a single moment of your existence has to be spent doing anything you don’t want to do, nor does it have to be spent with people you deem unworthy.

A close second is that after all the bills are paid and your essentials are handled, then one hundred percent of the money remaining goes directly into your pocket. It’s all yours, and no one can ever take it away provided you make good decisions and act responsibly.

Lastly, everything is one hundred percent exactly the way you want it—all the time, every time. The fridge is stocked with the food you like to eat, the home bar has the liquor you like to drink, and everything in your home is there because you want it there—all details are at your discretion. You are the judge, jury, and executioner for any and all decisions that come your way; you are the sovereign of your own little empire.

It’s Good To Be King


For me, personally, I’m extremely fortunate that my chosen profession provides me with a comfortable income while giving me ample time off—with a minimum of two weeks off per month being typical. If I feel like working more and stacking some extra cash by picking up open time or extra trips—then I can do that too. However, I tend to treasure my leisure time over chasing money in most cases.

So, what does a guy do when his business is handled, his bank account is in the black, and he has adequate free time on his hands? Anything he fucking feels like doing is the answer. Aside from handling the basic necessities of life—shopping, the gym (yes, exercising is a necessity), and maintaining my assets—I’m free to do whatever I please.

My actions can’t be judged by anyone because I’m not beholden to anyone. I set the standards and expectations for my life. The responsibility of getting the job done—and carving out my own path to happiness—rests solely on my shoulders, and I welcome this responsibility with open arms.

But There’s Always A Catch

Unfortunately, as with all things in life, with the good comes the bad. And the bad with this situation is that people are going to fucking hate you, and they’re going to hate you a lot.

You know that buddy of yours who overlooked the fact that he married and impregnated some gutter slut who buried more bones than the Third Reich during her college years, and who is now, somehow, on a steady 10 pounds a year straight-to-the-thighs weight gainer diet despite the fact that her cooking skills are such shit that she almost burns their fucking house down anytime she toasts an English muffin? Yeah, he hates you.

And as for that couch-mammoth who possesses no redeeming qualities whatsoever? Now, she really hates your ass. When George W. Bush said: “They hate us for our freedom,” he wasn’t referring to Al-Qaeda or the Taliban. He was actually talking about obese women, and how they feel about the bachelors their boyfriends and husbands hang out with.

These women know that you have a very good thing going on, and they don’t want their bitch-boy husbands catching wind of this little fact. They will sit around saying things like: “Oh I feel so sorry for him, he’s going to die alone with no one to love him; he must be so lonely,” or, “He’s so immature, it’s no wonder why he hasn’t found a good woman.” They say this to their husbands, boyfriends, and fiances in order to brainwash these men into thinking they’re somehow getting a pretty sweet deal in life.

None of this, however, would stop most of these broads from sleeping with you if they thought they had half a chance. But lucky for you—and for your friends—they don’t have a chance, because as a guy who puts in the effort to succeed in life, you don’t have to resort to nailing fat married chicks with bad attitudes and back-titties who can’t even make an ice cream cone without fucking it up.

That’s work for an employee at Husband Enterprises right there, and I don’t work for that shitty dead-end company.


So your married friends hate you, their wives hate you, and your unmotivated single friends hate you; hell, even people you don’t know hate you. But what about the women you date? Yep, they hate you too, but not as much as they hate themselves for caring so much about some selfish asshole who doesn’t appreciate them.

The women who come in and out of my life quickly learn that what I say goes. If a woman wants to hang out with me, but I’m not in the mood to have her around, then she can fuck right off—plain and simple. I, quite obviously, have better things to do than spend time with her. And what are these better things, you may be wondering?

Doesn’t matter: if I decide it’s something better—no matter what it is—then it’s something better. End of discussion. If I want to stretch out on the couch and scratch my balls while blasting some ear-raping heavy metal; if I want hang out at my local general aviation airport, shoot the shit with the old timers, and go burn some holes in the sky for fun; hell, if want sit in total silence, drink some bourbon, and read all day—then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Dealing With A Female Example

Have you ever had a woman visiting your place for the first time and watched her as she looked around and examined everything? Did you pay close attention to her words and body language? And did you take note of her facial expressions while she was checking everything out?

If you were paying attention, then you probably noticed that she was plotting and scheming about how she’s going to completely destroy your life. Within 15 minutes of stepping into your place, she has already started making mental notes of all the shit she’s going to change if she traps you in a relationship.

She’s planning on replacing your blinds with pastel colored curtains, moving your drum set into the garage, putting pink fluffy floor mats in your bathroom, and deciding on a good spot to put “Baxter’s” cat litter pan—fuck her, and fuck “Baxter” too.


A girl I was seeing on and off fit this description perfectly. She was always hitting me up to hang out and sending me “whatcha doin?” or “when do you get back in town?” text messages. She was the typical self-serving, mid-twenties, strong and independent ladder climbing career chick that I always find myself dating for some reason.

To put it bluntly: I couldn’t fucking stand her, but she liked me a lot and made the majority of the effort in our so-called relationship—including giving me sex without too much of a headache.

Now, generally speaking, having sex with a standard issue strong-and-independent white woman is like visiting a cemetery in Alaska: it’s cold, depressing, and every hole is four feet wide, six feet deep, and smells like death. But this girl was a little bit better than average, so when she hinted at wanting to hang out with me one evening—I invited her over, and even agreed to her request to stay the night.

So she comes over and we go through all the normal motions. We exchanged pleasantries, I pretended to care about whatever she was talking about, we had a couple of stiff drinks, and then I gave her some stiff dick—all quite painless.

After the deed was done, we were laying in bed together and she had her head comfortably nestled on my shoulder. Believe it or not, I was actually quite content to have her there and was enjoying her company; our post-coital cuddling was very pleasant and I had no complaints… but then she started fucking talking again, and things started going downhill real fast from there.

Earlier in the day, I had started a James Bond marathon on Blu-ray. I had made my way through Dr. No and From Russia With Love, and was now due to watch my favorite film of the entire series: Goldfinger.

The main reason I agreed to let this girl come over in the first place was because I really wanted some pussy after watching the famous Ursula Andress scene from Dr. No.


So I’m laying there trying to chill and act somewhat gentlemanly, but this girl just wouldn’t shut the hell up. I tried listening to her—I really did. But then I zoned out and began fantasizing about making myself a Manhattan, plugging Goldfinger into the Blu-ray player, and then stretching out on my bed without anyone there hogging my space or annoying me with their nonsensical horseshit.

It also didn’t help matters that she didn’t look like Ursula Andress.

My feelings for this girl—someone who I was just intimate with a few minutes prior, mind you—had now turned into the same feelings I have towards a raccoon who has tipped over my trash cans and started rummaging through my garbage. In short: I wanted this fucking thing off my property…

Me: “Well, it’s about that time…” (while pushing her head off me and climbing out of bed)

Girl: “Time for what, babe?”


Me: “For you to get going, of course.”

Girl: “What? Why? Do you have something to do in the morning?”

Me: “Nope, I have absolutely nothing to do tomorrow.”

Girl: (perplexed)… “Then why do I have to go? You said I could spend the night, why don’t you want me here?!”

Me: “Because I want to watch Goldfinger.”

Girl: “Huh? Is that a show on Netflix or something? What’s Goldfinger?”

Me: “It’s a James Bond movie with Sean Connery—its from the 1960s. I’ve seen it like 50 times, it’s one of my favorites.”

Girl: “You’re fucking kidding, right? It’s past midnight! You’re seriously kicking me out of here so you can watch some stupid fucking James Bond movie that you’ve already seen a bunch of times?!”

Me: “Pretty much.

“Girl: (cue the charm and bargaining tactics)… “Well, why don’t we cuddle up and watch it together? I’d love to watch James Bond with you.”

Me: “Shit ain’t happening.”

Girl: (with tears of frustration starting to form)… “Oh my God, why do you have to be such a fucking asshole! You said it was no problem for me to stay over! You never keep your word! I have no idea why I keep seeing you: You lie to me all the time, show me no respect, and treat me like I’m a piece of shit!

“Me: *Rips a hellacious fart while buck naked and bending over to pick her clothes up off the floor*

Girl: (shocked and now full-on crying)… “Oh! Real fucking nice, A.V. Yader! And thanks for pointing your hairy ass at me when you did that!”

Me: *Tosses the pile of clothes to her while trying desperately not to laugh*

Girl: “It’s not fucking funny, A.V. Yader!”

Me: *Completely loses it and laughs like a lunatic for about two minutes*

Girl: *Jumps out of bed, throws temper tantrum (which makes me laugh even harder), calls me every name in the book (nothing new there), gets dressed and leaves (thank you)…


So, was that kind of dick move on my part? Sure, but do you think my actions ruined things with this girl? During the course of her tantrum, she said that she never wanted to see me again—do you think that actually happened?

Did she keep her word and follow through on her threat to sever ties and cut all contact with me? Did she go off and find herself a ‘nice guy’ who would treat her right and show her the “respect she deserves”?

Of course she fucking didn’t. She texted me the very next day to resume her “I can’t believe you” blah blah blah bullshit. I was watching On Her Majesty’s Secret Service at the time, and still had 17 more Bond films to watch—so I was pretty busy and wasn’t able to text her back for a few days. But after about a week we’d slept together again.

That’s right: I fucked her, directed an ass-splitting fart at her, kicked her out my place, and apologized for none of it—yet nothing bad resulted from my behavior. In fact, when you do this type of crap to women, it just makes them try harder.

The sex will be more passionate and occur with greater frequency; they’ll be sweeter to you and show you more respect; they’ll even try to be decent people and attempt to impress you. And it’s so easy to make it all happen: all you have to do is disregard their feelings and do whatever the hell you want!

Outside Opinions Are Not Welcome

Grandpa Simpson is not a Red Pill role model

There’s always going to be pressure coming at you from all sides to do the “right thing.” It will come at you from acquaintances, coworkers, friends, family, and the women you date—all of whom think they have it all figured out and want nothing more than to bring you down to their level. This raises a question: What is the “right thing” in this day and age?

Did a guy who’s on the brink of getting divorce-raped by his unappreciative wife do the “right thing” when he put a ring on it without doing his due diligence first? When a woman destroys herself from a steady diet of loser cock and settles for a man she isn’t all that attracted to and doesn’t respect—is she doing the “right thing”?

Is it the “right thing” to bring children into the world only for them to be raised in a split household by a selfish and conniving single mother, and by a father who’s nothing more than a demoralized wallet stuck on the wrong side of the looking glass?

Is it the “right thing” to treat a self-absorbed career woman like pure gold, when in reality she’s just a step above pure shit? As all women descend further and further into moral turpitude, is it the “right thing” to show them respect just because they demand it, yet posses no qualities that actually command it?

Society says: “Yes sir, these are all the right things!” Funny, isn’t it? How everything that is supposedly the “right thing” for a man seems to be nothing more than a one-way ticket to shattered self-respect at best, or complete annihilation at worst. I

f a man is willing to tow the line and allow society to dictate his behavior, his decisions, and his values—then that man is on the fast-track to failure and ruin. The bottom line is this: being a crowd-pleaser will get you nowhere, and if people hate on you and think you’re an asshole for marching to the beat of your own drum—then fuck’em.

There is no “right thing” anymore.

In Closing

I’ve done a lot of talking about winners and losers in my work here on Return of Kings, but the fact of the matter is there are no winners in the modern dating game; and yes, this applies to women just as much as it applies to men. Women have never been more used and abused, more miserable, and more broken than they are right now.

From a surface observation, we think that women have it made: they have unlimited dating options, zero responsibility, and an army of ass-kissers who think they walk on water; yet the majority of these women are lonely, irresponsible, and dreadfully insecure. The modern woman is fully aware, deep down, that she isn’t worthy of being loved. Do you think the girl I kicked out of my place with a nose full of fart actually has it good?

Can you imagine going through life with such little dignity that you would not only tolerate being treated like shit, but actually crave it and require it? Do you know how fucked in the head you would have to be in order for that to seem like a sweet deal? Suffice it to say: that’s no way to live, and it’s certainly no way to procure respect. I wouldn’t trade places with her ass for anything.

She is in good company, though: there are millions upon millions of women just like her. If it weren’t for their noxious personalities and over-inflated egos, one might find it within himself to feel pity for these women, but that’s not in the cards at this stage in the game: the damage is done.


What one can do, however, is take solace in the fact that this poor behavior is simply a defense mechanism to sooth the festering rot and self-hatred trapped within—they’re compensating, plain and simple. Women and reality have a long history of not getting along with one another.

As for the women who aren’t compensating and actually believe in their own bullshit: they are either completely delusional, mentally ill, or both; and there’s certainly plenty of these types running around out there as well.

Granted, this information does nothing to make their behavior more tolerable. But it does help to reinforce that these women are, without a doubt, total fucking losers—they wouldn’t keep returning like boomerangs to be treated poorly if this wasn’t the case. They’re nothing to envy, and giving up the bachelor lifestyle for one is completely out of the question.

It’s not about winning anymore with women—you can’t win. At this stage, it’s all about not losing. There are a thousand ways to lose, but there’s only one way to not lose: become an unapologetic asshole (if you’re not one already). This is not some seduction strategy or game advice—it’s a life requirement.

It’s a survival tactic that will help you succeed during these turbulent times. I’m not suggesting you behave like I do, I can’t define your morals and I don’t want to—it’s on you to figure that out for yourself. What I am saying, though, is that you should never put your dignity and self-respect on the negotiating table. In other words: don’t be a spineless pussy.

People, especially women, will try to steamroller you if they think they can get away with it—don’t fucking let them, ever. You should only do what’s best for you and for the people you love, and, most importantly, who love you too and will always have your back. Everyone else be damned.

Lastly, don’t you ever worry about those people who decide to play the game and do the “right thing.” They won’t have any trouble finding you once their little dream world turns to shit and they need some guidance or moral support. All they’ll need to do is look down the road less traveled, and once they spot the guy that’s holding a bag full of money, doing whatever the fuck he wants with a smile on his face…

Then they’ll know when they’ve found you.

 Read More: How To Deal With A Bitch