Here is another great move for the upwardly mobile International Playboy on the rise:
It’s no secret that learning phrases in foreign languages greatly ups your chances for swooping fly International girls. For instance, I know how to say, “How about you and your girlfriend come to my crib, drink some champagne and take a bubble bath with me” in like 15 different languages.
However, to really get some traction, you are going to need to learn some fluency. The best way to do this? Get a private tutor.
Being that I like to get the most Bang for my Buck (and I don’t mean Roosh’s book Bang either, or maybe I do) I have been going with Spanish tutors.
This is also a great way to spend your time in America between International Strikes. (Side note: I am extremely bearish on American Nightlife and American Girls these days. And I am extremely bullish on International Nightlife and International Girls.)
Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that your private tutor should be female, young and fly.
Once you get her lined up for lessons, play it like you would meet any other fly girl: Go Suited Down, meet at a dope restaurant, drink wine, and spark up grits.
I have found that the best way to do this is to stay real professional during the lesson, peel off whatever she is charging you for the hour off a huge Bankroll (statement making move) and invite her afterwards for drinks. If you have Telenovela good looks like your humble author, she should respond affirmatively. From there, The Rest is up To You.
The best part about this move is:
1. You can swoop your tutor
2. You are learning a language to help you swoop more girls
3. You can smoke and drink while doing it
4. It’s a great “launch pad” for your night
A Classic “Win-Win-Win-Win” scenario.
This has been so effective for me that I have considered getting tutors in Italian, French, Portuguese, Mandarin, Catalan, Fukienese and Croatian.
Hell, I have even thought about getting an English tutor and going with that fake foreigner steez.
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Here is a new move from the most recent Chambers of The G Manifesto:
First things first, take some lessons and get your Salsa Game up to Par. The beauty of The Salsa Swoop Move is you don’t have to get great at Salsa, you just need to be better than a typical gringo, which isn’t saying much.
Now it doesn’t matter if in is Cali, Cartagena, Barcelona, Miami Beach, Medellin, Republica Dominicana , San Juan or Bayamon, just roll in the salsa spot like the Don Juan behind the Don.
Approach a fly girl or group of fly girls like you normally would rolling Dolo, like Tony without Manolo.
Being an American, sooner or later, the conversation will come around and she will ask you “What kind of music do you like?”
Always respond, “Música Latina, Salsa”.
She will then inevitably ask you if you dance Salsa.
Say, “No, I never have, but I think I can pick it up pretty quick, can you show me?”
She will always say “Of course”.
The trap is now set.
Once you start dancing, you “pick it up pretty quick” and start busting some ill Salsa. Any mistakes only give more authenticity to the move of just “learning it on the spot”.
Once she sees your Salsa Game, she will be amazed, her eyes will dilate, and falling for you, she will have an “A-ha” moment of sorts.
From here, it’s your Game to lose, Oh my Brothers.
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
It’s Middle of May and it is 105 degrees in the shade. I wake up wrapped in 1500 thread count sheets and a 5’10 dancer, a nice southern girl, of course. Went a bit too far last night, but damn, what does it even matter. You know I went out suited up and ran the strip from one end to the other. When I’m stepping out of the club with the hottest girl that was there on the way back to my room at the Bellagio, I see you looking. I’m in Vegas and I feel like Tony right after he gets back to his crib… “I gotta get organized”. Montana, not Soprano, minus the blow (for the most part). The suites at Bellagio, Caesars, and Wynn are so huge you can have a 12 person after party without the slightest bit of problem. The suites are equipped with elite furniture that is usually littered with those fly LA girls that I met last night, other bodies, Rose champagne bottles, some other girls tall ass Cavalli shoes, underwear, room service, and other products of a successful sunrise party. I never throw after-parties in my room though; the last time resulted in ejection from a 5-star in Atlanta at 6 in the morning. That’s how I do things.
Anyways, from my perspective, your body begins to shut down by your fourth day out here. You’ve got to pace yourself. I start every morning by sweating out the toxins, i.e. whatever vices I consumed the night before with a 30-45 minute workout at the hotel gym, and I make no excuses. The gym is always the most luxurious I have ever frequented and full of fly models and foreign girls; I really see no problem. There are attendants that bring me water replenishment, which is another key to defeating whatever hit me about the time I walked out of the Spearmint Rhino after strippers had been sweating me all night. And I wouldn’t pay them any attention, they hate that. If they are going to hustle someone for money they really wish it would be me instead of your lameass group of you and your bro friends. Maybe next time I tell them. They still love me. Las Vegas. This place is so electrifying…so sense-heightening…and so fucking addictive.
I always stock up on cloves/cigars before I get into town and everything else I need is always provided for me. I just hit my girl up at the Mirage and she sends me whatever I need (don’t even think I’ll reveal how I got that connect.) I always grab hotel matches and keep them sparking – everyone either uses these or diamond encrusted Dunhill lighters anytime they need heat. Another thing to remember is there is no concept of time here. I watch the sun come up and watch it go down here but that is about as good as it gets for time perception. There are no clocks anywhere and everyday is mine for the taking. I ride in limos and walk a lot and of course my shoes are comfortable because only cheap shoes hurt your feet. The only thought on my mind after walking back from the club right before sunrise is how good the cigar I had with me was going to be and how good the girl I took’s ass looks as I follow her down Las Vegas Blvd.
You wouldn’t even believe the dayclub pool parties here. You probably can’t get in either. The best dayclubs are at Caesar’s, Mirage, and Venetian. You shouldn’t bother with any of the rest of them unless you like a bunch of frat boys with tribal tattoos and Ed Hardy shirts and Oklahoma prom queens with fake purses that think they are a lot hotter than they really are. The girls at my spots have been in movies, magazines, and have a public image to keep up so when they let go partying they don’t want a bunch of nobody’s around that will gossip to their friends and tabloids like a bunch of Midwestern farm hicks that have never tasted the life. The dudes here pull out baseball size wads of money and finance the decadence. No one knows how these guys got their money but their speaking about docking 200ft boats in the Caribbean and running up 5 figure bar tabs. I personally care less what they did to get the cash. Most important for me, I only wear my blacked out Prada shades because if you can’t see my eyes than you can’t see me. I get my pool workout on by using weights, the hotel furniture, and dancer girls I invite to accompany on my little adventures. The DJs are on point at my pools and the party is like a story line: It has a tense buildup, a climax of euphoric fervor, and an abrupt crime scene ending of Patron shot wreckage all set to a fire-orange and crimson-red sunset backdrop.
If you are like me and have a weakness for the green and red felt tables, You really have to prearrange what you are going to do with your winnings or you will spend it on more gambling. I only take casinos money-they never take mine. This usually results in some brand new clothes, show tickets, VIP events, and an ABUNDANCE of drinking money. I don’t drink at tables. I hustle and politic every minute I gamble and I let the casinos thrive on you dumbass bitches that go there at lose $3Gs in a day and then laugh about it. I will never let anyone have my $3Gs. And I never laugh when I lose money. I instead use gambling time to replenish my body with water and save the drinking for pools and clubs. And even then, I don’t go overboard on the drinking because I converse with fly dancers, models, and moneymakers and game spitting requires a clear head. Contrary to advice from the Big Tymer’s, this isn’t the time to drink till you throw-up. She was smashed out of her mind but that wasn’t my problem. Whether I seal deals or not I have an image and a reputation to uphold and extremely expensive clothes. I’m not letting anyone ruin either.
I dress in the best clothes I own. Please try to hit up Tao in a polo or a t-shirt and expect to get any type of respect. You will see me flying past the line and getting the rope opened for me with a clique of people I brought and you will never get in. Which is good, I don’t really want you in there anyways-your game is obviously weak and everyone can see it. You control your destiny and the perception that you portray. Wear polo shirts, you’ll get treated that way. I’m not tempted by the style of all those LA d-bags that wear tees and lame jeans. I let them have that style all to themselves. I can’t begin to tell you how many times women commended me on how nice I looked. I was suited up all nights in a row (except when I just rocked my shirt I got in the French islands with a French cuff, can’t cover up those cuff links) Amongst a sea of print T’s adorned with sequins and whatever else the other side of the street is wearing, a well tailored suit and my blown open shirt really stands out.
Finally, I always eat good food. I don’t do crappy buffets, I only do the Bellagio buffet which looks like each continent put out the best food it has and sat it out for you to eat. I never eat any fast food or hot dogs or whatever else garbage people go for. I can get that stuff anytime back home, even though I don’t. Eat foods that you’ve never had, experience life. I usually hit up Ceasers’ or Bellagio’s spot at like 5:30am and the food and liquored up coffee drinks are unforgettable. It could have been my wonderful waitress Natasha…Or it could have been the fact that I chopped it up with Depp and almost knocked him for one of his lady friends. Unintentionally I might add. This is the time to be a grown-up and channel your inner Bourdain. People that really do things eat real food.
I supplement all this by only drinking champagne, Goose, and Patron; never beer. Once I let a few USC football players getting ready to go pro (athletes get the hookup in Vegas and I have nothing against them, I knew several pro athletes and a few prospects and they are fine people) go into the nightspots and order beer and clean up the Vegas sluts so that there were only quality drinks and women left for me to swoop. I’m automatically systematic like that. Never say “What happens in Vegas…” or “Vegas Baby!” I guess that works at the lameass Palms Hotel where everybody is wearing beanies and muscle shirts and is coked out of their mind but that don’t even try to pull that type of shit at the places I go. People will look at you weird and some owner or VIP will probably get your ass kicked out for showing ignorance at their parties. And don’t try to fight me. I know the girls that you like wherever we may be are sweating me like a coke bottle on a hot day, but fighting someone in Vegas is never something you want to do. Last fight that happened when I was there, one of the guys got lead poisoning. As in, 2 shells in the back of the head. And that was before he got thrown in the million dollars landscaping by a secret entryway in the back of Caesars. How impressed do you think the girls were with him after that? Watch yourself; you don’t know who you are dealing with.
Lastly, if you can’t do it big in Vegas, don’t do it. No one cares about your money problems there and you will end up across the street with the rest of the lames that are trying to ball on a budget. So here’s some advice if you don’t want to go all out in Vegas: stay drinking beer at your hometown 2-for-1 Chili’s night with your polo shirted frat brothers and talk about how great that keg stand was at your college party.
I’ll be somewhere a bit more engaging.
Click Here for these G Manifesto Las Vegas Data Sheets:
I just remembered one of the standout moments of this era.
In our shanty apartment complex near the beach, there was a superintendent, lets call him Joe. Joe, having seen first hand all our skulduggery and all the young fly beach girls we were swooping was obviously a huge fan of us.
He would even tell us when girls would come by when we weren’t at home.
One day, after pulling some slob airs, and getting lifted, we rolled back to our crib and Joe said to us, “Hey, guys, two really hot blond girls came by your apartment when you were gone”.
I responded, “Which blond girls?”
Joe shook his head, laughed and said to us, “Enjoy it while you can.”
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Here is a little story of when I was a younger prototype G.
At the time, things were getting hot for my Running Partner and I in America. So we moved some green like Minnesota Fats, and rolled down to Costa Rica and Panama for an extended stay.
After relaxing in the jungle and indulging on olas to the brain, it was time to move back. Actually, we were out of dough. In fact, we were so broke that we literally only had enough money to rent an studio apartment in the worst building in our hood. Granted, our “hood” was one of the most beautiful and wealthy beach towns in Southern California, and a block from the beach. Still, it was pretty much a shanty.
That all being said, I can barely remember a time when I swooped so many fly girls as in that crappy crib. We would roll down to the beach daily, spitting The Greatest Pick up Line of All Time and roll girls back up. Once back in the crib, all we had was two beds on the floor, so swooping was basic. A real minimalist approach, if you will. All hours of the day and night, we had fly rich beach girls knocking on our door.
In short order though, we got back in biz, got our Bankrolls tight and we could move out.
With all the girls we were swooping, I remember having second thoughts.
Bottom line, Game will take you a lot further than a dope crib.
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
