By Thorsten J. Pattberg for the Saker Blog

The Blackpill is a destructive ideology in the manosphere [promoting masculinity] that claims that genetics are everything and that subpar men should accept defeat.


Callum was born in Aberdeen, Northern Scotland, in 1982, to a wealthy Scottish engineer for the offshore oil industry and an English school teacher mother. The Celtic boy grew surprisingly tall, overtaking his own father’s height at the age of 16, standing tall at an impressive 6.3 feet. Callum had thick dark hair, a muscular build, slightly slit eyes, dark eyebrows and a manly chin. He had been an aggressive boy in childhood, but that was quickly mediated by private teachers, the finest schools and opportunities for rough and tumble play and mountain hiking and rugby. And although Callum had his first petting at the age of 14, with a pretty older sister of his best friend, it is fair to say that Callum was unaware of the existence of a ‘dating scene’. That’s because pretty girls were everywhere and eyeing him all the time. His first sex he had with bonnie Ava. She was four years older than him, and taught him a few things. Ava shared him with Sophie, her best friend, and it was Sophie who first praised him for his “size.” His first true girlfriend was Grace, who he brought home and his proud father almost wept tears over dinner, so stunning she was. There were always, always so many girls chasing Callum, that he thought them plenty and in abundance.

His mother wanted Callum to attend the University of Aberdeen, because the boy ought to have a Scottish Higher Education, not an English one. And although Callum might have been a candidate for Oxford, his father had the sense that it would be patriotic and more comforting to send Callum to the Scottish capital and study engineering at The University of Edinburgh.

In 2001, at the age of 18, with a monthly 2,000 pounds allowance, Callum rented a spacious apartment on Buccleuch Street, within a 200 feet walking distance to the main campus. He had just broken up with his last very athletic, gorgeous but clingy girlfriend Madeleine in Aberdeen, who was notable for her piercing kiwi-green eyes. But now, in Edinburgh during University’s ‘Freshers Week’, he quickly got a replacement – Hannah from Norway.

Or at least, Hannah thought he became her boyfriend, but Callum was not so sure, because two weeks later he was mad wae it at Teviot House, the Student Union’s club house and nighttime disco, and quickly hooked up with a slim but gorgeous Hong Kong girl named Shine, and the next week with a Scottish vixen by the name of Dawn, with huge tight breasts, the most puffy and symmetric ones he had ever seen. But that was fun and quickly the past. A month later, after a night of pub-hopping on Bristo Square and later the Grass Market, he hooked up with a real looker: Nancy from the States and her best gal, Lindsay from London. They had a romantic, respectful threesome in their shared apartment at Quartermile.

Callum joined the University gym complex at Pleasance, went hiking, joined a debate club, and attended classes both in his engineering major and philosophy minor. He made friends easily, and was immensely popular in seminars, in the clubs, at the gym and everywhere he went. In fact, little did he know that his mates and the gals followed him, and… already – starting Monday – would expect to hear from him where he would go on Wednesday evening (Three Sisters at Cowgate), on Friday night (The Tron or Bar 50?) and Saturday at Teviot Row House, where Callum performed karaoke of Ed Watkins’s Auld Lang Syne or Robbie Williams’s Let me Entertain You.

He once went to a Jazz Bar on South Bridge, and it was crowded and loud. There, he met freshly divorced Amber from Glasgow who made every effort to push into him, touch him, and she gave him her best in the ladies‘ restroom, but she was way too old for him.

His popularity wasn’t just exclusive to the city’s nightlife, no. He went to fraternity parties on St. Johns Street, a Halloween party at Potterrow, an end-of-semester ballroom dance (flashing Scottish kilts!) and several house parties of very rich American or English hosts. And it became very important for the organizers to have Callum on their guest list, because if Callum showed up with his mates, they would simply open their Motorola or Nokia smartphones and dial up the most stunning and gorgeous girls… and within an hour they would line up at the door steps.

Callum had this future model Hannah, just 19 years of age and carefree as any teen living away from her parents for the first time abroad, walking naked through his apartment and making breakfast for him. She was absolutely in love with him, moaning ecstatically from lust, and she opened the curtains and wanted the street and the whole world to see her pressing her mollies against the windows.

The sheer amount of hochmagandy available to a well-to-do, extremely good looking man in a small University town was incomprehensible, even to Callum. He got bored of Hannah, sent her away once, but she came back of course. She came back with lubricants and a butt plug for her, and, one day, even with pink handcuffs.

Callum left his apartment, angry, and up he went to Elephant House, the famous cafe where J K Rowling wrote her first Harry Potter novel. Just sitting there sipping a coffee latte, he locked eyes with Nastya for two seconds, a tall, blond Russian girl he once danced with at Teviot Row House. They exchanged numbers, and she called him the next day.

Callum was phenomenal, the pride of his parents, his teachers and his schools, and he was liked by everyone and loved by many, many females who were happy to share him. He would have made a fine engineer and the father of strong and beautiful children, if only he had lived longer.

During summer break, however, after his second year at University, he traveled to New Zealand, checked into a youth hostel, sang and bragged lang may yer lum reek all night long with the backpacker girls, before he passed out drunk on his bed and died from suffocation during a house fire. And when the press arrived and the police tried to identify who was missing, the aggrieved girls told them it must have been “that son of the King of Scotland.”


Josh was born in Boston, New England, in 1983, to a struggling but not poor art dealer and his faithful English school teacher mother. He grew up with a good public education and he excelled in maths and science. Josh had overall good facial features but a rather large forehead. He was 5.7 feet in height, which he felt was slightly below average at his school, so he started playing golf for compensation. Josh’s parents bought him a red used Ford Bantam he could drive on his 17th birthday. This enabled Josh to ask a shy girl from his high school, not beautiful but kind-of-cute Marie, out for a date to the movies. On their third date, he fingered her on the backseat of his car, and they engaged in a long term relationship.

Josh was ambitious. He wanted to run his own business and attend Boston University. He taught maths in daytime, attended evening school at night, and ran his side hustles whenever he had spare time. His upbringing was Christian, so Josh cared deeply about family, paid every dinner for Marie, bought her a Gucci back for Valentine’s Day and a 1-carat diamond engagement ring from Tiffany & Co. for New Year‘s Eve. He dutifully paid their rent and enabled Marie to fulfill her dream of attending medical school.

And had you seen this coming, in 2005, at the age of 22, Josh had been cuckolded by his one-and-only Marie. She met this tall, funny and handsome son of a Boston firefighter during a hospital shift of hers. And although the firefighter’s son was older, much in debt and never finished college proper, she couldn’t help hooking up with him, so Josh was crushed and never took her back.

A new Josh was born. He opened up business, incorporated his father’s art dealership, applied for a Part-Time MBA at Boston’s Questrom School of Business and threaded in contacts. He courted a pretty fellow female student, Joyce, but she eventually shut him down: “Sorry, but not my type.” So Josh went out to clubs in various cities as a lone wolf and bought every hot girl he talked to a range of drinks, and for her friends too, but all that generosity went nowhere. But that was alright just as well, because in the business world, there were always dependable escort services and strip clubs. The more you know.

In 2015, at the age of 32, Josh tried to impress much younger women. He now drove a leased German BMW i8 and had a business card that read “CEO Art Joshua – Gallery and Collector.” He set up headquarters in Boston and was planning an office in London. Josh traveled to London Art Fairs and attended Art Basel in Switzerland and Hong Kong, where the top girls cost up to a thousand dollars a night. But his main obsession was student escorts in Los Angeles or New York. And it was in Los Angeles, where he heavily courted a young Chinese art student from Shanghai, Mai Lin, ten years his junior.

Josh was financially secure as he sold his clients’ sculptures and paintings at SoWa Art + Design District in Boston’s expensive South End, and he also invested in rentable real estate at Carson Beach. But his supreme success was that he became somewhat of an expert on women. Successful men have ‘lots of game’, as they say. When Josh noticed bald patterns on his head, he shaved it clean. He groomed a goatee beard and hit the gym to compensate. He read Will Harvey’s How to Find and Fascinate a Mistress and Robert Green’s The Art of Seduction. He taught himself confidence – so easy! He subscribed to Doc Love’s The System. He tried to get as many women’s phone numbers as possible. He knew one-liners and bait and could read interest levels. He paid for casual sex and, very rarely, got a rebound girl drunk enough for a one-night stand. His body count stood at 58.

Josh liked to see himself as a sugar daddy and tried Latino and Korean students, who, he found, were smaller in body size than white Europeans. So this Mai Lin from China was tiny, but smoking-hot and ambitious and smart. Josh tried to make her pregnant, but she took the pill and was protected. He tried to lure her away from California and move in with him in Boston, but she said she needed to finish her degree at UCLA Berkeley first. All he could do was fly her into Boston twice a semester and have a raunchy time.

Mai Lin was spider-thin, flat-chested and had such a perfect face, but she could also be rude and ungrateful, he thought. When she didn’t reply to his messages, he felt she willfully ignored him.

Women could be so cruel. But soon, Mai Lin would turn old and expire like a “Christmas cake after Christmas.” Also, who likes an over-educated woman? Only benefactors such as CEO Josh here could keep interest levels high in a PhD-woman, so he measured.

After her graduation, Mai Lin returned to Shanghai instead, where she married her Chinese childhood sweetheart. Josh in Boston is 35 now, successful at his job, and always, always looking for a potential spouse. Josh still is going somewhere. He still has ‘lots of game’.


Dean was born in Oakland, California, in 1985, to a former branch manager of a Citibank and a Middle school teacher mother. They had a shotgun marriage when his mother was three months into her pregnancy with Dean, and it was plain obvious that she disrespected her man and felt repulsive. When his father eventually lost his job during the mortgage crisis in 2008, she divorced him. Neither his father nor his mother were particularly attractive, and Dean had a slightly asymmetric face and was short. He gave false height on his passports and school reports, and he wore shoe-lifts and elevator boots, but was never able to stand above 5.5 feet.

Every boy knows his attractiveness by just observing how his mother and female relatives are treating him. Sure, his mum had cared for him, but she was often rude or impatient, or told him off in front of other kids. Dean recalled his mom’s many faces of indifference, anger or even apathy.

Dean was not outright ugly – that he was not. From certain angles, he looked just like Tom Cruise. But really, he was just average looking. Just like 150 million other Americans or so. He needed heavy dental intervention to fix his teeth line – but who doesn’t. He had a poor frame. His parents had praised him for good grades or when he drew a picture of Captain Marvel or when he was nice to other kids. They also put him into brand clothes and taught him the importance of good character and personality and hard work. Nobody during his entire life ever called Dean handsome, tall or attractive.

He did not waste any time with dating or relationships. Not a single girl in school had ever smiled at him, tilted her body over or had her face lit up with glee. Flirtation was something he could only observe, never experience. He once dared to approach the better-looking Sally at Oakland County Fair and buy her a Raffle Winning Number, but that somehow offended the girl out of her mind and she called him a creep.

Dean passed through college almost unnoticed and got a teacher job and had plenty of hours for self-actualization – like plant ecology, learning Korean or getting a film studies degree online. He once questioned himself gay, but no. Not him. There was a particularly painful phase in his early 20s, when his body yearned for mating with a female so badly. But he soothed his primitive urges with HD-videos from Pornhub and Redtube, where he reacted to what must have been well over 5,000 girls of all colors and ages.

Dean really would have loved to go out with a real female, any female really, or taken whatever intimacy he could get, but he could not get a girlfriend. But who said a man must anyway? Dean was unattractive, he was not stupid! When he yanked his asymmetric smile, he looked borderline subhuman. When he tried to be confident, he looked pathetic. His mother always tried to save his feelings, and that for “every pot there was a lid” or that “when you least expect it, good things will happen to you” and whatnot.

“Especially now, with the dating apps,” she maxxed him, “you should really try it. There are now so many options and you can find nice women anywhere in the country.”

And Dean, well Dean, listened to all the advice she was giving him in silence, since he could tell with 100% certainty that she was being dishonest and that it was pretty much ‘game over’ for him at the beginning of this essay.

The author is a German writer and cultural critic.

“Dear random person, you have a great taste in literature.“ –Giovanni Poggo

[…] and – hopefully not many – more horrifying tales of madness and insanity to come.

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