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
But that is neither Chronic Haze nor Rival’s Graves.
Let me tell you a little story:
A few years ago, I knew a cat that was voted Orange County’s Top Bachelor by the major weesh Orange Curtain publication. Cover shot, full color spread, article, you know, the works.
And truth be told, the guy had some Game. Smooth cat, strong swoop resume (albeit local), flipped bricks on the low, successful legitimate brick and mortar biz, fly crib in Newps, fat pocket etc.
But that is really the whole thing; just because someone has Game doesn’t mean they can go up against your humble author. I have made a career out of treating even legit “players” like Manny Pacquiao treated Ricky “The Hitman” Hatton.
Anyways, unfortunately for Orange County’s Top Bachelor, I didn’t really like him.
One night I saw his main girl (fly, rich, smart, parents with cribs on Spyglass and Lido Isle etc) at a bar in CDM.
Had a full relationship with the girl; first kiss, first swoop, argument, got back together, and break up, all taking place in under 6 hours.
G Manifesto Tip: Always collapse time frames.
The papers the next day read: Michael Porfirio Mason KO over Orange County’s Top Bachelor.
Once Orange County’s Top Bachelor found out I swooped his girl and twisted his wig, he tried talking trash about me. I approached him like a an old-school Gentleman. He backed down.
Now, I come from the streets, the underworld and the boxing world. So my question is this:
If I defeat Orange County’s Top Bachelor, doesn’t that make me Orange County’s Top Bachelor?
Shouldn’t that crappy publication come calling to me and throw me on the cover? (I would respectfully decline, of course.)
Either way, I have one more question for “players” that go against me:
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
So you swoop a fly Las Vegas girl out of the Gentleman’s Club du jour or the most en vogue “Ultra Lounge”* back to your $1000 per night**, Down Economy priced, Salon Suite (1,890 square feet of decadence) at Wynn Las Vegas.
From my extensive, un-official case study, you will get one of two responses:
1. She will gasp in amazement from the splendor of the room and stunning views of the Las Vegas Strip. Her eyes will then stare back at you and her you will notice her heart skip a beat. And she will start to fall and euphoria takes over.
2. You will get a “business as usual” look that says, “I have been in a room like this a million times before”. She might even walk directly to the half-champagne bottle in the mini-bar and not even bother with the view of the Strip. Most likely, she will just casually toss her Judith Leiber Emerald-Cut Full Bead Minaudier on the multi-sectional sofa. There will be no delirium.
Response number one equals: a potentially “decent” girl, new to town, most likely younger.
Response number two equals: a potential “pro”, been in town too long, most likely older.
There is no surer way to tell what your girl is all about than The Las Vegas Litmus Test.
Post swoop, number two might also tell you a story about “how she is behind on rent”. Go Pure Game because you aren’t the one.
Either way, commence to swoop with either type of girl.
* I don’t know why these weesh nightlife directors in Las Vegas insist on coming up with names for things like “Ultra Lounges”. Relax, it is just a lounge.
** This is what the room will most likely cost you. I get upgraded pro-bono.
Other side note:
I haven’t completed my un-official case study on Encore Las Vegas. Not enough data yet. I will post when I have conclusive results.
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
The O’Jays perform “For The Love of Money” on Soul Train
I’m lushin Russian women, via satellite I’m watchin
I dare a n-gga say he want to battle me, I’ll crush ya
Even blind girls rush next to Hammera and scream out
“Oh my gosh, get the camera
~ Slick Rick (w/Rae), Frozen
These Russian Models (FTV, FYI) are mad, mad fly and I’ve been running into them (so to speak) more and more on the international scene. The distinguishing feature about Russian women is they are women in every inch. They dress for men, they expect gentlemen to be gentlemen, and they don’t take any bullshit. Unlike other haute couture model types, these enigmatic girls have a unique modus operadi that I dig. Or maybe it’s the sinister accent. Maybe it’s the ice cold attitude.
So cold I need theraflu,
I’m so high I need parachutes,
I’m error proof, I’m never spooked,
and my suit, heaven blue.
Let me share with you some personal maxims I live by when swooping these krutay dorogaya’s… check the technique so you can come correct:
• You have to have G appeal. Scratch that, you have to be G… 24/7
• Always be a polite and well-mannered G. Real Russian women dislike men being rude and ill-bred.
• You are intimidated by nothing. Fearless. (Russian woman do not tolerate weesh suckas.)
• Thick bankrolls & pockets stuffed like Thanksgiving; ability to flash cash like Coltrane brass, but not sweatin’ it like trendsetting it. (side note: don’t count $$ in front of them — cream on the inside, clean on the outside.)
• Grits. Keep it pugilistic (or ballistic, in the case of my .38 snubby), ie. Must be able to kick-ass in a fight, because with girls this fly it’s gonna go down (frequently) with douchebags attempting to cramp your style.
• You have to be able to drink like a man, as in, you have to be able drink more vodka than a Russian Grizzly bear (and still be able to handle yourself). Zapoi.
• Russians, much like the French, have an admiration for outlaws, mafioso types and G’s.
• Your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness.
• Stay unpredictable (but thinking of a Master Plan, like Chilly Tee said, gotta keep ahead, gotta keep my head).
• Don’t supplicate (I’m not even sure that word exists in Russian vocabulary).
• Aggressive, yet mellow and cool.
They look at me as that cat that know how to box, know about glocks, know about runnin’ from cops and switchin’ up spots.
Get out my shit, Please let me be, I don’t see why — you KGB
Why you gotta be all up on me like that, Trying to get over
like a fat rat, but I understand — I’m a woman in the land of hip-hop
And the shit don’t stop, it goes on, on, on, on
You see the shit don’t stop till the break of dawn
And now who makes it liver than a hip-hop, scuba diver, chillin with
a pina colada, kidada hooked me up with Tommy now I gotta
lot of gear from everywhere that I’d like to share (yeah right!)
[MC Lyte]
A few years ago, I would sit back in my Base of Operations, kick up my Gucci loafers, spark up a Macaudo with my Dunhill lighter and stare at a big world map in my office.
Younger Prototype G’s, that I sometimes bankroll, would often stop by and ask me what all the different “pins” in each city were for. Most of the time, they would guess that the pins signified where I moved weight or places that I have heisted.
They were wrong. I used the pins to mark how many fly girls I had on my team in each city. (And by “fly girls” I mean, top tier Nightlife Princesses, Sophistos, Super Rich girls, Model girls. Essentially girls that even most high ranking players would settle down with. Furthermore, all of these girls I got on with really well).
That map was glorious in those days. I had like 10 pins in LA, 7 pins in NYC, 4 pins in New Orleans, 2 pins in DC, 3 pins in Chicago, 6 pins in San Diego, 5 pins in SF, 8 pins in Miami Beach, and 12 pins in Las Vegas. Top shelf all the way. And that’s just the mainland.
A funny confluence of events happened this year though. For some strange reason, that I still need to analyze, I stopped making connections with top flight girls. Sure I have still swooped plenty of fly girls, just not girls worthy of putting on my team (mostly, for personality reasons). Basically, I committed a cardinal sin; I stopped refilling my pipe.
On top of that, about twenty of these girls got married with some beta or closed up shop with some weesh guy. (I blame The Down Economy). In addition, I lost contact with many of these girls through many of my cell phone number changes. (I don’t use Facebook to keep in touch with girls, I am too old-school.)
Interestingly enough, as the worst decade ever comes to a close, I have a very slim team.
Time to rebuild.
Either way, the lesson to learn is: Always Drink Fresh Blood
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
