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The nominees for the February Beta of the Month in the 2009 Beta of the Year contest are in. Keep your submissions rolling in, folks.
February 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by commenter 11minutes. A regular Joe gets cheated on, but what vaults this guy into the rarified stratosphere of Beta of the Month is what he did once the truth came out.
I don’t remember the exact day Colin (not his real name) became part of my life. A fleetingly glimpsed neighbour I’d sometimes nod to, I knew he was a long-distance truck driver and I think he knew who I was. When our paths crossed, he would seldom meet my gaze. I don’t even remember when I first heard his name. A familiar voice uttered it, though: my wife’s. It wasn’t by way of an introduction, although years later I did wonder how that might have gone. “Honey, you’ve seen that handsome man with the blond hair, broad shoulders and light tan who lives at number 18? His name’s Colin.” But no. Rather more mundanely, she referred to him matter-of-factly in conversation. “Colin took the remains of that old fence to the dump for me today, honey.” Or, “Oh, by the way, Colin mended the lawn mower. Then he mowed the lawn.”
As I’ve said before, women are inherently amoral. They are de facto nihilists. They are sociopaths of convenience. So when a wife is cheating on you, don’t expect her to tip her hand so flagrantly. A cheating whore is perfectly capable and willing of fooling even the most advanced male brain lie detector system. That very guy she’s boffing under your nose is the guy who “by the way, mended the lawn mower”.
Ice in the veins. That’s what happens to a woman’s blood when she falls out of love. You have been warned.
Instead, I started to read. The entries stretched back months, detailing their covert liaisons – romantic, practical, but mostly sexual. The descriptions ranged from the relatively tame (“Kissed and cuddled today, it was lovely”) to the kind of things you get in the racier passages of a Mills & Boon novel – nothing too graphic, but surprisingly comprehensive.
Women are amazingly detail-oriented when recounting sexual exploits. Almost clinical. See: Dirty little psychoslut who writes about her anal fissures in lovingly clinical prose. Men are the idealistic romantics. Women are the idealized romantics.
My jaw ached with panic and I felt the sudden flush of adrenaline.
You’d almost think he’d want to kill someone, or at least dump the bitch. But no, if he did that he wouldn’t be a BOTM nominee.
Of course, I confronted her. I wanted to yell at her, but my initial anger was quickly anaesthetised by shock. I felt numb, confused. With tears in her eyes, she said she hadn’t been happy for years and that Colin provided an escape. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say. It was four or five hours before we could sit down and talk.
“Sit down and talk”. This is what hopelessly needy betas always revert to when confronted with the dissolution of their relationships. They think the act of flapping their gums in endless loops of cloyingly empathetic therapy-speak will magically change a whore’s heart. Newsflash: It won’t and it never will as long as you remain the bitchboy beta you are. Your wife has just allowed another man’s giant throbbing cock to penetrate her labia and shoot his hot sticky load deep inside her womb while she screamed in pleasure and you want to SIT DOWN AND TALK?! You mewling pathetic street cur. You cowardly pissant nancyboy. You detachable penis.
Here is what he should have done:
- Calmly held the diary up to his wife’s face and then placed it on the dresser in silence.
- Threw her shit out the window.
- Slapped her hard across the face. (3b. Fucked her till she bleeds.)
- Kicked her out and excised the cancer from his life.
Number 3 alone gives the guy a better shot at hot sex than sitting down to talk. Put all four steps together and the whore will find herself completely re-enamored with him.
We discussed the usual options, including divorce, but decided to stay together for the sake of the children, make a fresh start.
For the sake of the children, you should humiliate your cockgobbling wife in front of them. I can’t think of a more valuable lesson to impart. If the divorce laws were fair, and this guy was the type who didn’t mind snuffing out his social life by raising kids, he would be able to take the kids away from the whore and leave her sobbing in a crumpled heap on the floor of her grimy studio apartment she rents with the money she makes at her new job waiting tables.
Next day, she told Colin it was over.
Ha! Chump. It may be over with Colin, but it isn’t over. You’d best put a tracking device on her.
This is where the story takes a turn from typical beta lament to event horizon beta black hole.
We didn’t see him for a couple of weeks after that – he’d been driving his lorry on the continent. But Colin never did return. The news that he had gone missing on a ship, presumed lost overboard, was broken to us by his next-door neighbour. My wife’s first reaction was stunned disbelief, as was mine. Then she turned away and covered her mouth, trying to stifle any sobs. Thoughts and emotions more tangled than ever, I tried to comfort her.
Amazing. So the interloper who banged his wife dies at sea, and instead of jumping up and down with joy and laughing in his wife’s face, our intrepid beta heroine reaches out to comfort her in her time of sorrow. The jilted husband just received a taste of delicious karmic justice that most won’t ever have the joy to experience, and he ruins the moment by going beta. Schmuck!
I feel a song coming on…
You got a whore wife and you want her back
But you ain’t got the stuff
She keeps cheatin’ on you night and day
Enough to shrink your nuts
Pick up some game, leave her in shame
It’s time you made a stand
For a fee, I’m happy to be
Your new wingman
Beta deeds, done dirt cheap
Beat deeds, done dirt cheap
Beta deeds, done dirt cheap
Forgive and forget
Done dirt cheap
Gifts and baubles
Shoulder to cry on!
Done dirt cheap.
And now, the coup de beta:
Colin’s death was confirmed by the positive identification of a body washed up on the beach. Some weeks later, my wife asked if we could drive to the crematorium so she could lay some flowers and say her final farewells. It felt strange but, in the hope of her finding some kind of closure, I told myself it was the right thing to do.
Yes, this almighty beta drove his wife to her lover’s grave so she could lay flowers and “find closure”. Sweet merciless Satan, why do you bless me so with these tales of ho? If I can single-handedly alter the destructive course upon which Western civilization currently finds itself careening, it will be on the backs of losers like this. Thank you for your vomitous examples, betas, one and all.
If it was me, I would have driven the whore to the crematorium and then, right at the moment her eyes welled up with tears and she laid the flowers, I’d have whipped out my dick and pissed on his epitaph.
Speaking of epitaphs, what better epitaph to lay at the gravestone of the West than “finding closure”? Have more spineless, craven beta words ever been written?
Here lies America. She found closure.
I read stories like this one and I want the whole fucking edifice to burn to the ground. At this late stage in the game, there is no other way to clean out the liars, SWPL losers, SPLC traitors, tankgrrl nerds, betas, fuglies, dregs, deluded fantasists, bores, mediocrities, backstabbers, weasels, sycophants, sophists, degenerates, dullards, eunuchs, trolls, wishful thinkers, excuse mongers, whackjobs, equalist tards, dumbfucks, obsequious curs, attention whores, suckups, PC toadies, fembots, lapdogs, shitlickers, pity whores, phonyfucks, hypocrites, parasites, stool pigeons, sanctimonious multicultists, diversity sluts, and weak-willed assmunching ankle grabbing bitchboy pukes.
Bring the all-consuming flames.
So where does our betaboy’s story end?
Slowly we tried to put it behind us and his name was never mentioned again. A few years later we had another child and our marriage entered a new, happier phase. I vowed to be a more attentive husband and adjust my work-life balance. But I couldn’t forget the affair, especially how close it had happened to home.
I should have trusted my instinct: 12 years later, my wife ran off with my best friend.
And that kid went Haa Haaaw!
February 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by commenter twiceaday. It’s the emotionally charged story of a man’s Herculean efforts to save his marriage to his loving, supportive wife. A woman of good character, I might add. He writes to an advice column called “Annie’s Mailbox”:
Dear Annie: I love my wife of 30 years, but I’ve had it. For 10 years, I had a great job in which I was well respected and well paid. Under pressure at home to bring in more money, I took a promising position at a startup company. Six months later, I was sacked. Since then, I’ve had to jump on any opportunity that came my way. I’ve had seven jobs in nine years and things have been financially tough. I have made some job mistakes, but still, we’re almost back to where we were nine years ago.
However, whenever any difficulty occurs, my wife rubs it in my face. I try to be a devoted husband. I am the prime breadwinner and still do more than half the cooking, cleaning and chores. Until recently, I was active in church and local community organizations. We have three wonderful children who have excelled academically.
So far, so beta. Man loses job, wife routinely questions his manhood, man attempts reconciliation by shouldering more domestic chores. Nothing to see here, move along.
I rarely buy anything for myself, yet if I spend any money at all, I get a screaming apoplectic display from my wife. She is taking back my birthday gifts because “we need the money.” Meanwhile, we seem to have the funds for her to travel (without me) and refresh her wardrobe each season.
Um, yeah. Let me see if I have this straight. Screaming, bitchy harpy won’t let husband buy consumer goods for himself *with his own fucking money*, he acquiesces to her demands, and she uses his money to…
travel around the world ALONE sucking and fucking god knows how much exotic swarthy cock and reward herself with new clothes every three months.
Does it get any beta than this? Why yes, yes it does.
Many of these arguments occur when my wife has been drinking. She sometimes hits me and says things that aren’t easily forgotten. We don’t have much of a romantic life, either. It’s difficult to be a good lover after being scolded.
David Alexander laughs at you.
By the way, this is a good illustration of why hitting a man won’t have the same effect as hitting a woman for turning on the ol’ heart light. Hit a woman, she drenches her panties. Hit a man, he gets no nookie and his testicles ascend.
I don’t believe in divorce, but if I had any way to leave the marriage and make sure she’s financially fixed, I would. I suspect I am clinically depressed and fear I might lose control one of these days. What do I do?
- Your beliefs suck. Change them.
- She’s fucking a guy named Eduardo. Count on it.
- Eduardo is using your hard-earned money to buy your wife lingerie. For him to jizz on.
- Forget about making sure she’s “financially fixed”. Once you’ve started visualizing Eduardo’s cock pumping your wife’s squeezebox in and out and in and out, you should have no qualms making sure she’s “financially fucked”.
- You’re depressed because you’re a loser. Stop being a loser.
- You’ve already lost control. Face it.
- Pick up any rudimentary material on game, learn it, go out of the house, pick up a chick, birng her home, and fuck her senseless in your marital bed.
- Leave your whore harpy wife AND DON”T EVER LOOK BACK.
For a good laugh, here is the advice the man-hating bitch at “Annie’s Mailbox” gave him:
Dear No Name: You are trapped with an abusive wife and recognize how close you are to reacting violently. Talk to a lawyer about a legal separation, which will enable you to provide financially for your wife while living apart.
See that rhetorical sleight of hand? Classic 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th wave feminist misdirection. He’s got a bitch for a wife but everyone should be worried that he will react violently. Remember this ironclad first order rule of feminism:
Always blame the man. No matter what has happened or has yet to happen.
And WTF is with her advice to him to find a legal separation arrangement that will ensure he can continue providing financially for the shrike? She should be telling him to stop coddling the bitch and dump her for a better woman. Asking too much, I know.
Then get some counseling, with or without her, and contact Al-Anon (al-anon.alateen.org) at 1-888-4-AL-ANON (1-888-425-2666).
I’ve got your counseling right here, cunt.
The voting begins: