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You’ve got to have a strong stomach to make it through this edition of BOTM. This segment will hit a lot of buttons, as well it should. In a Slate “Dear Prudence” mailbag, a woman writes for advice from Prudie (Emily Yoffe) on how to break the news of her cheating whoreishness to her kids and neighbors.
Q. Where Do I Tell My Son His Sister Came From?: A few years ago I cheated on my husband, got pregnant, and decided to keep the child. Because my husband and I had a 2-year-old son together we decided that we could keep our marriage together for his sake. The thing that really complicates things is that my husband, son, and I are white, while my lover was black, and so my daughter is mixed race. Naturally my son has begun questioning why his sister looks so different from the rest of us, and my mother-in-law took it upon herself to tell him she was adopted. I’m at a loss for what to do. For now my husband has told MIL that the topic is verboten, but we haven’t decided if we should correct her error. Until now I’ve been happy to just let people assume what they want about where my children’s origins are, but now that a story is getting around, I’m not sure what to say or how to handle it.
We’re a long ways from Normal Rockwell’s America.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the husband
surrendered to his wife’s crazy-eyed demands shrunk from risking the certainty of a divorce industrial complex ass-ramming politely discussed and agreed with his wife to keep the marriage going “for the sake of the children”.
Gotta love those children — the perfect leverage for whores and the state to use against wronged men.
Femcunt: “How can you POSSIBLY think of leaving your wife and hurting your children just because she had an unfortunate and fleeting five-year dalliance with an underprivileged but incredibly confident and masculine black man who also happens to be a doctor?”
Beta Herb: “But, I thought single moms are a light unto the world, and their children are successful in every way?”
Femcunt: “Oh, that’s rich. Using white male logic on me. Check your privilege, herbling!”
Beta Herb: “I’m so sorry. Please don’t yell at me. I’m a nice guy.”
Femcunt: “Nice guys are really jerks! You would know that if you weren’t such a jerk.”
Beta Herb: “Should I just off myself?”
Femcunt: “There’s an idea.”
Please, did you expect a feminist to comprehend dual mate strategy? Or to dabble in rationality?
Is this hubby a beta for staying with his wife when it’s so obvious to anyone with eyes that the mocha child in tow is living proof the whore wife cuckolded him in the arms of a five-point buck? Yes, he is. There’s simply no way a man can retain the heft of his balls — whatever he’s carrying — or any shred of honor, sticking by the side of an unfaithful wife who so ostentatiously gelded him, a mixed-race living reminder of his emasculation total yapping at his heels. There are just some indignities a man should not ever tolerate, especially when alternatives exist, such as beating a middle-of-the-night escape to another country to avoid punitive extractive alimony and child-support payments.
But the ideal course of action for the grievously insulted beta provider hubby presumes a somewhat sane world envelops him, and will consider his case fairly. Unfortunately, thanks to the relentless moronic march of feminists and equalist filth, and their lethal infection of the media/entertainment/academia/bureacracy complexes which constitute the juggernaut known as the Western Cathedral, we are far from living in a sane world. Instead of receiving recompense from his ex-wife for cuckolding him, and full custody of his one biological child, plus the sympathy and support of his community and the state, he would likely receive for his trouble of separating himself from the bitch who metaphorically shit in his face an extorted, back-breaking retirement plan paid in full to her, plus two days per month visitation rights. And prison rape for any failure to comply with his dispossession.
Given this morbid reality, how fitting is it for us to label such a man a hopeless beta? Isn’t he just as much a victim of his circumstance and the world which is cruelly indifferent to him as he is of his own weak character? I’m loathe to come down too hard on this guy, who probably decided it was better to minimize the fallout from a really shitty situation than to seek the justice that was rightfully his from the insult of his wife’s awesome betrayal.
However, in the final analysis, he earns his BOTM nomination. The reason why is found in the wife’s decision to keep the bastard. She would not have entertained keeping the mixed-race issue if she had a modicum of respect for her husband. Instead, it is likely he is a beta male in his heart whom she despised, and that made the decision easy for her. What use is appeasing a husband you hardly respect, let alone desire or admire? Why care for the soul-ripping consequences your detestable actions will have on a husband who no longer, if he ever did, inspires your adherence to a moral calculus via the encouragement of wonderful twat tingles? She wanted this kid born, wanted this gaudy tri-hued mockery of her marriage to shoot out of her festering womb, because it was the kid of another man. A better man.
The hubby chump doesn’t even have the luxury of hiding his shame behind ego sparing lies. A white kid could plausibly be passed off as his. But a pint-sized frappuccino is a glossy mag ad situating his disgrace front and center for the entertainment of the studio audience of his life.
And every day, every goddamned minute of every day, this pitiful lackey, chained by law and habit and feebleness to the golem of his wife’s black soul, will suffer his humiliation anew. There will be no escape from the breaking wheel that cracks the bones and tears the sinew of his self-worth. No refuge from the material proof of his wife’s love for another man. No competing nightmare visceral enough to block out the constantly birthing image of his wife’s cunt stretching and ululating for another man’s dick, and her womb happily germinating the prize of another man’s seed. A prize made all the more demeaning by the context of the times, where an abortion clinic to solve untidy problems like this one exist on every street corner, and condoms are handed out like candy. This woman made her choice WHEN SO MANY OTHER CHOICES WERE READILY AVAILABLE that would have partly bandaged the immortal wound she knifed into her husband’s pride.
His world is the world of slaves. A spiked heel kicking in his nuts, forever.
What can be salvaged from this woeful cataclysm? Oh yes, there is something.
A word about the children. Sometimes, the children must suffer to right a horrible wrong. To rectify an impossible evil. And the world must make it known who, in actuality, is the cause of their suffering. Every day, the children must know it was Mommy, not Daddy, who royally fucked their lives.
For shits and giggles, I’ll post Emily Yoffe’s reply:
A: Despite continuing weekly evidence to the contrary, I will continue to believe that the vast majority of men who think they are the biological fathers of their children really did provide the sperm. If you get impregnated by a lover of another race, what you say to your children about this is something that needed to be discussed openly with your husband, preferably before the baby was born. Making the utterly obvious verboten is not a good strategy for anyone. I think what you need for your immediate family is a dose of the truth. But, for your children, it needs to be age appropriate. Since your daughter was born a few years ago, your son is old enough to know the basics of reproduction. He needs to be told that his sister has the same mother, but a different biological father. However, what’s really important is that both he and his sister are being raised by the same daddy. You can tell him families are made all sorts of ways, and yours is just a little bit special. If your son—and eventually your daughter—want to know why this is the case, it’s fair to tell them that it’s a complicated story, and they will probably understand it more when they’re older. Say they can talk about this subject any time, but if they can wait, you and their dad can fill in more details as they grow up. For outsiders, you don’t need to explain anything. You can just say you are blessed with two beautiful children. And your husband needs to tell his mother to stop telling the kids something that’s simply wrong.
She evinces a glimmer of sympathy for the husband, but of course her advice, such as it is, amounts to the usual pro forma feminist crap: suck it up, herbische kopf, for the good of the children.
(The only person who comes out seeming halfway decent is the mother-in-law — the husband’s mother — who wants to protect her son from shame by passing off his daughter as an adoptee. Can you blame her for this honorable lie? She acted with good intentions, even if her solution is unworkable in the long run.)
My advice to him would be: get the hell out of Dodge. And don’t look back, and never let her get her paws on one red cent of your bounty or one precious second of your time. Find yourself a better woman in another country. My alternate advice, if American law weren’t so egregiously stacked against men’s interests, would be to march into court, DNA paternity test results in hand, and punish her with the same everlasting torment she has bestowed him. Grab custody of the one kid that is yours, and send the ex-wife and her love child packing for the icy wastelands, where aging single moms with complicated spawnage have about as much success in the dating market as obese, neckbearded furries. If she winds up killing herself, or her kid graduates to juvie as a glue sniffer, all the better.
Too much? No. Cuckoldry — knowing cuckoldry, at that — is the greatest betrayal. The most horrible metadeath. It is the gleeful sham of a scheming Satan. The cosmic shiv driven deep into the chewy center of the soul. The ur-lie. The King Of All Lies. The one lie to rule them all.
There is only one other lie that comes close to the terrible power of the cuckold’s deception, and that is the fraternal betrayal of a solider against his buddy in the trenches. But that awful betrayal, bad as it is, at least does not rub salt in the wound for eighteen excruciating years.