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The four fine gentlemen in this photo are North Carolina State University undergrads who have invented a prototype nail polish that, when dipped in a drink, will change color if it detects the presence of “date rape” drugs.
“Date rape”, of course, is a feminist bogeyman that has no basis in reality. Actual rape is currently riding a 40-year decline. “””Date rape””” is more precisely described as regret rape — the female emotional desire to retroactively reclassify a consensual one night stand with a cool alpha jerk (or a one month stand with a boring beta male) as rape. The female hysteria over it shows no signs of letting up, and hints at a culture of hookups and male escape from the marriage market that is beginning to eat away at women’s sanity.
If anything is close to the truth, it’s the idea that there’s a rape fantasy culture gripping the overheated psyches of American women.
Naturally, given these inarguable realities debunking the myth of a rape culture, in ride the four white knights above on their Prius steeds to save women from stealth armies of caucasian frat bros slipping mickies in their appletinis.
But poz never did give nothing to the manboob
that he didn’t, didn’t already have
and facts never swayed the reason of the white knight
Or the blue balls of Sir Beta Male
The really interesting story, though, is the photo itself. Can you spot the beta male of the bunch?
Trick question. All four qualify.
Whether intentional or subconscious, these four M’lady’s have outed themselves as self-abnegating beta males. That standing posture — with hands clasped in front of their crotches — is the international symbol of beta maleness. It bespeaks a deep shame of their vestigial masculinity. They cover their junk and hide it from the world, in case some ugly State U cunt is triggered by a micro microaggression. Shocked by the impudence of their twitching members, they beat them down and shroud them in hand-woven burqas. Perhaps one or two of these anti-men walk with their butts out a little so any hint of groinal protuberance is pruned, like an unwelcome sapling that has dared to reach for sunlight over an expanse of lawn sod with feminist armpit hair.
It’s a self-emasculating inversion of the alpha male directive to command space as if at the behest of one’s conquering penis king. A repudiation of the sexy and masculine posture wherein one stands with arms and hands at one’s side, vital life-giving fulcrum bawdily pushed forward in supreme dominion, tempting coy minxes with illicit pleasures.
The shame exhibited is so blatant, one wonders if this is a new kind of beta male game — Prostration Game — where the goal is complete submission to the feminist imperative in hopes of eliciting a contemptuous pity fuck. If so, this is a game with a very short shelf life, as even avowed feminists cannot help but be repulsed by sniveling supplicants.
The masculinization of Western women and the de-masculinization of Western men is both initially the impetus, and eventually the destruction, of proud and prosperous white European civilizations. Guess which arc of the cycle America lumply squats on now.