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A diligent reader emailed me a ‘Beta of the Month’ submission about a guy who fears he may have been cuckolded and who turns to a Washington Post advice columnist for support in his time of need. I read the article and decided that the real value to be gleaned was not in the unearthing of stupefying betatude (after all, at Chateau Heartiste where the better angels of humanity are handcuffed to bedposts and repeatedly gangbanged by their demonic cousins, mewling cuckolds are mere run of the mill betas), but in the reply to the beta chump by Carolyn Hax, a Washington Post Style columnist.

I reprint the column in full along with my remarks, so that you may glimpse the true face of woman.

Here is the original cry of anguish by the man who believes his child is not of his beta loin:

Hi, Carolyn:

I’m writing to you because I don’t know who else to ask. My wife and I have been happily married for six years. We have a beautiful daughter, age 2. For about the past six months I have suspected my daughter isn’t really “mine.” I have never suspected my wife of cheating on me, but for a number of reasons I cannot quiet my suspicions about the baby. I have not confronted my wife because I know that might devastate our marriage. But I have to know. What should I do?


If a man suspects his wife has cuckolded him, the odds of his child not being his rise to 30%. The general nonpaternity rate is around 4%. Low confidence “fathers” are right to be worried. Cuckoldry is serious business because it is the female form of rape.

So by the second sentence I know this guy is a Natural Born Beta. It’s always the guys getting most screwed by their wives who persist in believing they are “happily married” seconds before she’s caught with her boss’s dick in her mouth. Another telltale sign of the beta: If he cajoles tepid sex out of his wife once a month he thinks that is proof the marriage is full of love. If you want to know how well a marriage is doing, don’t look at the husband’s face for hints of marital bliss; look at the wife’s face.

Now we’ll examine the Style columnist’s family counseling advice. You may want to prepare a crucifix and garlic.

Give careful thought, please, to what you “have to” know.

This is going to be good. The first words out of her mouth are a slopbucket of shame aimed straight at… the man.

When just seeking the truth could change your life in dramatic and irreversible ways, it’s best to start not by actually doing something but by inviting each possible truth into your imagination as fact.

What the fuck does she mean here? This is postmodern therapeutic age gibberish squared. Nonsense on stilts. “Invite each possible truth into your imagination as fact”? Screw action, just imagine everything is true. Embrace the female way: Wallow in your psychodrama while getting nothing accomplished. It’s no wonder the newspaper empire is crumbling with the third rate hacks they have writing for them nowadays. I spewed more sensible shit after a 12 hour dorm room pot and Milwaukee’s Best bender.

That way, you can figure out the way you want your life to look before you start saying things you might regret.

Wait, did I miss something, or did Miss Hax Off Your Balls just guilt trip the guy who got cuckolded?

If your life were a physical structure, this would be the “blueprint before sledgehammer” approach.

Translation: If you just take a breather and don’t let your anger and pain get the best of you, you’ll find that life as a beta provider for an alpha’s kid isn’t so bad. Your wife will love you for your measured approach and self-sacrifice, and the most important thing is to keep your wife happy, right? Right? At the very least…

…do it for the children.

If your “number of reasons” points to infidelity, for example, then you need to imagine the worst, and assume your wife did cheat — Imaginary Scenario 1 — and then you need to decide whether you’d want to stay in the marriage or leave.

I’d think the decision would be self-evident, but hey, we’re talking about spineless betas and amoral women here, so everything is up for grabs. Bizzaro America!

If the answer is to stay (Scenario 1a), then you need to ask yourself, is that outcome better served by not digging into the past?

If the guy decides to stay and prove to the world what a pathetic sap he is, then I suppose he deserves the indignity of having his worthlessness as a man rubbed in his face every time his non-kid is in the same room with him. If he’s that low on the self-esteem pole then he might be able sack down and survive eighteen years without once mentioning his wife’s whoring and the kid who doesn’t look anything like him. I can imagine the thoughts going through his head, when years later our protagonist is coaching his daughter’s soccer team: “Wow, she’s so athletic and assertive. And so attractive, too. Maybe it’s for the best that my genes weren’t passed on. Life is beautiful!”

If the answer is to leave (1b), are you ready to challenge your paternity — or have it challenged by your at-that-point-estranged wife?

1b? Is this superfluous numbering system supposed to make her sound scientific? Maybe it’s just my male logic, but if the guy decides to leave the marriage on account of strong evidence — say, oh I dunno, a paternity test — that he is a cuckold, then it wouldn’t much matter if his cheating whore of a wife is estranged from him or challenges what he already challenged.

If, on the other hand, your suspicions are based solely on your child’s appearance, then you need to ask yourself if you’re being irrational; genes are a lot more complicated than the “She has a cleft chin and therefore can’t be mine” parlor games would suggest.

More shame. You starting to notice a pattern? This is what women do when they have nothing left to fall back on but hollow arguments. Fact: Babies look more like their fathers than their mothers. This is an evolutionary adaptation that ensures fathers will stick around to care for the infant. “Cleft chin” red herring notwithstanding, if the guy thinks his kid doesn’t look like him and therefore could be the cable guy’s kid, he’s got a 30% chance of being dreadfully right.

But let’s say instead you have an unshakeable gut instinct that this is someone else’s child. If you’re right, then the percentages would be obviously (and heavily) in favor of infidelity, which loops you back to Scenario 1.

Still, you can’t entirely rule out the rarer than rare, yet not unprecedented, hospital error — Scenario 2 –

She’s flailing.

so you also have to imagine your way through to the conclusion of a different worst-case altogether: If the baby turns out to be neither yours nor your wife’s biological child, would you still love this baby?

Alpha answer: No.
Beta answer: No, but I’ll say yes because it’s what’s expected of me.

Want to raise her?

Alpha answer: Hello, orphanage drop off box!
Beta answer: My wife said she’ll stop giving me biannual handjobs if I don’t say I’ll love the child as if it were my own.

Want to find your biological child and switch?

Style columnist Hax either has a weak grasp of human nature, or a weak grasp of rhetorical devices.

In other words, would it make a difference if this were error vs. deception?

No. If it was a hospital error, then the wife should be equally pleased as her husband to know the truth. Their marriage would remain strong, or at least viable, as they made arrangements with the hospital to find their true baby and swap kids with the other victimized family who mistakenly got their kid.

If it was deception, then their marriage (hopefully, but you can never know for sure with these congenital betas) will dissolve, but the cuckold will have spared himself the humility and genetic metadeath of providing for another man’s legacy with his sweat and tears while his own sad seed withers to dust.

If you decide you’d want this child no matter what, then the question becomes, again, why you’d want to risk everything to scratch even a torturous itch.

Is the idea of robbing a man of eighteen years of his life and a chance to bear and love his own children meaningless to this Style columnist? Here’s an analogy, Miss Hax, you could try wrapping your twisted cancerous soul around: A man getting cuckolded is the moral equivalent of a woman getting secretly implanted with another woman’s fertilized egg, giving birth to it, and raising it for eighteen years.

Is any of this getting through to you? Bitch?

And finally: What if you started digging, wrecked your marriage and learned your daughter is “yours”?

Q-tip swab of the kid’s cheek while the wife is away takes two seconds. He can have the sample tested with no one the wiser. If the kid is his, hey, he can sleep easy at night and feel good about helping his kid with her homework. The proof of his paternity might even motivate him to go down on his wife. If the kid isn’t his, the marriage was wrecked long before he “started digging”.

I urge you to imagine your way down every painful avenue here, best cases as well as worst.

Translation: I urge you to find it in your heart to put aside your doubts for the good of your wife and bastard child.

Then, once you’ve figured out what you can live with emotionally, please, if you’re considering any action at all, have a lawyer vet it legally.

Vet? Vetting is beta. Get the paternity test done before consulting any lawyers, and when you do get a lawyer with test results in hand, make sure your wife doesn’t find out about any of it until you slap her with the divorce papers. You don’t do battle with a whore by playing nice.

Only then can you be confident whether truth-seeking serves your interests — and your family’s — or smashes them to bits.

Shame! It’s what’s for dinner! Gotta love her admonishing a cuckold — the victim, remember? — that he needs to serve his family’s interest along with his own. I guarantee every woman reading this Post article nodded their heads in agreement with the author, and probably quite a few limpwristed faggy SWPL betaboys agreed, too. A better illustration of the second class status of beta males in society — as foretold by our evolutionary heritage — would be hard to find. Women are simply assumed to be moral paragons and Vestal Virgins, and betas are… there to be ransacked.

Give, betas, give till it hurts. And when the hurt begins, don’t bitch and moan about your endless torment. Just keep giving. While you’re paying the last ounce of tribute in self-respect, here’s some porn to keep your senses dulled.


Whenever I read articles by women attempting to grapple with the evil of cuckoldry, the impression I am always left with is one of fear. I can smell the fear in their words. It emanates from every ill-conceived shaming maneuver and transparent rationalization. The emptiness of their amoral excuse-mongering is beyond lame.

“If you confront your wife over her cheating your family will shatter.”

If she cheated the family is already shattered.

“You have to suck it up for the good of the child.”

She should have thought of the child’s welfare before spreading wide for the alpha interloper to blast in her pussy.

“What good will come of the truth?”

Good has got nothing to do with it. But justice and dignity do. Not to mention the Darwinian prime directive.

Finally, my favorite of all the cuckoldry excuser tactics:

“Be the GOOD MAN and take one for the team. After all… *wink wink*… it’s not like you’re gonna find another woman.”

To which a man should answer in the only way acceptable: FUUUUUUUCK YOU.

The fear coming from women when the spotlight is on efforts by men to expose cuckoldry is perfectly understandable. Humans fear most the loss of mating power, and the prerogative of women to get impregnated on the sly with an alpha while foisting the bill on a beta is a hardwired preference millions of years old. Any threat to the established order, especially an existential threat as game-changing as DNA paternity testing, will send women into involuntary apoplexies of hair-raising moral myopia. The beastly decrepitude of their animal souls will lay bare for all to see.

Hallmark doesn’t make cards for moments like these.

The first Sexual Apocalypse was heralded by the death song of the following Four Sirens: the Pill, No-Fault Divorce, Economic Gender Egalitarianism, and Misandrist Laws. But a new era is upon us. As I see it, the future of humanity will radically change once again with the coming of the Three Horsemen of the Second Sexual Apocalypse:

Widespread, accurate and accessible paternity testing.
The male Pill.
Realistic sexbots.

Paternity testing alone is enough to alter women’s sexual behavior in a big way. Mandatory paternity testing is already on the docket in some legislatures. There have been hopeful signs of justice being served. It’s not enough to say “Well, only 3-4% of women cuckold their husbands. So really, not much will change.” The impact isn’t in the marginal loss of cuckoldry as a mating strategy, but in the *perception* of loss by *all* women. Even the most faithful, loving wife has the corrupt core of a cheating whore buried deep in her hindbrain. Blasting rays of sunlight on her gnarled, caged id won’t be met with good cheer. I predict very few fertile-age women will be emotionally invested in men’s paternity rights, and in fact most of them will advocate against it. Pussywhipped beta males and opportunistic alpha males sufficiently sequestered from the negative consequences of their decisions will likely defend the women in hopes of short term gain in payment of sexual favors. If you think alpha males of middling resources would vigorously support mandatory paternity testing, remind yourself who benefits the most from cuckoldry.

Here is Miss Hax’s contact info:

Write to Tell Me About It, Style, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071, or [email protected].

It would be fun if my readers sent her a link to my post under the ruse of fan mail. The goal isn’t to change her mind — no, that will never happen — the goal is to drive a chainsaw through her soul. To make her hurt. To sear her ego with the harsh, ugly truth. Sadism is an exquisite pleasure for those practitioners trained in the art of administering it.


A final note: I will play therapist for a moment and give proper counseling to Mr. “Suspicious”:

Q-tip. Swab. Paternity testing clinic. The rest is commentary.

And because I am a gracious and good man of charitable inclination, I also give my tender and supportive counseling to Miss Hax:

“Please, Miss Hax, take a seat on the couch over there. Yes, that’s good. Ok… now… tell me only the bad things that come to mind when you hear the word

C  U  N  T.”


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