COTW winner Days of Broken Arrows unloads a gauzebomb of nostalgia porn on the CH collective, reminding us that virgins (of hooch and heart) vanish as quickly as they appear.
In case there are younger guys reading, I want to (re)tell the story about what got me to think about this subject (I’ve written this before elsewhere). One of the sad aspects of growing old is that when you look back at your life, people and things that once seemed trivial become more important than you realized in retrospect.
The first time I ever set foot on college campus, at Freshman Orientation, I met a sweet, very inexperienced girl from a small town. Within hours we were “together.” That night at the sleepover in the dorms we kissed — which I practically had to teach her to do.
But she was “cute” and not sexy or beautiful. She also looked about 12 years old and had no sense of style. All of this and her “small town-ness” put me off. I wanted the hot chick(s).
Which I did get. When I returned home after orientation I started dating a high school hottie I’d been after for a while. I also blew off Orientation Girl without a second thought and without any apparent guilt (until now, ironically enough).
I had a lot of fun in college and dated the aforementioned high school girl as we went through college. But she left for California after graduation. After that I was thrown into the early ’20s dating market. And by then you start to get jaded and meet people who are even more jaded: The women with multiple abortions, countless partners, strange diseases and habits, etc.
Decades later, I was able to track Freshman Orientation Girl down on Facebook. She got married and stayed married (to someone who is a lot like me, funny enough). She looked too young back in college, which was bad. Now that quality is good.
My advice to any young guy reading this is that you probably already know the woman who would make a great wife, but you’re passing her up to ride the male version of the carousel. Unless women like these become young widows, you won’t have the chance to meet them again because they get pulled off the market and stay off the market. Forever.
The fact that age of first marriage and total marriage rate have been rising and falling respectively for at least the last twenty years, it’s less likely now than it used to be that the inexperienced ground floors girls leave the market early and stay off for the duration (unto death). What’s happening now is the innocent and pure of heart girls are being left high and dry by men OR are seduced by the urban slutstyle and get caught in a hamster wheel of endless dating, breaking up, and blossoming bitterness. So you as a man are less likely to later “miss out” on those special ho-flakes if you don’t nab them before college….however, you will miss out on monopolizing their pure-of-pussy hearts.
That’s not a trivial consideration. All it takes is two partners (read: cocks) for a woman’s risk of divorcing you to skyrocket.
DoBA’s wistful jaunt through his lass-shaped past reminds me of something else; a sort of quasi-ephebophilia (love for younger women in the (legal) 18-22 age range) is the natural sexual state for men past high school. That girlish-looking 18-year-old girl may be insufficiently womanly for horndog 22 year old men, but when those men hit their late 20s-early 40s stride, those neotenous women they once spurned now look like prized poon compared to the cows surrounding them. Neoteny ages well on women. It’s related to the concept of residual reproductive value: older men who are ready to build a family empire have a natural instinct to lock down very young (or young-looking) women because those women will age better and provide many more enjoyable years of bedroom intimacy. Female youthfulness is THE leading indicator of maximum remaining fertility.
From Girl Next Door to Sassy Slut, knowing what kind of girl you’re dealing with is the first step to tailoring your Game for a proper fit. Hawk explains what to say to a girl in your room late at night, who has demurred (a bit late in the hour) that she has a boyfriend,
Know your audience.
If she’s willing to be in your rooms alone despite the boyfriend she’s already decided that you might be worthy of her…seriously if her instinct was put into words out loud it would sound like that.
Verbal witty responses work differently depending on the girl.
“No you don’t ” is teasing the kid sister response. Funny, but not mean. Best used on the girl next door type.
“Really? Don’t see him here though.” More edgy, best used on the proto-THOT.
“Does the chastity belt chafe much?” A-hole response to the entitled HB7 plus.
“Not anymore you don’t” with a caress to her face, laser eye, is for the girl you’re interested in keeping around.
Your goal is to make her want to please you by forgetting about the boyfriend. Betas acknowledge the girl’s charms prior to her acting to please, alphas do so afterwards.
Hawk’s advice is similar to the Chateau’s recommendations on the use and suitability of Asshole Game. Age and innocence affect how well, or badly, a woman will respond to jerkboy charm. With some chicks, you gotta finesse it. With others, you gotta swing a whetting warhammer into her pussy.
Younger women are riper targets for asshole allure. Older women who have lost some of the sheen on their SMVeen will feel alienated and even rejected by a man giving them too much outcome independent jerkitude.
Age isn’t the only determinant of female receptiveness to male assholery. As Hawk wrote, sluttier, sassier girls will need more evidence of a man’s guttural disregard for her. She has seen things you betas wouldn’t believe…attack chads grinding on her posterior…she watched cum beads glitter in the dark near her cockhouser gate…all those cummings will be lost in time…like aborted fetuses in pain.
But the girl next door — a rare creature, worth yeoman seduction effort to despoil — might recoil at being assumed a sassy lass. Your assholery may make you seem unattainable to her, and cause her despair when she believes you are only toying with her. She likes a self-assured man but she hasn’t the constitution nor the sexual experience to handle your jerktruth. Proceed gracefully, accepting that her soft innerspace is sensitive to impudent cock shocks.
Where a girl resides on the Thot Spectrum — a Thotarchy if you will — that runs on the left from the preserved innocence of the nicest of virgin Amish coquettes, all the way to the right where you’ll find the bluest of blue-haired, bull ring-pierced aggrosluts, will give a hint to her need for a mental dicking. It stands to reason you as a man of taste of wealth must attune your assholery to the receptiveness of the woman in your hosshairs. This isn’t a green light to go Retard Beta and turn yourself into an asexual piece of furniture. It’s just a warning that your alpha attitude can and should be communicated in a fashion to suit the listening habits of your target audience.
There have been plenty of cad anthems in the rock and country music pantheons celebrating raw masculine privilege, but the song “I’m a Wanderer”, sung by Guinea-American Dion and released in 1961, is in my factual opinion the greatest alpha male anthem in American history.
Read the lyrics (along with my editorial commentary) and you’ll agree with my judgment of this song’s ZFG ALPHA GLORIFICATION:
Oh, well, I’m the type of guy who will never settle down Where pretty girls are, well, you know that I’m around I kiss ’em and I love ’em ’cause to me they’re all the same I hug ’em and I squeeze ’em they don’t even know my name
Man of Mystery Game plus an attitude of Outcome Independence, aka Zero Fucks Given. The Wanderer knows that the pussy pedestal is a penis prison, and he should fight the urge to idealize women and to succumb to oneitis by treating women as if they were interchangeable.
They call me a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer I roam around, around, around, around
Chicks love a hard-to-get man.
Oh, well, there’s Flo on my left and there’s Mary on my right And Janie is the girl, well, that I’ll be with tonight And when she asks me, which one I love the best? I tear open my shirt and I show “Rosie” on my chest
‘Cause I’m a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer I roam around, around, around, around
What’s the opposite of a beta male puppy dog begging for validation? An alpha male lion roaming the veldt for prey!
Oh, well, I roam from town to town I go through life without a care And I’m as happy as a clown I with my two fists of iron and I’m going nowhere
I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town And when I find myself fallin’ for some girl Yeah, I hop right into that car of mine, I drive around the world
Love is The Wanderer’s Achilles’ heel. But instead of allowing himself to swoon straight into tingle-killing domestication, he makes distaff hearts flutter wildly by refusing the nuptial leash.
Yeah I’m a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer I roam around, around, around, around
Oh yeah, I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town And when I find myself a-fallin’ for some girl I hop right into that car of mine and drive around the world
Yeah, ’cause I’m a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer I roam around, around, around, around, around, around
‘Cause I’m a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer I roam around, around, around
‘Cause I’m a wanderer Yeah, a wanderer
I doubt a song with this unapologetically caddish message could be released today. Not so much because the arts and entertainment complex is suffused with bitterbitches and gays, but because there aren’t any men left with the requisite high T and heavy balls who’d want to proudly celebrate the male romantic prerogative. We’re in a male feminist world now, and our women are the worse for it.
The theme of this song and its time — 1961 America, right in the heart of the Great Compression when relations between the sexes were at its precious polarity zenith and wage-earning men could still acquire a reasonably pretty and slender wife (and nonWhite Diversity™ had not yet gutted the soul of the nation) — is puzzling when examined in its cultural context. Was it a rebellious sneer against the implicit monogamous restrictions placed on men, or was it a reflection of a sexual market that was perhaps wilder than we assume, or (my personal theory) reflective of the attitude of people at the time who understood the sexes were innately different and that men who make themselves a challenge to women are sexier than men who appease women?
PS On another note, check that handsome 1961 crowd in the video. Not a fatty, bluehair, or soyboy in the mix. America was truly a better country then, and no amount of blathering about BUT MUH IPHAG is gonna change the reality that as a culture, we Americans have devolved into quasi-mutants. Sad!
If you’ve been keeping abreast of the news these past two weeks, you might have noticed the anti-Trump enemies have become discombobulated and put on the defensive by recent exposure of their criminal misdeeds. What was “a reckless and treasonous Trump Administration suffering daily leaks and subterfuge by establishment loyalists” narrative has turned into a “by Zeus’ beard, the Trump Train is rolling and the lamentations of the shitlibs and their Bitch Queen Clinton are heard over hill and dale!” battering ram of truth.
Too funny that the Podesta-cooked Russia-Trump collusion scandal has completely boomeranged and threatens to take down the Clintons and their scummy surrogates for good. You think I’m exaggerating out of a misplaced love for Herr Furor. Nope. Check the latest bombshells.
PAY FOR PLAY, INFLUENCE PEDDLING, STRAIGHT UP BRIBERY. Foreign investors shoveled $145 million into the Clinton Foundation while thecunt was heading the State Department, to ensure thecunt and Gay Mulatto would OK a deal that transferred 20% of America’s uranium stores to a Russian energy company. IOW, thecunt colluded with Russia. Bill Clinton, meanwhile, got a cool half mil for a canned speech he delivered in Moscow the same time the Russian energy company Rosatom inked its deal for a stake in Uranium One.
thecunt campaign and the DNC (and now it’s been revealed, the Bushes and McCain) paid hefty sums to Fusion GPS to research manufacture the hillary fanfiction known as the Piss Hooker Dossier, with the intent to undermine the incoming Trump Administration (this is called treason).
In short: Tucker was contacted by a lobbyist from the Podesta Group. Lobbyist claims that the Russians, using a Ukrainian shell company, funneled money to the Podesta Group for the explicit purpose of influencing the Clintons. Paul Manafort was the go-between. Tucker is satisfied that his Lobbyist isn’t lying and has been verifying the details, so far all successfully. I.e., Tucker is reporting that Hillary colluded with the Russians and Manafort was in on it. Tucker promises more to come.
Surely it’s no surprise to any here that Hillary was a corrupt hag selling State to the highest bidder. But this news, on the heels of the Uranium One and Dossier stories, has great implications. Hillary allowed Uranium to be sold to Russia after they donated to the Clinton Foundation. Hillary funded Kremlin-compiled pissgate allegations which were then investigated by Obama’s Justice Department. That same Justice Department was headed by Loretta Lynch, who colluded with Bill Clinton on the tarmac to squelch investigations into Clinton’s crimes. This is no longer 4chan anon LARP conspiracy theories but verified news in the public record. What do we make of this?
First this calls into question Manafort’s role in the Trump Campaign. Is it a coincidence that Trump hired Manafort when Manafort had funneled money from the Russians to the Clintons? It’s hard to believe that Trump would work with Manafort to defeat Hillary without hearing Manafort’s dirt on Hillary. Alternatively: if Manafort colluded with the Clintons, and Manafort was the FBI’s justification for tapping the Trump campaign, did the Clintons collude with the FBI to wiretap Trump?
Second, what to make of Mueller? It came out yesterday that Mueller was investigating Tony Podesta. Manafort is one of the only other people we all know Mueller was investigating. Without going full /pol/lack conspiritard, is it possible that Mueller really is investigating Democratic corruption? Remember, Mueller was interviewed by Trump the day before he took up the special council. At the very least: if Manafort was working with the Clintons, doesn’t this shed new light on Mueller’s investigation?
This is all starting to sound too opaque, like a police cork-and-pinhead bulletin board. I wouldn’t worry too much about the details which, if true, imply much more dramatic conspiracies to be. The takeaway is that this isn’t in the realm of internet myth and rumor. This is real, verifiable. Senate investigations are starting and more is on the way. Is it possible that Clinton will really see the inside of a jail?
Hillary Clinton is going to jail.
I repeat, HILLARY CLINTON IS GOING TO JAIL.
Basically the whole Russia-Trump Collusion Narrative is a massive case at its root of psychological projection and deliberate misdirection by the Clintons and their depraved surrogates in the Deep State and the Gaystream Media. They smeared an incoming President with the very same crimes and treasonous actions that they themselves had committed. The best defense is a slanderous offense to Cuntlib, Inc.
This isn’t a White Pill, kind readers. This is a bucket of White paint dropped on your head from a booby-trapped door in Trump Tower. You’re swimming in White.
Who needs Challahwood when you have this kind of quality entertainment beamed into your eyeballs and earhalls every day IN TRUMPERICA? We are blessed to be alive at a time when our mortal enemies are closer than they have ever been to the breaking wheel.
Update: CNN checks in with their CONSISTENTLY hot take!
Bonus Shiv (it’s all related once you identify the anti-White source malignancy): PA on why Whites shouldn’t race-mix. The cruelest and truest of shivs: the cold heart gazes upon one’s own children and remains unmoved when it sees nothing of oneself in them.
You’ve got a limbically lubed girl on your sofa. It’s late, the tension is thick (your pants pleats have flattened out). Whoa, tiger! You should know that LMR (last minute resistance) is coming. Are you prepared? Reader Mason shares a very typical anecdote illustrating the precarious tightrope that men must walk between beta orbiter and alpha orificer.
Dear Heartiste Proprietors,
Please allow me to share a wonderful story of how I SO BADLY fucked up and found your blog, which led me to erase the traces of betadom that disrupted and ruined an obviously good opportunity.
I met a cute brunette with blue eyes at an event and she talked about being “stressed about her long-distance relationship with her boyfriend”.
FYI girls don’t bring up problems with their relationships like this unless they are already one labia flap into the idea of cheating.
We hit it off and I asked her to drop me home.
I invited her to come up. She giggled.
The giggle is the loin wriggle vocalized.
I have an apartment by the pool. She stood on my balcony and started talking about her problems, how she had anxiety disorder. I did some light kino by touching her feet (she had a weird foot band on) and putting her hands in my palms.
She then came into my living room and sat down on my close sofa. And said hug me.
Don’t be so quick to hug a woman who solicits it. That’s a mild compliance test to see if you’d fit comfortably into the emotional tampon role instead of the sex god role. I’d have teased her, “hmmm, I dunno if you’re ready….my hugs are potent.” The idea is to get her begging for your hug, and in the mental space where she feels like she’s chasing you.
I did BUT immediately leaned in for a kiss like a moron. She backed off and said “I have a boyfriend”.
That was predictable. What she flung out was classic beta bait. Specifically, she tried a version of the “fishing for flattery” ploy. She’s “anxious” and “stressed” and wants reassurances from you that nothing that has happened — or will happen — is her fault.
Now here’s where I really fucked things up. I’m usually immaculately articulate but I just spaced out and sat back in my seat for an awkward 5 minutes. Her boyfriend messaged her and I told her not to take the text and she agreed. Now, despite my awkward silence for another 10 minutes she didn’t leave and stayed plopped on my sofa with heavy breathing and even said “look at my hair, it’s multi-colored”, asking me to run through it.
You were getting hardcore signals to proceed carrying her to dizzying heights of ecstasy and to ignore whatever empty protests to the contrary she may have thought necessary to squeak out to make herself feel less like a slut. Her “I have a boyfriend” feint was the verbal equivalent of the gif above. “I don’t know how I wound up in his bed, I swear I told him I have a boyfriend!”
She wants to feel desired again; obviously BF is not giving her that. But she won’t just “cheat”, so she’ll structure her seduction in a way that absolves her of responsibility for her hoped-for surrender to you.
I found your blog, Heartiste, and read through a hundred posts. I feel like an idiot because I thought that my typical dominant, aloof personality wouldn’t work on the “sweet, shy, innocent” girls.
Liddl’ betaboys with limited dating experience are often the ones to dishonestly and self-servingly assert that Game only helps men pick up bar skanks, but that is not true, unless they want to stipulate that skanks and non-skanks are essentially different sexes who respond to different male mate value cues. In fact, the girls that fall the hardest for jerkboy charm are the tingle-deprived “sweet” girls who otherwise languish in niceguyland where jerkboy charm is notably absent.
I should have laughed off her silly first kiss rejection shit test and tried again. I should have negged her. She asked me to twirl her fucking hair. I should have escalated kino gradually, asking her to sit on my lap, then kissed her neck, and then kissed her, and then pulled away feigning disinterest. Your stuff is ALL on point.
There’s no way a girl would act this way in the hopes of gaining a “friend” or a beta orbiter, right?
There’s only one way to find out. Force the issue. Make your intentions known, and if she’s insincere she drop her bluff and forget all about her boyfriend.
I mean, the fact that she came up to my room at 11:30pm and stayed for 2 hours alone makes me feel that this was an opportunity beyond obvious and I blew it.
Yes. Or she’s a psychocunt who wanted to torture you with the scent of her lush womanhood and slap your probing lips away when you made a go at it. A (thankfully) tiny minority of women amuse themselves by tempting and rejecting betas in an endless cycle of quasi-dominatrix humiliation.
Nothing lights the fire in your loins (heh) like a rough encounter with reality. Unlike the larpers here I’m not going to pretend I’m a total alpha or anything like it. I’m a young 20s guy with alpha and beta traits and I’ll have to weed out the latter.
This describes most men.
Laugh at me and feel free to share the story with your readers, but goddamnit, I owe you a debt of gratitude for waking me the hell up.
Cheers
Mason
I won’t laugh at you. The mistake you made wasn’t unique to you; many such cases!
Lessons learned:
“I have a boyfriend” is an anti-slut defense if uttered within intimate contexts. If you hear it, relax. It means she’s looking for an excuse to continue being with you. You should have replies at the ready. My favorites are “I don’t care” and “right“. Better yet, ignore her and plow when she drops that line. Don’t give it the dignity of a direct response. Change the topic or shrug your shoulders or get yourself a beer from the fridge.
Always Be Escalating. If she murmurs to you to stop, don’t. Physically escalate as long as she’s giving in to it, and don’t quit unless she’s walking out your door in a hurry. Sure, offer token (and temporary) signals of compliance to her rebuffs, but don’t get down on yourself, don’t sulk, and don’t think this means you have to keep your hands to yourself the rest of the night. If she’s in your bedroom for two hours in the middle of the night, her last minute resistance (LMR) is a perfunctory obstacle she tosses in your way which she fully expects (and hopes) you will hurdle.
Push-Pull is the spice of seduction. If she asks you to run your fingers through her multicolored hair, tease her about it. “I dunno, it looks kinda greasy.” That’s the push. Pull her back by reaching over to gently cradle the back of her neck with your hand, while saying “See, I was right”. Frame everything she says and does as an advance ON YOU; this way you can “reject” her advances, which is a huge turn-on for women. No woman can resist the curiosity incited in them by a man who isn’t slavishly throwing himself at their taunting sex.
Remember the Takeaway and the Freeze-out. If she’s insistently coy and bantering way more than she’s perforating, it’s time to flip the script. Her: “I have a boyfriend.” You: “You’d better not stay here any longer, or you might start getting the wrong idea about me.” Or: “Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, I don’t see you that way. We hardly know each other.” The Freeze-out is even more powerful. That’s a tactic where you simply get up off the sofa and make yourself a sandwich if she objects to your roving mitts. The key is to be utterly unmoved by her objections, as if you expected it and know she’ll eventually come around (or outlive your patience).
Finally, if you want to experiment with nuclear psy ops that can close the deal (or blow them out) a lot faster than is typical for women, try this bedroom finishing move when a girl agrees to come to your place: tell her she can’t go in your bedroom. When she asks why not, you have a rule that a girl has to be naked before going in there. A surprising number of girls will agree to this rule, and an idealistic young beta’s heart will have suffered another jolt of arrhythmic cynicism.
The bang threshold is similar to the nuptial threshold, except in the former you aren’t legally bound to one pussy for life, don’t have to worry about your savings and imputed income being transferred to fund a new boyfriend, and carrying her over it is a lot easier at her pre-marital weight.
If girls are checking you out in public with love in their eyes and mist ‘twixt their thighs, it could be simply the case that you’ve got a ten foot hard-on walking ahead of you.
This happens when you’re daydreaming about last night. If you have an active, imaginative mind capable of weaving exquisite detail into a memory, you’ll often access those neural pleasure vaults that store steamy scenes of lovemaking, ancient and recent, while engaged in blissfully pedestrian activities, such as walking outdoors to get from place A to place B. Dulled by pre-collapse hedonistic pampering, you zone out to the thump of your playlist and recall in vivid hues that would be the envy of a weinstein bros production the girl you lacquered 18 hours ago. Your mind’s hand caresses her mesmerizingly rolling skinscape, exploring every hideaway, parting slick chrysalises, kissing lip and trough and mound, a stray nipple catching on your chest and springing away to resume its erect posture….
…and then you’ve got a boney. A big one. You look down and smile, because you’re not a soyboy ashamed of your surprise swole pole. Instead of concealing your insolence behind a stack of Atlantics, you milk your gristly thistle for all it’s worth, thrusting your crotch as far forward as it can go before you tip over backwards. Maybe you put your hands on hips to draw inattentive doe eyes to where they should be focused. A fat feminist shambles by, and practically salivates before remembering to be offended. You guffaw in her maw.
Personal space? That’s pleb talk. You have summoned a mighty pipe from your manly dendrites, and a gift as that should not go unnoticed.
If you really want to mindfuck an urbanness girlie and instill the Good Lord’s dread, after banging her out Saturday night, wake up early Sunday, get dressed, and tell her you’re going to Church. She won’t be able to stop texting you for the rest of the day.
If your local church is a cucky cheese, make a detour for the nearest pool hall.
Bonus God Game routine: After dressing in your Sunday best, kneel at the foot of your bed while she’s still in it half-asleep, wondering if you’re for real, and pray, “Dear Lord, wash the taint of carnal sin from me, and spare this woman your divine retribution. Show mercy on your wayward flock. Amen….Oh darlin’ there’s leftover pot roast in the fridge if you get hungry later.”
Why does this work?
Chicks dig the jerk with a heart of gold. (Bust expectations to crest poon vibrations.)
The bigger reason is that sheilas get all confuse’d-like and tingly when their man ignores them for a higher purpose.
The beta mangina’s credo is “there shall be no other god above me than the goddess whose pussy pedestal I swear to polish unto my last day”, and we can see how arousing that is for women. (Not very.) But the jerkboy who knows the value of God Game has placed a higher power above pussy power.
In fact, I’m convinced that the abandonment of Christianity and rapid secularization of the West removed a critical pillar supporting the natural hierarchy from women -> man -> God. When man no longer had God’s pearly gates to polish, his worship was redirected to the pussy below him. But women are constitutionally repulsed by men who worship them (being the object of worship goes against the inclination of women to submit to a sexy, dominant power), so secularism has had the knock on effect of hardening women’s feelings toward the growing brigade of supplicating secular beta manginas. Women have become resentful of the pussy pedestals onto which their areligious men have placed them, and they have reacted to this unnatural state of no-affairs by lashing out at feeb betas and by themselves masculinizing to fill the masculinity void.
Natural born alpha male jerkboys who haven’t lost that supernatural feeling know that God is the perfect foil for wanton woman, serving the role of the “other woman” who incites romance-intensifying jealousy and neediness in his earthly woman. God is an HB10 who shuns careerist cuntery for nurturing femininity and boundless few-strings-attached love. That’s the source of some serous mortal female envy.
The areligious jerkboy is at least smart enough to have replaced God not with one woman, but with many women, so that the only pedestal he polishes is the shrine to his penis that resides in his heart.
The Russia-Trump collusion narrative is a gigantic case study in shitlib and Clintonista psychological projection, misdirection, and straight-up false accusation by Hillary Clinton and her demonic surrogates including John Podesta, James Comey, and now likely Robert Mueller.
Mueller and Rosenstein were on the CFIUS committee that approved the sale despite knowing that, as The Hill reported, “Russian nuclear officials were engaged in a racketeering scheme involving bribes, kickbacks and money laundering,” that also ensnared the Clinton Foundation.
There never was any Russia-Trump collusion; there is, however, Democrat-Russia-Clinton-Deep State-Gaystream Media collusion, finally coming to light.
The short of it: Russia bribed American officials — notably the Clintons, favored special prosecutor Mueller, and Gay Mulatto himself — to secure a 20% stake in American uranium deposits.
Before the Obama administration approved a controversial deal in 2010 giving Moscow control of a large swath of American uranium, the FBI had gathered substantial evidence that Russian nuclear industry officials were engaged in bribery, kickbacks, extortion and money laundering designed to grow Vladimir Putin’s atomic energy business inside the United States, according to government documents and interviews.
Federal agents used a confidential U.S. witness working inside the Russian nuclear industry to gather extensive financial records, make secret recordings and intercept emails as early as 2009 that showed Moscow had compromised an American uranium trucking firm with bribes and kickbacks in violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, FBI and court documents show.
They also obtained an eyewitness account — backed by documents — indicating Russian nuclear officials had routed millions of dollars to the U.S. designed to benefit former President Bill Clinton’s charitable foundation during the time Secretary of State Hillary Clinton served on a government body that provided a favorable decision to Moscow, sources told The Hill.
Yes, thecunt knows how devious the Russians are because SHE WORKED WITH THEM in violation of US law! It takes a colluder to know a colluder.
The Clinton Foundation has always looked like a money laundering operation.
[…]
There are a number of possibilities here. One is incompetence by Clinton. Her team may have started the “Russian hacking” chant without realizing that it would lead back to this deal. That’s another trait of Hillary Clinton. She screws up everything she touches. Going back to her days on the Watergate committee as an entry level staffer, he career is one foul up after another. The only thing she has done well is stay married to Bill. That’s how she stays out of jail and how she keeps getting shot to run another scam.
The more likely answer, though, is the old Progressive habit of accusing others of the very thing they are doing. In this case, she was willing to do business with the Russians, so she just assumed the other side was too. Perhaps it is evidence of a guilty mind or maybe it is something else, but Progressives have a habit, an instinct, for accusing their enemies of crimes committed by Progressives. It muddies the waters and that may be the sole purpose. It is another way of shifting the focus.
Of course, the Cunt Queen will chastise les deplorablés for blowing up “mere conincidences”, but it’s too late for her flim-flamming. See through her we do. (Speaking of thecunt’s perfidy, what’s the latest on the Seth Rich murder investigation? Hmmm?)
Meanwhile, Trump has lowered the boom on that Clinton shill Comey:
Wow, FBI confirms report that James Comey drafted letter exonerating Crooked Hillary Clinton long before investigation was complete. Many..
The Senate Judiciary Committee has now launched a full scale investigation into the bribery scandal, although as The Hill columnist Joe Concha points out, the bombshell story is being ignored by the media.
“This important & explosive story from Solomon and Spann of The Hill received exactly zero seconds of airtime on the evening newscasts,” he tweeted.
Man, I am so glad we have Jeff Bezos’ personal blog to keep our democracy from dying in the darkness!
In related Trumperica news, our main man has nominated an antitrust attorney to head the FTC. And if you listen closely, you can hear the soft pfft and pop of the media and silicon valley oligarchs shitting their buttplugs out.
You must really have done a number on that AndrewHuthFruit™! He completely privatised his Facebook, restricted comments on his instagram, and took down his photoblog! One incisive flick of the CH shiv was enough for this cowardly fucker to completely turtle! Well done.
Good. That was the goal. Another mewling mangina trawling for online attention from bitter feminists falls to the Shaming Shiv.
What I DESPISE to my very being are Agents of Ugliness, Messengers of Mutation, Heralds of Hideousness. And Lords of Lies. If a loser accepts the truth of his low station in life and works to improve him or herself, I salute them. I encourage their efforts. But losers who lie that their loserdom is normal, even exceptional, and that their betters should bow and scrape before the ugliness they want to visit on the world, well…they get the shiv.
Male feminists are a loser subspecies. They spread lies about the sexes, and their grotesque rhetoric defying the natural order gives succor to spiteful cunts and gutless worms, who then spread the lies to innocents like a viral infection, lethal to those of weak will. Meanwhile, the onslaught of ugliness, weaponized by a complicit Gaystream Media and attention whoring accelerants like Faceborg and Instawhore, cows the remnant believers in Beauty, until the mutants have occupied the public consciousness, screeching their Pyrrhic victory over common sense and dignity.
Yeah fuck dat noize. The Chateau stands athwart the Disfigurement Delegation, smirking “lol suck a dick, freaks”. I don’t care if this blog is the last outpost of Beauty in the world, the message will be sent to the Fuggernaut in the teeth of active technopoly suppression of realtalkers that there is no safe space for them as long as the Shiv of Plain Speaking is free to unsheathe. The front lines are everywhere.
So to the Andrew Huths of the Mutant Mafia, I say good riddance. Your social media helicopter ride was the necessary sacrifice to discourage the others who might have similar urges to traffic in civilization-wrecking and romance-killing lies. The seep of your stank is turned back at the gates of this humble abode.
The Thousand Cock Stare is the vacant crazy-eyed unhinged look that women get when they’ve slutted it up too much and the cavalry of cockas have left psychic scars. It’s a dead womb walking sheen of the eyes that is similar in soul-skinning affect to the “thousand-yard stare” that soldiers manifest when they’ve spent too much time in the charnel fields.
Thankfully, there’s a beautiful inverse of the thousand cock stare that alights on lovely women who’ve devoted their hearts and parts to one man. That is the “thousand tingle ogle”. Any man who has seduced a woman to reckless love knows that look. It’s the look that is at once arousing and comforting to a man, for it says simultaneously, “she will gobble my knob, and no one else’s”. It’s the eyes of a woman who has wedded her lust to her love. Powerful stuff.
A perfect instance of the thousand tingle ogle was caught on camera after a major election win for the forces of Goodness and Whiteness. Count the tingles arcing across the insufferable void between them as pro-nationalist Austrian wünderkind Sebastian Kurz is admired by his girlfriend:
Trump gets that look from women a lot, too. It’s the ocular equivalent of “I’ll let him grab me by the pussy when we get home”.
Comment Of The Week: The Vanishing Virgin
Oct 27th, 2017 by CH
COTW winner Days of Broken Arrows unloads a gauzebomb of nostalgia porn on the CH collective, reminding us that virgins (of hooch and heart) vanish as quickly as they appear.
The fact that age of first marriage and total marriage rate have been rising and falling respectively for at least the last twenty years, it’s less likely now than it used to be that the inexperienced ground floors girls leave the market early and stay off for the duration (unto death). What’s happening now is the innocent and pure of heart girls are being left high and dry by men OR are seduced by the urban slutstyle and get caught in a hamster wheel of endless dating, breaking up, and blossoming bitterness. So you as a man are less likely to later “miss out” on those special ho-flakes if you don’t nab them before college….however, you will miss out on monopolizing their pure-of-pussy hearts.
That’s not a trivial consideration. All it takes is two partners (read: cocks) for a woman’s risk of divorcing you to skyrocket.
DoBA’s wistful jaunt through his lass-shaped past reminds me of something else; a sort of quasi-ephebophilia (love for younger women in the (legal) 18-22 age range) is the natural sexual state for men past high school. That girlish-looking 18-year-old girl may be insufficiently womanly for horndog 22 year old men, but when those men hit their late 20s-early 40s stride, those neotenous women they once spurned now look like prized poon compared to the cows surrounding them. Neoteny ages well on women. It’s related to the concept of residual reproductive value: older men who are ready to build a family empire have a natural instinct to lock down very young (or young-looking) women because those women will age better and provide many more enjoyable years of bedroom intimacy. Female youthfulness is THE leading indicator of maximum remaining fertility.
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Posted in Comment Winners, Girls, Inner Beauty | Comments Off