Unbelievable numbers coming from the ADL of all places that prove Jews are VASTLY over-represented among perpetrators of anti-Semitic incidents. The Bigly Epigone crunched the per capita result (thus discombobulating shitlibs who never learned what per capita means) and found:
So far in 2017 Jews have been perpetrating “anti-Semitic incidents” in the US at more than 19,000% the rate that non-Jews have been doing so.
At this point it’s fair to wonder whether the predilection for Jews to concoct anti-Semitic hate hoaxes which they inevitably know will be pinned on Da Goyim by a compliant (and family-connected) leftoid legacy media amounts to a concerted blood libel campaign of slander and intimidation, or whether it’s an emergent property of an elevated disposition towards psychopathy among their ethnicity.
Never trust a tingly woman. When a woman gets the tingles for a bad boy, she loses any sense of responsibility or personal safety she may have had before lust struck her muffdumb. When a woman with top secret security clearance working for the FBI gets the tingles for a German (ha!) rapper-cum-ISIS fighter and recruiter she’s assigned to investigate, she will betray her country for the jerkboy cock.
An FBI translator with a top-secret security clearance traveled to Syria in 2014 and married a key ISIS operative she had been assigned to investigate, CNN has learned.
The rogue employee, Daniela Greene, lied to the FBI about where she was going and warned her new husband he was under investigation, according to federal court records.
Daniela Greene
tipped off her ISIS headchopper loverboy.
Daniela Greene
is a traitor to her country.
Daniela Greene
committed treason against the United States of America.
How was she treated by the US DOJ? With kid gloves, of course.
Greene’s saga, which has never been publicized, exposes an embarrassing breach of national security at the FBI—an agency that has made its mission rooting out ISIS sympathizers across the country.
It also raises questions about whether Greene received favorable treatment from Justice Department prosecutors who charged her with a relatively minor offense, then asked a judge to give her a reduced sentence in exchange for her cooperation, the details of which remain shrouded in court-ordered secrecy. […]
Within weeks of marrying Cuspert, Greene, 38, seemed to realize she had made a terrible mistake. She fled back to the US, where she was immediately arrested and agreed to cooperate with authorities. She pleaded guilty to making false statements involving international terrorism and was sentenced to two years in federal prison. She was released last summer.
All this occurred under the Gay Mulatto’s watch. The more that’s unearthed about the Gay Mulatto years, the seedier his administration sounds, and the more amazed I am that this phagggot White-hating mongrel got anywhere near the White House.
The man Greene married was no ordinary terrorist.
He was also a bloodthirsty jerkboy who made her swoon.
He was Denis Cuspert, a German rapper turned ISIS pitchman, whose growing influence as an online recruiter for violent jihadists had put him on the radar of counter-terrorism authorities on two continents.
In Germany, Cuspert went by the rap name Deso Dogg.
@RawDoggedByDesoDoggNOWATRAITOR
In Syria, he was known as Abu Talha al-Almani.
Blacks must love these wacky arabicky names. They sound like the joke names they make up for their kids.
He praised Osama bin Laden in a song, threatened former President Barack Obama with a throat-cutting gesture and appeared in propaganda videos, including one in which he was holding a freshly severed human head.
Merkel’s pets.
“It’s a stunning embarrassment for the FBI, no doubt about it,” said John Kirby, a former State Department official. He said he suspects Greene’s entry into Syria required the approval of top ISIS leaders.
Most outsiders trying to get into an ISIS region in Syria risk “getting their heads cut off,” said Kirby, now a CNN commentator on national security matters. “So for her to be able to get in as an American, as a woman, as an FBI employee, and to be able to take up residence with a known ISIS leader, that all had to be coordinated.”
Try to imagine the subcontinental depths of shittiness the Derp State would have descended into if we had a president thecunt instead of President Trump.
Greene, who now works as a hostess in a hotel lounge, said in a brief interview with CNN that she was fearful of discussing the details of her case.
“If I talk to you my family will be in danger,” Greene said. She declined further comment.
You should have thought of that before you let your vagina call the shots and hop on international terrorist apecock, bitch.
[Her attorney] described Greene as “smart, articulate and obviously naïve.” He said she was “genuinely remorseful” for her actions.
“She was just a well-meaning person that got up in something way over her head,” Moore said. He declined further comment.
The universal defense for criminally treasonous women is insisting they have no moral agency. Ok, if that’s gonna be law of the land, then morally inculpable women should have their right to vote rescinded. A fundamental degree of consistency is called for in these matters.
There is nothing readily apparent in Greene’s past to suggest she would one day find herself the bride of an international terrorist.
Yes there is. She’s a woman.
Born in Czechoslovakia and raised for a time in Germany, she married a US soldier at a young age and moved to the United States, several friends and acquaintances recalled. She went by the nickname Dani.
Red Flag #2: Stripper nickname.
She attended college at Cameron University in Oklahoma where she was on the dean’s list.
Red Flag #3: Small liberal arts college.
She then went to graduate school at Clemson University where she earned a Master’s Degree in history.
Red Flag #4: Grad school.
“I could see she was a really hard worker,” said Clemson Professor Alan Grubb, who advised Greene on her thesis, which explored “racial motivations for French collaboration during the Second World War.”
Red Flag #5: SJW indoctrination.
“She was one of our better graduate students, I thought,” he said.
Red Flag #6: Conformist suck-up who would never question the Globohomo received wisdom.
Fluent in German, Greene went to work for the FBI as a contract linguist in 2011. It was a job that, following a grueling application and vetting process, came with a top-secret national security clearance.
That Gay Mulatto-era “grueling vetting process” worked well, didn’t it? #TrumpWasRight
Before Cuspert became a front man for jihadists, he was known as Deso Dogg in Germany. Tattoos on each hand spell out the image he cultivated in the mold of American gangsta rappers.
“STR8” was inked on one hand, “THUG” on the other.
American (((culture))) is the handmaid of Satanism.
As if this story couldn’t get any more emblematic of White Western Woman’s decline and debasement, this little detail adds a flourish that will surprise no one who’s spent a day at the Chateau:
On June 11, 2014, Greene filled out a Report of Foreign Travel form — a document FBI employees and contractors with national security clearances are required to complete when traveling abroad.
Greene, who was still married to her American husband at the time, characterized her travel on the form as “Vacation/Personal,” court records show.
“Want to see my family,” she wrote. Specifically, Greene said, she was going to see her parents in Munich, Germany.
Eat, Pray (to allah), Slut. Never fail to meet expectations, Globalist Girl!
Greene was probably married to a dutiful, dependable beta male who would never suspect his wife’s infidelity while she was on long, overseas straycations all by herself. And that is why she craved the dominating intrusion of dusky caliphate cock from a man who would sooner wrap her in a burqa and make her set infidels on fire.
She boarded an international flight on June 23, 2014. But her destination wasn’t Germany. She flew instead on a one-way ticket to Istanbul, Turkey, where she had reservations at the Erguvan Hotel. From there she traveled to the city of Gaziantep, about 20 miles from the Syrian border.
….leaving an anticipatory love puddle everywhere she sat.
She contacted “Individual A,” the documents state, and with the assistance of a third party arranged by him, crossed the border into Syria. Once there, according to the court records, she married him.
There isn’t a *facepalm* exaggerated enough to communicate the necessary exasperation. Sure, maybe I could understand a tingle so powerful that it can shatter a normal family life back home in a nice country for a few weeks of “abu-bout-to jaq hammer that pussy into soumission” in a shithole that makes the Congo look like a four star resort….but to go on and MARRY the fuckin #GoatLife69? Was the sex back home that bad?
Shortly after, Greene sent emails from inside Syria to an unidentified person in the US showing she was having second thoughts and suggesting she knew she was breaking the law.
“I was weak and didn’t know how to handle anything anymore,” she wrote on July 8. “I really made a mess of things this time.”
“The Future is Female”.
In another email the following day she wrote: “I am gone and I can’t come back. I wouldn’t even know how to make it through, if I tried to come back. I am in a very harsh environment and I don’t know how long I will last here, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all a little too late…”
On July 22, 2014, she again wrote to the unidentified recipient: “Not sure if they told you that I will probably go to prison for a long time if I come back, but that is life. I wish I could turn back time some days.”
It really is a bad idea to abandon national security to unhappily married women with a bad case of clit itch for un-neutered badboys.
While Greene was expressing regrets, Cuspert was actively fighting ISIS’s battles.
This is where Deso Dogg blew it. He should have had her along on his adventures instead of leaving her back in the dingy bolthole alone to contemplate her life with him.
A video from July 2014 “showed glimpses of him in the bloody aftermath of the ISIS takeover of the Al-Sha’er gas fields in Homs,” according to the MEMRI report on Cuspert. In a field covered with dead bodies, Cuspert “is seen for several seconds beating a corpse with a sandal,” the report said.
LOL. The loser learned all the important tenets of Islam, like how displaying one’s shoe sole is offensive to the corpse of one’s enemies.
After about a month in Syria, Greene somehow was able to leave the war-torn country and returned to the United States.
“Somehow”. Yeah, there’s no way ISIS would let a White American woman leave their clutches unmolested. There’s a bigly backstory here.
The bulletin made no mention of [ISIS terrorist recruiter Deso Dogg] having recently married an employee of the FBI.
This could be the epitaph of America.
For added post-America authenticity points, it would be perfect if it came out that Gay Mulatto designated Deso Dogg as a war refugee and relocated him in Minneapolis.
There’s something malignant and poisonous snaking its way through the bloodstream of American White women. My explanation is that this something is a terrible ennui brought on by both the masculinization of women and by the de-masculinization of the White men all around them, amplified by a free-for-all anonymously atomized sexual market that is especially soulkilling to women’s emotional health.
We see it in the increase in stories of slut teachers boffing their 12-year-old charges as buffoonish beta male husbands stand to the side during press conferences promising to “love and support” their deranged cheating whore wives when all those whores want is a real man to put them in their place.
The incidence of extreme sexual and romantic behavior among Western White women is rising, and extreme behavior at the margins is a canary in the coal burner mine that there is occurring a less dramatic but similarly deleterious shift in the behavior and choices of the mass of women in the vast middle of middle America.
The fever will only break when one of two conditions is met:
total national collapse into separate and possibly warring regions
White American men finding their balls again
Option two is less bloody, so we should be rooting for that one. What does ball-rediscovering entail? It means revoking all those anti-White male laws and regulations and cultural incantations that glorify women and berate men. The future is not, and never was, female. The future, if there’s to be one for America, MUST be WHITE and MALE. Otherwise, get ready to bow five a times a day toward Mecca. Nature abhors a male dominance vacuum; if White men won’t sack up, White women will glom onto men who aren’t ashamed of their phallic prerogative.
Finally, it means libshit White men have to jettison the silly Equalist post-reason notion that women are the equal in all ways of men and whatever disparities exist between the sexes must be mitigated by government policy. The alphabet agencies don’t need outreach programs to women and minorities. What they need are pride of purpose and a healthy appetite for ignoring the pathetic bleats of the Diversity, Inc. dingbats who’d rather sacrifice national security at the altar of numerical representation.
What America needs is what made America great, once: Serious White men back in charge.
The Mamas & The Pepes recorded a raw version of my “Globalist Girl” lyrical reinterpretation of the Tom Petty song “American Girl”. Very sing-able! And you’ll enjoy the accompanying slide show.
A reader passes along a gem of realtalk about women’s desire for dominant men and loathing of sensitive beta manginas.
In case this should be both novel and interesting to you and your readers…
The writer George Gissing is best known for “New Grub Street”, a grim tale of struggling writers in 1880s London. It contains a scene in which the failing author Edwin Reardon attempts to be masterful with his wife. He is shortly to take a clerkship job, several notches downwards in the social scale, in an attempt to rescue his fortunes; he wants his wife with him but she is resistant.
From the novel:
He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up from the chair, dash her back again with all his force—there, the transformation would be complete, they would stand towards each other on the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps—Instead of that, he choked, struggled for breath, and shed tears.
Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have overawed her, at all events for the moment; she would have felt: ‘Yes, he is a man, and I have put my destiny into his hands.’ His tears moved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign of her superiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in her life had she been further from such display of weakness.
The ugliest of truths lies in the recesses of the female hindbrain. This is why white knights desperately fear to tread there; what they’d find in the uncut chick-id would put the lie to everything they believe AND to everything women have told them to believe. The confrontation with female nature reminds the beta male boob of his neutered sexuality, so he avoids it assiduously.
Recently, I had a weird run-in with an ex-fling. First, some background: We had met years ago in a different city while simultaneously exiting a dingy caliph-themed cocktail bar bobbing with the greasy-haired heads of a swarm of swarths; I had then asked her if she was racing out as fast as I was to avoid the douchiness inside. In the time it took her to laugh, I soaked up her package: tall, lean, enticingly angular facial aesthetics, pert tits, ivory skin, ebony hair. The hunt was on.
Two hours later, I had escorted her to one of my public pleasure palaces (a shadowed sofa tucked in the recesses of a hookah bar swirling with mood-smoke) where we made out in between sensually blowing smoke rings. (Gentlemen, you should coax a woman to blow smoke rings whenever possible, because her form will give you a good idea of what she’ll look like when she’s gazing up at you during a blowjob.)
Cutting to the end-of-chase: She went back to my place with me. I unzipped her knee-high boots and stripped her woolly skirt off and caressed her inner thigh with a free hand (the other stuffing a ball gag in her mouth….I keed! or do I?). Gradually, my hand hopped her panty border and day-labored in the fields of her life-giving lips. I listened intently for the liquid smacking of vajlube peeling from vajflesh, and redirected my glistening hand to her freed left breast….whereupon an odor most foul drifted from drenched digitalis to my nose, triggering an olfaction reaction inescapably pronounced. I retched a little.
But the boner reflex is inversely proportional to the disgust reflex; a man with a rager will shawshank through a snapper sewer to bust outta priapism.
So I bore on. And bored on. Or that was the plan, until in the act of ripping off the last tattered shred of her industrial-grade panties my face swooped a little too near her crotch swamp, and the sting of fetid juices actually made my eyes water. Did she notice my fully throttled necksnap to the back? I figured she must have, but she made no indication thereof.
Hyenas are known to marinade their scavenged rotmeat in stagnant pools of sun-ripened toxic water; the matriarchal beasts prefer their sustenance falling off the bone in gangrenous ribbons, much like our current crop of Western women prefer the composition of their nations. But man is not clit-dicked hyena. Notwithstanding my insistent boner to the contrary, my frontal lobe — or perhaps the hindiest part of my hindbrain — overrode my crotchal zone and in a burst of creativity spurred by sensory stinkulation and desperation, I stopped my attack cold and summoned a semi-quasi-pseudo-rationale for why she must politely leave and oh yes I would certainly call her soon and we’ll get together again the next time we will make it count it’s just that I care for your opinion of me and your feelings and I’m a romantic that way trust me you’ll love that I’m not like all the other men…..
Ad fuckin nauseam, she quietly left, a cloud of worry and suspended disappointment encroaching on her pretty face as I closed the door behind her and set upon my bed sheets with a fury, dousing them in Oxyclean and paint thinner. Mid-winter, windows wide open! AHHHHHHH WINTER-CHAN CLEANSE THIS HOME!
So tragic, such a waste of an adorable face, but whaddaya gonna do? Stinky pussy is the deal killer. The boner imploder. The Darwinian dental dam. Unless the girl is a hard 10 and the man is a hard-up 10, a subatomic stink down below will wither any hard-on.
Fast-forward to the near-present: New, far away town, new day. I’m in a store. A woman in black enters behind me. She has orange-red hair and a youthful glow despite her almost translucent skin. Fishnet fuckme stockings carve the contours of her long legs. A fleeting familiarity sparks my mind. I look a bit longer at her; she notices, and reacts with the expected mix of consternation and curiosity. Could this be the same Stinky Pussy Girl from years ago, unbelievably standing right next to me a thousand miles from where we first primed our directives?
It couldn’t be. The hair, and the clear skin. If it was her, she was wearing a wig or had a pro coloring job, and she hadn’t aged a minute since our rendezvous…. our, if you’ll pardon the pun, kerfluffle. Our whiff of a tryst, a long-faded memory, suddenly wrenched to consciousness, as freshly manured as if it had occurred the day before down the block.
I shook off the thought. Then she walked toward the exit. That walk, endearingly clumsy and lopey….I couldn’t possibly forget that walk, no woman I have known walked like her. It was her.
None of this happened all that quickly; I had time to run her down and tell her I knew her from long ago, and possibly (probably!) try for another stab at her stankflaps. But as powerfully as the memory of her face and body and weird walk flooded my corticalleys, so too did her pussy stink. That smell memory — smellory — punched my gut as hard as any pungently hectoring specter could.
So I watched her walk off, dissipating into a street crowd. There you have it, ladies: an incredibly coincidental re-meeting, an opening for love created by divine intervention some would say, and the mere memory of stinky pussy shut the possibilities off a second time as strongly as they were shut off the first time when the stink was fragrantly real and aromatically macroaggressive.
On the way home, all I could wonder was what her kids, if she were to have any, would telegonically or frictionally acquire on their way out of her ill-fumed womb; if for instance the poor sprogs would squirt out in a pigpen-like shroud of green gas that followed them everywhere.
Virgins are prized by men all over the world. It’s a universal desire, so evolution must have a good reason for men to prefer untrammeled twat. Paternity certainty is one given reason; men can be confident the kid is theirs if the hymen blood of their women stains their dicks. But now I think it’s something more conspicuous; whether caused by accumulating cock notches or poor hygiene, a stinky pussy is a warning to men that there’s something off with the talking vessel incubating the spicy vaginey. A tangy clam is nature’s red flag that disease or immune system failure lurks labially and threatens the fitness of any posterity that you might deposit in her belly.
Some of you may ask, “CH, why didn’t you just let her give you a hummer?”
Dear deluded friends of the Chateau, pussy stank is the warmest of air; it’ll rise, right up to my face. I wouldn’t want to deflate in the woman’s mouth and have to bear the guilt of possibly driving her to suicide.
These are the gifts of love made in the image of God that Fake Virtue signaling White leftoids who advocate for open borders in perpetuity want to air drop by the millions into a Heartland, America small town near you. And as the Africa population bomb ticks to its detonation, you can bet there will be no shortage of sanctimonious instruments of self-annihilation and their puppeteers sniveling for America to “open her heart to the human suffering” and relocate Africa’s miseries to Dubuque, Iowa, (instead of doing the sane thing and cutting all food and tech aid to Africa before the natural culling that must occur when an ecosystem’s carrying capacity is overloaded reaches the level of an epic die-back that will make the Holocaust numbers of dead look like street crime victims in comparison).
PS Trust CH commenters to find the humor in abject African depravity.
PPS This post’s title was half warning, half chewy bait for Matt King. I miss that guy’s sonorous pontifications, but an exposer of monstrous ids can’t stop, won’t stop, his duty to vivisect the corporeal provenances of the races of man.
An insightful comment by JD (John Derbyshire?) over at the Goodbye, America photojournal, speculating about the reason why so many women, particularly White women, glom onto Freak Acceptance.
Female consumers have perceived weaknesses. “Am I gonna be a good mom? Time to worry… rev up the rationalization hamster”. Female consumer watches freak females “redefining” motherhood on YouTube or Ellen. “If these freaks can cover up their weakness in public then so can I! All I have to do is subscribe to this new idea/emotion of freak motherhood and I can protect my pride, cuz lol, I’ll be a way better mother than some freak in a dress. Hmm maybe the best way to get out this new message of redefining motherhood is through supporting Dove so they can spread this message…”.
Globalization — aka worldwide SCALE — has hijacked the female instincts to conformism, social inclusion, and hypergamous status competition, resulting in multivariate, multinational ad campaigns that push women’s id-buttons as effectively as they push product. JD has identified one of those female instincts: a desire for high social status through approved mothering. It’s an instinct which is a strength in small-scale Dunbar-delineated contexts, but a glaring weakness in large-scale media-driven social organizations that, thanks to the full spectrum infiltration of social media and TV, means your average American mom can compare her mom-cred to moms halfway across the globe and all the way across the threshold of human degeneracy.
This was unheard of for all of human history up until the last couple of generations. That’s gotta have unforeseen consequences, which can already be seen by those not yet succumbed to soyification.
American moms are getting hit by mixed social status pinging messages — they wither with the comparison to glam-moms or humblebragging Faceborg-moms, but cheer up when some cross-dressing man-titted mistake of nature pumped up with a cocktail of bovine growth hormones is glorified by Globohomo, Inc. as an equally plausible representative of good mothering. The Real Moms know in their bones that the Fake Moms are degenerate losers, so the agitprop tranny clown show helps feed the egos of the Real Moms.
PS Speaking of Derb, he has a good article at Unz about the reality of voter fraud in America, and what it portends for the Anglo-Saxon foundation of the Law. (Answer: it portends nothing good, because non-Anglos in specific and non-Westerners in general simply don’t share the same faith and instinctual affinity for the English system of law. As Triggering E puts it,
WEIRDO societies require WEIRDOs to make them work. The less WEIRDO a society becomes, the more being a WEIRDO–characterized by high social trust, reciprocity, political compromise, generosity to those in need, isonomy, etc–switches from being an advantage to being a disadvantage. Social trust declines, reciprocity disappears, political compromise is replaced by a winner-take-all ethnic spoils system, generosity is exploited to the point that it is seen as an entitlement, and the legal system gets hijacked by racial grievance concepts like “social justice”. It’s a vicious circle.
A vicious, tightening noose around the neck of the Anglosphere.
There are myriad sex differences — physical, emotional, mental, temperamental, and psychological — that anyone of sane mind unblemished by equalist propaganda can observe permeating every aspect of daily life in which men and women interact. But maybe the most pervasive, immutable, and encompassing sex difference is…penmanship. Johnny Redux writes,
I always have found one very fascinating difference between males and females, which can only be explained by brain behavior – pretty much 90% of the time, you can tell the difference between male and female handwriting. That shows how the brain actually behaves and interprets things, when pen is put to paper. It covers all educational levels, and all professions. I am not concerned with primate writing, so I can only speak on what I have seen of my race.
So true, and the Chateau covered this topic a while ago in this post. Cursive summary: the more biologically and irretrievably feminine the woman (according to digit ratio and personality assessment), the more feminine the handwriting. The God of Biomechanics is a prankster who likes to mock our cherished moral aspirations with the flick of a pen.
So if you’re dating a girl who still owns a pen and writes her d’s and p’s with bloated, pregnant relish and tops her i’s with hearts, wife that bitch up.
In the hindbrain of every woman throbs an autonomic neuralgorithm that mimics their genitalia and splits the female soul in two. It’s a sexual dichotomy which women are fated to reconcile into a teetering balance between the limbically juiced pursuit of alpha fux (a sexy charming jerkboy for sex) and the cortically lubed yearning for beta bux (a reliable if boring family man for resources).
Gatekeepers of the prime directive will necessarily be contradictory vehicles for genetic survival. To fulfill the only Darwinian duty that really matters, women have evolved an intricate cognitive system for accommodating their internal contradictions. CH has dubbed this system the “rationalization hamster”. This head-cased hamster ensures that women never think too hard or too closely about the concessions or the exploitations they personally abide on their quest to birth and raise the fittest, healthiest, and most productive kidlets in the merciless sexual and survival markets.
Unsurprisingly, the sexual dichotomy that animates women’s subconscious is overlaid by a conscious moral dichotomy which provides plausible deniability to the amoral compulsions of the subconscious.
On this topic, Cynthia speaks a great truth,
There is nothing that satisfies us ladies more than the knowledge that we are superior to another woman. I know women who’ve based their entire existence around the pursuit of this feeling.
This explains why women can at once happily jump on the Freak Acceptance bandwagon while secretly satisfying their selfish urge to have their egos diddled and their social status elevated as a consequence of the favorable distinctions they will irresistibly draw between themselves and the freaks.
CH Maxim #91: The irony is that just as women are cloying sympathizers for their lessers, they are also avid pursuers of vaulting their lessers.
The female moral dichotomy is “declare inclusion, indulge exclusion”. The former gives license to the latter.
***
Do men have sexual and moral dichotomies within them? Yes and no. Certainly not any dichotomy at the same advanced developmental stage that women possess. Men haven’t evolved truly dichotomous natures because men aren’t the primary gatekeepers of reproduction. As the chosen sex (although this formulation isn’t absolute), men are Nature’s experimental guinea pigs and come born compartmentalized into a variety of sexual and moral configurations women choose from among, according to the fitness demands of the currently operative environment.
I would say the closest approximation to a male sexual dichotomy is the classic madonna-whore complex — or in modernistic bantz, Marry-Fuck-Kill. Men want the slut for the zero-effort instabang, and the virgin for marriage and mother-of-heirs. But the comparison is limited, since the sexually dichotomous drive is much weaker in men, who as a sex are generally less selective than women and will make easy compromises if a woman is sufficiently desirable (i.e., hot, young, and feminine). For men, women’s looks trump every other consideration so profoundly that any innate male dichotomous compulsion will often be drowned under the deluge of desire.
Likewise, a male moral dichotomy usually amounts to nothing more than spun up pretexts for guiltlessly pursuing NSA sex. The female moral dichotomy greases the id-skids to indulge intra-female status contests and ego gratification; in contrast, the male moral dichotomy has a more pedestrian job: to convince himself and the women who don’t immediately write him off that his love is unconditional, while pursuing the accumulation of sexual market capital that enlarges the scope of his mate options.
