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I’ve come to the conclusion that virtue sniveling anti-White shitlibs will never convert to Realtalk and Truthlove. It’s simple. Any moment in a shitlib’s life that she lets race-aware truth approach her obliquely, she’ll promptly retreat to some heartwarming pic or story of a single nonwhite behaving in accordance with societal White norms.

There will be plenty of these pics and stories for her to latch onto, not because there are plenty of nonWhites behaving in an exemplary (read: White) manner, but because the anti-White Gaystream Media is diligent about seeding their bird cage copy with a false impression of omnipresent numinous nonwhite feats of honor and basic decency (and equally diligent about seeding the false impression of omnipresent White treachery and ultraracism).

I call this the Reflexive Retreat to Pretty Lies, and it only takes a tiny dose of pretty lies to turn back a massive onslaught of Ugly Truths. There’s no way to permanently reorient shitlibs laboring under those precog conditions, because no matter how big your Truth, a bigger Lie will swamp it. There will always be some stray sappy pic or story that the shitlib can embrace like a Linus security blanket, to be used as an enchanted vestment against the torrent of unsentimental ugly truths that assault her senses from every direction every day of her hypocritical life.

You can’t convert such people, because there isn’t enough Truth in the world to cure them of their addiction to false narratives. If all it takes is one pic of a dead Syrian child (death caused by forces unrelated to White supremacy) to push a shitlib back into the comfort bubble of her open borders, welcome-refugees nonsense, then reams of data, appeals to logic and reason, gripping memes, and millions of counter-examples to the contrary will be impotent against the hardened bunker of her unreality. Her brain is incapable of any meaningful long-term adjustment in outlook and self-perception.

So what’s the solution to shitlib cocooning in the face of daunting Truth?

  • permit the fertility of the most pathologically altruist whites to drop to zero (this is the only option that will work permanently and decisively)
  • mockery. hammer libs relentlessly with the truth, packaged in such a way as to maximally overload their amygdalae until they voluntarily withdraw from public life
  • retake the institutions of media and thought control. good luck with that.
  • civil war (decisive, not as permanent as option #1, unless you salt the earth afterwards)
  • pray for Trump’s ultimate victory (and Javanka’s banishment from his trusted inner circle)
  • secession, separation, segregation. cordon off shitlibs in their own city-states away from sane Whites
  • enact whatever policies you can pass to diminish shitlib power to mold the media narrative
  • agree & amplify shitlib hostility to heritage america. relocate millions of feral dirt worlders into shitlib enclaves
  • build a parallel society, parallel tech, and parallel self-rule that effectively gerrymanders shitlibs into their own culture ghettoes
  • ban estrogenic endocrine disrupting compounds so that the T level of men and E level of women returns to a healthy base
  • sit poolside and enjoy the part of the ride where we have crested the final hill and are plummeting to the ninth circle of hell

Sexiest Vagnette

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UPDATE BELOW

Reader sigsawyer emailed a story about one of his pickups that could double as a “test of your Game” post. I’m game, so here it is.

Greetings to the Chateau and all its dark proprietors.

I’ve got a recent story of pickup success that I realized would be great as one of those old ‘test of your game’ style posts. It’s, um, illustrative to say the least. If you decide to make a post out of it, cut the ‘answer’ part off and post it a couple of days later. Or just share as is and judge my game.

So the other night I take a couple of junior coworkers out to the bar. Both on visas from Eastern Europe. [ed: I like where this is heading] One being cute and the other maybe a 5. Both have killer bodies, but I digress. (Much fun was poked at fat American women.) I’d already more or less written off the cute one as a prospect since I’d taken her out before and failed to get anywhere.

On that occasion I took her down to the beach late at night with a bottle of pinot noir and we went skinny dipping in the warm choppy waters of the summer Atlantic. Aka the nuclear pussy-buster date for when I need the snatch to open now.

No doubt. If you’ve ever swam (swum?) in the ocean at night, especially away from light pollution, there’s an exhilarating apprehension that creeps up on you. The sea is black, the sound of the surf is sharpened, the moonlight dances off the water, and you wonder if sharks are swimming nearby. It’s a COCKtail of emotions guaranteed to doubly moisten pussy.

I was set on bold bustamoveness because her English wasn’t good enough to catch nuanced negs and witty banter. Besides, I know those EE girls need a show of strength to crack their icy bitch shield. And I’m talking a smug, haughty girl here. An openly rude one. So I ramp up the teasing and assholery- splashing her with water, pretending to be Jaws and chasing after her, biting her leg.

She’s giving me plenty of shit tests (mostly accusations of assholery, childishness), and they don’t stop once I’ve parried a few. But then again, she stripped naked and got in the water with me, and she’s not objecting to the kino. So I move in for a kiss and she resists it. At the time I figure that since I’m the senior, the local, and a coolasfuck dude, that I’d actually raised my value too high and gotten her anti-slut defense to rev up. It’s a recurring problem for my game.

So I dial back the interaction, move on to some comfort themes, and try to get her focused on the emotional high of the moment. But she’s not biting, we get cold in the water, and the mood fizzles out while we’re grubbing around the dark beach for our clothes. So I drive her carless ass home.

Anyway, I don’t put much thought into following up since I’ve got a few in the kitty and she’s legit a pain in the ass. But I end up inviting her and her friend out to the bar, figuring I could either use the two girls as a pivot or spark something back up. The 5 is a fun girl even if my target is a brat, so I’d be able to entertain myself at least, or plunder her lithe little body as a last resort.

In the bar, one of the cheaper places in town, we run into some of my friends out of sheer coincidence and I make introductions. I’m acting pretty aloof, enjoying how unsurprised my buddies are about me walking into the spot with two Euro chicks.

Good friends will not blow your cover by hollering crap like “wow dude two chicks! high five, playa!”

The girls can tell too, but I’m not putting much effort into gaming them. I hit on two other chicks in close proximity- one is too wasted to even understand Styles ring routine and the other gets engaged when I tease her SWPLy job, but her mixed set doesn’t really appreciate my intrusion and we awkwardly fizzle out- I was a bit too tipsy to give a shit about befriending the group first.

Eventually the scene gets lame and we move the party over to my friend’s house nearby- we’re out back around a fire and I’ve been basically ignoring my target all night, except to tell her she drinks manly beer and to tease her about not wanting to dance. My other friends are trying to hit on her but its not going any better than my first time. One of my friends starts making out with the 5 in front of everybody. They eventually retire to somewhere private. I tell my target “Don’t get any ideas, I value my modesty”. She gets up from her Aderondack chair and slowly pours her drink over my head.

What do you do? Hint: I fucked up back on the beach, but I was wrong about how.

This is a great segue into serious Game analysis. An icy HBEE that walked away from a post-skinny-dipping beach lay later pours a beer over the head of the same man at a backyard party. And a SLOW pour, too, which is intended to send a much stronger message than a fast pour. Sigsawyer left the answer after this segue, but I’ll ignore it for now to put my own powers of pickup critique to the test.

My take is that he blew it by letting up on the attraction gas pedal at the beach, when she was amped and ready for a same night lay. Sure, she put up token resistance (what hot woman doesn’t?), but sigsawyer miscalculated when he dialed down the heat and went into comfort mode. The scene and the feelings were too intense by that point for a reverse into comfort game to do anything but diminish the girl’s arousal. And a girl taken from a high arousal state to a lower arousal state will resent the man who did it to her.

Essentially, where sigsawyer messed up was moving the seduction phase before the comfort phase. He brought her to a “fuck me now” high then took her back down to “an uninterested man asking me harmless questions about my life” low.

Thus, when she was with him at the backyard party, and he was still teasing her, she misinterpreted his taunts as that of a man who had rejected her and was having fun at her expense. You could say she almost felt betrayed. The slow pour was her way of expressing her feeling of being betrayed. All of her resentment is exacerbated by the sight of her less cute friend making out with another man.

What I would do: If I had a drink in my hand, I would splash it in her face. If not, I would grab her wrist and move in close, so that she could feel my hot breath and my anger. Then, I’d wait a few beats for the tension to grow and make another move on her lips. This is the kind of girl who’s in a frame of mind in which only direct, uninhibited, masculine escalation will suffice to break down her bitch shield.

Was I right? I’ll check sigsawyer’s answer later, and update this post with his story’s conclusion. In the meantime, I’ll throw this test of your game to the commenters. Is your Game analysis tight? Could you have closed the deal with HBEE?

****

And now we find out how the story ended. From sigsawyer,

ANSWER:
I look her in the eye for a pregnant second. Then, without standing up, I slap her hard across the face. Like a tight right hook with an open hand. Her eyes light up and suddenly everything clicks. The first time I tried to fuck her? She wasn’t turned off by my copious douchery, she was turned off because she was the kind of chick who gave guys shit because she wanted to be put in her damn place. I reach up, grab her hair, and yank her down to my mouth; she responds with moaning, crotch-soaked enthusiasm. We end up fucking in the backyard of an empty vacation house on the walk back to her room.

If you’d told me pre-redpill that I would be picking up hot Eastern Euro girls by slapping them Sean Connery-style… well I’d be fucking elated if I believed you. But it’s a good lesson to never forget the dark heart of woman.

Yep as I suspected, sigsawyer ruined the beach night by moving from arousal backwards into comfort blabbing, and that’s why she poured the beer over his head. But recall ancient CH wisdom: Indifference, not hate, is the opposite of love. A slow-poured beer over the head is another way of saying a deluge of tingles in the cleft. The beer was her resentment and frustration; his response immediately and unquestioningly snapped her back into that arousal state she was in during the skinny-dip beach night. His alpha ZFG masculinity now proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, she was able to flower for him and answered his primal display with her own.

And yes, my experience with EE girls is that they are very particular about their men showing real alpha grit. EE women need to know their men can be hard as fuck (in all manifestations of that term) when it matters. Their shit tests are geared to eliciting the most masculine response possible. Few American beta males pass these tests because they can’t even.

Comment of the Week winner Days of Broken Arrows, writing from the perspective of a former insider to the print magazine world, has an excellent summary of what drives a lot of the magazine and newspaper poz that is nearly reaching saturation point in America.

I used to write for magazines and newspapers and, in fact, wrote for a former Teen Vogue editor at one of the newspapers. And I can tell you this: In the mags, close to 100 percent of what’s written is advertiser-driven.

Those “outrageous” articles on anal sex and subjects like that aren’t so outrageous when you learn that the makers of K-Y Jelly (or some other such company) has bought full-page ads and that’s why the articles are being written. And all those other oh-so-wild “boundary-breaking” teen sex articles? Check the ads for contraceptives. There’s big money there. Mags don’t get that kind of advertising revenue writing about nice flowers or coffee tables.

Advertising didn’t always drive content. Once upon a time there was “a wall” that separated the ad division and the editorial division. The reason for this was so that the editorial side could operate independent of influences and be objective. But by the mid-1990s, fewer people were buying newspapers and magazines, so out of desperation, editors started to “tear down the wall” and grudgingly accepted some influence from advertisers.

But then came the massive influence of the Internet, which no newspapers could foresee (because editors lived in a bubble and didn’t heed warning of writers like myself). The Internet decimated newspaper and magazine circulation. Craigslist alone destroyed classified sections, which kept many a newspaper’s cash flowing.

The Web’s popularity caused advertisers to run from print and ran to the Web. So, to keep the revenue coming in, editors willingly tore down that advertising/content wall. They then let the ad execs march into the newsroom to give marching orders (metaphorically speaking).

And this brings me to my main point. Liberals/Democrats are now gloating about how it’s so wonderful that “the revolution is being led by Teen Vogue and Cosmo.” It isn’t. It’s being led by the big corporations that buy the ads that keep those mags in business.

So, once again, we see that the so-called “independent thinkers” are pawns of the corporate state. What they think is liberating is basically Big Pharma forcing the hand of editors to assign articles that will help them sell The Pill, the Morning After Pill, and whatever else women are taking these days.

I hope it’s not too bad a surprise for shitlibs when the curtain is pulled back and they’re forced to realize that the “leaders” they’re following aren’t Ivy League writers but Merck and Johnson & Johnson.

Gullible shitlibs suck the cock of corporate fat cats and praise poz-pushing greedy CEOs as “the moral conscience of America”, not realizing that they are utter dupes of “the Man” and the machine that they used to rage against but now enrich with their virtue sniveling support.

Interestingly, the wall between advertising and editorializing that is now crumbled to the ground corrupts not just editorial content, but the hiring process at these pozpaganda factories. If Merck or Amazon are running the editorial boards and deciding the content of our esteemed newspapers and glam mags of record, then those essentially corporate PR organs will gradually attract into their hiring pools the kinds of typists and pundits who sincerely believe in the degenerate, lying, fake crap that corporate America wants them to write to better push their products.

So I think gaystream media shitlib writers are more than just useful idiots scammed by the capitalist pigs they once hated; they are true believers. And the corporatocracy loves nothing more than a phalanx of faithful poz-dealers who don’t have to be bribed for their services. They’ll just show up with a smile and a thesaurus of snarky lib phrases, ready and eager to do the fat cats’ bidding.

The Telltale Physiognomy

Trump has done well in the aftermath of the Texas hurricane, so naturally the Gaystream Media are turning the focus of their agitprop firepower onto Melania Trump’s shoes in order to deny the Golden Don any positive covefefe. Via Gabber @kgrace:

Just for perspective:

THIS is the vogue writer who wrote about Melania’s inappropriate shoes upon arrival in Texas.

The mutant leftoid hag above is Lynn Yaeger, fashion typist for Vogue. She’s a fashion expert, you see. You do see it, right Winston? Right? *caged rats chitter hungrily*

The Ugly resentfully lash out at the Beautiful, and the media frame it as the moral reprimands of unbiased third party sources.

The cleansing fire of Truth and Beauty can’t come soon enough.

Maul-Right rallies and protests in the heart of shitlib shires are important contributions to shifting the Weltanshauung to sanity, because (as reader PA might say) it’s good strategic sense to let shitlibs know they can’t strut around the public space anymore like they own it.

But rightist rallies, whether peripheral alt-right LARPfests or stadium-sized Trump throngs of Heritage America normies, won’t get the MAGA job done by themselves.

It’s fairly well grasped by even Joe Schmoe that Trump has no friends in the corrupt ruling class. The Dems, the GOPe, the media, the Creep State, academia, Big Tech, the billionaires, the Mohel Minority…they all hate Trump and all work tirelessly to thwart his nationalist populism vision. The evil arrayed against Trump is truly impressive, and terrible in scope. Even a God Emperor can’t stand against those odds and win without a little help from his friends. His friends…the half of the American people who voted for him.

As Agnostic writes, we the people are Trump’s leverage.

The oligarchic groups all desperately want the general public to butt out of politics, and Trump has a unique and distinct ability to turn the public loose on the political battlefield, and the oligarchs have no way to immediately shove the public back off. So that’s quite a bit of leverage, if applied.

Maybe that means motivating them to turn out at the polling stations to determine the winner of an election, and maybe it means motivating them to turn out to the Mall in DC, where millions of citizens assemble to order the Pentagon to get the hell out of Afghanistan (and other places).

What is the RNC or the DNC going to do to counter-act our collective action at the ballot box — rig tens of millions of votes? And what is the Pentagon going to do to counter-act a massive assembly demanding an end to our failed and wasteful foreign policies — open fire on millions of normal citizens? I don’t think so. They won’t be able to ignore that level of escalation from the people, and will have to fold lest it get worse. […]

But left by himself, Trump has very little power to inflict damage on the enemy groups or individuals — he needs his supporters to act as a force multiplier.

That base is nothing to scoff at. They can rescue this nation from the brink of a suicidal plunge into globohomo banana republicanism and tyrannical corporatocracy. But only if Trump calls on them, and only if they — you and I — are willing to step up and be his force multiplier.

On that note, what we should strive toward is a Great Cuck Chuck of 2018. Political and social agitation can create a groundswell for the ousting of GOPe cucks, either by primarying them or, if necessary, by supporting any halfway sane Dems against them in the general mid-term election. Traitors first, enemies second.

Trump may have to wait until after the 2018 midterms when the cucks are swept from power to begin enacting his pro-Heritage America agenda with a vengeance. Trump can play a part in making the Great Cuck Chuck of 2018 happen by dissociating himself from Congress as much as possible. Withhold his endorsements, endorse upstart populists, talk about “working with sensible Dems because the GOP isn’t interested in making America great again”, etc.

I believe Trump has his heart in the right place, and he is being strangled into assuming a lowly figurehead status by the denizens of The Swamp. But our God Emperor should not think he’s alone. He may have no friends in power, but he has power in his friends — ordinary Americans who voted for him because they rightly sensed the Deep State Globohomo Establishment is their enemy.

Pantifa Violence

Here’s a video clip of a pantifa loser assaulting an elderly, wheelchair-bound veteran.

A disabled old man is about the level of opposition that pantif@gs can handle without wetting their panties.

The Gaystream Media, as usual, is uninterested in reporting the facts of leftoid pantifa violence. Their preferred narrative today is menstruating over Melania Trump’s shoe choice.

Has CuckRyan disavowed pantifa yet? Or is he still busy bending over for his Globohomo paymasters?

A very powerful feeling for a man is walking out on a date because the girl dissatisfied him with her opinions or behavior.
Very few men do this.
More men should.
It’s exhilarating and builds masculine character, which has positive knock on effects for other girls he dates.

Male choosiness — and the associated behavior that naturally emerges from it — is a male SMV amplifier. Men who express a refined, discriminating taste in women, and an exquisite discernment of which women qualify for the pleasure of his company, are adored by women because choosy men have an aura of preselection. The choosy man becomes the chased, rather than the chaser.

It’s a lot easier to call the shots and direct the tempo when you’re the one being chased.

Adhering to exacting standards in women is a strong signal of attractiveness to women, given that women will assume, usually rightly, that a man willing to cavalierly reject potential mates is a man who has many other women in his queue. He is therefore “that guy* aka the alpha male of women’s dreams.

Then there is the rarity and unpredictability of male choosiness. When the average woman can go years, or even a lifetime, without suffering the indignity of a man walking out on her during a date for failing to meet his expectations in feminine demeanor, the rare man who pulls off the feat will seem a Golden God to her. She will invest so much dreamscape energy into wondering why he rejected her and what he has going on for himself that she’ll gasp with sudden and self-conscious arousal if she sees him crossing the street months later.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the choosy man enriches an inner reservoir of self-entitlement and self-confidence that is absolutely thrilling to women. Try it sometime. If you date enough women, you will inevitably come across an ur-cunt. You know the type; she stares at her phone during the date, hassles the wait staff, and talks about her exes, all the while demanding to know in so many words what you have to offer to her.

The mediocre masses of beta males would just grin and bear it, hoping their awful date has a last minute change of heart when her nasty woman turns into a sex goddess and ends the beta’s night on a thigh note. That never happens for the beta, but still…beta persisted.

The triumph of hope over experience is the beta male’s epitaph.

Instead of slip-streaming into the void of faceless nutless beta males that women treat with the same consideration they do houseplants, be one of those exciting jerkboys who prematurely deep sixes a date when the girl is cunting out. I promise, she’ll never forget you after that. I also promise that you’ll feel an incomparable rush of power. This is your mind-body axis telling you that what you did will ricochet to your reproductive fitness benefit in the future with other girls.

That glow of power is unmistakable to you, and it’s acutely perceptible to women, who have evolved a sensitive limbic radar for picking up cues of dominance and power and mastery in men.

PS Here’s Ryan Reynolds’ with the solid photoneg.

In Sane World, this photo would elicit gushing admiration. In our current Clown World, it’s eliciting howls of outrage and fissures of butthurt from the degenerate freak mafia.

An attractive, slender mother cradles her infant to her bosom, while a muscular White man — an anonymous hero with his cap brim pulled over his eyes — cradles them both and carries them to safety. Is there a better symbol of the natural hierarchy between man, woman, and child? It’s Beauty in its simplicity of Truth, and that’s why it’s a Weapon of Mass Triggering. The Bitter Ugly Mole People screech in pain when they are forced to stare at the sun.

Person of Color™ rescues his Nike Air Zooms as White supremacist asserts his White privilege upon his wife and child.
(h/t Mr. Frexit)

Allegedly, the White man is not the woman’s husband. Her husband is the man escorting his Nikes to dry land.

***

Disaster response, by race.
Chads: cooperate and coordinate rescue missions and charitable assistance
Looter-Americans: take advantage of chaos for personal enrichment, bitch about delay in charity
The Mohel Minority: find way to use disaster as pretext to politically weaken gentile enemy
Mexifornians: siesta

I’ll make the brief case here that the cuntventional wisdom is wrong about porn. It doesn’t raise men’s standards in real life women by visually and orgasmically acclimating them to hotter women; it lowers men’s standards by supplying an outlet of multiple hot digiwomen into which men spill their vitality and leaves them unmotivated to spend any energy acquiring a sole fleshwoman of impeccable femininity.

Porn probably raises the aggregate beta male thirst, and probably also raises the aggregate beta male disgust threshold for acceptable mates. (The higher your disgust threshold, the more you can tolerate a disgusting presence in your life.)

The old feminist-inspired argument goes like this:

Man watches porn featuring slender babes catering to his fantasies. This adjusts his expectations upward for real life women, because he can now only get off to women who are as hot and sexually voracious as his Redtube Lovers. He drops out of the dating market dissatisfied with the IRL heifers available to him.

Sounds plausible, but it’s (mostly) wrong.

The new and improved Chateau argument:

Man watches porn featuring slender babes catering to his fantasies. This reduces his urgency to find a sexy real life lover, an urgency which he would normally feel absent the steady stimulus of porn. Blue balls and T build-up that would occur in a pre-online porn environment act together to focus and energize a man’s sexual standards, because he’s not going to blow his one chance for sexual relief on a heifer or bitterbitch feminist. So he hunts for prime pussy with a starving man’s clarity of vision and intensity of purpose. But the porn-saturated man has lost that clarity of the hunt, and, depleted of his T, settles into a low energy, passion-less relationship of convenience with whatever skank or cow roams into his field of view. Or, if cowfraus are his only option and he has a shred of dignity left, he’ll commit to a lifetime stay in his masturbatorium.

This therefore is the negative double-whammy of widespread, cheap, easily available, hardcore online porn on the healthy functioning of the sexual market:

Porn simultaneously increases sloppy beta male thirst and decreases beta male standards.

The downstream effects of porn are notoriously bad for lovers of feminine Beauty: recklessly insincere beta male thirst bloats the egos of an ever-expanding horde of self-entitled fatties and sluts, and loose beta male standards discourages fatties, fugs, and unfeminine skanks from making themselves more pleasing to men.

Porn is beta malaise. Betalaise. The lethargy of body, mind, and spirit that porn induces in men, but especially in beta males who don’t have regular access to 3D hot babes and must live with the dreary knowledge that their pornlife is less a complement to an active dating life than it is a necessary substitute, dulls their seductive allure, atrophies their courtship skills, and weakens their internal drive to win the love of a sexy hot girl. The pornfed soyboy is content hitching his rickety pisswagon to an unfeminine careerist shrike or gargantuan blob because his porn habit rescues him from abject sexual starvation and the motivation to fill his ballbelly.

Delivered from the brink of sexual starvation by the drip drip of pornified dopamine hits, the betalaise sufferer misses out on the starvation-induced mental energy and clarity that would suffuse his loinsoul and push him inexorably towards conquest of a worthy woman. His hunger thus partly sated by porn, he surrenders his day-to0-day public existence to the passion-free comforts of a sluggish, insensate coupling with an uninspiring unwoman who is easy to keep around and who will by her dull presence slap his life story with the imprimatur of bourgeois respectability.

Related concept: Hormesis.

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