What’s the quickest way to turn on a girl with the least amount of effort? Ellipsis game? Yeah, that’s pretty low effort. But this example of what I like to call JERKBOY CHARISMA chat game may trump ellipsis game in the race to the brusque bottom. A reader forwards his chivalrous courtship to a Juliet he hasn’t seen in a month:
This is what it looks like when a woman is chasing a man, and the man is reclining in the chased after position. This is how you want it to look for maximum romantic success. If it looks like this, you’re doing it right.
“But she said she hates him!?!,” wail the women and the men impersonating women.
If you’ve learned anything from reading CH, you know that a woman’s hate is not the opposite of a woman’s love. Indifference is the opposite of love. When a woman says she “hates” you, what she’s really saying is she hates that she loves what you do to her. Hate is just a conveniently accessible word to describe the rush of pleasing emotions, drama-larding cognitive dissonance and twatly ensconced tingles that a woman feels when a man expertly teases her and signals his total disregard for her approval.
I expect a deluge of men running wordless emoji game on women now. Why blab your betatude when a funny picture sends a thousand alpha waves?
RappaccinisDaughter (sock puppet alert) imparts a valuable lesson,
Hey, Greensleeves!
Check this shit out.
So I was just out hunting last weekend, and I got a shot on a nice doe. Lucked into it, really—I was late heading out to my blind setup and the sun had already risen, but lo! she walked right out in front of me. Now, I had to take the shot freehand because my sticks were still slung over my shoulder, and fuck my life, I was doing it with iron sights. But I have a nice .50-cal inline muzzleloader, and they’ll reach out as far as 200 yards, so if I can see it in the iron sights, I can hit it. Brought it up to my shoulder, focused on the front sight, and KA-FUCKING-BOOM!
I don’t know if you’ve ever shot a muzzleloader, but they make one hell of a smoke cloud. Even if you’re not in a blind, it can really make it hard to see how the shot went down. I knew I’d hit her, but by the time I came out of recoil (I didn’t even feel it at the time, but I had a nice bruise flowering on my collarbone by the next morning) she was gone, daddy, gone. You wouldn’t believe how strong a deer really is until you experience it firsthand; they can travel up to a quarter of a mile just on the oxygen that’s already in their muscles. Amazing creatures, really. And I was going to have to track her through some pretty heavy brush.
So the first thing you have to do is, you have to let the bullet do its work. If you start trying to track them right away, they’ll keep running. So I lit up a cigarette—mmmm! tobacco!—and smoked the whole thing, just standing there. Then I put it out and put the butt back in my pack (because I’m eco-friendly like that), and went to work. Luckily, there was a light snowfall, so when I got to where she’d been standing, the tuft of tawny fur was really easy to see. So was the blood trail, which thankfully started right there.
I wound up actually finding her about 45 yards away, piled up at the base of a tree. I like to follow the old German hunting traditions, given that it’s half my heritage, so I plucked a little twig and put it in her mouth, for her symbolic “last bite.” It’s kind of bittersweet, that moment, knowing that you’ve ended the life of this beautiful creature, but when I opened her mouth I saw how ground-down her teeth were. She was in good shape, but she was pretty old. Who knows if she’d have lasted out that winter?
Then, I had to tag her and start cleaning her. Gross, but necessary. Piece of advice—you really cannot beat the “butt out” tool for getting that part of the deer out of the way. I’d heard coyotes howling all the previous evening, so I figured I wouldn’t need to bother burying the gutpile. The ‘yotes would have taken care of it by sundown.
The bitch was hauling her out. I usually have this little sled-like arrangement that I use, but I’d been in such a rush that morning I’d forgotten to bring it along. So I had to grab her by her hind legs and drag her, because I’d ALSO forgotten to bring my blaze-orange engineer tape. There’s no way I’m going to try to haul her around on my shoulders without it…that’s a great way to get shot by another hunter.
I took her back to the cabin and wondered if I should finish butchering her, but then I remembered that I was the one who brought the handle of Knob Creek, so I figured I could cozen someone into doing it for me as long as I shared. (I’m still learning the butchering part—I tend to waste meat by accident.) But I did go ahead and get the backstraps out, and by the time everyone else made it back in, I had them going in the broiler for everyone’s lunch. Hooray! The End.
TL; DR for Greensleeves: If you’re going to write 500 words that have nothing to do with anything the original blog post is about, at least try not to bore everybody to fucking tears.
I laughed.
PS The reason I don’t think this is the ORD is that the writing, stylistically as well as substantively, sounds like the voice of a man. But bell curve tails exist to add a little spice to the patterns of life.
girls will be boys and boys will be girls it’s a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for Scalzi Scal-scal-scal-scal Scalziiiii….
CH has long been on record decrying a perceptible increase in masculinization of Western women and feminization of Western men. Mangan tackled the subject recently, and there are stirrings among the realtalkerati that a strange psychological, biological, or both, convergence of men and women to a creepy androgynous norm is occurring, and that this secular sexual convergence — a global gelding, if you will — is most pronounced among populations in the developed world.
Every which way you measure the health of America, she is declining, except for the stock portfolios of the 1% ruling elite. One is tempted to draw a connection between the flowering androgyny of the Anglosphere people and the loss of confidence and faith in the historical Western project. The ubermensch is not a Nordic warrior; he is a doughy whiner and a shrieking termagant begging for annihilation at the hands of the uruk hai.
There may be upsides to reduced sexual dimorphism, but the costs are real, and dispiriting to lovers of beauty. A world of ballbusting manjaws…
and pudding pop nancyboys…
is about as far from divinely inspired beauty as fallen man can sink.
What is the end game of mass androgyny leading toward a human unisex? One shudders to contemplate.
Friendships across the sexes appeal to different kinds of men, and among those men who pursue them only a paucity are any good at it. Most men are bros; they don’t have close friendships with women they aren’t banging. They have, at best, acquaintances of the opposite sex, beyond their girlfriends or wives.
What kind of man has lots of real female friends? Usually, the kind of man who has trouble making real male friends, or who has little desire to hang out with men. A select group of men do have real friendships with women, but these men, by virtue (or vice) of their talents with the ladies have difficulty building solid friendships with other men.
Men who are good at befriending women and bad at (or otherwise uninterested in) befriending other men fall into three identifiable categories.
1. The Latent Lover
The classic sneaky fucker, minus the malevolence. This guy is charming, challenging, and a pro at making women feel sexually alive. His MO is to flirt with every woman who passes the threshold of bangability. He loves the company of women because he genuinely loves the peculiar qualities of femaleness. Married, single, feminist, feminine… he seduces them all, though he may not necessarily have sex as a goal in mind. He loves the lip-licking, hair-tossing, heel-dangling, cheek-blushing, pupil-dilating, mannerism-mirroring reactions of women who delight in his dispensations.
As you can guess, the Latent Lover engenders envy and defensiveness in other men, particularly men whose women happily partake of the LL’s deftness at handling their hamsters. He may mean no harm, (although he sometimes does), but women’s submission to his graces threatens their watchmen. This dislike between mate guarders and smooth charmers is a two-way street; the Latent Lover is indifferent and often bored by the company of men, especially after 5pm. He prefers a life of adventure, and what’s more adventurous than navigating the alien terrain of women’s minds?
2. The Fun Chum
This guy is funny, upbeat and expert at syncing with women’s predilection for unseriousness. When things get tense, he’s the man that blows it open with a well-timed quip. What the fun chum lacks in a sexy vibe, he makes up with a commitment to social levity. He won’t generate any tingles, but women love to be around him because he takes their minds off of the constant intrasex backbiting that characterizes most female friendship rings.
The flaw in the Fun Chum is how quickly he annoys the shit out of other men. They think he acts like a fool. Or, worse, like a dancing monkey. He’s not romantically threatening, but he is unmanly in his quickness to resort to histrionics. He’s a man who takes more pleasure is making women laugh than in making other men comfortable with his presence. In small doses, he’s liked by everyone and a welcome spice to any party. In doses large enough to vault him to the center of attention, his accumulation of male enemies rapidly multiplies.
3. The Beta Supplicator
We all know this archetype. He’s got a lot of female friends for one reason only: he has trained their egos to be dependent on his incessant flattery and awesome ability to sympathize, sometimes to the point of tears. Some women — really cool bitches, usually — see through his act, but most enjoy their own little lickspittle to lavish them with the “you go grrl!” nostrums that they need to survive the endless judgment of a ruthless sexual market. And the Beta Supplicator is happy to indulge, because without his facility at vomiting a steady stream of nauseating unctuousness he would get no female attention at all, asexual or otherwise.
Naturally, the BS man is despised by other men, including BSers. His worst sin is not that he sucks up to women, as bad as that is, but that his suck-uppery is so blatantly ineffective and his motivations so transparent to men, if not to women. He’s a eunuch in practice, an anhedonic lump of indeterminate doughiness. A worm. A lapdog. A nasally herbschling. He has few real male friends who can stand his schtick. So why is his kind so numerous? Why do other men tolerate him? One, he’s no romantic threat, so most men find the effort to dislodge him from their women’s lives a bother not worth tackling. Two, the Beta Supplicator can occasionally serve a useful purpose as an emotional sponge who absorbs all the boring relationship talk that those women would otherwise dump on their jerky boyfriends. The BS boy is like the harem guard, except instead of guarding them from sexual predators they guard the harem king from dealing with the bitching and moaning of his concubines.
***
As archetypes, it should go without saying that plenty of exceptions exist. For instance, the company of socially savvy, “leader of men” alpha males is sought and enjoyed in nearly equal measure by other men and by women. And plenty of Latent Lovers and Fun Chums are socially adept enough to know where the romantic line is drawn and to know how to speak the language of men. The above archetypes are simply examples of men who are unusually good at befriending women while being noticeably less good at befriending men.
– Yard sales and consignment shops are lucrative venues for picking up girls. Good ratio + young babes + opener props = win.
– When a hot chick makes a funny, don’t laugh too hard. In fact, don’t laugh at all. Just smile. LOLing is approval seeking.
– Be wary of conversational entrapment. The longer you talk about a woman’s concerns, the more likely she’ll friendzone you.
– Approaching in coffee shops is tough, b/c it’s so obvious. Try making a face at the girl first. Chicks love silliness.
– Make fun of chickscript. “O-M-G, that’s so totes true!!!” Girls love flirty teasing with an edge. Shows fearlessness.
– If you text a girl you met the night before and she asks who you are, text back “Kanye West”. Keeps the pickup ball rolling.
– Misinterpret a girl’s actions as coming on to you. Girl says hi, you reply: “Whoa, save the pillow talk for later, speedy gonzales.”
– Smile at women you pass on the street. Many more than you think will smile back. Lead with a smile, as you lead in life.
– When you have a woman at the foot of your bed, simultaneously grab her hair and palm her pussy while kissing her neck. Magic.
– If you distrust your girlfriend, don’t let it show. Feigned naivete is a powerful weapon against devious playettes. Think long-term strategy.
– Drop something. Dramatically pick it up. While bending, look over your shoulder at the girl, and ask “Getting an eyeful?” Assume the sale.
– Don’t get too excited by a girl’s physical escalation. She’ll value your ensuing interest less. Steer the seduction.
– If a girl mentions another man, hold up your hand & say “You hear that?” “What?” “The sound of this conversation dying.”
– Never tolerate a girl showing up later than you to a date. Visit another bar then return in ten minutes. She still not there? Leave. Alternate option: Talk to other girls who may be at the bar. When she arrives, she’ll experience preselection overload.
– When you meet for a date, don’t hug the girl. She’s expecting it then. Be bold and unpredictable. Touch her on your terms. Leave the beta males to eagerly lap up asexual hugs.
– After sex, or before if you like risk, tell girl “I’m not interested in a relationship with anyone.” Money-saving MOAB game.
– Art museums are great first date venues to demonstrate not just knowledge, but wry humor as well. “Did he paint nipples?”
– If a date is going well, you’ll be tempted to stop challenging a woman. Don’t. Save your full acceptance until after sex.
– Got an arm cast? Have a niece or a few women sign it. Not an option? Fake it. Draw flowers and hearts. Cast game is nuclear.
– Pace a girl’s unspoken objections. “This is really crazy meeting a stranger on the street.” Pacing disarms and re-norms.
– ”That’s just something a girl says when she can’t handle her feelings for a man” is a good, all-purpose reply to a shit test.
– If you go out a lot, you will have make-outs. Fresh breath extends sessions. Tip: chew mint leaves on your way out the door.
– If you kiss a girl and she reacts with confusion or pulls away, wait a beat and sexily say “hot”. Instant mood lifter.
– Science can segue to sexytime. “I read that people relate based on smell compatibility.” *sniff* “Your love smell is strong.”
– ”I know how this ends. You’ll fall in love. Hard. Dream of rings and white weddings. I’ll run.” – said to a girl on 2nd date. Try it with a straight face. It’s chicknip.
Given the logistical/administrative difficulties of starting/maintaining one of these relationships, I suspect the women that are inclined to this behaviour vastly out-number the ones that actually go through with it.
A chorus of platitude pushing women and their thimblepeen allies that is growing more silent and enfeebled by the day thanks to the yeoman efforts of your humble proprietors, insists only a few crazy women way out at the extremes of female behavior have relationships with death row lotharios. But, as Balzac astutely notes above, what you are seeing in those newsworthy stories of women with their inmate lovers is only the tip of the viceberg. For every one woman who hurdles all the obstacles put in her way to feel the reptilian embrace of a man who once spilled blood for fun, there are a thousand more women who experience a similar simmering desire for the thug but who don’t have the vajflaps or the taste for high adventure to consummate their lust.
This doesn’t mean those lazy or astonishingly prudent women don’t krave killer kock. Inertia is not the opposite of desire. Neither, for that matter, is fear.
I like to softly twist the shiv in the hides of beta males (wake-up call? or sadistic hobby? you be the judge), so now’s a good time to ask them when the last time was a woman jumped through a million logistical, legal and administrative hoops to hungrily soak in their special brand of beta male love? What’s that? Never, you say? Well, then, you know what to do. Hie thee to thy masturbatorium!
Read the link provided. The melancholia-tinged laughs are inexhaustible.
Three years ago a German waitress called Dagmar Polzin fell in love with a murderer while waiting at a Hamburg bus stop. She saw his photo on a Benetton anti-death-penalty poster. Bobby Lee Harris, a North Carolina man with an IQ of 75, was on death row for stabbing his boss to death during a robbery on a shrimp boat. Polzin was overwhelmed by the picture,
“It was something in his eyes,” she later said. “There was this remorse, sadness. I was attracted. I knew he was the one.”
Within the year Polzin and Harris were engaged and she had moved to America to live with his family. This story seems a little surprising, but if you see the picture that Dagmar fell in love with it is, frankly, astonishing. He may have many charming accomplishments to recommend him as a husband, but Harris is not a bonny boy.
Low IQ, badboy killer charm >>>>>> male looks.
It was recently reported that Ian Huntley, the Soham man charged with the murders of schoolgirls Jessica Chapman and Holly Wells, receives bundles of fan mail from women every week – many containing photographs of themselves.
Child murderers are reportedly the most hated of all criminal elements. And yet, even they have no trouble inspiring women to swooning declarations of everlasting love.
Prison romances seem in no danger of dying out. But the cliche of the prison bride as wig-wearing trailer-trash is misguided: the women come from all sectors of society. Carlos the Jackal become engaged to his lawyer last year. The famous Glasgow hard man Jimmy Boyle married a psychiatrist he met in prison. The most common form of contact, certainly for many of the 100 or so British women currently engaged or married to American men on death row, is through anti-death-penalty campaign internet sites.
REVOKE THE VOTE, 2013.
The most melancholy story concerns two middle-aged Christian sisters, Avril and Rose, who left long-term “boring” marriages for men in prison.
Sometimes women despise beta males so much they don’t even want their bux.
One man had been convicted of a string of minor property offences, the other man had killed his previous wife.
Once a woman’s love algorithm is executed (heh), not even knowing a man’s history of killing his previous wife will stop her from delivering the male to her box. Throw caution to the wind, will a girl with tingling quim!
His new wife, Rose, said: “I have faith that if you’re genuine with the Lord you’re a new person. A lot of people have said I should be worried about him because of what he did and his background – which is pretty awful and violent – but I have no fear.”
This is the deformed, quasimodo version of Christianity.
Despite the women’s faith, both relationships ended tragically: a week after his release the thief bludgeoned Avril to death with a hammer. The other husband ended up back in prison after trying to cut Rose’s ear off and pull out her teeth with pliers.
However, it is rare that the most disturbing type of relationship is formed. Hybristophiliacs are sexually excited by violent outrages performed on others. These women often send pornographic pictures of themselves to prisoners. The self-styled “most violent prisoner in Britain”, Charles Bronson, publishes photos he receives on his website.
Beta male: Will u text me pic of your boobs?
Girl: Creep! Don’t ever call me again.
Charles Bronson: *rolls out rap sheet a mile long*
Girls: MY TITS. MY PUSSY. ALL YOURS. MARRY US!!!
Funny things is, I’m not even exaggerating.
But, as clinical psychologist Dr Stuart Fischoff says, the love object is “almost irrelevant at this point. He’s a dream lover, a phantom limb”. Such fantasy projection can be used to wish away any aspect of reality. The excuses the women give for their partner’s alleged crimes operate as in all other relationships. They do what we all sometimes do when faced with negative information about loved ones: they refuse to believe it.
It’s informative to compare and contrast the rationalizing behavior of women with law-abiding betas and alpha killers. Women have no trouble, no trouble at all, believing negative things about their beta hubbies, and will often go to great lengths to exaggerate those negative impressions so that their transition away from the beta to a world of freedom to pursue anti-betas is as painless as possible. This behavior is quite unlike what we see women doing with alpha assholes, for whom every readily apparent flaw is instantly and vigorously denied or waved away by their women with the acumen of a star lawyer on a cocaine-fueled semantics bender.
On one website devoted to Richard Ramirez his wife says, “I appeal to all intelligent persons not to believe everything that is being presented about Richard in the media. The facts of his case ultimately will confirm that Richard is a wrongly-convicted man, and I believe fervently that his innocence will be proven to the world.”
Beta housepet: I forgot your mom’s birthday.
Wife: Is there anything you can do right? Remember when you forgot our 13th anniversary? Do you even care at all? Maybe if you got your head out of those video games you play all the time you’d stop being so goddamned selfish. I want a divorce.
Serial killer: I killed 20 people. Eh, it might’ve been 45.
Female admirer: Oh, I’m sure you had your reasons. Please love me like only you can.
Anyone who comes to this blog to insist, against the mountain of evidence proving otherwise, that only skanks or fugs or very rare specimens of womanhood with mental illness fall for the alluring charms of alpha male killers and crooks will be summarily banned for possessing the lethal combination of trollery and studied ignorance.
Charles Manson, 79 years old and still proudly sporting a swastika on his forehead, has a 25 year old girlfriend.
Charles Manson, perhaps the most infamous convicted killer of all time, is 79 years old and still locked up in California’s Corcoran State Prison, where he walks with a cane and sports chipped prison dentures. Star is a 25-year-old brunette who’s been loyally visiting Manson in jail since she was 19 years old and maintains several websites devoted to defending Manson and his pro-Earth environmental causes.
For those two of you who don’t know, Manson is one of America’s most infamous killers and cult leaders. When you combine fame with that sexy psycho vibe, pussy juice erupts all over the fruited plains.
And Star [ed: girls with one name are same night lay guarantees] says she can prove Manson is more devoted to her than any other girl: “I’ll tell you straight up, Charlie and I are going to get married,” she tells us. “When that will be, we don’t know. But I take it very seriously. Charlie is my husband. Charlie told me to tell you this. We haven’t told anybody about that.”
Star says there won’t be any conjugal visits because “California lifers no longer get them.” If they were an option, “we’d be married by now.”
Manson, however, seems less convinced the impending nuptials are a reality, “Oh that,” he says. “That’s a bunch of garbage. You know that, man. That’s trash. We’re just playing that for public consumption.”
Young hottie falls deeply in love with imprisoned killer 54 years her senior (and looking kind of badass for a geezer if you ask me). Young hottie wants to marry her old killer. Killer brushes aside her nuptial dreams as a PR ploy.
A new study concludes that placing different groups of people in close contact results in conflict.
As reported in the American Journal of Community Psychology, Zachary Neal found that neighborhood integration and cohesion cannot co-exist.
“Is a better world possible? Unfortunately, these findings show it may not be possible to simultaneously create communities that are both fully integrated and fully cohesive,” Neal said. “In essence, when it comes to neighborhood desegregation and social cohesion, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
The reason has to do with how people form relationships. Neal said people usually develop relationships with others who are close rather than far away, and similar rather than different from themselves (be it through race, religion, social class, etc.).
Neal ran computer modeling of different fictional neighborhoods and, after millions of trials, consistently found the same thing: The more integrated a neighborhood is, the less socially cohesive it becomes, and vice versa.
“These trends are so strong, it’s unlikely policy can change it,” Neal said.
CH is long on record asserting, by way of a digestible axiom, that diversity + proximity = war. A few readers agreed; most either rejected the formulation outright, or panderingly mewled it was hyperbolic. But, as usual, CH has been proven right by ♥science♥. Not that the imprimatur of science was necessarily needed; friggin’ common sense and honing that increasingly rare ability to observe the real world with open eyes and pricked ears was enough to comprehend the limitations imposed on the malevolent utopians by intractable human nature.
In time, everything that is written in the Chateau Heartiste tomes will come to be accepted privately, if not publicly, by the great majority as the truth. And when that day comes there will be no where else for the lords of lies to run.
A new study has apparently put the lie to that old song with the lyrics “If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife”.
What Meltzer and her team discovered was that spousal attractiveness does play a major role in marital satisfaction — but only for men. In other words, men care about looks more than women do.
The authors write, “The significant effect of wives’ attractiveness on husbands’ satisfaction was significantly stronger than the nonsignificant effect of husbands’ attractiveness on wives’ satisfaction, indicating that partner physical attractiveness played a larger role in predicting husbands’ marital satisfaction than it did in predicting wives’ marital satisfaction.”
Wow, my friends. Just wow.
Excuse me, I was channeling your typical feminist there for a moment. If you’re a CH acolyte, you probably are not a dumbfuck feminist, ankle-grabbing mangina, or lying leftoid, and therefore the results from this study won’t surprise you. Instead, you’ll amusingly wonder how anyone could have doubted that men are happier with attractive women and women don’t care as much about men’s looks. Stop the goddamned presses! You mean men and women are… *GASP*… different?
Interestingly, the attractive wives also reported higher levels of satisfaction, all because having a happy hubby made them happier too.
The natural state of woman is submission to a confident man. When woman’s nature is allowed to express itself, she is happy. When her nature is stifled — say, by being married to an unhappy or insecure beta male — she is contemplating an eatpraylove getaway. We can conclude that the ideal arrangement is a beautiful wife with a self-assured, dominant husband.
A study conducted in 2008 at the Relationship Institute at UCLA reached a similar finding. Researchers theorized that men who felt they “lucked out” by marrying attractive wives were happier and more likely to care about their wives’ needs — and in turn, the good-looking wives were happier in the relationship as well.
“The husbands seemed to be basically more committed, more invested in pleasing their wives when they felt that they were getting a pretty good deal,” study author Benjamin Karney explained.
Bodacious tit-for-tat. The sexual market is an immense bazaar of endless barter regulating the exchange of biomolecular entities with differing reproductive goals. Bad poets try to ignore this reality. Good poets try to transcend it. Great poets find beauty in it.
Karney said the opposite occurred when the husbands felt they were better looking than their wives, explaining, “They didn’t seem to be quite as motivated to help out their wives when they were more attractive than their wives.”
Options = instability.
What do you think, do you agree with the “hot wife, better life” theory? Sound off below.
Chateau Heartiste already answered this question, using a metric that frames the issue in a tangible way for men. Again, the CH worldview, however despised and resented by the patrons of the pretty lie megaplex, is vindicated by ♥science♥. And now we can add LOVE to the list of pleasures that attractive women inspire to epiphanic heights in men.
Comment Of The Week: Butt Out Edition
Nov 28th, 2013 by CH
RappaccinisDaughter (sock puppet alert) imparts a valuable lesson,
I laughed.
PS The reason I don’t think this is the ORD is that the writing, stylistically as well as substantively, sounds like the voice of a man. But bell curve tails exist to add a little spice to the patterns of life.
[crypto-donation-box]
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