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February 2009 Comment Winner

Feb 27th, 2009 by

The comments were bursting with fruit flavor in February.

February 2009 Comment Winner

It’s Satr expressing his thanks for all the good that I do:

thanks for your progressive and humanist blogging and keep making the world a better place

I carry my burden with a happy heart.

Comment Winner Runner-up

Sebastian Flyte answers Freud’s age old question “what do women really want?” in the comments to my post praising the neg as an opener:

This is what women want.  They WANT to feel unworthy of a guy and then win him over.  Attraction is bascially showing a girl you are out of her league.  That’s all.  The neg does this.  I remember a guy in my secondary school who just straight up told a girl to ‘look in her own league’ when approached – he was with her a week later.  Women have a psychological need to feel inadequate before their man.  This must be demonstrated in one way or another, otherwise attraction just won’t burst forth.

Honorable Mentions

Colin Bowel explains how he reverses a flake in my post discussing this important geopolitical matter:

This is like the time I texted a girl saying “whats up sucky mcdicksucker” and ten minutes later she came over and sucked my dick.

In the same post, Tood ventures a guess that Hulk Hogan’s divorce proceedings will be worse than the sum total of blows he received over his career:

The Hulkster needs GAME.

But the divorce laws are brutalizing Hulk Hogan in a manner that 20 years of being pounded, slammed, and clotheslined by Andre the Giant, the Undertaker, Randy Savage, and the Ultimate Warrior cannot match.

It’s true. Most men would rather take a collapseable metal chair over the head than experience the joy of a cold loveless ex-wife on the warpath of revenge.

Commenter Z tells you exactly what kind of women you are likely to meet online in this post:

THIS IS WHAT YOU GET ONLINE FOR THE MOST PART THOUGH:

1) OLDER WOMEN IN THEIR LATE 20’s-thru-early 40’s.

2) Divorced women who are stuck with their kid(s), thus cannot go out at night very often.

2) Women slumming through the week (only go out to bars on the weekends), hoping to meet some guy with money

3) Broke chicks who dont have the money to pay cover charges at bars

4) Women looking for a fuckbuddy with the looks and equipment she craves (Size queens and muscle-worshippers…………oft will ask for pictures of your dick with a tape measure, etc).

5) Gold-diggers (see number 2)

6) Women who dont have any other single gal pals, and dont want to go to bars “alone”.

7) Cheating wives looking for something on the side, but cannot safely get out to bars without being caught.

Numbers 3 and 6 are your best bet for finding a sweet, attractive and mentally stable woman online.

Whiskey boils the battle of the sexes down to one sentence in this post:

Paraphrasing Spengler, Women in the West (where they have genuine choice) get the men they deserve, and create: PUA pump and dump players, man-boy geeks opting out of a losing game for diversions, and angry older bitter losers.

You gotta play the system you’re given.

Howard Roark offers the MOAN (Mother OF All Negs) in my “Neg As Opener” post:

In college I was friends with a true natural, with unbelieveable instincts for game. One time he came up to us in a small group and sat down, there were two cute girls with us. I knew them, he didn’t really. After sitting down, he used a line, and to this day, I’ve never seen one line just dismantle a girl’s entire mental machinery like this:

“Hey [Girl’s name], you know what? You dress exactly like my mother.”

I’ve never seen anything be over so fast; it was like a secret death blow from an ancient ninjitsu manuscript. She freaked out. Is that an insult? Well, if you’re saying MY mom has no style it was. Then she’s asking him if his mom is hot. He’s like what the fuck is wrong with you, I don’t know if my mom is hot. Her panties were all abunch, she was all over him. But she was like a trapped rat. Amazing.

That was the day I learned the power of what I later (10 years later) read on the internet was called a “neg”. It is so sacred a line that I’ve actually never used it. Somebody should.

I have yet to try it. When I do, I’ll report on the results.

Cannon’s Canon tells us how he rates women on the fuckability scale:

The one redeeming quality about the DC slut machine is that she seems to show some moderate calf musculature.  (The huge feet I could do without)  My old lifting partner and I will always ask of each others’ women how big their calves are, to evaluate them as breeding stock for powerful legs.

G Manifesto relpies to another commenter’s description of the perfect date with his formula for success:

“I would take red scarf out to a nice restaurant and then a walk on the beach. Afterwards, I would sit with her on a park bench and watch the sunset while we told each other stories about our families. The next day, I would call her and feel real nervous until she picked up. I would bring her flowers on our second date and take her to a live play or musical performance.”

Good comment.

I would get high off Hashish and Absinthe and swoop her in a Czech Hostel.

Then go on partying.

Readers wonder if the G is real or a grandiose put-on. I don’t know and I don’t care. Just lean back in your Dutailier leather chair and enjoy it like a long smooth puff of a Cohiba Siglo cigar.

David Alexander cements his position as Troll Overlord:

Foul skags are an excellent source of hugs though.

Sara embraces the reality of the sexual market:

Reading this blog has made me realize that men are by and large doing this type of very important mental calculation when they check me out. I have an urge sometimes to go up to them to point out a few flaws they may not have noticed. At the end of it, I’m sure my rating would go from whatever to goose egg, at which point I’d be satisfied that I’d done my best at full disclosure.

Although Sara hates on me with righteous fembot fury, I don’t inflict my sadistic cruelty on her. If you wonder why Sara gets a relatively free pass, it’s because she leavens her hate with feminine charm. You other haters may want to take note.

Racer X feels the pain of those women who cannot have:

The last pic is a fling. Why? Because she is looking despondent, knowing that she will not be able to enjoy forever being plowed by alpha cock on a nightly basis. She is less than standard beauty wise, a little chubby, and not up to his highest tastes. She knows this, hence the look of dejection on her face. She knows that she will be forever doomed to being fucked by the small penises of lesser males than he. She knows she is ruined forever. To have even tasted his cock once and never have it again is fate worse than anything she can imagine. No woman could endure that.

Dick fuel describes how alphas and betas piss in my post on Paul Newman’s alphatude:

betas piss hunched over staring at their itsy bitsy

alphas lean back and arch their stream

This is a surprisingly accurate observation.

Expat illustrates the effectiveness of pithy lowbrow insults with an unintentionally hilarious response:

“You fag!”

What rejoinder are you looking for?  It’s a football-hooligan type conversation stopper.  I don’t quite get your motivation, or your point.  Truly.  I have no concept whatsoever of why you bother being so inane.

Expat, you’re a gold member commenter, I love ya, but that reply was fuckin awesome.

Kthulah confirms her status as a delusional superfreak whose opinions on human sexual dynamics are useful only for mocking:

Anony, most men are hypocrites when it comes to sex, but it’s not unheard of for a guy to “outsource” if something happens to him that he can’t perform.  The worry that pops up for these guys is losing the wife.  If he doesn’t have that worry, it makes things much easier for him…sort of like with my ex.

Once we figured out what his problem was, I actually considered and then looked into having myself reproductively neutralized.  That means a full hysterectomy and clitorectomy.  I’m not a strict monogamist, but the idea of our union possibly being threatened by someone else just because I was horny, was not appealing.

As it turned out, the ethnic situation here takes care of most of that issue.  So he was right not to let me go through with the operations.  He told me to find some young virile guy who respected me well enough, and get laid.

Lunatic fringe… We know you’re out there…

PA, another commenter in good standing, nails the evil of third world mass immigration (and, yes, it is evil) in my post on the justice meted out to a whore wife who cuckolded her beta hubbie:

Mass immigration benefits the ruling elites economically by crippling the middle class and depreciating the price of labor, politically by supplying socialist voters, and culturally by deracinating the country’s core ethnic group.

Mass immigration, particularly of incompatible newcomers, is a classic divide-and-conquer strategy of the ruling classes.

Simply beautiful in its precise and unassailable truth. Well done.

Obsidian compares PUA to Jedis and Sith. How can I not appreciate that?

In the Jedi world, there are 7 official forms, or styles of combat. Each style emphasizes a particular aspect of fighting, and by extension an aspect of its user.

Yoda, who is by his very nature dimunitive, uses a style that takes advantage of this, making him a very hard target to hit (Ataru, Form IV).

Anakin, who is driven by his passions, chooses a style that best reflects a more “raw Alpha” vibe, Shem-Djo, if my spelling is right (Form V).

Obiwan’s style relies a much more passive approach, which makes him very tough to beat, because his defences are so good (Soresu, Form III).

Mace Windu, like Anakin, draws his power from a deep well of passion; his form of combat is both unorthodox and all-emcompassing/overwhelming at the same time. In fact, only a handful of Jedi have ever even successfully used his style, and when they do, they invariably fall to the Dark Side (Vapaad, Form VII).

Dooku’s style, Makashi, is a true fencer’s art; it is a statement about his sense for flair and elegance, as well as for precision (Form II).

Since references to the Jedi are common in the PUA community, I think it might do well for many of its adherents to contemplate things like this as they consider which dojo they wish to draw from. Congruency is the key here. It must be a natural fit for you in order to get the most out of it, and one reason why a lot of guys fail at Game is because they fail to develop their introspective sides of themselves.

When you sit down and think about what I’ve just written above, you’ll see large elements of each Jedi’s principal style in the way they approach Game among known and even lesser known PUAs. For example, he doesn’t strike me as an Obiwan type. More like an Anakin. Style is more Obiwan.

Anakin. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Marvelous Bastard notes a raw ugly truth I’ve written about before:

Women love it when he tears apart the beta boys, but they hate it when he turns it on the ladies.

This solidarity among the sisterhood is creepy.  You don’t see the men in this forum standing up for the betas, but start making generalizations about women and the ladies get defensive.

It’s always amusing for me to corner my detractors when they commit this sin of the human ego.

Welmer explains why women are opposed to paternity testing:

Interestingly, when I did some research into adultery legislation, it was most frequently women who opposed it or suggested it was a waste of time.

To me, this suggests that more wives than husbands cheat, or at least more wives want to keep the option open. What I think is going on is that a few men cheat on their wives a lot, and a lot of women cheat some.

That’s exactly right. Women have more incentive to keep open the option of cheating on their spouse. Like I’ve said before: Incentives matter. Schools should teach a separate class called “Concepts of Incentives”. It would help dispel a lot of pretty lies people bring with them into the voting booth.

Kick a Bitch, doing what he was put on this earth to do:

both are fat, would only let them give me head. i would also try my best to gizz on their face.

granted, this would apply to most women but wth, figured i would toss it out there.

Anon embraces the alpha/beta distinction in my post about Chris Brown:

Ah yes, its beating up on girls is completely Alpha, in much the same way kicking puppies and stealing candies from babies is Alpha.  The rampaging chimp last week that blinded and maimed some poor woman?-Complete Alpha, running the ultimate neg on the woman.  All those victims had it coming, and really deep inside, wanted it.

In human female world, Travis was indeed an alpha. It wasn’t until a human male showed up with a male-invented gun did Travis resume his place in the pecking order.

Welmer wins a two-fer honorable mention for this exceptional exegesis in the Chris Brown post:

It is interesting how these kinds of revelations result in hysteria. You know, I think half the reason women enjoy the concept of a physically combative sexual relationship is that it creates exactly the kind of drama that empowers them.

Men have an unquestionable lust for war, which is about struggle between groups of men for dominance, yet women, too, have their own penchant for violence and dominance. A woman’s most powerful asset is her ability to harness the destructive power of men, and if she can provoke a man to physical violence it is often a deeply pleasurable experience for her.

This tendency is immortalized in the Norse sagas in this Icelandic proverb:

“eru köld kvenna ráð”

“Cold is the counsel of woman.”

This quote follows a woman’s demands that a man who had insulted her honor be killed.

A violent man is a tool of women, and therefore a good mate. If he doesn’t kill her, she is empowered. This, I think, is the evolutionary explanation for attraction to men who have a tendency to lash out with physical force. The enraged man is an extension of her own power, so it is not so much submission that motivates her desire, but rather the power to inflict damage. To possess a dangerous man is the feminine equivalent of male bloodlust.

Over and over we read about the likes of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, yet men are foolish enough to ignore received wisdom. The continued effeminacy of American men will eventually be the ruin of American women, as there will eventually be nobody left to fight for them. I welcome such an outcome, as there is no reason to fight for a woman who offers nothing but treachery in return.

This was Homer’s lesson, and it stands today.

Along the same vein of why women love men who hit them, Shadowexit posts a poem written by a 19 year old girl:

My back against the couch
I enjoy
your power over me
When you throw the condom away
and me too
I feel sick
because I like it
with an asshole like you

There is more wisdom and beauty in this girl’s heartfelt poem than in all the postmodern poetical dreck in the world. And no, I am not kidding.

Expat also scores an honorable mention two-fer with this trenchant observation:

Men try to win the argument in order to win over the group, women try to win over the group, in order to win the argument.

That’s how I know who are the women on this board.

Make it a three-some. The first one ever here at le Chateau. Congrats, Expat!

I’m only slowly realizing why DA brings out revulsion in me.

He is the antichrist.  The anti joy.  The anti life.  The anti struggle.  The anti personal betterment.  He is unholy, like stagnant water.

The antichrist will be a nauseatingly trollish beta. You heard it here first.

Well done, readers. An impressive list of winners this past month.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Comment Winners | No Comments »

Returning To Abusive Relationships

Feb 26th, 2009 by

I left a comment in Roosh’s post about fat people in modern society being OK with their slovenly appearance (my theory: removal of shaming controls and safety in numbers) in response to the following preposterous assertion by another commenter named Heather:

is it possible to be fat and happy? speaking from personal experience: yep. i fully realize that i’m in the minority, but here is the reality: i’m in spinning class three days a week, yoga four times a week, i walk everywhere, been a vegetarian for the last 18 years, shop at the farmer’s market every week, have an enviable boyfriend, a career that i love and that lets me have my own lovely apartment in expensive-ass san francisco, amazing friends, am crafty as a motherfucker….i could go on. oh, and i’m 5′5″ and 185 pounds.

my point? be careful of casting disparaging judgments on an entire class of people. everyone has their own thing going on, and making assumptions about the happiness of others is shallow and ignorant, at best.

Here was my reply to the very large 5’5″ 185lb Heather:

heather, are you familiar with the ethiopian famine of the mid-1980s? millions starving, and a bunch of euro pop stars got together and wrote a song called “do they know its christmas?” and sang feed the world. bob geldof organized charities. the media was streaming video and pics from ethiopia during that famine.

care to guess how many of those ethiopians were fat?
yeah, not a one.
you can try to fool everyone here but you can’t fool the second law of thermodynamics — if you eat less food you will lose weight.

heather, you are a big fat bowling ball. 5′5″ 185 lbs is disgustingly obese on anyone who isn’t a world class male bodybuilder or powerlifter. if you aren’t lying about your exercise regimen and your vegetarianism, then the simple conclusion remains that you are eating way too much plant food or ice cream and/or exercising with the intensity of a slug for you to be that fat. because i guarantee that if you ate 200 calories worth of food per day for the next two months you WILL lose weight. there is no getting around that law of biochemistry.

oh, and i don’t believe you have an “enviable” boyfriend. you are either lying about that or deliberately misconstruing the meaning of “enviable” to assuage your ego. to clear the air, answer the following questions about your BF:

how tall is he?
how much does he weigh?
does he have all his hair?
do other women check him out when you are out with him on the town?
what is his occupation?
does he have an arrest record?
what is his level of education?
does he watch nascar regularly?
how much money does he make?
is he, or has he ever been, a drunk, gambling addict or drug addict?
is he, or has he ever been, in debt?
what happened to his last relationship?
what did his ex-girlfriends look like while he was dating them?
does he talk about his exes a lot?
when did he lose his virginity?
how long have you been together?
how many gifts has he bought you?
how often does he want to have sex with you?
has he ever fucked you with the lights on or during the daytime?
has he ever fucked you two or more times in a row?
does he go down on you?
on average, how long does he fuck you?
is he always asking you for blowjobs?
do you frequently catch him looking at other women?
has he ever called you another woman’s name?
does he watch a lot of porn?
is this porn featuring slender girls, or fat tonka truck girls?

that’ll do for now.

ps: if you think at your grotesque size you aren’t suffering a hit to your attractiveness to 99.99% of men, think again. men are pretty uniform in what they desire in women’s looks. if you have found a genuine fatty fucker, then count your blessings, because the number of weirdo fetish men who like fucking women of size are FAR fewer than the number of fatsos available for them to fuck.

Roosh appreciated the ownage. On second reading, I am inclined to agree.

So what does this have to do with “Shove me, slap me, but don’t ever say you’ll leave me” theme week?
It’s this: Overeating is self-abuse. Except food won’t give you hot sex.
Unless your name is Keith and you stare longingly at butternut squash.

In his perfect world, shame is once again restored to its rightful place as a powerful motivator of human behavior. SWPLers hate shame. Probably because they hate things that make them feel bad but have the effrontery to work.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Hungry Hungry Hippos, Ugly Truths | No Comments »

Chronicles Of A 21st Century Bachelor

Feb 25th, 2009 by

“Wait, just let me grab my phone.”

She leaned over my lap, arching her back so her round ass was sticking up in the air. Her jeans were skin tight. “That’s a funny ringtone you’ve got.”

She looked back at me coyly, holding her phone loosely in one hand. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“This.” She wiggled her rump. “You like my ass?”

“It’s juicy.” I rested my hand on one cheek, proud of myself that I didn’t have to lie about the quality of her ass.

“MMmmm. Would you like to spank me?”

I gave her a playful spank, making sure to hit both cheeks at once. spank.

“Oh, yeees.” Her eyes were closed. “Hi, Mom…. no, I’m fine… I’m at Amanda’s. Yes, Amanda’s… YES! Yeah.”

“You’re talking to your Mom?!”

“Bye!” Her ass scooted up a little more. “She’s always so worried about me. Spank me again?”

spank.

“MMmmmMMMmmm… uh huhh agaaaain…”

spank spank spank.

“Woooo. Do you like hitting my ass?”

“It’s acceptable.” SPANK. SPANK.

“Oh wow, that feels good. I like it when you hit me harder.” Her hips were grinding mechanically. “Keep going. Hit as hard as you like.”

I hauled off on her ass. SPANK… SPANK!

“MM MM MM!” Humid warmth radiated from her crotch. “Harder harder please please please.”

“Did I say you could talk?” I was throwing myself into the absurd unfolding scene. “I’ll be the judge of how hard I hit you.”

“Yes, siiiir!” she chirped. She was considerably younger than me.

Spank spank spank spank. Her phone rang again.

“Hi… yeah, I’m OK…” She spoke more words into the phone. “Okaaaay… *sigh*… I’ll call you later.”

“Your Mom?”

“No, my brother. He’s just checking up on me.” She smiled wistfully. “I love them so much.”

A stimulus package of sadistic contempt surged through my veins. I really wanted to inflict pain on this chick. “That’s… sweet.” I stretched my arm behind my head like a pitcher preparing to throw a fastball and sent it hurtling, open-palmed, as fast and as hard as I could into her fleshy bottom.

WHACK!!

“Unghnuu.. uh huhhhh…. oh god….” Did she just come? “Do you want to use something on me?”

“Stop talking.” WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK.

“Oh oh oh oh… my god… leave a mark.”

“Get off.” I pushed her off my lap and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a big metal spoon. From my bedroom her phone rang with its annoyingly quirky ringtone.

“*words words words*… yes, Mom, I promise… Ok, everything is FINE. OK! I love you too. Bye.”

I walked into my bedroom. She was naked on my bed, on all fours, her ass turned toward me. She looked over her shoulder at me. “I’m waiting.”

“Your Mom again??”

“Oh… yeah. She calls, like, 15 times a night. She doesn’t trust me.” She started drawing invisible figure eights in the air with her arched buttocks.

“15 times? Does she know you’re here?”

“HA! No way, I told her I’m at a friend’s. Come here. I want more spankings.”

I revealed the metal spoon I had been hiding behind my back.

“Oh oh that’s really going to hurt isn’t it?” She didn’t sound afraid.

THWWWWAAACK!

“OWW, fuck.”

THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK. I tossed the spoon and resumed hitting her with my hand. SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK…………….. WHACK! Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I was giving it everything I had. The sadism was strong in me.

“Oooh shiiiit… gguuuuhhhhh….” Her legs quivered. I could see red marks on both cheeks, even through the dark of the room and the light brown color of her skin. Her labia glistened with pussy juice. I looked at my palm and saw it was moist.

*ring ring ring*

“Wow, your phone… again.” It was her Mom. I spanked her while she reassured her Mom once more that she was at Amanda’s. There was no doubt in my mind her Mom heard the crack of my palm against her daughter’s exposed butt cheeks. She did nothing to stop me.

“Yes, Mom.”

WHACK!

“Ok, Mom, I know.”

SPANK!

“I love you too.”

CRACK!

“Bye!”

THAAAAWACK!

“Give it to me!” I positioned my cock (I had slipped a rubber on while spanking her) at the entrance of her hole and teased the lips apart with the tip. “I’m scared. Go easy, please. Please.” Scared? I wondered to myself if she was a virgin. No way. Way?

I pounded her from behind so hard, so violently, that I knocked her halfway off the bed. Her head and shoulders were dangling over the side. With each mighty reverberating thrust her head banged against the floor. Cataclysmic release.

…

*ring ring ring*

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” It had been ten minutes since the last call.

“Hiii. No I’m fiiiine. Seriously. Everything’s OK. OK ok ok. YES, I will let you know. Alright! Don’t upset Mom. Thanks. Ok Bye.”

“Lemme guess. Brother again?”

“I have to go.”

“Problem?”

“My brother has, like, this special GPS thing on his phone. He can track where I am by my phone.”

“I see.”

“He probably already knows where I’m at right now.”

“Um. Yeah. Interesting.”

“I should go. He could be on his way here.”

“Fantastic. Are you for real?”

“I don’t know for sure, but he could be coming here.”

“Well then, let’s get you out of here. Metro is straight down Calvert. Go two lights. You could try a cab, too.”

“Sooorrrry… oh god, I can’t find my shoe.”

“It’s here.” I tossed her the black stiletto. “Hey, I’ve got one question.”

“What?” She smiled earnestly at me.

“What does your Dad do for a living?”

“He’s a physician.”

“Huh, a doctor.”

“Well, a physician.”

“And your Mom?”

“She’s a physician too.”

“Nice. Do you have a pillow on your bed that says ‘The princess sleeps here’?”

“Ha ha! I should!”

As she walked out my door, her ridiculous quirky ringtone pierced the air. “Hi, Mom……..”

I deleted her number in the morning.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, Lolita, Ridiculousness, The Pleasure Principle | No Comments »

Chris Brown Is Alpha

Feb 23rd, 2009 by

Commenter DF wrote:

Oh yeah, Chris Brown is alpha. No doubt. If rumors are true. The beat down stems from a booty call text. So he beat down Rihanna when she confronted him about it, probably tapped the other chick that very night, and has Rihanna drop the charges. That’s fucking alpha.

Yep, it’s alpha. Many people, despite their revulsion, will believe these rumors because these kinds of stories are all too common. Alpha isn’t always “amused mastery” or grace under pressure. Sometimes, in fact a lot of times, it’s a flying flurry of fists to the face, in the case of Rihanna leaving its demon mark as shadow horns on its victim AKA enabler.

Chicks dig power, and slapping a girl around is a form of power, whether we like it or not. Girls get moist in the nether regions for men who hit them, as we can deduce by the fact that most of the masochist victims go back to their punch-happy lovers. Many women drop the charges entirely, until they have taken one too many blows to the head and desperation finally severs the powerful bond of their emotionally paralyzing love for their tormentors. And make no  mistake, it is LOVE they are feeling for their savage boyfriends. If you watch Cops, the domestic abuse emergency calls are very revealing. Often, the cop will arrive after the woman or a neighbor has called 911, only to find that getting a full accounting of the events from the victim is like pulling teeth. She will hem and haw, and ask the cop to go easy on her boyfriend (it’s usually a boyfriend, not a husband), and even give the boyfriend, who moments earlier was knocking her across the room, a hug and kiss as he’s being pushed down into the squad car.

Understand: Nearly EVERY woman — even upper class and educated women — has buried in the recesses of her feminine mystique a vulnerable center that will yield entirely and gratefully to a violent alpha male who will hit her. When you have a fear of approach, and you’re feeling intimidated by all those sharply dressed and tightly coifed yuppie chicks striding purposefully down city streets and in office buildings, Blackberries in hand and eyes cold as ice, just remember that each one of them possesses, in varying degrees of will to surrender, the capacity to submit her heart and her pussy to a violent thug.

When you begin to see them this way, I promise your fear of approach will become manageable. To be successful with women, you must destroy the last vestige of the pedestal you put them on and the unearned respect you’re impelled to give them.

Why does beat down game work? Answer: It’s asshole game x100. And it’s particularly effective on the hottest, most desirable chicks. In Darwinian terms, any guy who has the cojones to hit a woman is a guy who gets so much pussy he doesn’t care about the risk that she’ll leave him. And what that attitude encapsulates — Imperturbable Aloofness — is attractive to women. Very attractive. When I talk about psychological dominance as a core component of male power, I’m referring to that Stone Cold Take It Or Leave It attitude. Think of Game as the software app that installs this attitude into your superego. No plump 401K or fancy car needed.

The face of a beautiful woman in love with an alpha:

No charges have yet been filed by Rihanna. Just the opposite. She wants him back. On message boards, Rihanna fans have been begging the singer not to drop any possibly forthcoming charges against Brown. Seems people are very aware, deep in the dark echoing chambers of their ids, that beautiful women like Rihanna are prone to run back into the arms of violent men. We expend a lot of mental effort pretending we’re blind to the reality of human nature, when we act in accordance with its precepts all the time. We are fallen sinners not from Adam and Eve, but from Travis the chimp. We haven’t evolved as far from face eating as some would hope.

For any female readers who are disturbed by this post, take it up with your sisters who reward guys like Chris Brown, over and over again. I am the messenger you lash out at for revealing a truth about yourselves that hits a little too close to home. Shame the messenger and in doing so you hope to silence the sway of your darkest natures.

Nothing to see here but cold hard truth. You’d best move along, folks…

Related: Keeping Your Woman In Line. Reports from the front.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Love, The Id Monster, Ugly Truths | No Comments »

Fat Or Not Fat?

Feb 22nd, 2009 by

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Hungry Hungry Hippos | No Comments »

When You Know You’re Doing It Right

Feb 20th, 2009 by

When she says:

I feel like you know everything about me, but I know nothing about you.

you’re on the right track. She is interested in you enough to want a two-way information stream. She’s begging for a connection. A girl has not escalated to Code Tingling Pussy interest level until she starts asking you questions about yourself.

(The Code Interest levels are:

  • Code Snapped Shut Pussy
  • Code Desiccated Pussy
  • Code Semi-arid Pussy
  • Code Mexican Border Virtual Fence Pussy
  • Code Tingling Pussy
  • Code Electrified Pussy
  • Code Moist Pussy
  • Code Open Faucet Pussy
  • Code Deluge Pussy
  • Code Explosive Hydropower Pussy)

When you hear the above line from a girl on a first date, know that you’ve done the following things right:

  • remained an elusive mystery
  • did not give away the store to try to win her approval
  • have intrigued her just enough to cause her subconscious to spit forth her true feelings
  • have made her feel comfortable revealing herself to you

Once you hear this from your date, do not clamp down on the “beta bait” and start reeling off factoids about yourself in an effort to appease the gods watching over her pussy. The best thing to say in response is something along the lines of:

Totally untrue. [raise an eyebrow and smile] I told you that I’m a dog person.

She’ll get the joke, and her Code Electrified Pussy will thank you for not failing her shit test.

Eventually, you will have to tell her about yourself in order to manufacture build a genuine rapport. Even the coolest laconic cats leaned back deep into the couch find the right time to mutter a few choice teasers about themselves. If your girl is saying she doesn’t know anything about you on the second date, you’ve pushed your tight-lipped act too far. Mystery can turn to slippery evasion can morph to suspicious secrecy and finally gel into dull lump with nothing to say in her mind within the span of an hour.

Like all good seductions, what you don’t say is as important as what you say, and impeccable timing is the intangible skill that separates the professional from the amateur.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game, Girls | No Comments »

Justice Is Served

Feb 19th, 2009 by

Hope and change is in the air (hat tip: commenter Butters):

An adulterous Spanish woman has been ordered to pay €200,000 in “moral damages” for the suffering caused to her husband by her illicit affair.

The woman, who had three children by her lover, pretended for years that they were fathered by her husband, according to reports.

God bless the Spanish. While the Anglosphere countries are grabbing their ankles for their feminist and kleptocratic Overcunts and incomprehensibly, malignantly going down the path of forcing cuckolded beta husbands to continue footing the bills for the non-biological children of their whore wives’ adulterous copulations, the Mediterranean-style cultures — AKA the Jealousy Belt — are taking the exact opposite tack and squarely putting the blame and the punishment where it rests — on the cheating wife.

Of course, some women will cry “What about the kids?!”. Too bad. She should have thought of them before fucking around. Any harrowing consequences that befall the children are no longer the cuckolded husband’s moral crisis.

DNA tests showed that three of their four children had been fathered by the other man, the Times reports. The husband then took his wife to court, demanding compensation.

The court in Valencia, southeastern Spain, ordered her to pay €100,000 for the suffering she caused him. She fought the ruling, but the Supreme Court has upheld it, and doubled the damages to €200,000.

God bless DNA paternity testing. Besides the Pill, has any technological innovation in the last 40 years leveled the playing field as radically as paternity testing? Widespread use will have cultural — *and* genetic — changes we can only begin to fathom now. The last 10,000 years may have been a whirlwind of human evolution, but that will seem like slow going compared to the hurricane of human change I foresee arriving in the next 500 hundred years. When our distant descendants gather in their gleaming labs to pry apart the recent course of human history and evolution, they will all agree on one thing: The observers of our time severely underestimated the Tunguska-level impact that the pill, condom, abortion, and female economic empowerment would have on the very foundations of the human species.

And can you imagine an American judge having the sack to do what that Spanish judge did, and doubling the damages because the bitch showed no remorse in fighting the initial ruling? I can’t, which is too bad. It would be a step in the right direction to restoring America’s greatness. This story is so delicious it needs a Hollywoodization:

WHORE: But, your Honor, I did nothing wrong! My husband never paid attention to me. What choice did I have but to find love elsewhere? I am a good mother, I deserve respect!

JUDGE: Bitch, sit your whore ass down. You fuck around like a filthy slut, have three kids by another man, and then foist them on your bamboozled husband who works his ass off supporting you and the family, and you expect to be coddled like a small child by this court? Make it $200 grand!

WHORE: But…

JUDGE: $300 grand! Keep going, tramp…

The wife was judged to have “acted negligently in the conception of her children”, and the concealment of the truth “only added to the pain caused to the husband” who should be compensated correctly.

No shit. I guess it takes a Spaniard to demonstrate common sense.

In her defence, the woman told the court her extramarital activities had been “passionate and irregular” and blamed her husband for being cold, unfaithful and disinterested in the children.

Ha haa! I hadn’t even read this part when I wrote my short play above. Good to see there are still some people who understand the amoral nature of women.

The court ruled her claims were not credible.

Justice… is served.

I’m beginning to see a welcome trend. While I don’t expect women — solipsistic creatures of child-like, morally underdeveloped minds — to ever lead the righteous in advocating for fairness and justice of the sort meted out by the Spanish courts, I do expect them to step in line and follow the strong men who will fight for these basic rights and for real justice, not Oprahfied, Lifetime channel justice. This will happen when men grow balls and stop kow-towing in fear to the lesbian bulldyke mafia who runs the womens studies cuntdustrial complex, because women by nature are followers, and where the pack goes, so go they. Women self-govern by a simple (simplistic) motto: “It’s all in the numbers.” Once a tipping popularity point is reached, women will abandon their old principles for the new principles with a speed that will prove the shallowness and expediency with which they hold their beliefs.

What’s interesting to me, and not surprising given the clearness of my vision regarding human nature, is that this reinvigoration of basic gender justice is happening in the machismo cultures like Spain and Brazil. Perhaps those cultures’ experiences with the animalistic and passionate boiling sexual impulses of men and women, and the jealousies engendered, gives them a better grasp of the stakes at play. Perhaps in the Anglo-founded countries, where monogamy and beta cooperation have been the norm for hundreds of years (up until recently), this understanding of the volatile and untamed nature of women’s sexuality is missing, or weak, and thus there is less inborn defense against falling under the spell of the siren call of postmodern, feminist claptrap.

But that is now changing. It’s just too bad we have allowed our culture to regress to such depths that the emergence of this change was necessary.

If men would follow my sage advice, they could avoid all this bullshit and still have plenty of sex and love from women:

Don’t get married.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Hope and Change, Marriage Is For Chumps, Misandry, The Id Monster | No Comments »

Why I Left My Fat Wife

Feb 18th, 2009 by

I’m about to reveal something of myself most of you don’t know.

A few years ago, my wife, Marie, and I were at one of those hip downtown restaurants sipping mangotinis and nibbling on injera bread when one of my bosses appeared with his thin trophy wife in tow and patted my shoulder. When I introduced him to Marie, he naturally looked her up and down. I froze.

Marie and my boss exchanged some small talk but I could see behind the polite chit chat that my boss’ eyes flickered with a hint of disgust. I noticed Marie hadn’t put down her fork, upon which was perched a wobbly chunk of eggplant.

“Well, it was good meeting you,” my boss said, cutting short the conversation.

Marie looked at me and shrugged. “He’s not a very friendly guy, huh?” she said, as my colleague walked off to his table.

“Um, yeah I suppose not,” I said, knowing that was a lie. My boss was actually one of the friendliest men I knew. I understood why he walked off so abruptly. My boss may be friendly, but he’s also a winner, and winners avoid fraternizing with losers. My boss took one look at my fat wife, and recoiled from the stench of loserness. Inside, I was mortified.

Technically, I had it all back then, including a gorgeous toddler and a cool job.

What I didn’t have was a wife I felt proud of.

God knows I wanted to be proud of her. Marie is smart and funny and the only person I know who gets off on explaining why the Twilight books are more feminist than vampiric. And if you asked me about somebody else’s stay-at-home wife, I’d be all over the subject, spouting statistics about how important the mother-daughter bond is to girls’ self-esteem and how limiting it is to expect men to mind the home front. But living with her as she became fatter and fatter was completely different.

Maybe it’s because the plan wasn’t for Marie to lose her looks so rapidly. I went to work when she started graduate school, thinking that I’d head back for my own Ph.D. once she was done. I envisioned us as hard-core SWPLs, reading passages from Joyce to each other while I put together a collection of sexy lingerie for her to wear as we reenacted every sex scene from Victorian era period films. Instead, I fell in love with my first job at a modeling agency, and eventually, after a few promotions, I found myself working as a photographer for a fashion magazine.

Things went less smoothly for Marie. By the time we found out she was pregnant – three years into our marriage – she’d been working at a job teaching film for six months and was beginning to gain weight from all the take-out she ate. She began packing on the pounds by the week, and it affected everything about her – her mood, job performance, health, sexiness. The lingerie I had bought her no longer fit, lost in the folds of her burgeoning ass. Still, the minute her pregnancy test flashed its double pink lines at me, I knew I needed to work even harder at my job to ensure my child had the best chance in life.

I worked late nights for six months after my daughter was born while Marie continued, yes, bloating up. In 18 months, she gained 40 pounds. Meanwhile, I was being pursued by the models I photographed. Eventually, I flirted with some of them.

I felt like myself again – flirting, feeling horny, loving the sight of beautiful women, doing the witty-banter thing in the halls with the models. But my marriage started to fall apart. I felt guilty about being glad to go back to work, and in my head, I made it Marie’s fault. Because she had gotten fat, I blamed her when I was working late and had to miss the baby’s bedtime; it was her fault I had to go in early every day, since the fact that she couldn’t stay slim meant that I couldn’t stop myself from checking out other women. And when I got home, I seethed. I couldn’t walk across the living room without tripping over a half-eaten apple pie or an ice cream scoop. The baby was in the same little nightgown she’d slept in the night before. There wasn’t a hint of food in the fridge; Marie had eaten it all. She was home all day-couldn’t she at least run a few laps on the freaking treadmill?

Eventually, communication between Marie and me deteriorated to the point where all we talked about was the baby. Had she gotten enough sleep? What had she eaten for lunch? How could she have run through an entire value pack of diapers in one weekend? “Wait till I tell you what she did,” she’d say every once in a while, as she gazed adoringly at the baby and I gazed around the room to avoid looking at my wife’s Pillsbury rolls. In those moments – watching Marie gently rock her to sleep while singing “Punk Rock Girl” – I was reminded why I had once thought Marie was the sexiest woman in the world. But our sex life was in ruins; I spent all my time in the computer den (AKA pornatorium) or at work-sponsored happy hours with the models. I chalked it up to the transition period all new parents go through. Then one day, I realized it had been almost a year since Marie and I had made love.

Sometimes she’d say, “I really think things would be better for us if we could just be intimate again.” Or she’d put the baby to bed early and come into the living room with two glasses of wine and a book of poetry – our classic recipe for seduction – but just the thought of me touching her cottage cheese thighs and lint-encrusted belly rolls made me recoil. “Maybe I’m just not a sexual person anymore,” I told her, and I honestly meant it. The truth is, I wasn’t attracted to her anymore. It wasn’t that she’d changed on the inside – she still had the same sense of humor, kind heart, and sharp intellect that had literally made me fall in love when I first met her. But in my heart and my head, I’d neutralized her as a sexual being. I wanted to be overwhelmed by the sheer power of her femininity in the bedroom, but I wasn’t. Because I felt like the dumpster diver in our relationship.

We went to see a therapist. “Don’t you think I resent you for how easy it is for you to stay thin?” Marie asked me during one session. “You have these great genes, and I’m home like a slave, running errands, taking care of your shit, and you can’t even spare me five minutes of sex at the end of the day.” I think it was the first time I’d actually listened to what she had to say in years. She said that she was angry with me for always staying out late and partying with slender models, and angry with herself for not being able to turn me on anymore. She said she didn’t appreciate being treated like a nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-fat disgusting crap to be ignored in favor of porn. But what alternatives was she offering? I had ever so gently suggested she would feel better and our marriage would be happier if she lost the weight she had gained and slimmed back down to the hot wife I knew when I first fell in love with her and married her, but instead all she did was get fatter. We separated a few months later.

In retrospect, I realized I had this preconceived idea of what a sexy, attractive woman should be like. I imagined being married to, well, a good-looking, thin wife with a shapely hourglass figure. Someone whose attractive womanly physique looks pleasant to other people as well as to me. Someone who walks out the door with a sexy dress on, high heels, and a tight ass. Someone who turns heads. Does that make me a sexist? “I always felt embarrassed and guilty – you had all these preconditions for me that I felt like I wasn’t living up to,” Marie said to me after our divorce.

So nobody was more surprised than I was when I went ahead and fell for another funny, bright, kind woman like Marie.

Here’s the difference, though: Magdalena knows what men want – and it’s not a poetry reading over bon bons sitting on the increasingly concave couch. She knows men want to make sweet love to sexy, slender women who can wear the hot lingerie he buys for her without looking like a walrus tangled in a ball of string. Playing with my daughter or painting or translating the writings of Pablo Neruda is fine, but it is only a garnish to the main marriage course – hot, steamy, passionate love with a physically attractive woman. There’s nothing food-obsessed or self-loathing about her. When Magdalena and I are cooking dinner together on Friday nights in a kitchen devoid of cheetos and tubs of Haagen Daz, or trying to drink coffee in bed on Sunday mornings while my daughter dances around us, I’m so attracted to her that it’s all I can do not to rip her clothes off then and there.

Put it this way: Whether it’s me or the sexy figure she’s keeping, I think it’s damn sexy.

This article was sent to various women’s magazines for publication.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Marriage Is For Chumps, Self-aggrandizement | No Comments »

Contraption

Feb 17th, 2009 by

I didn’t bother unhooking her bra. I never do anymore. I pulled it off her like a t-shirt. As I’m squeezing her boobs (and taking a mental note of her remaining “years-to-sag” based on a complicated formula I devised involving underside crease length, armpit spillover when prone, and depth of press), I glance over at her bedside table and notice an unusual object illuminated by the thrift shop lamp. It was a huge, purple vibrator — the luxury model, by the looks of it — with ridges and nubs and hooks and multiple arms sticking out from it, like a saguaro cactus.

I’m pretty sure there was even a scrolling LED screen. It sat there nonchalantly like a potted plant, or a paperweight. Wow, this is embarrassing, I thought. She forgot to put it away. It was so large and ridiculous that I had to interrupt our foreplay to ask her about it.

“Um, that’s quite a contraption you have over there. Just… laying out.”

“Oh yeah, that’s my little toy.” She didn’t sound embarrassed. “I use it every Sunday to masturbate. I can cum ten times with that baby.”

“Ten times? Straight through, or spread out over the day?”

“Like, within an hour or so.”

“Yeah. Impressive.” I tried to figure why her naughty “secret” wasn’t more titillating to me. Back when I was 18 this sort of discovery would have been exciting. Oh, yeah, I would have thought, This chick is kinky! She’s gonna do all sorts of crazy shit in bed! Now that I’m older and more discerning of women I sleep with, a giant purple saguaro vibrator staring at me from across the room doesn’t make me more turned-on by the woman who uses it. In fact, just the opposite. I lower my estimation of her as a worthy girl in whom I would be happy to take out on creative, exciting dates. Ladies, this is what a man thinks of you when he notices your purple saguaro and you don’t seem fazed by him discovering it:

  1. novelty seeking (slut)
  2. sexually adventurous (slut)
  3. horny all the time (slut)
  4. unconcerned about men’s opinions of her (good god, what a slut)

Now 1 – 3 aren’t problems if the girl possesses reasonable degrees of those urges, or if you’re just looking for an uncomplicated fling. You don’t want to hitch your weenie wagon to a frigid ice queen. Number 4 is a flashing red light that she is a cheating whore at heart. Any girl who can’t be bothered to take the two seconds worth of effort to hide her absurd sex toys when a man comes over is a girl who won’t think twice about cheating on you. Even if most girls aren’t delicate, precious chaste creatures, you at least want the girl you are dating to pretend like she is and acknowledge your opinion of her matters — and one thing that matters very much to guys, even if they won’t admit it to the girl’s face, is that the girl he is with isn’t the town orifice. Men want their women, at a bare minimum, to take token stabs at modesty. It’s endearing to us and suggests you will be worth keeping around. We don’t want women to embrace their sluttiness as if it were a postmodern badge of honor. A good woman understands this and heeds a man’s romantic sensibilities.

The trick for men is finding a balance in women between unrepressed sexuality and faithful frigidity. Too much of the former = cumguzzling slut. Too much of the latter = blue balls. A proudly displayed purple saguaro says “I’m a slut, and you’ll like it.”

I’ve found that the more power I acquire over women, the pickier I’m becoming. I won’t call back a girl who has a purple saguaro on her nightstand. This choosiness has strengthened my character. I’m a better man for it.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Inner Beauty, Ridiculousness, Sluts, Vanity | No Comments »

Valentine’s Day Cleanup

Feb 16th, 2009 by

Word on the street is…

Valentine’s Day is the new New Year’s Eve. Any single girls are feeling the sting of loneliness on this day in technicolor sensation, and of those fortitudinal enough to brave going out with their girlfriends and thereby announcing to the world their singledom, the horniness is strong in them.

Like shooting bitches in a barrel.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, Self-aggrandizement | No Comments »

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