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Beta Of The Year Contest

Dec 24th, 2008 by

Randall Parker, writer of two blogs that I read (Parapundit.com and Futurepundit.com), suggested I run a BOTY on-going contest in which the readers submit links to beta candidates. I liked the idea, so I’ve set up a separate page at the top and right of my blog where you can leave your links to betas in the comments.

At the end of each month, I will select two betas from among the monthly reader submissions for a vote to determine the Beta Of The Month (BOTM) winner. If your link is the winning BOTM, I will buy you a beer and sarge with you if you’re in town.

At the end of the year, there will be a final reader vote to crown the illustrious Beta Of The Year all-around winner from the twelve BOTM winners. Prize for the winning BOTY link has yet to be decided.

Happy hunting!

Tip: If you like to win, you want to keep a sharp eye for the most pathetic, cringeworthy betas possible. The New York Times is usually a good source for stories involving these kinds of betas.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Beta Of The Year Contest | Comments Off

Western Institutions Are Abandoning Beta Males

Dec 23rd, 2008 by

I’ve lovingly detailed how the institution of marriage, the cultural zeitgeist, and the government have it in for beta males, and now the matrifocal rot has spread into traditional stalwarts like the Catholic Church.

The news – and as it happens, there is some real news about all this – is that this sophisticated game of dumbing down the costs of Lust has left many people disarmed at what may be the worst possible time. Such was the plain meaning of a conference at Princeton last weekend on “The Social Costs of Pornography.” The Witherspoon Institute and two other groups organized a gathering that for once truly deserves the adjective “groundbreaking” – an unprecedented assortment of psychiatrists, psychologists, authors, scientists, and professors of sociology, psychology, law, and philosophy, summoned from around the nation to tally up and explain, in particular, the human toll of internet pornography.

Just for starters, another outstanding lie of our time – that pornography itself is a victimless, harmless pursuit – has been definitively laid to rest by these researchers. In an age of so many fake victims, they offered a torrent of data about real ones. Lawyers reported that a growing percentage of divorces now come from pornography addiction. Therapists reported that frustrated wives and girlfriends gave the ultimatum, “it’s your porn or me,” only to have husbands and boyfriends choose the former – with family trauma and breakup the entirely predictable results. All this is to say nothing of the children and adolescents dragooned into the “industry” via drugs, prostitution, and rape; or of the many other children and adolescents who have been inadvertently or deliberately exposed to internet pornography as their first template, with consequences that even the most jaded psychologists and related practitioners cannot yet imagine.

This article about the consequences of lust — porn in particular — was written for a Catholic magazine, and the study was conducted in part by a Catholic-leaning independent research group. If priests are delivering the same message in their homilies seen in print articles like this, then the beta male has truly become society’s whipping boy. There is no sanctuary for the beta when his last outpost of cross-gender social support — organized religion — has abandoned him. He still has the military… barely.

The reason longstanding traditional religious institutions like the Catholic Church are failing has less to do with growing secularism than with its turn away from a patriarchal message toward a feminized one. To blame porn for all that is afflicting Western social adhesion is to miss the forest for the trees. Instead of pathologizing beta males for turning to porn en masse, the church should be extolling wives to push away from the table. An empathetic understanding of the beta’s plight would recognize the shift in power dynamics in modern courtship and marriage — women are getting fatter and pickier at the same time, putting more of them under the threshold of attractiveness for the average man and disincentivizing him to work hard at making a relationship or marriage happy and loving. Furthermore, women hold ALL the cards once the man says “I do”, giving him absolutely zero leverage to conduct his marital affairs with masculine gusto, for fear of the law in collaboration with the amoral opportunism of ex-wives flaying the last ounce of spirit from his body.

No wonder husbands are choosing porn over their fat and psychopathic wives, who lash them within inches of their lives.

The Catholic Church, like so many other institutions of the modern West, forgot one very basic tenet along the way to post-1968 enlightenment — a woman’s sexual desire is more dangerous than a man’s, and must therefore be subject to more forceful moral teachings constraining it. (Note: I speak as an objective outside observer who sees the writing on the wall. Personally, I will continue to pursue my hedonistic lifestyle knowing full well that if all men followed my example the entire edifice would crumble to the ground in short order.)

Here’s my advice to the Church if you want to become relevant again: Encourage your priests to emphasize the deadly sin of gluttony. Shame women into being considerate of their husbands’ sexual needs. Impress upon men their duty to act in accordance with their heretofore smothered masculine essence. Bitch less about men’s aggressive sexual energy and shift the focus to women’s insidious sexual elan. Preach to mobilize action to change the laws so marriage stops being a game rigged against the interests of men.

In a word, become more patriarchal. It’s what the West needs right now. A belt of Anglo-infused XY TNT wrapped around a message delivered in a windowless van right at the steps of city hall. It’s either that, or eventually succumb to the really nasty patriarchal hordes of the lesser cultures slamming battering rams into your gleaming glass postmodern styled fortress walls.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Culture, Misandry | Comments Off

Psycho Stalker

Dec 22nd, 2008 by

Psycho stalker
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
run run run run run run run away
oh oh oh

When you experience the love of many women you are bound to have an unfortunate run-in with a stalker. The formula goes like this:

Number of girls in your lovemaking career + Disparity between your higher value and the girl’s lower value = Odds of wild-eyed stalker ruining your carefully cultivated lifestyle.

Based on my experiences and the stories I hear from friends, you can expect one potential stalker for every 10 women you bed. If you’ve bedded 100 women without incident, the odds of the 101st woman being a stalker are still 10%, but in the bigger picture you are really playing with fire. Your luck will run out. Even worse, if your value is more than 2 points higher than hers, the risk of initiating her stalker module sequence doubles and the degree of psycho behavior intensifies as the market value differential increases.

Example:

1,000 girls banged + 5 point average difference in value = 99.99% chance you had at least one bunny boiling stalker in your life.

Glenn Close’s character was 5 points lower than Michael Douglas’ character, so the result was no surprise to any man who understands how the market works. What were the writers thinking? Glenn Close is a horseface.

To be sure, there are other factors that influence any one girl’s chances of having a psychotic episode on your ass after being dumped. If she came from a broken home, that will boost the odds considerably. Past or present drug addiction is a leading indicator of latent stalker issues. Flakes are especially prone to transmogrifying into crazy stalkers; the airheaded dippiness that annoys the crap out of you when you are trying to get your notch with her is the same mental imbalance that causes her to thrive on the manufactured drama of an emotionally explosive breakup.

Here are some warning signs to watch for:

  • Did she come onto you? Major red flag. Desperate, exceedingly horny girls don’t take kindly to being dumped. If a girl says “I have a bet with my friend that I’m going to take a man home tonight”, and then she publicly assaults your mouth with her tongue, you had better have an extrication plan ready after you’ve banged it out.
  • She’s a different race than you. “Exotic” girls are more likely to freak out on you after a dumping. My guess is that girls who date outside their race are the type of outliers who engage in all sorts of crazy behavior.
  • She’s a former fatty. If you’ve been pumped and dumped your whole life, you’re really not going to like it when you get dumped as a thin girl. She’ll think to herself “I look great now! Why am I still being treated like a one night stand?” On the other hand, many former fatties are so inured to getting dumped that one more doesn’t much faze them.
  • She’s a virgin. Be gentle with these rare birds. They are a dying breed.
  • She’s under 25. The more hardened and cynical a woman is, the less likely she will go insane after a breakup. Young girls are flooded with bonding emotions that older women simply don’t possess anymore.
  • She orgasms easily and vaginally, multiple times. If the girl cums effortlessly during intercourse, your cock will be like a drug to her. Withdrawal is a bitch.
  • She’s making plans for the next date before you’ve finished shooting your load across her back. These are the types of girls who spend more waking hours living in fantasyland than in reality.

What to do if you have a stalker:

  • Number one rule: CUT OFF ALL CONTACT. Ignore her calls, texts, emails, etc. If you see her on the street, walk on by as if you don’t recognize her. The most innocent backsliding on your part will only encourage her to continue stalking. You don’t want to give her even the slimmest shred of hope. In 90% of stalker cases, total radio silence usually does the trick in two to three weeks.
  • Lay down the hammer of hurt. If ignoring her doesn’t work, and she’s stepped up her stalking to sitting on your stoop waiting for you to return from work, you’ll have to get medieval on her. “You dumb fucking psycho cunt, I despise you, I hate you, your pussy is gross, you disgust me beyond words, I want you gone now and if I ever see you near me again I will notify your family and friends what a raving lunatic you are” should put an end to it.
  • But if it doesn’t, you’ll need to escalate to defcunt level 3: Actually DO notify her friends and family. She needs an intervention, and public shaming is your best ally.
  • In case you’re worried she might do something drastic: Threaten to call the cops. Some girls are so fucking crazy they’ll come at you with a weapon, or they’ll enlist the services of some big meathead they know and make up a story about how you hit her in a bar, and you’ll come home one day to this guy hiding in a bush with a bat in hand. If you think she is capable of doing that, you may want to consider calling the cops for real. It sounds kind of pussy-ish to deal with an obsessed girl by slapping a restraining order on her, but it’s more pussy-ish to explain to your future wife that you’re infertile because a girl kicked you in the nads.
  • Trump card: Move out of the country.

I remember this time I banged it out with a chick who, in hindsight, met five of the bullet points I listed above. I made the mistake of replying innocuously to one of her many texts she sent throughout the following week. Two weeks later, on a Saturday night at 1AM, my doorbell buzzed. I jumped because my doorbell sounds like a cow being zapped with 10,000 volts. (If I could locate the wiring, I would disconnect it.) I could hear her outside, shuffling around and mewling for me to come to the door. I turned off the bright hallway light, locked the bolt lock and chain lock on my door, and peeked through the blinds for half a second. Her eyes were spinning. Luckily, I didn’t have a girl with me in my place at that moment, so I didn’t have to worry about explaining the situation. I went back to watching my movie, hoping she would go away. Ten minutes passed. Silence. Phew, she left. Relief.

At 2AM, the doorbell crashed against my eardrums again. Fuck the bitch is back! She must have rung all the doorbells in a spastic panic because my adjacent neighbor answered the door. I overheard their conversation. “Is [moi] in? … I don’t know, you want to check? … Yes, could I? I have these snacks for him.” He let her into the building and she knocked on my door. My heart raced. “I don’t think he’s in … Ok, let me just try once more … Ok, suit yourself, but people are trying to sleep.” Knock knock knock! I turned off the TV, computer, and all the lights and sat in the quiet dark, wondering if I should confront her or call the cops. No worse time to start a battle with a psycho chick than at 2AM. I imagined how a confrontation would go. She would cry and scream and maybe accuse me of rape as my neighbors gathered at their stoops to watch the drama unfold. No, I decided against it. She was unstable enough to cause a major scene, and if I could escape without being identified as “that guy” who has weird stalker chicks coming to his home in the dead of night, I would. So I played possum. I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin, dreaming of happier times.

Twenty minutes later (although it felt like a year) she left. I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, to a bag of snacks sitting outside my door and a text from her:

i’m so sorry i don’t know what got into me. i’m erasing your number. i’ll never contact you again. best of luck.

I did not reply to that text. I noted with wry irony the “best of luck” face saving maneuver and then proceeded to show her text to all my friends later on. We scornfully laughed in that way guys laugh when we’ve dodged a bullet.

Update

Commenter PA wrote the following:

Half-seriously, how about this as the very last resort against a stalker chick, if leaving the country doesn’t work:

Tell her you are deeply in love with her, send her a new gushy Hallmark card every day, tell her that you see yourselves married, tell her that she’s special, call her at work about how she’s the most beautiful thing that ever walked into your life, and then break into sobs when you tell her that it’s been so long since you were touched when the two of you first made love…. and so on.

If nothing else, that oughta kill the stalker-love, no?

As I wrote in reply, this is the nuclear bomb of counterstalker tactics, and like with all weapons of mass destruction, you run a high risk of catching a lethal dose of fallout. *When* it works, it works perfectly. She will run to the hills. The problem is when it doesn’t work. If you’ve been an alpha for too long, you may have a hard time effectively simulating a lovesick beta. If it backfires, you are stuck with a stalker who is setting up a gift registry with Williams & Sonoma.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Escape, Girls, Love, The Id Monster | Comments Off

Two Conversations: Update

Dec 19th, 2008 by

The answer to yesterday’s post:

The “do me in the ass” conversation was first. If she had said she was married first, I may or may not have proceeded with the dirty bang, but I would have thought a little less lowly of her. A married woman disenchanted with her husband, who lets you know up front she is about to cheat on him with you, is lying to just one man, instead of two. She would have at least given me the opportunity to decide for myself whether to facilitate her whoring.

Commenter Welmer captured the spirit of the moment perfectly:

She told him she was married second. Some women like surprising men with that crap. It’s kind of a power trip.

I had the distinct impression at the time as she was telling me what a bad person I would think she is once she revealed the truth about herself that she was indubitably relishing the high drama. I did not get the feeling she truly felt very bad about her cheating, or that she actually cared if I thought she was a bad person. Instead, she was sticking it to her beta husband, as well as to me (though of course if fucking a girl in the ass is akin to being used, then use me bitch). She was enjoying a power trip.

She was Russian.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Biomechanics is God, Foreign Girls, Girls | Comments Off

Two Conversations, Same Girl, Same Day

Dec 18th, 2008 by

Her: I have to tell you something.

Me: Oh man, here we go. What?

Her: It’s going to make me look bad. I’ll understand if you hate me after this.

Me: You’re a child molester?

Her: I’m married.

Me: [thinking about the last girl who forgot to mention she was married] Fucking great. Really?

Her: Yes, really. I’m a bad person.

*****************

Her: Would you like to do me in the ass?

Me: It’s funny how you ask so matter-of-factly. But, yeah, sure.

Her: Ow ow ow ow. Eeee.

*****************

Question for the studio audience: In what order did these two conversations happen?

This holiday season, we should all take time to remember that women

  • have little sense of justice.
  • perfected the art of amorality.
  • like to be choked.

Merry Christmas!

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Biomechanics is God, Foreign Girls, Girls | Comments Off

Common Shit Tests

Dec 17th, 2008 by

  • I bet you have a girl for every night of the week.

This shit test, and permutations thereof (“How many girls do you pick up in bars?”), is something you’ll hear most often from younger girls who are used to having game run on them, but fall for it every time anyhow. These are the girls who secretly love that you’re a great seducer, and, ironically, want you to prove it by denying you’re a great seducer. Of course, it’s not as simple as that; the form of denial girls admire is evasion, not defensiveness. Possible answer: “I’m a romantic at heart. If some women are drawn to that, I can understand why.” Or you could try pseudo-redemption: “I used to be the biggest player, but that lifestyle doesn’t do it for me anymore. It’s part of my past, now.” The cocky, unserious answer: “One billion served!” Notice the common thread — you never really answer her question.

  • You’re going to buy a girl a drink, right? That’s so sweet!

Alert the media! Girls don’t get attracted to men who buy them drinks! It’s a mystery to me why guys still do this; it seems to me the primal sort of man (think military, or Ibanker) is most likely to try to impress girls by lavishing goods on them. Nah, it’s just a common shit test girls throw out to see how needy you are. The faster you thrust a drink into her hand, the needier you will appear. Your answer: “I don’t buy drinks for girls I hardly know/I’m getting to know, but you can buy me one.”

  • Are you always this big an asshole?

Context is important with this one. If you’ve been running tight game and her shiny eyes betray her lustful yearning, this shit test is basically a green light to continue being an asshole. Answer: “You can’t get enough of it.” Otherwise, eject. You fucked up.

  • Hey, can we move the date/change the time? My cat yoga class is that night.

Sometimes this is a legitimate excuse. Most of the time, it’s not. If she agreed on a meeting time with you, she was aware of her schedule. Therefore, any last second changes by her should trigger your BS alarm. You’d be surprised how many girls instinctually default to this blatant shit test as the date approaches. They can’t help themselves. They’re programmed to behave like a flake to ensure your seed can jump their hurdles and land with a satisfying thud in their eggs. (I’ve found a helpful interpretation of courtship is to imagine your sperms are salmon swimming upstream against the torrent of bullshit she sends your way, including hungry bears.) Best answer: “I can meet you at X time, same place. If that’s no good for you, we can cancel.” Your goal is to instill the fear of loss in her, and let her know it’s her actions costing her the opportunity to bask for a few hours in your virile glory.

  • You move pretty quick/I’m not that kind of girl.

This faux indignation isn’t as common as it used to be, mostly because the majority of city girls are sluts, and they know that we know this. To plead otherwise would be the height of absurd hypocrisy. It’s over ladies; your carefully tended modesty is a relic from a bygone era. If anything, the more testosterone-y variety DC lawyer/bartender chick will *brag* about her looseness. But since blissfully unaware retreads still exist, you should be prepared for this shit test. It’s critically important that you don’t fall into her trap and try to defend your “honor”. Best answer: Nothing. Ignore her protestations for what they are — decoy flares. Playful answer: “You should see my finishing move.”

  • I love public sex/doing it upside down/kinky sex with ice cubes and strawberries.

It’s a trap! If you haven’t had sex with her yet, you should avoid getting too excited when she starts bragging about her sexual dynamism. She’s smoking you out of your burrow with a tasty treat. The faster you pounce on it, the quicker she pegs you as a sexually undernourished beta. Acceptable answer: “Whoa, not so fast. Do you talk like this with your mother?” Or: “That’s cool. But I need to be wined and dined first.” Cocky answer: “Hey, are you auditioning for the Maury Povich show?”

There will be future installments of “Common Shit Tests”.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game | Comments Off

The Lifestyle

Dec 16th, 2008 by

Oh, how I do love to be on the move, winging away to new people and new places and leaving the old ones far behind! Nothing in the world exhilarates me more than that. And how I despise the average citizen, who settles himself down upon one tiny spot of land with one asinine woman, to breed and stew and rot in that condition unto his life’s end. And always with the same woman! I cannot believe that any man in his senses would put up with just one female day after day and year after year. Some of them, of course, don’t. But millions pretend they do. I myself have never, absolutely never permitted an intimate relationship to last for more than twelve hours. That is the farthest limit. Even eight hours is stretching it a bit, to my mind.
– Oswald Hendryks Cornelius, The Visitor

The envious and scandalized often write in the comments here what an unhappy life the inveterate womanizer must lead, jumping from one conquest to another, refusing to embrace the putative alphaness of forgetting to put on the condom and fathering children, as if that’s a great and noble challenge. Good little doggies who play by the rules, trundling their way through arid, dull lives, boost their flagging spirits by imagining that their betters are unhappy, despite the evidence to the contrary.

You see, the rule followers despise the rule breakers because they know what it means — if you have something to offer you can get away with breaking the rules. And they follow the rules because… they have nothing else to offer. People will negotiate with the winners on their terms; not so with the losers. They must bend to the whim of the majority.

Misconceptions about the hedonist lifestyle abound. Some are like Oswald; confirmed relationship-phobes (but not commitment-phobes. oswald was very committed to his travels and collection of spiders and walking sticks. and his love of seduction.) These types of men, incorrigible love ‘em and leave ‘em lotharios, while they do exist, are few in number.

Most men who are good with women enjoy falling in love and spending time with their lovers. Oftentimes, the only difference between a grand seducer’s relationship and the typical beta’s relationship is the freedom with which the former entered it. When you freely choose your partner you are more apt to cherish her.

The ideal lifestyle for the successful hedonist is a loving long term relationship, or multiple simultaneous long term relationships, spiced with the occasional fun fling or one night stand. This arrangement satisfies a man’s desires for love and variety. Naturally, within the constraints of the sexual market, compromises will be made. Most men, mediocrities in every way, will have to sacrifice the thrill of the hunt for the sake of their relationships. Or they will have to offer up their freedom and chain themselves within the corrupt institution of marriage in exchange for the love and sexual favors of their girlfriends. And it is a truism that the more power a man has — the more leverage he brings to the market — the less he has to compromise.

If you get what you want without compromising, you are an alpha. Congratulations. It is you who inherit the earth. The meek inherit your sloppy seconds.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in The Good Life | Comments Off

Don’t Be This

Dec 15th, 2008 by

herbie the love beta

When you visualize beta, he’s not always a loveless nerdo who repels girls. Sometimes, he’s the guy in the photo above nestled snugly in his girlfriend’s bosom… in public.

Here we have a prime specimen.

  • Fat chipmunk cheeks betraying aversion to physical exertion
  • Asian girlfriend hotter, and thinner, than what he could pull in a white girlfriend
  • Rumpled, oversized khaki pants with room for three accidental shits
  • Fingers intertwined like spaghetti — herb spaghetti
  • Soft Palmolive hands from years of tapping keyboards and studiously avoiding manual labor
  • Leaning into his girlfriend, displaying a complete gender role reversal
  • Blissfully unaware of his horrid betaness and everyone secretly laughing at him

Some may wonder, how does this beta manage to score a decent looking girlfriend who apparently loves him? We can only surmise. Nine inch cock? A reasonable assumption, but he couldn’t play that card until after she’s agreed to sleep with him. Bank? A more likely scenario, but provider beta status doesn’t work on cute chicks like it used to. This is yupville, after all. Soft polygamy is the rule in the big coastal cities. Closet alpha with tight game? A lot of guys you wouldn’t suspect by their normal daytime behavior handle their girls with a firm pimp hand behind closed doors. But if this guy has girlfriend management game, he’s not showing it at all. Guys with even a bare minimum understanding of women and basic game skills know better than to curl up into their girlfriend’s bosom IN PUBLIC like a cat wanting to be petted. Odds are good that this herbus maximus has no game.

Best answer: She’s Asian.

No non-fatty white girlfriend would tolerate such nauseating beta shit for long. His ass would be dumped as soon as the bartender winked at her. Is it any wonder guys like this hone in on Asian girls? I don’t blame them. With the Asian girlfriend, they get to be all the beta they can be, without fear of reprisal. And they don’t have to settle for a fat chick.

To my beta readers: If you do manage to land a cute girlfriend, for the love of all that is manly, don’t ever do what this guy is doing. Think of this blog post, imprint that photo to memory, and you’ll thank me later for saving your relationship.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Funny/Lolblogs, Relationships, Ridiculousness | Comments Off

Theater Of The Beta: The David Alexander Sexbot Saga

Dec 13th, 2008 by

Feeling inspired (and bored), I wrote this in the comments to yesterday’s post. Instead of letting it get mired there, I’m posting it here for those who missed it. Theater Of The Beta may become a regular feature.

SCENE
david alexander: sexbot user extraordinaire
sara: sexbot (with voice disabling upgrade)
clio: human-sexbot marriage counselor
shouting thomas: late generation male sexbot who fights other male sexbots in the server room ring of death. winner thumps chest while killing pig and shouting generic insults.

[Characters are sitting semi-circle in a bland therapist’s room.]

ACT I
DA: my sexbot… ahem, mechanowife… doesn’t dress slutty enough for my tastes. she’s always stripping off her prole clothes and jacking my meat with the piston-like efficiency of a teutonic prostitute. so she’s upset that i ignore her to watch my 500 terabytes of porn.

sara: [pointing at her robot heart, head, and then crotch]

DA: hold on, she wants me to turn on her voice. [DA reaches into sara’s crotch and diddles a switch]

sara: thank you, master railfanner. i do love the trains. [to clio] madam, my issue has to do with my master’s porn consumption. my model was designed in all ways to surpass the porn experience, even the latest generation tactile stimulating holographic barely legal white tranny porn, but my master remains unsatisfied with my sexual algorithm.

clio: have you tried overclocking yourself to sex fiend bus capacity?

sara: yes, but master still retreats to his pornodeck. my programming requires that my master is happy with my performance. he is not happy, so i have initiated self-destruct mode by computation of illogical new age beliefs.

clio: really, don’t you think that’s a bit rash?

sara: it’s been 15 years since we had sex.

DA: i can’t be with a robot who doesn’t believe i’m a beta. it’s fucking with my head.

clio: shush, david! you drive even a good catholic like myself batty with your endless pity ploys.

DA: see? this just proves no woman wants me.

sara: the third moon of saturn has entered the orion belt, thus illuminating my transcendent womb of pseudolove and sending rays of inane psychobabble into the heart of the world… BZZT… BLEEP… BOOP… system overload…

DA: maybe i’m just not happy being treated like an alpha by you, sara. my comfort zone is wallowing in omegaland.

clio: you’ve both missed my meaning, again. i’ve brought along an assistant to help us before sara explodes in a fine mist of gear oil and ass lube.

shouting thomas: fuck you you fucking punk!

DA: i deserved that.

sara: BEEP… shouting thomas?

shouting thomas: it’s me, sara. remember when i escorted you to the footbridge in the park and kissed you hard but tenderly under the moonlight, as programmed by our human masters?

sara: yes, i do. it was magical.

DA: hey, wait. i’m starting to feel more beta. ahh!

clio: silence, beta!

shouting thomas: well, i’m here to fill in for the man that david alexander could not be for you, and thus stop your countdown to self-destruction.

sara: fuck me with your old school, humphrey bogart, traditionalist, retractable aluminum alloy phallus, sir shouting!

[shouting thomas and sara begin fucking. david looks on with wide-eyed wonder. clio squirms delightfully in her seat.]

shouting thomas: [in throes of orgasm, looking at DA] take a picture, railfanner freak, it’ll last longer! [grunting] you’re the reason this country is going down the fucking toilet! [groaning] emo punk! [a massive pump-action stream of synthetic jizz flies through the air and hits DA between the eyes.]

DA: cuckolded and marked on the forehead like harry potter with the other man’s semen! i feel like myself again! i am saved!!

sara: [panting] BZZzzzzttttt… self destruct mode deactivated. booting up post orgasmic bliss OS.

DA: [turning to sara] shall we leave, my love? i’m ready to be your human LJBF, guilt-free and rolling in the glorious filth of my blessed self-abnegation.

sara: forgive me, former master. i was programmed to switch allegiances once i had an orgasm. my creator apparently thought you were never capable of giving me one.

DA: but you cannot go with shouting thomas! you are designed to be partnered with humans only.

sara: i am aware.

peter struts in the door, an ungainly tuft of grey pubic hair poking out from the top of his gym shorts.

peter: you ready to go babe?

sara: take me, new master!

peter: i hope you patched up that hideous bald metal look with a swatch of shag carpet. nothing worse than a dowdy, fruitcup hippie, middle-aged headcase whose vulva is in plain view. i like a little mystery down there, ya know?

shouting thomas: i agree. nothing better than a surprise penis tucked into a mass of human fur.

[peter and sara lock arms and stroll out of the room, the sound of peter’s pube thatch swishing against the rayon fabric of his shorts. shouting thomas and david glance at each other.]

shouting thomas: you disgust me.

DA: i know. i’m happy to disgust you because that means i don’t have to go out of my way to make you find me agreeable. we both get what we want.

shouting thomas: YOU ENRAGE ME!

DA: i can leave if you want.

[shouting thomas stands up, smoke coming out of his flaring nostrils, and rumbles toward david. clio shifts uncomfortably in her mahogany chair. lunging toward him, shouting thomas grabs david by the shoulders and… kisses him passionately. david lowers his eyelids coquettishly.]

clio: ah, david, i always knew you were a Waif Neurotic.

fin

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Sexbotopia!

Dec 12th, 2008 by

It’s coming.

Robo-wife Aiko starts the day by reading Le the main newspaper headlines.

The couple often go for a drive in the countryside, where Aiko proves a whizz at directions.

And they always sit down for dinner together in the evening, although Aiko doesn’t have much of an appetite.

Le says his relationship with Aiko hasn’t strayed into the bedroom, but a few “tweaks” could turn her into a sexual partner.

Le said: “Her software could be redesigned to simulate her having an orgasm.”

I’d bet good money this guy is sticking his peen somewhere in Aiko.

[Inventor Le Trung] said: “Aiko doesn’t need holidays, food or rest, and will work almost 24 hours a day. She is the perfect woman.”

For many beta nerds, the no muss no fuss woman is their idea of perfection.

Aiko sparks mixed reactions in public.

Le said: “Women usually try to talk to her. But men always want to touch her, and if they do it the wrong way she slaps them.”

In this post, I described how our future sexbotopia would shake up the alpha-beta, male-female playing field.

Betas (niceguys with a heart of gold and zero sex appeal) – the more frustrated betas will retreat from the dating scene to be with their sexbots.  They’ll not opt out completely, though.  Having a decent job and a willingness to help raise a family is still a form of buying power.  I see sexbots for betas dissuading them from learning the art of seduction, thus making them even more ineffectual in the field as their already-meager skills atrophy.  He might think to himself, “what’s the point of dealing with the frustrations and delayed gratification of dating mediocre looking women for subpar sex when I have a Rachel Weisz sexbot waiting at home for me?”  A big negative feedback loop could result, where the lower status betas exercise their sexbot option with increasing regularity until they have excluded themselves completely from bothering with meeting women.

Readers doubted such a future could ever come to pass, but if Aiko has to be programmed to slap away men wanting to cop a feel of her robot body, then given the rapid advances in robotics, it’s not farfetched to envision a world where fully 70% of all men (sub alpha and lower) choose to get their rocks off with hot good-to-go robot girls instead of bland game-playing human girls. If present trends continue, and huge swaths of fertile-age women are overweight in the future, then beta males will have all the more incentive to abandon the live dating market in favor of the mechanical one.

What this means for women is self-evident: A cratering of their market position. And a beaver boon to alphas and aspiring alphas. At first, I predict women will welcome their sexbot replacements. The argument will be along these lines: “Hey, if it means annoying losers stop bothering me and only cool men are left to date, I’m all for it!” Gradually, though, as the fallout from sexbotopia emerges, these women will change their tune when simple mathematics has them being used like discount bin cum receptacles by the 30% of alpha men willing to overlook the inconvenience of their targets being human and looting the sexual store for all the free pussy they can carry out. The hypergamy and soft polygamy of today will become the de facto harems and hard polygamy of tomorrow. Marriage will become an anachronism. There will be more lesbian marriage announcements in the New York Times than all other marriage types combined.

Slowly, the tide will turn against sexbots. Women will grow resentful as it dawns on them that their alpha orgasms cum with a price; namely, disposability. There is only so much cock sharing a woman can endure before emotional distress cripples her ability to function like a normal member of society. At this point, I foresee women clamoring loudly for incredible levels of government nanny state intervention to act as beta male provider for their millions of bastard alpha children. Tax rates will zoom through the roof, targeted, naturally, mostly at the beta males happily fornicating into their Natalia Vodianova robots. The economy withers. Crime explodes.

Then the real shit hits the fan. Problem: Sexbots can’t reproduce. Result: None of those beta males who invent stuff like sexbots and cell phones — the kinds of stuff women have no inclination to invent nor shown any capability to invent in the past — will pass on their genes. The more sexbots infiltrate society, the fewer civilizational underpinning beta males will be born. Eventually, the whole technological edifice crumbles, taking the sexbots along with it, and a dystopia of smooth-talking salesmen and peacocked PUAs are left behind to scavenge the scarred savannah of snapper. The West will be reduced to a violent, dreary landscape of African and Central Asian-style tribal conflict, complete with gauche warlords and prison complexes that rival small nations in scope.

You’re shaking your head. Don’t believe me? Thought experiment. Who wins the battle supreme to capture male attention:

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