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JavaScript Male

Skittles Man has his antithesis: Meet JavaScript Male*.

Commenter Reservoir Tip writes,

The female reception of this piece, even here at CH, has been incredibly elementary.

I imagine the beta man-boob response is no different.

Reminds me of a funny story, actually.

Recently I was on Facebook (I know I shouldn’t have one, but Tinder) and a girl friend of mine asked via status update whether she should get a pixie cut or grow her hair out.

I told her, “pixie cut and I’m personally kicking your ass.”

To which her feminist friends and a former friend of mine turned hardcore cultural Marxist manboob replied, “omg Reservoir Tip’s opinion is stupid. Why are you even concerned about societal standards of beauty?” (LOL)

Then the manboob, who I assume is somewhat into the girl, posts something for the beta hall of fame.

“I wrote you a java script to help you figure out which style is going to work best for you” and of course, he posts the script.

As if she has any idea what the hell to do with it. Neutered man-booby goonery at its finest. I could practically feel his anticipation for her thanks and whatever attention she would afford him.

“Oh I know how to win her over! I’ll write her some java script! That’ll get her attention!”

“I’LL WRITE HER SOME JAVA SCRIPT!”

“JAVA SCRIPT”

*I can’t bring myself to call him JavaScript Man, because the term “man” carries positive character associations. Low T beta losers who behave in ways more typical of women and betray a lifetime spent struggling with testes nestled somewhere up near their diaphragms are best described as “male”, acknowledging the fact that they possess some rudimentary form of biological maleness, however actively it’s suppressed.

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One of the more amusing private pains-turned-public spectacle to leak out of an internet pustule recently graced the combox of Reddit (/r/relationship). A sexually deprived married man (but I repeat myself) crafted a meticulous spreadsheet documenting the number of times his wife denied him sex and the excuses she gave each time. He then emailed this “unspread”sheet to his wife while she was away on business (red flag right there). She went public with it, hoping to both shame her thirsty hubby and to trawl for advice from male feminists that would rub the fur of her hamster with the grain.

at least she didn’t use “i have a headache”

For those keeping score, that’s three marital congresses out of twenty-eight attempts, for an 11% successful lay ratio.

An 11% lay ratio is pretty good for the average single beta male picking up girls (1 out of 10 approaches yields sex), but horrible for a married man who pledged his freedom, natural polygynous urge, and HALF to a woman who presumably loves her husband unto death, and who tacitly agreed by signing the marriage contract to offer her body on a regular basis to him.

But as visitors to Chateau Heartiste know, marriage is no respite from the perpetually clanking meat machine of the sexual market. If you recline into complacently dull beta maleness, you will lose your wife’s desire to please you as readily as you would lose a girlfriend’s, or a fling’s, desire. Worse, if you make the mistake of thinking that marriage will energize your wife’s sexual cravings beyond the limp gestures she had exhibited toward you pre-marriage, you’ll learn soon enough that the line that is dotted is not the ‘gine that is prodded.

No marriage contract in the world is sufficiently coercive to wrest sexual desire from the limbic node of a woman’s arousal center. Sexual desire is an animal instinct that predates legal fictions or social expectation. If the animal slumbers, “talking it out” or making it promises won’t rouse it to rutting; the animal must be confronted on its own terms, with equally primal cues that waken its instinct to mate.

The trope of the married man reduced to begging for sex from his wife stricken with yet another “headache” is a stereotype for a reason. These things hardly ever materialize out of thin air. But exactly how many married men labor in the purgatory known as the thirstzone? Numbers are hard to come by, although General Social Survey wizards have played the contrarian and dug up data suggesting married men have slightly more sex on average than unmarried men.

The problem with that survey data, beyond the inherent flaws of self-reporting and social expectation bias (and burning shame), is that the huge swell of omega and lesser beta single men who suffer involuntary celibate lives greatly skews the stats to promote an illusion that married men enjoy a cornucopia of sex (with one woman, let it be reminded). This incel ballast must be jettisoned to get a truer picture of what kind of sex lives married men actually enjoy. If the typical married man gets laid once per month (as our pubic flogging victim above has documented), then a more accurate assessment of his bounty would come from comparison to unmarried men who aren’t hopeless sex market rejects.

Compared to an incel, once per month married sex sounds like a pretty good deal. Compared to single men with girlfriends, fuck buddies, and flings tossed in for flavor, once per month sex sounds like painful blue balls. Ask any single man what a year-long relationship with a hot girlfriend is like, and he’ll tell you it’s a copulation carnival. His married buddies will turn green with envy.

As often surfaces on megafeminist sites like Reddit, hackneyed hackers and bromide belchers rush to fill the void of useful advice with Hivemind-approved diagnoses that abjure the wife of even the tiniest bit of responsibility for her role in her husband’s desperate sexual deprivation. Two common refrains — the husband isn’t doing enough to “support” his wife, and the wife has “low libido” — receive rounds of applause from the benighted.

These are handy rationalizations without a scintilla of realistic relevancy. In the real world, husbands who support the shit out of their wives are often less sexually rewarded than husbands who follow a program of benevolent sexism. And no scientist has yet, to my satisfaction, proven that there is an epidemic of pathologically low libido among married women. What is much more likely is that married men are, or become, less sexually stimulating to their wives, and the infamous “low libidio” of their wives is nothing more than selective female libido. Divorcee tell-alls revel in confessions of rejuventated sex lives once the beta provider hubby package was sent adrift.

A married man stuck in the thirstzone is not without options. Mistresses have traditionally been outlets for such men, and the culture used to give a wink and a nod to such arrangements, because the culture used to have a healthy and normal appreciation and acceptance of innate sex differences, before everything turned to poopytalk and hamster fuel.

There, too, is the advice offered by this very outpost of recivilization: A dab of dread will make legs spread. The poor sexless husband who attempted to shame his wife into fulfilling his most basic need in a marriage has, by accounts, ended all contact with her. Radio silence, while not the ideal solution to such crises of the cunt, is better than abject mewling and prone apologia. It has, at the least, made his wife think so hard about her lack of desire for her husband that she has taken to an internet forum full of spergs to find serenity now.

Dread game works, but only if the timing and execution occur before betatization has metastasized. A husband who repulses his wife is in a sorry position from which no remedy will work within a time frame not measured in years. The unspreadsheet man had undoubtedly been suffering months, perhaps years, of sexual isolation from his wife before he became so desperate that he felt it necessary to painstakingly chronicle his pain and accost her with it while she was at a hotel bar thinking about unleashing her inner bed fiend with a business associate.

At that late stage, any active effort to reverse his misfortune would be perceived as spite by his carnally estranged wife, stemming from a place of hurt and neediness. Perception is king in the mating arena, and butthurtness is kryptonite to women’s horny levels. The proper dose of dread needed to be delivered earlier, under circumstances less likely to be confused for vengeance.

The most effective punishment for a sexually withdrawing wife is punishment that can be construed as inadvertent. A woman is validated equally by intentional punishment as by intentional reward; both tell her “I’m so desired I rouse my husband to flattery and to retribution.” And a validated woman is an unpliable woman.

But punishment that appears almost “off-hand”, or apathetic and callous, is gold. This is the kind of punishment of female misbehavior (and, yes, denial of historically regarded marital duties counts as misbehavior) that strikes wee hamster nerves. It’s the punishment of indifference that follows when a husband’s mind has started wandering to thoughts of other women. The classic “late night phone call to wife with girls laughing in the background” ploy is an example of indifference punishment.

Wives can handle being punished when it validates their higher status. Cause-and-effect kneejerk punishment won’t rattle their self-possession or shake them into suddenly renewed desire. But no woman, wifed up or not, can handle being an afterthought to her man without compensating for her perceived demotion with reinvigorated lust.

This type of “punishment by gradually escalated indifference” of wayward wives/girlfriends — what a reader suggested can be called the “De-escalation Ladder” — will feature in a future post.

***

PS: Here’s an example from real life of “accidental” dread game in action.

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New information has come to light which provides further support for the theory that Elliot Rodger was the practical equivalent of a male feminist who was pathologically introverted, romantically isolated, and who simply didn’t understand that men and women are psychologically different and require different courtship approaches. A family friend of the Rodger’s understood intuitively what was wrong with Elliot: He needed help meeting girls.

When a student, Elliot Rodger, went on a rampage in California in May, killing six people, one man began wondering if he could have prevented it. Hollywood screenwriter Dale Launer knew Rodger and had tried to help solve his problems with women. [...]

Launer: The Elliot portrayed in the manifesto and in the video he made was not the Elliot that I remember.

The person in that video was cocky, arrogant and hateful [ed: only in the end did Elliot become the jerk chicks dig]  – the Elliot I knew was a very meek, timid and awkward kid.

I first met him when he was aged eight or nine and I could see then that there was something wrong with him.

I’m not a psychologist, but looking back now he strikes me as someone who was broken from the moment of conception.

It appeared to me that he had an overwhelming lack of confidence but not in a particularly endearing way. Sad, but not endearing. [...]

He never raised his voice – he didn’t even seem capable of raising his voice. He didn’t slam doors or pound his fist. I couldn’t imagine him making a fist.

Beta males rarely get into fights. “Have you ever been in a fight?” is a question on the Dating Market Value Test for Men for a reason.

In retrospect, you can point out a few clues, a few cracks to the malevolence percolating underneath but they were overshadowed by someone who seemed incapable of any kind of action.

He did not simmer or seethe. The boldness he showed in that video wasn’t something I ever saw before.

Elliot knew (to himself) he was about to die in that final video. That freedom may have allowed his long-dormant inner alpha to finally come out and play. Or, he could have been hopped up on cocaine or Xanax.

We met a few times and emailed a lot. He seemed convinced that women hated him but he could never tell me why.

It seemed like he would perceive cruelness or hatefulness when in fact, I suspected, he was just being ignored.

This is the developmental process by which woman-hating betas are created.

I remember giving him an assignment once so he could try to establish some kind of dynamic with a woman.

I told him, “When you see a woman next time you’re on campus and you like her hair or sunglasses, just pay her a compliment.”

I told him, “It’s a freebie, something in passing, you’re not trying to make conversation. Keep walking, don’t make any long eye contact, just give the free compliment.” The idea being you might make a friend if you make someone feel good.

I said to Elliot, “In the next few weeks – if you see them they’ll likely give you a smile – and you can smile back and eventually turn this into chit-chat.”

I got in touch with him a few weeks later and asked if he did it. He said “no”. And when asked why not, he said “Why do I have to compliment them? Why don’t they compliment me?”

At that stage, I realised he was very troubled.

This isn’t half-bad advice. Launer had good intentions and, it seems, a fairly decent grasp of women and what Elliot would need to do to get over his crippling introversion. It’s basically newbie game. “Get out there, say SOMETHING to girls that isn’t a compliment of their beauty, and move on while you still have the happy high of making an approach. Get used to talking to girls first before you start spitting seduction game.”

Elliot didn’t do it. That’s the source tragedy. I imagine his victims would be alive today if Elliot had completed Launer’s task. But for the flight of a betaboy, a typhoon brews in the sea…

Here we have our first hard evidence that Elliot didn’t get women at all. Similar to cellar-dwelling manlets who think that any proactive effort to woo women is tantamount to “putting the pussy on a pedestal”, Elliot believed that it was beneath him to approach girls and start a conversation. In his world of equalist ignorance, women are just like men, except with different genitalia, so logically why shouldn’t women approach him to give him compliments? If his premises are right, you can’t really argue with his conclusions.

But of course his premises were all wrong. And who knows why they were all wrong. Mental illness? Pathological neuroticism toxicified with a dash of repressed narcissism? A dearth of savvy male authority figures who could educate younger Elliot about the realities of female sexual nature?

Elliot needed guidance. He needed an experienced man — not a weirdo coterie of emotionally retreating family kin shoving pills down this throat — to patiently inform him before the rot had set that biological differences between the sexes means that women will rarely, if ever, approach men directly to start conversations, that it is the man’s job, if he wants sex and love in his life, to break the ice. And that however unfair Elliot deemed this state of the sexes, it was a reality that would never change, and never go away. He had only one choice: To make reality work for him, instead of fighting futilely against reality.

In one of the last emails I sent to him, I became quite frustrated.

I pointed out that he had the choice to change his circumstances, and if he didn’t make the effort then he had to take some of the blame. He insisted that, “I have to blame someone for my troubles, and I don’t blame myself.”

It appears that by the time Launer intervened, Elliot’s romantic ignorance and ego self-preservation had consumed him. He was beyond help. I wonder if Launer would have had more positive impact had he explained to Elliot WHY he needed to do his newbie game drill rather than just giving him the task without justification for it. Most unenlightened men who come to the Chateau to learn the ways of the crimson arts are first introduced to a steady diet of knowledge about psychosocial sex differences before the juicy game strategies are revealed.

One time there was a gathering at his parents’ place and Elliot was his usual uncomfortable self.

I asked Peter if Elliot was ticklish. Peter said he was, so I encouraged a couple of women to tickle him and you know, that was the only time I saw Elliot express any kind of joy. It seemed that, at least for those moments, he was a normal kid.

A woman’s touch is water to a parched man. Sad, sad Elliot. Game can save lives. But only for those willing to see.

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I’ve noticed a faddishness among so-called “red pill” men lately to assert with the cynical glee of a conspiracy theorist stumbling across doubleplussecret knowledge that only men with 8-10% body fat and Hollywood good looks are capable of pulling girls cold, and that any man who falls short of those physical dimensions ought to console himself with internet porn or drop out of the mating race to “go his own way”.

Men who think like this believe that the only achievable pickup is one that starts with the woman initiating an “approach invitation”, i.e., a flirty nonverbal signal that lets a man know she will accept his approach. They believe that it is exceedingly rare to find examples of men successfully approaching inattentive or indifferent girls and earning the notch.

Rubbish. Anyone who’s lived a day in his life has witnessed (or executed) a pickup attempt that began with the man making an unsolicited approach and progressed to the woman gradually warming up with romantic interest. Not only does it happen all the time in real life, but our literature is replete with caddish, not-particularly-handsome characters who not only cold approached and defiled initially indifferent women, but often took up the challenge of seducing actively hostile women.

The female “approach invitation” doubtless adds a layer of efficiency to the mating market, (a phenomenon that in theory would be more frequent in r-selection societies), but it by no means is a prerequisite for love, or lust, to bloom. If anything, women have traditionally sought to suppress their approach invitations so that only the boldest, and hence most desirable, men would solicit them. Chicks dig an entitled jerkboy who doesn’t need an air traffic controller to wave him onto a woman’s landing strip.

Two kinds of men are zealous followers of the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion: Very good-looking but socially shy and/or lazy men who have spent a lifetime relying on female approach invitations to get laid, and shut-ins with a persecution complex who have a strong psychological need to blame their romantic inertia on external forces beyond their ability to control or shape.

Blaming failure, or attributing success, with women on one’s looks is a classic case of psychological projection of innate male desire. Men desire a woman’s looks first and foremost, and so men get trapped into thinking women desire the same thing to the same degree of exclusion. Women certainly value male looks, but not nearly with the same intensity or single-mindedness that men value female looks. Evidence for this sex disparity abounds: The ugly man with a hot girlfriend is a far more common occurrence than the ugly woman with the dashing, successful man. Furthermore, we can find emanations and penumbras of the lower value women place on male looks in how women react to men who are excessively preoccupied with their superficial appearance: Simply, it repulses women.

(Excessively preening women can mildly annoy some men, but most men won’t complain because the payoff of female attention to beautification is too great.)

The strange male inverse bravado that accompanies proselytization of the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion is nothing more than rationalizing fearfulness. Men who, for whatever reasons, are fearful of boldly introducing themselves to women to start a conversation with the intent of sparking an eventual sexual flame will soothe their egos with a litany of palatable excuses for their failure to launch. And one such handy excuse that seems to work with urgent plausibility is the “I don’t look like Hugh Jackman on HGH and that’s why I can’t get a cute girlfriend.”

This particular male hamster is an endurance athlete. He spins in his wheel for a long time without needing rest because it’s easier to focus the rodent’s eye on the men with top 1% looks who get a lot of glances from women, rather than to turn the rodent’s eye inward to take painful account of one’s own timidity.

It may be a simpler task to visually isolate the good-looking men from the charmers who got their women with the nimbleness of their tongues or the social lords who got theirs with the rule of their fiefdoms, but it’s also dangerously misleading. FACT: What women consider good-looking in men is far less inclusive than what men consider good-looking in women. FACT: Women are far less likely to solicit or passively pursue men they find good-looking than are men to pursue women they find good-looking.

This means, in practice, that very few men can rely on their looks for “fool’s mate” lays. Now, obviously, there is a much larger population of men who aren’t in the top 1% of male looks who nevertheless manage to get laid and build relationships with cute girls. How do these homely fuckers do it? It’s not such a mystery if you understand and accept that men can leverage much more than their looks to attract and woo women. The mystery is further demystified when you accept that there are men bolder and more confident than you are who didn’t allow their fear to condemn them to masturbatory inaction.

In other words…

they

busted

a

move.

Male “8-10% body fat” rationalization of fearfulness to approach and risk female rejection is the mirror image of a woman rationalizing her failure to get a man to commit by blaming his “issues” instead of blaming his reticence on the more distinct probability that she wasn’t pretty or caring enough for him to lavish her with long-term love and provisioning.

Both rationalizations stem from a similar psychological dynamic to avoid self-assessment that is responsive to sex-specific corrective action.

Whenever you hear a “red pill” man drone about seduction being nothing more than waiting around for a girl who likes your particular look to bat her eyes at you, know that you are reading the whiny excuse-mongering of a man who is allergic to cold approaching. He is giving you an incomplete picture because he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he shits his pants at the thought of starting conversations with women who aren’t prescreened in advance for receptivity.

None of this post should be misconstrued as support for the opposite claim that a man’s looks don’t matter at all, or that female approach invitations won’t grease the skids to sex. Quite the contrary, all else equal, a good-looking man will have an easier go of it than an ugly man, and a man who was cued to approach will have better odds than a man who approached a woman who gave no flirty cues.

Think of this post instead as a corrective to falsely dichotomous thinking like that exhibited by adherents to the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion. A corrective that appears to be more necessary than ever, because the internet disease of ego preservation at all costs is a mind virus that infects even supposedly clear-thinking, self-anointed dissidents to the blue pill orthodoxy.

To demonstrate my good faith to my readers, here is a picture of a very ugly man who will not ever be banging hard 10s:

when fupas meet

Judgment rendered? Hold on. Imagine this man without the goony accoutrement and dressed in stylish clothes that at the least don’t blatantly advertise his obesity. Now imagine he has read this blog and learned some basic game concepts and has increased his charisma roll by +2. Let’s further stipulate that he has taken the big step of actually going up to girls to talk to them, refusing to surrender to his fear. Maybe he’s even lost twenty pounds, and looks a little less hideous at first sight.

No, he still won’t bang hard 10s, nor, for that matter, soft 6s and 7s. Probably not even lumpy 4s and 5s. But he will be able to realistically trade up from a monstrous pig-faced 0 to, say, a chubby and conspicuously female 2 or 3. And that improvement in his love prospects will feel to him, a man heretofore parched of attention from recognizably human females, like an embarrassment of harem riches.

So you can swallow the “red pill” of rationalized powerlessness, or you can slap away the hands holding these pills and confront the mating market’s challenges with your vision unblurred by drug-induced hallucination.

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Comments are disabled on all posts published during Approach Week to encourage readers to limit their internet time and go outside to apply the lessons they have learned here. Approach Week celebrates the spirit of the approach, which is, in essence, a celebration of the spirit of assertive masculinity.

In Ottoman Imperial Harems, the palace eunuchs — men who were castrated typically before the onset of puberty — would serve the role of guarding the harem from fully male interlopers who wanted a taste of that concubine freshness. The eunuchs would also directly report to the Queen Mother, who was the mother of the Sultan and oldest of the Sultan’s father’s concubines.

Palace eunuchs were, essentially, the historic version of today’s beta male cockblocker and anhedonic white knight. And like their antecedents, the modern eunuch reports directly to the modern Queen Bee, aka loudmouthed feminist cunt.

At least the palace eunuchs of ancestral times had the excuse of being sold into slavery and castrated against their wills. The modern eunuchs, like male feminist Chris Gethard, willingly choose their psychological castration, a condition which feminizes and usually manifests physically in the putative man as a soft, slackened body and high-pitched whiny voice incorporating aspects of teen girl vocal fry.

Here is male feminist Chris Getpegged chastising, some would say humorously, his personal bogeyman, the “woman haters”.

His video plea is illuminating. The first question that pops to mind… Is Chris Getrammed gay? Survey SAYS…

EOGdR

Unlike Chris the Catcher, the gayometer doesn’t lie. But perhaps Chrissie GayTard can clear the air on this mystery.

like a gay burrito, bursting with fruit flavor

Forgive me. I unnecessarily slander gay men. After all, the gays I know are more masculine than GayTard and exude more sexual vitality. GayTard is the vegetable lasagna of malehood. Ken Doll called. He wants his smooth plastic crotch back.

How ad HOMOnem of me. Shouldn’t I take the high road and refute Chrissie GayTard’s vapid assertions? Fine.

- The pay gap is a myth so thoroughly debunked that to favorably repeat it now is to indict oneself as a lying liar. Or a shitlib. Same diff.

- Noting sex differences or female-biased applications of the law that outrage feminists is not “villainizing” women. It is mocking lying femcunts, which bothers pudding pops like Chrissie Getgerbiled who still feel the sting of that 5th grade atomic wedgie.

- Judging by his girlish giggling, Chrissie thinks “it should be legally bound you never find love” is the height of comedy.

- Chrissie admits he was a high school dweeb. But he promises it will get better, especially if you forswear sex with attractive women.

- “Having sex with your couch” Did this undifferentiated androgyne steal the CH “having sex with your couch crease” line?

The specimen spends the last minute rationalizing his dreary conformity and his obeisance to Hivemind goodspeak. An HDTV and a mortgage will make you a man. I suppose if you set the bar for manhood that low, anyone can qualify. Which is pretty much the fantasy of every sexual misfit and mutant manboob loser throughout history. To set the bar for normalcy and group acceptance low enough to accommodate their wretchedness.

Fellow pragmatists may wonder, doesn’t a veldt teeming with herds of slouching Chrissie castrates reduce the sexual competition to yours truly? Sure. Manlets are universally repulsive to women worth seducing. On the abacus of eros, the more manlets there are, the more women will want to be sexually rescued by a turgidly impudent Heartiste.

But aesthetics matter. Grotesqueries like Chris Gethard who are deformed rejects of their sex and who proudly push their deformities, both physical and mental, onto normal people are like pollution. I don’t want to choke on smog or gaze at a mountain vista obscured by coal dust. I don’t want to drink water slicked with oil. And that’s what Chris Gethard and his ilk are: Oil slicks running down the asscrack of humanity. They are a blight, an eyesore, bad form. They are monsters and diseased cripples who provoke the natural and normal production of antibodies in healthy people, so that their disease is disgorged with extreme prejudice.

There aren’t enough shivs in the world to lance the pustular ids of the Chris Gethards. But this blog is a start.

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The results from an experiment to domesticate wild foxes has led scientists to theorize that the transformation of humanity from hunter-gatherers to modern civilization is essentially a grand scale project in the domestication, i.e. feminization, of men. Reader D.R. writes,

I heard a radio segment the other day you might find interesting. It examines the physical changes that occur in animals when they’re domesticated, and then applies it to humans as we’ve gone from hunter-gatherer to modern society. Among other changes (like pointy to floppy ears in foxes), the animals became more feminine as they became more sociable. The cause? Lower testosterone. Here’s the link:

http://www.radiolab.org/story/91696-new-nice/

Be warned: the show has that npr cheesedick feel to it, but this must be the kind of crap necessary to make science palatable to the masses.

John Scalzi explained.

What a shame that the price to be paid for civilized prosperity is male castration. And that’s not a figure of speech. More domestication means lower testosterone. And there is tantalizing evidence of this being a worldwide phenomenon. Sperm count and quality have been falling for generations. Fertility is dropping in all but the most testosterone-y regions (Africa).

The trade-offs would superficially appear to be worth it, (especially for women), but what if we telescope outward to the distant future? What happens to a nation of manboobs and male feminists? A dearth of masculine aggression has downsides: apathy, conformity, lack of creativity, disposition to believe feelgood platitudes. But perhaps worst of all, the fate of such feminized nations is always the same: overrun by manlier cultures.

(For a laugh, check out the comment from “Gigi Jacobs”. A perfect distillation of NPR leftoid psychological projection.)

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If you should understand one thing about niceguy beta male behavior, it’s this: A little goes a long way, especially if it’s opposed by an anti-beta force.

A lot of men are constitutional romantics, and enjoy lavishing pretty women with displays of beta piety. This is a dangerous compulsion to have, as such behavior left unchecked will sour a woman’s love more surely than it will earn her loyal affection.

So if it’s a compulsion you must indulge, you need to a) limit its scope and frequency and b) bracket instances of it with the general demeanor of its opposite; namely, alpha male conceit.

Commenter English Dude passes along a personal observation that illustrates how a man can afford a beta margin of error.

As daft as this is, [jerkboy entitlement] allows the meanest guys to be pretty beta, or completely braindead in other ways too.

Sat behind a couple on the bus the other day, the guy was one of the typical “arseholes” in my area, (average height, early 20s braindead, drug dealer, could hardly string a sentence together besides “U wanna fite? I’ll bang u out” sorta stuff), on the bus with his gf. She was pretty attractive, not as much to me but other people would consider her “hot” etc.

He’d obviously done something wrong as I saw him giving her a pink glittery “I’m sorry” card, curious I peeked over to see what was inside as she was holding it open while reading.

“To my dearest prettiest princess, I’m so so sorry for what I have dun and I promise I will never do it to u ever again

I luv u with all my heart and u will always be my princess forever if u will have me. Lots of luv [guy's name] xxxxxxxxxxx”

Paraphrasing a bit there and I’m sure it had more “sorrys” and “princess” in that, but it almost made me feel sick at how wimpy it was heh. No idea what he’d done, probably cheated or something. She read it and looked a bit embarrassed but said ok and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

The next month I saw them still together, he was shouting at and hitting her (in public), as well as trying to fight anyone else in the vicinity. Seem them since too, still together..

I completely realise and understand that if I did something like that (not that I would), it would be shown off to ALL her friends (probably put on facebook too) to be laughed at, then I’d end up dumped the next day in whatever rottenest way she could conjure heh.

Sometimes you get trolls and/or knaves coming to this outpost of love to vociferously declaim anecdotes about this one guy they saw who “acted like a total beta pussboy yet still got the girl”. Of the ones who aren’t lying about what they saw, you can bet that a good many of these stories were observed by our intrepid beta defenders missing any vital context. They saw a man nauseatingly profess his love for his girlfriend, but they didn’t see all the other times he behaved more like the chav in English Dude’s slice of life above.

Without that crucial alpha male context, you can’t know that beta male antics are what got the girl.

Maybe then it won’t come as a surprise to know that it’s not uncommon for the most egregious beta male supplication to issue from the hardened husks of some really unsavory alpha males. That alpha male love is a wicked concoction of fury, caprice, selfishness, thoughtlessness, and occasional heady romantic abandon. It works, because beta ballads tend to be appreciated more by girls when they’re rare and unexpected events rather than daily rituals.

What about the opposite ratio? Are beta males who drop stealth alpha bombs attractive to girls? Well, they’re certainly more attractive than all beta-all the time autobots. But the vajmagic (it’s vagical!) doesn’t work quite the same way as majority alpha-minority beta. One, girls will more conspicuously forgive the incongruence of an alpha wolf donning beta wool than they will the incongruence of a beta boob slipping into an alpha push-up bra. The tuning fork of female desire vibrates primarily for “arseholes”, which means that if a beta male doesn’t evince some degree of alpha attitude during the opening salvos it’s probable that the girl’s asexual impression of him will solidify and close off any romantic avenues.

If you’re curious what an all beta-all the time autobot sounds like, here’s an animated confessional of a beta male orbiter with a chronic case of one-itis who started beta, stayed beta, and finished beta, tragically true to the beta male credo that predictability is the hobgoblin of emasculated minds.

You can increase your behavioral beta male margin of error by, in most ways and at most times, acting behaviorally alpha. The more alpha you are, the larger your beta margin of error when you backslide, intentionally or accidentally.

One thing you’ll observe about charismatic jerkboys… when they “go beta”, they do it differently than actual betas. Their sappy romanticism tends to be more self-centered and entitled — “you’ll always be my princess” “we’ll be together forever, and I’ll show you the end of the rainbow” — rather than pleading or appeasing. At the heart of the alpha’s (temporary) beta male capitulation is a throbbing male entitlement that chicks love.

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Via Leopard of the Blogosphere, a Salon article written by a woman about all the six figure techie beta male nerds moving to Seattle to work for Amazon and how this massive influx of single, well-off, and available men is doing nothing to spice up the dating market for women.

Why were they so awful? What was it about guys who work in tech that made them worse than lawyers or other white-collar industries?

In a way they exhibit some of the same qualities of those professions—ego, arrogance, and unlimited amounts of cash. In San Francisco, said Violet, “There were a lot of men to date with disposable income who wanted to take women out. It’s just, it was so boring,” she said. “My dating life went from dating artists and writers and going on cheap but exciting dates, to men who thought the ability to buy someone an expensive meal made them interesting.”

Violet is like many young, prime nubility women — a cheap date with a man who has that ineffable alpha attitude is far more intoxicating to them than is an expensive date with a beta male who plays by the traditional courtship rules.

The choice is simple: You can pay $150 for a nice dinner for two in a pricey SWPL enclave and pull her chair out like a gentleman while flashing your Amazon employee card, or you can meet at a dive club and pound $3 PBRs while asking her if she ever pervily listened in on a roommate having sex. Option one guarantees gloomy late night batin’. Option two gets you laid.

Beta males bring two things to the table that enable them, in however limited a capacity, to compete with alpha males: Their provisions and their dependability. But as we are seeing, modern women have begun to value both of those things far less than they used to. A beta male who thinks that making beaucoup bucks and showing a lady a fine time on his dime will arouse her to sexual receptivity simply has no concept of female sexual nature. His money won’t save him. He needs an attitude adjustment, and a better idea of the sorts of conversations and activities that women love.

The beta male torrent is so bad in Seattle that the local women are going to gay bars to avoid them and get their fun drama fix.

The problem has become pervasive enough in Seattle that when I went with a few girlfriends to Pony, one of the last true gay bars on Capitol Hill, I was shocked when I found out that the adorable pair of 25-year-old boys talking to us were heterosexual. They were there because—as one of them told us—”It was the only place on the Hill on the weekends where there are no bros.”

Beta males are so unattractive to women that they are not only being outcompeted by alpha males, but also by gay males who have no interest in sex with women. Women would rather do away with the prospect of sex in exchange for a fun time with a gay man who “gets it”, than endure a single boring date with a rich beta male who can give them a life of ease and luxury.

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CH continues to explore the Elliot Rodger story because it reveals cracks in our culture that go beyond one man’s murderous rampage. In the days that have followed, the Hivemind has been busy concocting twisted narratives to see which one best tarnishes its free-thinking enemies. I examine their accuracies and fallacies below.

Sexual Entitlement

This theoretical gambit is a favorite of feminist fruitcakes, who blame the killings on Rodger’s thwarted “entitled” belief that he was “owed” sex with hard 10s, a feminist-friendly analysis that provides a handy springboard upon which they can launch into attacks on “pickup artists” who are learning how to become sexier men in order to date higher quality girls.

The fallacy in this feminist hypothesis was astutely noted by Liger (recently upgraded from Lamb) of the Blogosphere, who wrote that sexual and romantic entitlement is a natural condition of humanity, and that without it men would feel they had no right to approach women and initiate a courtship, and the human race would go extinct.

Here are some uncomfortable truths about “sexual entitlement” that feminists dare not contemplate:

- What Elliot Rodger had was sexual desire. Feminists often confuse sexual desire for sexual entitlement (because feminists loathe male desire), but they are two very different things. To conflate them, one would have to assert that Rodger was weird for feeling attracted to a hot young blonde. But men are attracted to beautiful women. That is their nature. Rodger was no different than the vast majority of men in this regard, alpha and beta alike. However, this is the part where Liger goes astray; Elliot didn’t need to be surrounded by pretty Hollywood actresses or steeped in a culture that reveres female beauty to feel urges to want to fuck cute girls based on their looks. The stripling CH did not grow up in Hollywood, and yet I, like almost every boy I knew, valued girls for their looks above all else. No “looks message” is necessary for a boy like Elliot to feel sexual urges for cute chicks, and to feel dejected if those urges aren’t fulfilled.

- Women feel more true entitlement to men’s commitment and money than men feel to women’s sex. Few men will rape in order to feed their sexual entitlement, but many women will hold out until they get promises of commitment from men, and many marriages end with women feeling entitled to half their husbands’ wealth. A more accurate description of the sexual market, then, is that women have commitment and provision entitlement.

- Finally, the scariest realization for feminists: Sexually entitled men are more attractive to women! If you don’t feel entitled to a woman’s love, she won’t think you’re worth her love.

Elliot Rodger’s problem was not sexual entitlement. His problem was sexual desire coupled with crippling introversion that left him no means to satisfy his desire. This created a cognitive disconnect that he filled with his own untested theories for why women weren’t with him when they were with (to him) obviously inferior specimens.

Father Emotional Abandonment

Elliot Rodger’s father, Peter Rodger, from all accounts sounds like he was uninterested in Elliot’s upbringing and preferred his time in the company of naked women taking pictures of their behinds, (which included Elliot’s mother). His father either never loved Elliot, or grew to despise him when he began to sense something was off with the boy. (If the former, it’s likely that Elliot’s biracial appearance contributed to his white father’s disenchantment with him.)

Bolstering the father abandonment theory, a reader sent some juicy insider information which I will post here, taking care to edit it in a circumspect manner so that no identities are accidentally revealed.

Elliot Rodger’s family has been part of a reality show the last seven years often recorded in his house. This is significant because his father on the show has always said he has “a” son, as in only one. In this video from the TV show it shows the father at the family table with the son from the second marriage, but not Elliot.

Elliot is shown in the show, for example when they met Sylvester Stallone (23:50), but Elliot is never acknowledged or speaks. Imagine a father that has a reality show in the house, keeps talking about “his son” and the “three of us” as in “Mother, Father, and son” as opposed to sons.

Elliot mentions the jealousy he has for the other brother. The fact his father says on TV, in the house Elliot lives in, that he has one son, might be enough to push someone over the edge.

In other words, complete family dysfunction.

Elliot doubtlessly sensed his father’s loathing and embarrassment of him, and this family dynamic may have set the ball rolling on Elliot’s eventual psychosocial schism.

Regardless where you fall on the “fathers are crucial/father’s genes are crucial” argument about children’s development, it’s a good bet Elliot lacked a positive parental influence and a loving father’s advice that would have helped him through his struggle into manhood. Nevertheless, the father emotional abandonment theory can’t fully explain Elliot’s eventual psychotic break; something awry already had to be present. Was Elliot’s blood tainted?

Psychopathy/Schizophrenia/Narcissism/Neuroticism/Asperger’s Syndrome

A common theme that often emerges from mass shootings is the revelation that the killer was on some kind of psychotropic or suffered from an anti-social disorder like autism. Then people say “Aha! He was a bad seed, not right in the head”, and feel satisfied that they can ignore any environmental insults that may have triggered the killer’s rage.

News stories present contradicting information on how much, or whether, Elliot was on any happy pills or had been formally diagnosed with any personality disorder. If he was on pills, the causal mechanism then becomes the issue; did Elliot’s psychological disease push him over the edge, or did the drugs he take to ameliorate his disease act as the trigger for violence? Evidence is slim that Elliot had a congenital mental disease, but this photo of him as a child is telling (via reader Tony Nick):

Dem eyes. We’ve seen them before, staring vacantly out of the faces of Dylan Kliebold and Seung-Hui Cho.

Right now it’s a guessing game, but the best guess is that Elliot Rodger had inherited a form of narcissistic and anti-social personality disorder. Some wags may ask your esteemed host, “If chicks dig dark triad narcissists, why didn’t they dig Elliot?” The problem here is that narcissism doesn’t attract girls if it’s hiding behind a shy, retiring, aggrieved personality. You’ve gotta bust a move, and Elliot Rodger clearly never saw a move he wished to bust, unless it involved spilling coffee on a girl who was dating a guy he didn’t like.

A severe organic personality disorder alone won’t typically create a killer, but combine it with some external variable — like incel — and all the bomb needs is something to light the fuse.

Male Feminism/White Knightism

A good argument can be made that Elliot Rodger was, in his writings and beliefs, a male feminist. And that the cancerous, deceitful message of male feminism warped his view of women and contributed to his ignorance about female nature and dating. Rodger believed “supreme gentlemen” should get the girls. He thought merely showing up and plopping down on a park bench would have the girls falling into his lap (and like a peculiar subspecies of MGTOW, his belief system similarly embraced the strange notion that making efforts to get girls was beneath him). His dad, probably equally deluded about women and dating in the year 2014, figured that buying his son a BMW in the last year of his life would help him get dates.

Did male feminism create a monster? It certainly didn’t help Elliot get laid; in fact, it helped repulse girls from him, the external factor which seems to have been the dark driving force throughout his post-pubertal life. Male feminism is not just castrating, it kills. Ask Hugo Schwyzer.

Status Envy

In the Hollywood culture Elliot knew, very high status men, beautiful women and botoxed women, and snotty children of high status men and beautiful and/or botoxed women surrounded him. Most of these people are entitled (far more entitled than Elliot) and bipolar. A fun bunch to throw a party, not so great for raising a biracial, effeminate (though not physically unattractive) male like Elliot who couldn’t look people in the eyes and barely spoke two words to family acquaintances. In this milieu, Elliot would have felt like a tragic outcast, and everyone who knew him would have thought that, too.

Absolute low status does not destroy souls, but relative low status can do the trick. Any other town, Elliot might’ve stood a chance of carving out a social niche for himself. A dad with some awareness and compassion would have taken him out of Hollywood, but then that would have meant no more naked photo shoots and handshakes with Sly Stallone.

The Anti-Boy Therapy Culture

Elliot’s family had him in therapy for years. The psychiatrist he saw was a quack who dated a skank blonde with gargantuan fake tits. Harken back to your childhood. How would you have felt if your family basically pulled a Pontius Pilate and washed their hands of you, sending you to a sleazeball who’s idea of therapy was promptly writing a script for Risperidone, an anti-schizophrenia drug?

This is a tragic example of the anti-boy therapy culture that pervades the US. And by “therapy”, I mean that feminized, womanish therapy that shoves pills down throats to solve the problem of boyness. Maybe Elliot was born sick and needed therapy. But what he didn’t need was a castrate asking him his feelings about his mother while he jerked off under the desk. Elliot needed the therapy of a clear and present father to inform him of the ways of the world. Maybe that wouldn’t have saved him, but it at least would’ve given him a fighting chance.

Pickup Artists and PUAHate

Elliot Rodger didn’t frequent the PUAHate forum to grouse about pickup techniques he tried that didn’t land him a bombshell hottie. He went there to bemoan women and the men those women loved with sympathetic company, and to complain about his looks. While there, (and elsewhere), he picked up (heh) a few bits and pieces of PUA jargon and proceeded to construct an inner fantasy world featuring himself as the put-upon alpha male. But, sadly, to the outside world he was still that shy kid who never talked and looked at his shoes. This was about the time when a complete dissociation between Elliot’s inner world and his outer reality was underway.

The Estrangement Of The Modern Sexual Market

If ever there was a subculture where the modern sexual market was most conspicuously operable, it was the la-la land Elliot grew up in. You can imagine what it was like for a shy kid who had to navigate a dating apocalypse where 90% of the girls were bangable and 99% of them were chasing after the top 1% sons of A-list insiders. This poor lesser beta didn’t stand a chance.

Elliot Rodger’s 132-page autobiography/manifesto (autofesto? manigraphy?) is filled with brutally confessional admissions of loserdom. If he carried even a fraction of that self-pity with him to real life interactions with girls, they would have immediately written him off as a romantic prospect. Girls can smell the stink of beta incel from twelve parsecs.

Failure with women compounds until the beta male succumbs to bitterness, at which point the process of sexual isolation accelerates and solidifies. If an intervention goes missing, the beta can drift into omegaland, and fall victim to his worst compulsions.

Reader Steve Johnson writes,

He was totally isolated because he made bad choices.

He chose world of warcraft over socializing because it’s an effective narcotic.

He chose puahate because it told him what he wanted to hear – that girls choose guys for mysterious reasons that no man can understand – or change about himself.

He specifically avoided socializing in any way that would threaten his narcissistic self-image and motivate him to change in any way – after all if he has to change, then he’s not perfect and we all know that can’t be true, right?

He was omega by choice because it was easier than doing any work.

Martyrdom complex, bad family, crippling shyness, pathological narcissism, biracial neuroticism, unfulfilled sexual desire, a sexual market rapidly separating introverted beta males from the sexual spoils… these things put together don’t guarantee a man will become a killer, but they sure don’t help.

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Elliot Rodger, a 22-year-old mixed race Millennial “here’s why that’s a problem” son of a Chinese woman and a father with a psychopath’s thousand yard stare who was an assistant director for the Hunger Game movie, went on a shooting spree that left four men and two women dead, after which he self-delivered behind the wheel of his BMW.

The rampage is newsworthy in and of itself, but what’s really catapulted it in the public imagination is the killer’s “manifesto“, and the discovery that he was a member of an internet forum called “PUAHate”, which is a homoerotic playground for shut-ins with zero experience saying “hi” to girls, who post epic rants disparaging pickup artists and game and spend inordinate mental energy analyzing the facial measurements of various men in the apparent belief that no man who doesn’t look like George Clooney could ever get laid and should therefore not bother trying to meet women.

After reading excerpts of Rodger’s manifesto, I wondered if my evil twin was taking the piss and fooling everyone with a parody of an incel omega male so over-the-top and cartoonish that only the most gullible would believe it. Examples:

I eventually grew to hate him after I heard him having sex with my sister. I arrived at the house one day, my mother being at work, and heard the sounds of Samuel plunging his penis into my sister’s vagina through her closed room door, along with my sister’s moans. I stood there and listened to it all. … The slob [porking my sister] doesn’t even have a car, and he is able to get girlfriends, while I drive a BMW and get no attention from any girls whatsoever. [...]

I made no progress in school either. My geography class had no pretty girls in it, so I had no hope there. I spent a lot of time sitting in the cafeteria area, but all of the beautiful girls I saw intimidated me too much. One time, as I was walking across the huge bridge that connected the two campuses, I passed by a girl I thought was pretty and said “Hi” as we neared each other. She kept on walking and didn’t even have the grace to respond to me. How dare she! That foul bitch. I felt so humiliated that I went to one of the school bathrooms, locked myself in a toilet stall, and cried for an hour. [...]

Before I knew it, it was July 12th and the countdown on my internet homepage was up. The new Song of Ice and Fire book, A Dance with Dragons, was released. I emailed my mother to order me the book from Amazon. The countdown was ultimately over, and I had nothing to show for it. I was still a virgin, even after a month of living in a town full of college kids who had sex all the time. I realized that I had only twelve more days as a teenager! I was going to turn twenty very soon. One of my hopes was to at least lose my virginity before my time as a teenager was over. Being a virgin at the age of twenty would make me feel very defeated. I made a bid to do everything I could to lose my virginity in those few remaining days I had. With a tremendous amount of panic, I wondered what I could possible do. The only thing I could think of was to go out to the common areas of Isla Vista as much as possible. I had to put myself out there, even if it only increased my chances of having sex by one percent. One percent was still better than zero. For those crucial twelve days I had left as a teenager, I walked over to the center of Isla Vista every day and sat at one of the tables outside Domino’s Pizza, hoping against hope that a girl would come up and talk to me.
Why wouldn’t they? I looked good enough, didn’t I? Or did I not look good enough? [...]

As my frustration grew, so did my anger. I came across this Asian guy who was talking to a white girl. The sight of that filled me with rage. I always felt as if white girls thought less of me because I was half-Asian, but then I see this white girl at the party talking to a full-blooded Asian. I never had that kind of attention from a white girl! And white girls are the only girls I’m attracted to, especially the blondes. How could an ugly Asian attract the attention of a white girl, while a beautiful Eurasian like myself never had any attention from them? I thought with rage. I glared at them for a bit, and then decided I had been insulted enough. I angrily walked toward them and bumped the Asian guy aside, trying to act cocky and arrogant to both the boy and the girl. My drunken state got the better of me, and I almost fell over to the floor after a few minutes of this. They said something along the lines that I was very drunk and that I needed to get some water, so I angrily left them and went out to the front yard, where the main partying happened. Rage fumed inside me as I realized that I just walked away from that confrontation, so I rushed back into the house and spitefully insulted the Asian before walking outside again. [...]

Seriously, today at my college I saw this short, ugly Indian guy driving a Honda civic, and he had a hot blonde girl in his passenger seat. What on earth is up with that?!?!? I would climb mount Everest 10 times just to have a girl like that with me. I drive a BMW coupe and I’ve struggled all my life to get a girlfriend. What’s wrong with this world? [...]

Unfortunately, all indications are that this guy is was the real deal and the bodies have hit the floor. A few thoughts:

Rodger pings some operational gaydars. There’s his plush gay face. There’s the “try-hard” nature of his manifesto, which reads less like a compendium of genuine pain than a B-movie script of what he’d think a guy with girl troubles would write. It’s so histrionic and maudlin that it could be as easily confused for the hallucinations of a psychopathic degenerate as the plaintive wail of a ronery NOWAG.

It’s telling, too, that his first three victims were all male and he killed them by stabbing, which is a particularly personal method of dispatch, suggesting a level of emotional investment that wasn’t there for the faceless women who bore the brunt of his manifesto ranting. And his narcissism; if you haven’t seen by now, Rodger had a stream of attention whoring pouty-lipped Facebook selfies that would make a dancing bar slut blush. Homosexual men are known to experience greater levels of pathological narcissism.

A repressed young gay man at war with his identity would be the sort to exaggerate his desire for (and troubles with) women. His manifesto references women in the abstract and the rejections he suffered at “their” hands, but few if any specific women who rejected him are named or contextualized. It’s mostly, “Why won’t these girls look at me?” Also, the preoccupation with his looks and other men’s looks and how the world was upside down because ugly men were with cute girlfriends again suggests some latent homosexual feeling.

But these are just suspicions (worth following up on imo, but which the MSM naturally won’t touch). As far as we know, there’s no hard evidence of Rodger’s homosexuality. So, that speculative notion aside, we’ll proceed under the assumption that Elliot Rodger was an incel heterosexual male whose off-key word is true and who really did have trouble getting out of the dugout with girls.

From what I can glean, Elliot Rodger failed with women because he was a social retard. That’s pretty much all there is to it. News stories say he was on meds for asperger’s, and was in therapy. Social retardation diseases like any of the autism spectrum disorders are kryptonite to girls; no behavioral or physical defect is as debilitating to a man’s chances in the sexual market. Proof of his social awkwardness and total lack of anything remotely resembling game is right there in his long-form diary: He thought that “putting himself out there” with girls was sitting on a park bench like Aqualung. That making a serious move on a girl was quickly muttering “hi” as he stumbled past her, later delirious with rage that she didn’t reciprocate with an equally prompt blowjob. That bumping into an Asian dude talking to a cute chick, and glaring at them with his twisted angry face, was acting “cocky and arrogant”. That his effeminate passivity and lack of proactive engagement with women was evidence that they were “ignoring” him.

No, Elliot Rodger was not a failed pickup artist; he was failed human being. A sexless beta male who, stirred and shaken by a lethal cocktail of life circumstances, racial grievance, mental illness, and morbid narcissism that stunted his development into adulthood and compelled him to prefer morose martyrdom to active efforts at self-improvement, found it easier to blame the degree of his brow ridge tilt for his failure with women.

He was the opposite of a failed pickup artist, because at least you know the failed pickup artist tried with women. Rodger apparently never even bothered to try. He just whined that women weren’t sticking to the hood of his Beemer.

All this is to say that, yes, there is a chance that, given an early enough intervention, game could have gotten him laid and quieted his inner rage. Feminists and their manlet enablers will scoff on cue, but giving a young man the tools to help him win the love of a woman (or just a warm smile) will tend to put a damper on his revolutionary kill-em-all spirit.

Which brings us to PUAHate, the forum of which Rodger was a member. It’s not a forum for failed pickup artists as some male feminists licking the taint of their femcunt overwhores will want you to believe. It’s a hangout for socially awkward losers who desperately want to blame their failings with women on their sub-Pitt looks instead of on their awful social calibration and their inability to say two words to a girl without filling their Pokemon underoos. The news that Rodger was a member at that omega male brothel doesn’t demonstrate the failing of game to help him (as a certain lamb of the blogosphere implies) but rather demonstrates that the opposite of game — the cultivated hopelessness that one can’t do anything to improve his relations with women — is what drove Rodger to his extreme misanthropy. If you’re wondering how a 22-year-old can feel so hopeless about his love life, you’re probably an older person who stopped recalling what it was like at that age. The passions run hot and the perspective runs cold.

Elliot Rodger had a girl problem, and that girl problem wasn’t his supposed shortness, or his half-asian ancestry, or his richie rich expectations of immediate rewards and deference from lessers, or his utter blindness to what women really desire in men (hint, it isn’t BMWs). His girl problem was charmlessness. Artlessness. Social retardation. The very tingle-killing flaws that game will remedy.(More indirectly, his girl problem was also the result of the relative paucity of slender attractive girls in the US now. Rodger never wanted to date fat chicks, and no man with a functioning penis can blame him for that.)More thoughts, etc.:

No sense ignoring the race angle. Mixed race people are more likely to have psychological disorders. And Asian men are especially susceptible to dating market lockouts. Throw in the cauldron a stew of vibrant proximate diversity and it’s a surprise suppressed racial/sexual rage doesn’t boil over moreoften.

Rodger was not a bad-looking guy. But he was so ignorant of female sexual nature that he projected onto women what he himself found desirable and obsessed over his looks as his awful personality escaped his attention.

The title of this post is a broad indictment of this infantile Millennial generation, which daily provides evidence that their ranks are filled with effeminate males who, like women, expect the world to cater their needs, no questions asked, no demands made. Elliot Rodger couldn’t stand how unfaaaair girls were to date uglier men than himself, how unfair life was that his car and clothes weren’t a magnet for hot white sorority chicks, how unfair the cosmic laws were to require of him a little bit of effort if he wanted to put an end to his virginity.

Egotistic, attention starved, solipsistic, passive aggressive, perpetually aggrieved, and unwilling to change when posing as a martyr feels so damn good… there’s your new American manlet, same as your new American woman.

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