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Archive for the ‘Beta’ Category

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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The subject of hugs as a social lubricant surfaced recently in the comments. Before continuing, I’ll say that hugs as a tactile ploy to quickly escalate physical comfort with a girl is an entirely different matter than hugs as they are used by girls when meeting friends or even loosely affiliated acquaintances. The former is an established game technique; the latter is, well… emasculating.

Gadfly Amy writes,

This is an interesting observation. I hug people all the time, and you are right, the “alpha” guys don’t really hug back. They don’t freeze up and act uncomfortable or nervous… they just don’t physically react. They make me do the work.

Hugging is all the rage in SWPL-land. And it’s something I could do without. But some social forces are so deeply ingrained that even the mighty iconoclast you know and luv, Highlander Heartiste, must bend to the will of the herd.

Although hugging is a great kino escalation tactic, in nearly every other context it’s phony and suspiciously emasculating. People (mostly women) feel the pressure to hug, and like lemmings they dive right over the personal space cliff to hug everybody from exes to bosses to friends of friends to friends of friends of boss exes. Whatever import accompanied the practice has long ago been stripped mined from it by perfunctory overuse.

Hugging is Depo-Provera for the Androgyne Generation. It’s the final snippity snip of soft castration for men whose testes are already halfway ascended to their diaphragms. It’s a comforting boundary in a world of hair-trigger offense, and a reprieve from busting a move to get the girl.

Hyperbole? Ok, try imagining Don Draper hugging Peggy or Joan or his secretary du jour every time they got together at a party. Try picturing James Bond hugging a woman he had no intention of seducing into bed. Try imagining your father, or your grandfather, or this guy, asexually hugging women at a backyard barbeque.

It is to laugh.

Fact: If you aren’t initiating hugs to fast-track a familiarity that can be leveraged into quick seductions, or you aren’t hugging a girl as post-coital homage to her bedside acrobatics or sympathy for her dead grandma, then the hug you are receiving is beta.

Naturally, if I have to put up with hugging I’m gonna press in real close if the hugger is a cute girl with a big rack. That’s called making smoosh juice out of lemons. And lemons it is, because hugging, besides feeling like a coerced gesture to which one submissively relents, is in most ways subtly desexualizing. I don’t know when or how the practice got to be the go-to social greeting among self-regarding liberal whites (aka alien grays), but I’ve no doubt that many women now deploy it as a means of preemptively dissipating any simmering sexual energy that might radiate from a man who still has stones knocking between his legs.

In some cases, the sexual energy she subconsciously seeks to dissipate is her own. Which is flattering to the man, until he stops to think that the hug is basically the girl pulling a Heisman on him.

Exceptions exist. Hugging is occasionally an overt come-on by a girl who wants to communicate her sexual intent using tools deemed safe and plausibly deniable by broad social acceptance. If you can tell that’s happening to you, then by all means welcome that hug and let your hand drop to the top of her ass.

But more often, hugging is a female power move to claim control of a man’s beastly sexuality. It’s emasculating in the sense that the hugger feels so at ease in your company, so blissfully unthreatened by your percolating sexuality, that she can swoop right into your flaccid body and press her supple flesh into your spirit house. Not in your house? Oh yes, in your house.

The female hug is a nonverbal message delivery vehicle. It can say “Wow, I like this guy and just want to feel his strong swaying manboobs”, or, more typically for your average SWPL betaboy who must entertain upwards of ten friendzone hugs per day, it says, “Wow, this guy is such a team player, but just in case he’s got life left in that microbone of his, I’m gonna arouse him with the proximity of my body and drink of his nourishing despair as he realizes the extent of his paralyzed impotence.”

You don’t want to be that guy. But what to do when the world is hug-happy and refusal would assuredly consign you to the disinvite list?

Based on what I’ve seen charming alphas do, there are two effective countermeasures. One, you can do as Amy observed, and let your body hang in languid repose, forcing the girl by your inaction to assume all the sexual pre-penetrative tension that is always bubbling not far underneath the polite veneer of a hug. Call it, “amused receivership”. The trick is to substitute calm indifference for rigid discomfort. Done right, it’s a great way to non-verbally wedge a girl into the “chaser” role. She’ll feel like she’s doing all the work, so you as a man must be worth it.

The other method requires a more cantankerous personality. When she moves in for the hug, agree and amplify. As she’s hugging, let your hands roam over her back and hips. Exaggerate your pleasure for the entertainment of the crowd or for your own amusement. Smile like you’re getting a hummer and press harder into her. Moan a little. Sexualize the hug. Accuse her of copping a cheap feel, or making you feel dirty. Force her world to accommodate your insolent penile aura. She’ll either be aroused by your manly effrontery and begin to contemplate unclothed transactions with you, or she’ll be thrown into a state of perturbation and think twice before hugboxing you again as if you were a little eunuch doll.

Either way, you win. If the second method should scandalize the gathered, prep them with a clownish attitude. This way there’s less chance they’ll mistake your gropings for anything but physical humor. If she, or her friends, really chafe at your impudence, you shouldn’t be hanging with such uptight pussies anyhow.

Amy continues,

How do your girl friends greet you, then? How do you expect/want them to greet you?

I don’t press up against guys when I hug them, it’s a greeting type hug, quick, and I usually kiss them on the cheek. The only exception is if I’m really glad to see them for a specific reason, i.e. the other night I saw a friend of mine who just recovered from a freak illness that almost killed him. I was so happy to see him out and looking healthy that I hugged him hard. But I don’t think anyone would confuse that with a sexual advance.

You underestimate the proclivity of men to interpret all variety of female attention as a cry for copulation. But to your question, long-time close girl friends I have no intention of fucking may get a hug now and then. Mostly though, there is a tacit understanding that it’s cool to get together without having to grease the friendship wheel with gobs of histrionic symbols of affection.

The French have it right, like they do in so many matters of intersex politesse. If you must have a physical greeting with women you aren’t fucking, the lean in, arm grab, and air kiss on the cheek is sufficient. Otherwise, just chill and go for the high five, pulling away at the last second leaving her hand flapping in empty air, after which you execute the “who’s gay” finishing move.

Failing that, there’s always the fist bump, a gesture which ironically works a lot better to establish your alluring dominance when used on girls than on male friends.

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Incel stands for involuntary celibacy, and it refers to beta and omega males who, for a variety of factors, are horrible with women and wind up enduring long and unwelcome sexless droughts. Rumor has it there are whole forums of quasi-men who, for reasons likely having their origin in mommy’s quickness with the back of her hand, nurse a deep hatred for game and “players”, and who spend most of their time on these gayforums analyzing with the precision of a spectrometer the facial dimensions of various pick-up artists for their conformity to Brad Pitt’s visage, apparently believing that no man ever in the history of the world who didn’t look like Brad Pitt got laid with a cute chick.

The incel is now an internet caricature, loathed and ridiculed by men and women equally. But there’s a female analogue of the incel. And CH was reminded of this when resident female apologist Amy, once again bravely trying to salvage the reputation of her sistren with squirrely semantic maneuvers intended to evade the Guns of Heartisterone, made the claim that there are men who would willingly sleep with fat chicks and that this must mean those men find the fatties sexually attractive.

But what about beta fat guys with no game? There are plenty of them. Who are they going to date? They want relationships. They’re going to end up with women like this [fat] chick. And they must feel some attraction for them if they’re having sex.

Settling isn’t attraction. Settling is, for men, finding a hole that is a little bit wetter than the couch crease. Losers settle for each other all the time. But fat chicks are so repulsive to men that there aren’t enough omega males willing even to settle for them as a last resort and think of England while spelunking the pig. As a result, fat chicks are alone more often and for longer dry spells than are thin girls. And the fatter the girl, the more intractable her involuntary solitude. Call it… Insol.

The Insol is the female equivalent of the Incel. She fails at finding the one thing in life that is most important to women: The love and commitment of a desirable man. Her failure is no less dispiriting or cruelly mock-worthy than is the failure of the omega male who can’t get laid in a brothel with a fistful of hundreds.

People don’t think of fat or ugly women going long spells without love, because those women are adept in ways that beta males aren’t at concealing their misery from public scorn and pity. And, to be sure, the fat chick has a better shot of getting pumped once or twice than does the omega male of getting laid. Because of this slight sexual disparity, and because of the male instinct to project their sensibilities onto the female sex and imagine that getting laid is proof of romantic success, the Insol receives more of a break than the Incel.

Sure, you’ll occasionally hear about fat chicks getting face fucked by drunkards, but rarely will you see them in long term happy relationships with men who aren’t complete rejects. And this reality grows with the pounds. Female fatness has exponentially increasing blowback. Ten extra pounds won’t put too big of a dent in a chubster’s sex life, but 100 extra pounds will relegate her to incel with the omega males.

Loser women, like fat chicks, can sometimes pull off a simulacrun of a relationship, but only after a lot of time alone and sacrifice of anything worth living for. The occasional sight of a fatty in an LTR notwithstanding to the contrary, most fat women go epically long times without a man’s love. You just don’t see them because most fatties don’t advertise their loneliness the way loveless beta males advertise theirs.

The problem with the “even the ugliest/fattest women can get laid” trope is that the issue is not whether a fat chick can manage once in her life to get a weirdo to drill her face for three perfunctory seconds in an alcoholic haze. For women, sex isn’t the relevant metric. Women want love and commitment with a high value man. On that score, fatties fail miserably.

Even if we limit our claim to three second drunken sex with losers, fat chicks still have problems in that department that thinner girls don’t have. It’s hard to directly compare the two groups because thinner/prettier girls are less slutty than fatties and fugs, but if we draw on the subset of sexy thin girls who don’t mind boffing the same losers that fatties boff, then we would find the fatties badly outcompeted for the sexual attention of those losers.

Simply put, there is the tendency of people to miss what they don’t see. Omega and to a lesser extent beta males repeatedly try and fail with women. We see that. Fat chicks, being women first and fatties second, are more passive about courtship. When they fail, it tends to be less spectacular, less conspicuous. They are simply ignored rather than rejected. When fat chicks fail in the dating market, they retreat away from men or they surround themselves with female friends so that they can continue engaging the social scene without the stink of celibacy driving them to isolation or handicapping their ability to converse with strangers. The involuntary loneliness of fat chicks is thus more concealed than the loneliness of loser men.

In contrast, incel men don’t have large groups of socially attractive male friends to shield them from their own failure. The sexual poverty of the male incel is more readily apparent in his loner lifestyle and his bitter, stunted personality. When he fails, he retreats, regroups, fails, retreats again, and the cycle continues. His failure is unmissable.

In the grand scheme, incels and insols are two sides of the same coin. Both lose in the sexual market. Both lose in the LTR market. Both suffer long droughts of sexlessness. If there’s a difference between the omega male incel and the female fatty insol, it’s that perhaps the fatty can amass (heh) a couple more lays in her lifetime than can the omega male. But two extra lays over a lifetime does not a proud, confident, non-bitter woman make.

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Cuck Up

Cuck up, idiom, slang, origin: Chateau Heartiste.
1. Variation on the “man up” theme; to demand of a cuckolded man that he support the bastard child of his cheating wife or girlfriend.
2. A taunt directed at a beta male to ostensibly shame him to provide for the child of another man’s seed, often delivered by ugly feminists and low SMV white knights who are projecting their fear of mass beta male abandonment of a sexual market skewed by law and custom to satisfy the preferences of women and women alone.

Courtesy of reader Waffles, a (probably fake but still illuminating) story on Reddit that serves as a wonderful microcosm of the murky churn at the bottom of the sexual market, where fat sluts dupe manboobed omegas into race cuckoldry.

Off topic but will be appreciated by the CH crowd. Over on Reddit a debate was going on after some guy posted this. His kid came out black. There apparently were actually people telling him that he should “man up” and take care of the kid as his own! Delusional.

The OP:

I did not walk out on anything. It is not my responsibility to raise a kid that did not come from me. I may sound like an ass, but I can’t believe the people who said to raise it as mine. Imagine your wife finally getting pregnant, only to see a different race pop out, and you realize it’s not yours. I am not raising that kid, however enjoy your free karma.

definitely not master of her domain

Some choice replies:

Some white babies do come out looking black though, sometimes you gotta let it air out for a little bit for the complexion to even up.

:lol:

At least your wife had the decency to fuck a black man, so you could tell she cheated on you. So you’ve got that going for you, which is nice.

Womb half-full.

Did you drink grape soda the day before?

Science!

Before you lawyer up and sue for divorce, I would ask you to take a step back and a deep breath. Try to remember that it isn’t the little guy’s fault.

Cuck up… “for the children”.

I must ask, are you mad that the child is not yours; Or is it because the child is Black?

Because racism is the true moral outrage here.

He has your palms.

at least he has a chance to get laid before he turns 30

You laugh, but every other relationship depicted on televagina these days is essentially a warmly accommodated race cuckold fantasy. Sorry White knighters… white women eat that shit up.

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