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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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