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If you plan to pursue a fast-paced, rewarding career in womanizing, you’ll want to take steps to protect yourself from crazy chicks. All you need is one wild-eyed stalker camping out at your apartment door when you get home from work to make your life exciting in the wry Chinese sense of the word.

With that in mind, reader anonYmous advises,

Couple things from my past. And things I wish I would of done better. Using a fake name. Not showing her where I live. Not letting her follow me home. Using a burner phone (I have my main cell and a lot of chicks at work have access to databases and know know way too much about a person). I dated a chick who worked at the storage vault for the county courthouse and it was the same place they stored all of the local hospitals and clinics medical records. Needless to say she knew quite a bit about me. Also, if you plan to move get a new drivers license before you move, say you lost it or whatever. Just make sure not to give them the new address. Always keep ur phone locked and dont use a SD card on ur burner phone. Also remember that newish phones can stay connected to towers while the phone is off, so pull the battery on your main phone. The govt can use gps data to “link” two phones to an owner. The other thing I would add is to save incriminating evidence. If shit hits the fan always have a mountain of evidence on chicks. I also leave my wallet at home, and throw a hundred underneath the insole of my shoe in case I get in a bind. Though 100 doesnt go very far when something comes up. But you could put a prepaid cc under ur insole too. A crazy chick will regularly go though ur pockets when ur using the bathroom or whatever. Course you can use this to your advantage and have a friend write a fake phone number and a chicks name on it on a piece of napkin or something to stoke the fire.

Sounds like a pro. This is advanced level counterintelligence. A burner phone is an obvious first line of defense against prying princesses. Building a deliverable dossier on your lovers is next level anti-snoop game. Cash only, prepaid credit cards when cash isn’t an option. Fake IDs are useful if you can find a reputable source of them, and they’re legal to own as long as you don’t use them to conduct a transaction in which a valid ID is required. Never give out your real address to a potential loon. Arrange all rendezvous at her place, or until she begins to ask why she hasn’t seen your place yet. I once boffed a woman for four months before she got within spitting distance of my neighborhood. Keep your home spare; no identifying family photos or work-related papers lying about.

Disinformation is king in a land of distrust and proto-spinster malice. Unusual secretiveness will invite probing; better to misdirect a crazy chick with layers upon layers of lies and quasi-lies. Good girls rarely need this kind of treatment because they don’t have reason to mistrust men and dig into each date’s personal files. They avoid the cock carousel lifestyle and its attendant vice. Bad girls, by dint of their predilections and intemperance, have been burned many times by assholes on the make, and have developed a keenness for snooping in the bargain. They are less naive, but they pay a price in surrendering their chance at redemptive love.

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Suburban_elk takes home the tumescent trophy,

It has been said that in the old days, in Russia and elsewhere, the folk tradition was that a man was expected, upon marriage, to beat his wife, one time.

He was not supposed to enjoy it, as might a demented sadist, but he was expected to do it.

And then she always knew.

“What did she know?!”, wails the assembled. She knew love.

***

Clover_Annie graces the board with a feminine wisdom gradually being lost to generations of Western women:

“I propose that we resurrect the memento mori for the hot young ladies in our society.”

As a 45-year-old peri-menopausal woman just itching to educate these fools, let me pile on here: “Here’s what you need to understand about being ‘hot’. First, no matter your level of natural beauty, once you hit 35 or so, you will not be anywhere near hot unless you work very, very hard at it. We’re talking diet, exercise, cosmetics, and possibly plastic surgery level of difficulty, and even with that, it’s possible that bad genes or a bad youth will make this all for naught. Second, even if you are hot when you are 35 or 45 or 55, that WILL NOT MAKE YOU HAPPY the way it did when you were 20. Love and family and friends and security and a good attitude will make even the ugliest 55-year-old happy, and lack of these will make even the loveliest elderly woman miserable. Beauty is not an end, it’s a means, and you had best use it while you can.”

Make love when you can, because it is good. A maxim that has seen me well. But for women it might better be said, “Make family when you can, because it is good.” The means of female beauty finds resolution in family. For men, the equation is different. The means of male power, in whatever form, finds reproductive resolution in the love and loyalty of many beautiful women. But unlike women, men’s reproductive resolution doesn’t have a stark finish. The acquisition of power is a lifelong pursuit, because the love of young women and the pleasure of their sex is an infinite joy.

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Wrecked ‘Em suggests an old Roman tradition could serve well the modern day West.

During a Roman Triumph it was traditional for a slave to ride with the victor and whisper to him reminders of how fleeting is glory and how short is life. In Latin this was called “memento mori”.

I propose that we resurrect the memento mori for the hot young ladies in our society. A coming-out parade, of sorts, where the ladies will ride in cars accompanied by an old woman who will whisper to them things like, “By 40 you will be invisible to men” and “You’ll be over 40 for more than half your life” and “At 55 the only things that will bring you joy are your children and grandchildren; not your career, not your travels, nor your accomplishments.”

For now, the cloaked figures of the House of Heartiste will release those whispers into the ethernettian winds, assuming the duties of the mothers and grandmothers who have shirked theirs.

***

Runner-up COTW is Matthew King, disgorging a wallop of righteous bile,

We elevate the subhuman and inanimate to idol status, like sports, politics, pop-star vapidities, and here especially, masturbating into latex gripped by the dryboxes of disaffected wigger club whores on permanent vacation from daddy. Kakocratic paganism.

The hate is strong in this one. Excellent. To extract such id-ious concessions from a man wrapped in the cloth is, in a word, delicious.

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Dat_Truth_Hurts, this week’s COTW winner, illuminates,

Compare and contrast:

Women, would you rather date Paul Walker (pre-dead, of course) or a waiter that looked exactly like Paul Walker?

Men, would you rather date Scarlett Johanssen, or a waitress that looked exactly like Scarlett Johanssen?

The question is rhetorical, of course, in the socratic style of CH compare and contrasts of past. Most women would prefer to date rich celebrity Paul Walker. He wins in a cakewalk over waiter Paul Walker.

Most men would prefer to date waitress Scarlett Johanssen, because men primarily care about a woman’s looks, and Scarlett will look like Scarlett no matter how she pays her bills. If anything, a woman with high status introduces a negative force into a relationship, because her hypergamous instinct will be attuned for men higher status than herself. Men who are interested in dating Scarlett long term will be put off by the risks that come with her celebrity.

The choice for men is a bit more complicated, however. There is a nontrivial minority of men who would date celebrity Scarlett, if it were possible, not just for the great sex but for the bragging rights to their buddies. These men are likely to be the ones less interested in pursuing a deep, meaningful love bond with Scarlett.

***

Runner-up COTW winner is Sigma Male, who provides a helpful taxonomy of equalists.

Kingdom: Cathedral

Phylum: Anti-Naturalist

Class: Ethnomasochist

Order: Donkey

Family: Winged Servant

Genus: Leftoid

Species: SWPL

Sub-species: That atheist cunt who got stared at by a trembling nerd in an elevator and broadcast her near-death experience to the internerd backscratching community.

***

Runner-up #2 COTW winner is Greg Eliot, channeling a Pith Lord.

We live in awkward times… too late to vote and too early to start shooting.

Poolside never looked better.

***

COTW consolation prize goes to Fred C. Dobbs, with a brisk reminder for Asia supremacists:

So freedom, individual rights,equal opportunity, limited government and self reliance are obsolete? And thus Western society is about to yield to the Asian tigers? Huh? Our recent decline has come about due to our deviation from these founding principals, Not because Of them. Billions of Chinese would still be walking around in their identical little gray Mao work clothes had China not adopted Western values. Or worse, slaughtering their own by the tens of millions –ie see Great Leap Forward, where between 1962 -1958 a total of 45 million Chinese died due to Mao’s policy of forced resettlement and collectivization. Yup! I’d be proud of Chinese civilization too! Chinese will never realize their full potential, and will never be fully human until they are free to act and express their thoughts, ideas and creativity.

That last line is a nice sentiment, but here’s a question to ponder: what if the Chinese don’t want to be free to act and express their thoughts? As über-agriculturalists, they may have evolved to step right in the lemming line.

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RappaccinisDaughter (sock puppet alert) imparts a valuable lesson,

Hey, Greensleeves!

Check this shit out.

So I was just out hunting last weekend, and I got a shot on a nice doe. Lucked into it, really—I was late heading out to my blind setup and the sun had already risen, but lo! she walked right out in front of me. Now, I had to take the shot freehand because my sticks were still slung over my shoulder, and fuck my life, I was doing it with iron sights. But I have a nice .50-cal inline muzzleloader, and they’ll reach out as far as 200 yards, so if I can see it in the iron sights, I can hit it. Brought it up to my shoulder, focused on the front sight, and KA-FUCKING-BOOM!

I don’t know if you’ve ever shot a muzzleloader, but they make one hell of a smoke cloud. Even if you’re not in a blind, it can really make it hard to see how the shot went down. I knew I’d hit her, but by the time I came out of recoil (I didn’t even feel it at the time, but I had a nice bruise flowering on my collarbone by the next morning) she was gone, daddy, gone. You wouldn’t believe how strong a deer really is until you experience it firsthand; they can travel up to a quarter of a mile just on the oxygen that’s already in their muscles. Amazing creatures, really. And I was going to have to track her through some pretty heavy brush.

So the first thing you have to do is, you have to let the bullet do its work. If you start trying to track them right away, they’ll keep running. So I lit up a cigarette—mmmm! tobacco!—and smoked the whole thing, just standing there. Then I put it out and put the butt back in my pack (because I’m eco-friendly like that), and went to work. Luckily, there was a light snowfall, so when I got to where she’d been standing, the tuft of tawny fur was really easy to see. So was the blood trail, which thankfully started right there.

I wound up actually finding her about 45 yards away, piled up at the base of a tree. I like to follow the old German hunting traditions, given that it’s half my heritage, so I plucked a little twig and put it in her mouth, for her symbolic “last bite.” It’s kind of bittersweet, that moment, knowing that you’ve ended the life of this beautiful creature, but when I opened her mouth I saw how ground-down her teeth were. She was in good shape, but she was pretty old. Who knows if she’d have lasted out that winter?

Then, I had to tag her and start cleaning her. Gross, but necessary. Piece of advice—you really cannot beat the “butt out” tool for getting that part of the deer out of the way. I’d heard coyotes howling all the previous evening, so I figured I wouldn’t need to bother burying the gutpile. The ‘yotes would have taken care of it by sundown.

The bitch was hauling her out. I usually have this little sled-like arrangement that I use, but I’d been in such a rush that morning I’d forgotten to bring it along. So I had to grab her by her hind legs and drag her, because I’d ALSO forgotten to bring my blaze-orange engineer tape. There’s no way I’m going to try to haul her around on my shoulders without it…that’s a great way to get shot by another hunter.

I took her back to the cabin and wondered if I should finish butchering her, but then I remembered that I was the one who brought the handle of Knob Creek, so I figured I could cozen someone into doing it for me as long as I shared. (I’m still learning the butchering part—I tend to waste meat by accident.) But I did go ahead and get the backstraps out, and by the time everyone else made it back in, I had them going in the broiler for everyone’s lunch. Hooray! The End.

TL; DR for Greensleeves: If you’re going to write 500 words that have nothing to do with anything the original blog post is about, at least try not to bore everybody to fucking tears.

I laughed.

PS The reason I don’t think this is the ORD is that the writing, stylistically as well as substantively, sounds like the voice of a man. But bell curve tails exist to add a little spice to the patterns of life.

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everybodyhatesscott machine gunned,

The millennials turned out exactly how’d you’d expect a generation raised by the most selfish generation in history to turn out.

Cocooning, pathologically selfish, vapid, entitled, attention whoring, phony, emotionally stunted, socially maladjusted androgynes. There is your Millennial Generation. God help America.

***

Runner-up COTW winner is ho (a handle so simple, yet so demanding of your attention), responding to a representative for the Obamacare ad campaign claiming people are hating on the ads because MISOGYNY,

“People tend to get upset when women are portrayed as independent.”

If you need other people’s money to get birth control, YOU ARE NOT INDEPENDENT.

Stupid fucking cunt.

That last line may seem overkill, but no, really, it was necessary. Brazen stupidity in service of transparently selfish ends is not to be tolerated with even the slightest veneer of polite disagreement. Hammer blows to the head only. Preferably clawed side first.

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n/a lyrically reminds the arriviste audience that an old chestnut is just as moldy when a man serves it up on a platter and calls it the main course.

Amused by this thread and its arriviste assumption that ladies with a few more rings in the trunk and some rather shocking sun-damage from their salad days in St. Barts are somehow more “sophisticated” than a sweet pink baby in her last year of high school: the notion is even more comical than it is wrong.

There is no “intellectual” badinage much less intelligent conversation with a woman who is still worth fucking; of all the cliches of romance none better suits the vanity of women and the hard to dispel starry-eyed stupidity of men than the laughable idea that there exist magical hags smarter, more spirited and altogether better at desiccated 40 than they were at moist 20. This is an amazing delusion and a quintessential trope – and tell – of the diehard beta.

The question to ask the woman duly and dully decked in her “Chanel” and knockoff Louboutins is do you have a pretty and naughty daughter? There are indeed rich and bored women who will be anything but displeased to entertain such a question after a few oily martinis and then, and only then, does the hard mug of the accomplished bitch take on the warm glow of lechery. Do not press the issue. Let it scent the air.

This comes close to a perfectly crafted comment, in both substance and delivery. Men who, by dint of limited options, choose to extol the “sophistication” and “worldliness” of the wealthy middle-aged cougar are revealing a classic handicapped SMV tell: that of the man who can’t do any better. It’s the inverse of sour grapes; instead of falsely claiming the sourness of a ripe grape out of reach high on the vine, one insists on the sweetness of a rotting fruit within reach on the ground.

The supposed sophistication of the well-to-do cougar is nothing next to the firm rump, smooth skin and pert tits of the minimum wage 20-year-old barista. Nothing. All the cougarly sophistication cubed will never approach the exponential allure of one evanescent smile from a pretty young babe. And this chaps the hides of the men who are trapped in the cougar pen as much as it does of the defeminized fading trophy harridans who sprinkle their aging flesh with shiny brand name baubles and fuel their egos on the fumes of vaporous entitlement.

The great joke of this charade is that older women aren’t even the paragons of sophistication they and their beta handlers like to claim. Wit is the province of the smart, and smarts are in full evidence by the early 20s. Fluid intelligence declines after the youthful 20s, further degrading the smart woman’s chattering legerdemain. Intellectualism, too, is not age-dependent once past the early neural formative years. The young intellectual woman has at least the advantage of being fun and sprightly along with her occasional bursts of deep thought. The smart cougar is well-versed… and tired.

Even a more generous interpretation of sophistication as a term meaning wisdom is not the boon for the cougar’s self-conception she, or her lovers, think. A wisdom borne of experience riding the cock carousel is a knowingness most men find unpalatable in a romantic partner. Yes, the cougar “knows what she wants in a man”, but what benefit is that to any man in serious contention for her crumbling facade? Perhaps the man she chooses can feel good that, after she has had a spell sampling the boner buffet, the wizened lady honored his pig in a blanket with Best In Show. But that’s like winning a trophy for running the mile in 42 minutes; he is left to wonder just how bad the competition must have been.

No, what a man wants, when he’s alone with his thoughts and he can feel the natural pulse of his viscera, is a young, beautiful woman with a lifetime of reproductive residual value ahead of her. And, knowing what a prize she is, his pride upon winning her will be genuine.

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Peripatetic commenter PA writes,

With regards to ejaculations such as “stick to poon”, “I thought this is a Game blog,” “how does this race-post help me get laid?” that predictably pop up on ideological posts such as the previous one — here is why they happen:

Liberals have been coasting for decades on a deadly concession from righties that they (libs) are: 1) smarter; 2) better; 3) sexier.

And like every illusion, the one about liberal supremacy of mind, heart, and body is becoming a spent force. A brief explanation follows.

1. The lie that leftists are smarter: though this may not be apparent, liberals have abandoned their claim on intellectual superiority. Free inquiry and scrupulous reason is now the domain of the so-called “dark enlightment”. The leftists, feminists, anti-racists, statists, now resort to censorship, personal destruction, and faggoty snark. Leftist thought is, as Bryan Caplan arrogantly admitted, little more than marketing for the ruling classes.

2. The lie that leftists are better people: we all know the founding moment of leftist moral superiority, when Welch told Joseph McCarthy: “at long last Sir, have you no decency?” Please take the time to read THIS, up to and especially to the sweet payoff in the post’s final line.

3. The lie that leftists are sexier. Or more cool, more attractive, more hip. That is the one they still hold on to, willfully oblivious to the fact that they are fearful, tight-lipped prigs. But this is exactly why no-name commenters mews “stick with poon!” when slapped with a CH clear-talk evisceration of a feminist of an anti-racist shibboleth. They are disturbed, very deeply, by the fact that verve, coolness, sexiness, style, and Game are ours, not theirs.

The brains, the heart, and the body ascent toward excellence when congruous with themselves, each other, and with truth, beauty, and honor. And those things are what we seek, while they desperately try to bury.

While fatties, feminists and feckless freaks are fun manboob-sized targets upon which to practice one’s soul carving skills, the maestros of gleeful malevolence at CH really love to sharpen their shivs on the strip-mined ids of more evasive prey. Blasting double-barreled buckshot through a SWPL leftoid’s snark-and-Stewart-pumped ego is a thrill that no lumbering megafembot sporting an exposed id the width of a barn door can provide. And, as PA says, as long as your heart and your mind are true, so shall be your aim.

Not many have the stomach for the hunt. Fewer still have it for the ultimate hunt: to hunt the hunters. Stare with sharp eye, breathe with cool repose, hold with steady assurance and, at the precise moment of uncoiled contempt, relish the glory of dropping a paper titan, sniveling, to his knees. Where he knows deep in his heart he has always belonged.

***

Runner-up Comment of the Week winner is tspark156.

There is a simple truth that betas are unaware of or simply ignore. It is the misunderstanding and deliberate ignoring of this truth that is responsible for the state of western society today. Women hate men that give and love men that take.

Correct. But if you ask women, they’ll tell you the exact opposite. So don’t bother asking women what they want. They’ll only lead you down a dead end.

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From an anonymous commenter over at Steve Sailer’s site:

The military is too male. I don’t have a joke, I’m just really in awe of that phrase. I’m thinking about the length of a journey that a culture must undertake in order for that to stop sounding crazy.

The catch-22 in the leftoid mentality is that when you hitch your ego wagon to equalism, and “progress” can only be achieved by increasing total equality in the world, then you quickly reach a reductio ad absurdum vanishing point of infinite stupidity where continued progress must necessarily be squeezed from more costly (in every sense of the word) increments of equalization. Since true equalization is impossible given biological constraints, the stupidity will just ratchet up with each Pyrrhic liberal victory, and the rationalizations for the stupidity will become more labyrinthine, until civilization is paralyzed into inaction, and then eventual implosion and full regression to a pre-stupidity state. Much avoidable suffering will accompany this trajectory.

But I guess we’re all just gonna have to learn this lesson the hard way, again. Thanks, leftoids!

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everybodyhatesscott (poor scott) writes,

If women had 300 years of quality pre-wall existence, they’d spend the first 298 years partying and the last 2 looking for a husband.

And they’d go through 50 litters of cats.

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