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Fed up with public perception of new media “journolism” as a bastion of blushing hermaphrodites opening up about their day to day experiences having sex with themselves, Matt Yglesias and Ezra Klein have teamed up to inject a healthy dose of raw masculinity into the discourse with their unique brand of confident swagger. Check out the introductory video at their swole SWPL venture, Vox.

The days of “vegetable and spinach” news are over. These men (and one manlike-woman) are ready to tackle the challenges of regurgitating liberal opinions in a fresher font. Vox’s headquarters in Washington, DC, like Ezra’s suit jacket, are oversized with room for muscular growth. Matt Yglesias dresses with a dash of panache, a talent he honed after years of feedback from admiring Logan Circle homosexuals. His proudly nasal vocal fry resonates with the spirit of ancient valley girl warrioresses, and practically demands your attention, like nails on a chalkboard.

This is alpha male territory you’ve entered. There’s a new kid on the vox, and he takes no guff, and will do as he pleases, including plaster stickers all over his Macbook in a show of countercultural defiance. The Vox Man is a gender nonconformist man of principle; if you don’t like the news he gives you, he’ll break all the rules and give you the news you want. Yeah Matt! Titty bump!

Ezra Klein… do the men get any realer? Here’s a big swinging dick crashing your stale news cycle. So big, he has to cross his legs for decorum. Eyes up here, right Ezra? Say goodbye to getting only 24% of the news; News Team Vox can actually just put the information there for you. Confused? Don’t think too much. Just take a sip from Vox’s juice box of testosterone. Rest easy that Ezra is signaling to the right sort of white people — people like YOU — with his standing workstation.

And when you’re all done getting the unfiltered opinions of rugged Ivy Leaguers with a worldly perspective that can only be gained from living in whitified urban neighborhoods where a new Pan-Asian restaurant opens every week, you can send a thank you to News Team Vox for their trailblazing balls-to-the-wall approach to taking on the old media dinosaur of aggregator hyperlinking:

You stay classy, internet!

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Via fellow sadists, the most Millennial statement ever put to print is:

“Here’s why that’s a problem.”

Pathological solipsism and mile wide but inch deep self-esteem are a bad combo. The id of the Millennial Like Me Generation is a furry suit wrapping a toddler. If normalcy and personal responsibility offend the Millennial, it will make sure you know, in poopytalk, how that’s a problem. Help the Millennial feel less like a reject; validate its problems.

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The title of this post comes courtesy of commenter PA, who writes:

Behold the Twenty Commandments of Involuntary Celibacy:

The comments that follow are awesome — and each is hugely upvoted. A small sampling:

21. Don’t take advice from a columnist that just spews generalizations on Yahoo.
22. Instead, read the Comments section for real advice

Or:

My stomach turned after reading this. If a woman wrote this, no man would want to know her. This is sick. Reason why some men stay players for life, just to remain sane. Even players know when a good woman comes along. Even a player can have a change of heart and or mind.
Such writ-ups are the corner-stones players are built on.

Yes, the “Twenty Commandments of Involuntary Celibacy” is in reference to a Yahoo post called “20 Ways to Please a Woman”, written by a female pop culture borg entity. Here’s a few gems of her vapid boilerplate:

Be understanding if we’re workaholics
Don Draper’s got nothing on us.

Because a woman loves nothing more than a man who only wants to see her five minutes a week, when she isn’t slaving away for the patriarchy.

Don’t expect us to diet
Being skinnier is not that high on our priority list.

But it is high on men’s priority lists. And women don’t stay happy for long when their boyfriends aren’t happy being with them.

Don’t expect us to be gym fiends
Aside from your average stress-busting yoga – but it’s more for the head, not the body. If we want abs, we’ll get them. But not for you.

This is something women tell themselves all the time, but the reality is that looking good feels good because your DNA directive is to make yourself as attractive as possible to men with options, thus ensuring better survival fitness for any future children.

Be cool with the fact that we make more money than you
We can go Dutch!

Then maybe your post should’ve been titled “20 Ways to Please a Man”.

Bring us cookies when we had a crappy day at work.
Storebought or from scratch, either way.

Because there’s nothing like fattening up your girlfriend to make it easier to break her heart and leave her.

Let us watch our Bravo in peace. Better yet, go do something else while we watch.
Tease me all you want, but my addiction to Real Housewives of New Jersey doesn’t mean I’m not still smarter than you. You know it, I know it.

No, watching twat schlock doesn’t necessarily mean you’re dumber, but it is a leading indicator.

Just say what you are feeling instead of being weird.
Use your words like a big boy.

Yes, chicks really dig men who emote profusely like a View hag.

Do the dishes.
We can take turns.

And chicks love men who do the dishes. Oh, wait

Remember our friends’ names, at least the important ones.
No, that’s not Jessica, that’s AMANDA.

You know what you call a man who easily remembers your female friend’s name? A cheater.

Be a good cook.
There’s almost nothing hotter. Especially to a girl who can’t cook.

And there’s almost nothing less attractive than a woman who can’t be bothered to cook a home meal. Be thankful you’re not a fat chick, because that’s worse.

Love our pet, even if you secretly hate our pet.
Especially if it’s a cat.

If you’re considering whether you need to ask permission to do something (like hang out with an ex), ask permission.
She should be cool with it, but it shows that you’re considerate of her feelings.

You know what’s really sexy to women? Toadies.

Read books.
Not just nutritional labels and Men’s Health while you’re on the treadmill.

Swap out Men’s Health for Vogue, and this is about as clear a case of projection as one will find on the vaginanet.

Don’t crash girls nights
No men allowed.

If you’re dating a man who wants to join your girls’ nights out, you’re doing it wrong. Or you’re dating a beta. Same diff.

So there you have it. If you’re a man who never wants to get near a vagina, follow this woman’s guide to pleasing her sex. You’ll be in the friendzone faster than you can unzip your fly and twiddle it to barely legal porn. A leetle rule of thumb you should keep in mind whenever you read nonsense like this article by Anna Breslaw: Women are thinking of that inconsiderate alpha male they really love and whose cock they can’t gobble fast enough when they write empty-headed crap like this. They’re reformulating the alpha’s refusal to commit as their frustration with his inability to suck up like a proper beta male. This sophistic legerdemain makes the pain of the alpha male’s commitment rejection easier to deflect. It’s no longer “his choice”; it’s her choice to live single and free and careening to spinsterhood because he doesn’t do the dishes.

But of course as anyone who’s got the slightest sexual experience with women knows, a woman in love will never let go a man who leaves his underwear on the floor. The alpha male lover is forgiven everything; the beta male wooer nothing.

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CH really likes the Jerkboy Charisma Game series, so expect to see more of it. Hope you’re copacetic!

Commenter Wrecked ‘Em {space reserved for a rectum joke} writes,

Yesterday, I watched my professional asshole friend run this by a hot girl he barely knew:

Him: you seem sexually frustrated
Her: what?
Him: I think you need your ass tickled
Her: what?!?!? (laughing)
Him: Put your number into my phone
Her: (puts her number into his phone)

Recall Poon Commandment XIII:

Err on the side of too much boldness, rather than too little.

Also recall CH Maxim #30:

When in doubt, ask yourself “WWJD?” What Would a Jerkboy Do? Then do that.

When all else fails, or you’re at a loss for what to do next with a girl, or all you have at your disposal is feeble beta game, then be an asshole. Asshole Game should be your default seduction when you can’t think of more ethical options. You may not like it, but there’s no arguing with results.

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An inspired reader has put to song The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

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The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold, sung to the tune of:

The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they called “Cuckold Freddie.”
The cuck, it is said, sits alone near the bed
when the thighs of his wife spread to darkies.
With a load of mandingo twenty inches more flaccid
than the Beta Male Cuckold at full chubby,
that goon man and true worked his bone black and blue
when his wife and her lover slapped uglies.

The cuck was the pride of the 4channer side
coming back from some brony convention.
As the big betas go, he was fatter than most
with manboobs and a belly in tension,
concluding some terms with his wife of 12 years
when they agreed to bring in an “acquaintance”.
And later that night when his wife’s gina danced,
could it be the lost tingle they’d been missin’?

The suck in her snatch made a tattle-tale sound
and a tremor broke over her vulva.
And ev’ry man knew, as Freddie did too
’twas the twitch of desire come on her.
The dusk came late and his wife couldn’t wait
for the big dicked intruder to come over.
When all three were there he called himself “Bear”
as his wife pressed her hand in his crotch bulge.

When sexytime came the sad cuck came to bed sayin’
“Fellas, I’d like to now join ya.”
But in his wife’s eyes he saw his demise,
And she snapped, “Go wait in the kitchen!”
The cuckold bemoaned he heard sex noise comin’ in
through the walls two rooms wide clear as ever.
And later that night as his wife screamed delight
came the wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

Does anyone know where a proud atheist goes
when his wife’s moans turn the minutes to hours?
The cisgenders say he’d have kept his wife tame
if he hadn’t leased her out like a street whore.
They might have split up or they might have hate fucked;
but at least Freddie’s shame would be no more.
But all Freddie hears through his hot beta tears
is, “put a gag in his mouth so he won’t direct”.

Cuckold suffering tolls, Hypergamy sings
in the rooms of Freddie’s Mountain Dew mansion.
Bear’s black mamba creams in his wife’s wet vajeen;
Her asshole and mouth are for Bear’s fun.
And farther below, Freddie’s marital ho
takes in what Bear’s privilege can send her,
And Freddie will know as all swinging alphas know
it’s two women-one man not the inverse.

In a musty old hovel in a basement he prayed,
in the “Beta Male Cuckolds’ Cathedral.”
The blade shimmered twice as he sliced quick lengthwise
for the dignity that Freddie surrendered.
The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they call “Cuckold Freddie.”
“A sperm puddle,” they said, “dripped from his wife’s cleft
and ’twas that ended Freddie’s life early!”

***

A tip o’ the fedora to these plucky gents for digging up the pastiche of true stories this song is based on.

The original:

ps yeah, i know this is closer to omega male territory, but poetic license demanded the use of beta.

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The desperate male is a subspecies of the beta male. His modus operandi can be summed up in three words:

Always be chasing.

His philosophy is a simple one, assembled from the cut scenes of a thousand rom coms where the persistent Lloyd Dobler gets the girl in the end. He adheres to the core belief that women reward men who lavish them with flattery and intense declarations of romantic fealty.

Sometimes, once or twice in a millennium, he succeeds. Most of the time, men like him fail to get the girl they want, and often accomplish the opposite of what they intended: they incite the wrath or contemptuous pity of their pedestaled love interests.

To celebrate the craven puling of the desperate, clingy ünterbeta male and his mule-headed refusal to see women for what they are, the sheiks of the shocker, the maestros of the magic fingerbang, your ever ‘umble viceroys of entice ploys, CH house lords will feature occasional exposés of the sorry males whose testosterone glow went out a long time ago.

Today’s entrant to the pantheon of pathetic is a Facebook chatterer and a reminder why women are evolved to instantly assume the proto-Heisman blocking maneuver whenever they’re in the company of strange men who carry the stink of the undersexed:

Cute girls are at risk of acquiring omega male stalkers if they don’t nip their amorous wooers in the bud. This is why women have at their disposal an arsenal of shit tests and social shaming tactics. The former for those men who haven’t yet been identified for their mate worthiness; the latter for those men who have been deemed unworthy but lack the social savvy to know when to retreat. We men may not particularly enjoy having to hurdle the roadblocks that women put up on the path to sweet loving bliss, but the better of us should understand why those hurdles are necessary to women, and devise ways to circumvent them.

Besides the obvious if sick humor of it all, a couple of notable quotables jump out from the above one-sided exchange:

1. The guy violated just about every Poon Commandment. He quite spectacularly turned the Commandments on their heads. Commandment VIII took the worst beating; I half expected him to apologize for being born.

If you want to guarantee failure with women, read the Poon Commandments and do the opposite. This will ensure failure better than wearing a placard in public declaring your infidelity, buying flowers on the first date, or getting convicted of pedophilia.

2. As if we entered some bizarro universe where the sexual polarities are reversed, the girl replied in pictograms while the male wrote novellas airing his emotional laundry (and unused sperm-polluted mental health). Had the sexes been swapped in this exchange, I would be confident that these two were getting laid in the near future. But since the male has occupied the female role and the female the male role, there will be no sex.

3. Any man who thinks promising a woman that he “won’t take advantage of her” is the way to her heart is a power tool. Chivalry works in the abstract (specifically that abstract where unicorns are a possibility); in practice it’s an abysmal failure. A woman, if asked, will always say she wants a man “who respects her need to take it slow”, but in reality, where her words meet the unstoppable force of her tingles, a chivalrous gentleman’s pose is the equivalent of downselling: “Sure, this smartphone looks fast and functional, but it actually has parts made from Fisher Price toys. Try this cheapskate badboy clamshell over here instead.”

4. “Hows the pretty lady doin” could have worked as a funny opener if a parrot pictogram was appended to it, but midway through three weeks of unreciprocated Facebook self-immolation it’s the death warble of a man who’s forever been Pluto in women’s solar systems: A distant orbiter who barely qualifies as a space rock.

So here’s to you, “Hows the pretty lady doin” Man. Your travails are a life lesson in how not to act with women.

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Now it’s your turn. Leave your ideas for captions in the comments. Winners will be announced in a future post. Good luck and happy shivving!

Bonus!

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Organizing for Action, a creepily nondescript leftoid group tasked with propagandizing President Barack Obama’s (jesus it still sticks in the craw to say that) healthcare law, have released an ad campaign on Twitter under the hashtag #GetTalking that, well, you’ve gotta see to believe.

I didn’t think it possible that the Barack Boyman Brigade’s “Hosurance” ads could be beat in loathsomeness, but you’d never go broke underestimating the junk-tucking faggotry of Obama’s sop troops. You could build an online comedy empire just copy/pasting Obama Administration-authorized jpegs.

No wonder feminists are so bitter. These are the newborn androgynes they’re stuck dating. The feminist has sold her womanly soul — what was left of it — for a battalion of bootlickers to escort her to ideologically reaffirmed spinsterhood.

Can you look at that swaddled manlet for more than two seconds without laughing? I could carve a better man out of a banana. We laugh because that’s one of our natural human reactions to seeing something repugnant. It’s similar to the chortles induced when watching a fat woman trip and bounce a few times off the pavement. So gross, we have to laugh it off.

Think about why this ad was approved for mass distribution. Your first instinct is to ask yourself, “What were they thinking?”. A fair question. It’s targeted at urban liberal SWPLs, just the demographic filled to brimming with these vegetable lasagnas. A brimful of asslove off the 95.

So right there you know that Obama’s healthcare law needs these effete clever sillies to sign up so that the money can be compassionately thieved and redistributed to the parasite class (soon to capsize and tip over into majority status). Perhaps the creators thought that a gelding in a onesie was the way to appeal to the SWPL yuppies they need to sign up. If they thought this, and their intentions were sincere, we can conclude that stuff like this works on SWPLs because SWPLs take a kind of twisted retard pride in acting and looking like house eunuchs. To them, this androgynous lifestyle of hot cocoa and plush jammies signals sophistication and success. They’re so coddled and insulated in their Caplan-esque bubble that they can’t tell when they’re coming off like perfumed pansies. Cerebral Scalzi, meet schizopareeneia.

If Obama’s supporters and media messengers are all mental and sexual onesies — and evidence accrues that that is indeed the case — then these ad creators would have no clue that they’re broadcasting prime mockery material to their enemies. It’s hard to believe that could be true, what with all those 130+ IQ neoCalvinists comprising the Obama cult machine, but accelerated social sorting by ideology can easily blind a person to how they’re perceived by those not like him.

The other explanation is that “Organizing for Action” knows exactly what they’re doing, and have concluded that savagely ridiculing their own base and benefactors is the road to victory. I’m not sure how they connect the dots in that strategy, although I could see how self-deprecation can work as a status signaling tactic among people ensconced in a hermetic cultural milieu. It may also reflect a deep-seated need by Obama’s leftoid advocates to burnish their anti-white (really, anti-self) bona fides, and belittle the American white man as a satisfying reminder of his diminishing place in the homeland he built. For many SWPL liberal whites, astonishing as it may seem from an evolutionary genetic perspective and to people still in possession of healthy mental faculties, the thought of psychological and demographic self-castration sends a tingle up their legs.

So here we are, presented with yet another emasculated white male as the punchable face of Obama’s America. There are shreds of hope…

…but the balance is rapidly tipping, in numbers and in influence over national affairs. The man on the right dies in pointless wars for a ruling elite staffed by an army of de-balled fancyboys like the male on the left. Who do you think sets the agenda, writes policy, propagandizes it and puts it into action? It isn’t the guy with the gun. As a commenter at Randall Parker’s Parapundit wrote, if we had a real democracy, a political system where the majority’s wishes were actually obeyed by the elite, America would look a lot different:

The elite support democracy but democracy of the sort the Western industrialized nations have in which all but the most trivial decision-making processes have been removed from elected representatives and placed in the hands of unelected judges, bureaucrats, and trial attorneys.

Populism is in complete opposition to this type of democracy. If the people could vote directly on each individual issue, they’d support all these things: an end to almost all immigration, legal and illegal, and sending back people in the country illegally. Strong defense, but non-interventionist foreign policy. Strong tariffs on just about everything to put American workers back to work. Tough crime laws and severe prisons. Death penalties after one month. Gun ownership, but with licensing. Removal of vagrants from the streets. Forcing the mentally ill into institutions. Equitarianism not egalitarianism. Forced government jobs for everyone who can’t find one in the public sector. An end to affirmative action. You get the idea, they are on the opposite side of the elites on all issues.

A male in a onesie. There’s your ruling elite running the country into the ground.

Populism — strictly, white populism — is dangerous to the elite, and that explains their program of importing a new people to undercut the influence of the middle class whites who represent the greatest threat to an avaricious, globalist, culturally severed ruling class intent on hoarding power until their last breaths and the last breaths of their assortatively inbred posterity. And you know, the elite might win, because the majority’s wishes, courtesy of the open borders project of soft genocide and demographic replacement, will soon align with the elite’s wishes.

A soft, neutered pale Ewok as the representative of America’s bold march into a progressive, humanist future. A discrete choice made by a discrete committee in a sea of remarkably similar thematic choices, and yet this seemingly trivial promotional decision tells us so much about the mind of an enemy moving precariously close to outright tyranny as the next evolution from psychological debasement to achieve its goals.

You know what’s happening? Multidirectional, multivariate, multicausal American decline. Every metric, every signpost, every judicial fiat, every subversive narrative points to the same destination: The drain. The deviants and degenerates and destroyers are as close to the sun now as they’ve ever been. This is their moment. They can feel the warmth of validation. The radiant glow of coerced acceptance. The flare of triumph over human nature. Fat Pride, Femcunt Pride, Freak Pride, Furry Pride, Slut Pride, Anti-White Pride, Gay Pride and now Pantywaist Pride. Pride cometh before the fall.

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The man has a point:

Comparison:

This guy is chasing after a 6 that he met once.. all around the world.

Meanwhile, Tuthmosis [ed: the ROK contributor who wrote a blog post about the attractiveness of thin girls with eating disorders] is being hunted by 15 8s. None of them even know what he looks like.

What does that say about the game?

1. chicks dig jerks
2. chicks dig challenges
3. chicks do not dig beta herbs who cheer them up and then chase them around the world hoping for a love connection.

I think that about covers it.

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