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Archive for the ‘Hamster of the Month Contest’ Category

The Hamster of the Month winner is no contest. It’s the rodents who power the lizard brains of these two Visitors to earth.

The dropping I’m referring to steams in a huge pile right on the cover of their book:

The Alpha Woman Meets Her Match: How Today’s Strong Women can find Love and Happiness without Settling

Never before has such concentrated female hamster delusion been defecated so ignominiously on one spot. Count the spinning wheels and the false assumptions.

1. An alpha woman is designated by her careerist ambition, rather than by her beauty and youth.

zoom zoom!

2. Entitled spinster hags are strong women.

zoom zoom!

3. Men secretly love masculine, careerist, dominating women.

zoom zoom!

4. Ugly careerist hags can find love and happiness without settling for a boring loser with few options.

I'm forty and beautiful!

5. Men’s desire is irrelevant. As long as the strong woman wants love and happiness with an alpha male, she’ll get love and happiness with an alpha male.

animals-pictes-hams-cute-at-bar (1)

Maxim #105: Frequency and absurdity of female delusions about their romantic worth are directly proportional to real world evidence of their romantic worthlessness.

SVlLSxG

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Recall the Chateau Heartiste description of feminism:

The goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.

If you examine feminist ideas in detail, most of them amount to justifications for the above formulation. A feminist utopia is one in which women, particularly ugly women, have limitless options in the sexual and economic markets while men’s options are curtailed to the fullest extent possible. (Which would necessarily have to be the case, since a low value woman can’t have increased sexual options — i.e., amplified hypergamy — without negatively affecting the options of a man with similar SMV.)

Eager to prove the CH elucidation of their ultimate goals correct, feminists and their psychotherapist allies are now pushing to sanction female infidelity.

But recently, a handful of therapists have started to push the idea that affairs can rescue a marriage and to define exactly in what instances that might be true. “People shriek and cry when they are confronted with an affair,” Brown writes in her essay, “The Affair as a Catalyst for Change,” which appears in the book Infidelity“Almost never do they realize that it might be the best thing that ever happened to them.”

Last year’s annual conference of the American Family Therapy academy allowed a panel about affairs called “From Trauma to Transformation,” which was the first time that idea officially entered the lexicon, says Esther Perel, author of Mating in Captivity and a couples therapist who is writing her next book on affairs. It was public and professional acceptance for the idea that an “affair doesn’t necessarily end a marriage and can possibly make it stronger.”

Ignore the psychobabble. It’s smoke and mirrors meant to distract from what the real intention of this change in judgment signifies. What feminists are attempting to do here is nothing short of legitimize the biologically innate female imperative to fuck alpha males during ovulation and extract resources from beta males during infertile periods of the monthly cycle. CH predicted it: Feminists and various “health professionals” would agitate to normalize the “alpha fux, beta bux” female mating strategy. As society becomes ever more feminized and emasculated, expect to see more of these rancid ideas percolate in mainstream discussion, as the pro-female directive and anti-male directive reach their demonic apotheoses.

You might say, “Well, this means men can be unfaithful without consequence, too!” Oh, ye of precious naivete. Men won’t be let off the hook. The divorce industrial and family court complexes are rigged against the interests of men, and getting more rigged by the day. An army of leftoids fed on the swill of legalese will barely break a sweat holding the contradictory beliefs that women cheat for good reasons and men cheat because they’re oppressive patriarchs.

Eventually, with the help of dazzling sophistry, the law will be twisted to such a warped geometry that the people will come to accept injustice as fairness and lies as truth. And those who bitterly cling to old-fashioned notions of justice will be scorned as rubes and cast out of polite society, their reputations and livelihoods destroyed with the ease of smashing an insect.

The irony of this feminism-inspired dross is that a case can be made that male infidelity might very well enhance marital stability, over the long term. Men are naturally disposed to seek and enjoy mate variety, and men are better than women at maintaining multiple lovers without sacrificing love or duty for any one of them. This is because men, unlike women, can easily sever sex from emotional connection. A cheating husband who gets his sexual needs met will feel less resentment toward his frigid wife. A cheating wife, in contrast, will feel more resentment for her beta husband who will assume the role for her of the man “keeping her from happiness”. There’s a reason “eat, pray, love” is marketed to the fantasies of women.

This isn’t to suggest that excusing male infidelity is good for the institution of marriage and the sustenance of an advanced, high trust civilization. Only that, if we are to set down this road of rationalizing the benefits of infidelity, it makes a lot more sense to grant husbands the generous latitude to pursue extramarital pleasures than it does to grant wives that same freedom. The consequences of wifely betrayal are a lot worse. (“but… the kiiid is not my son. woo hoo hoo”)

Feminism is the sick, wheezing spawn of its parent ideology, equalism, the belief in a magical flying spaghetti monster that imbues all humans with equal ability and equal worth, interchangeable flesh cogs that can as easily master astrophysics as lawn care given the right dose of self-esteem boosting pablum.

Whatever the self-professed noble intentions of their advocates, these ideologies are as wicked and destructive as any genocidal revolutions that have come before them. This is why CH, a citadel firm, guarded by sentries of ancient woods, illuminating a path to enlightenment, will never cease in its mission to utterly crush evil, sick ideologies like feminism so totally that there is no space for even the ashes of its immolation to gather in a stiff wind. Feminism’s proponents will suffer endless ridicule should they choose to fight, or they will retreat from the public square to lick their wounds in the comfort of their silent seething thoughts. And, if the spoils of victory are rich indeed, some will self-deliver to release the pain.

In related shivving, here’s a video of Hanna Rosin’s family engaged in a mock trial about the superiority of girls to boys. On the next episode of “The Hanna Propaganda Hour”: My boy’s first sexual identity crisis!

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A dating website which helps women meet the sexy alpha prison inmates of their dreams is up and running, and the hamsters on display are, in a word, rabid!

Canadian Inmates Connect Inc. showcases numerous prisoners serving life sentences and helps the incarcerated find pen pals and, perhaps, much more.

The 16-month-old website, which promotes some 40 convict profiles, has even churned out a few lockup love stories.

The site’s founder says several prisoners have asked her to remove their bios because they have already found that special someone.

There are whole armies of beta males who spend months and even years in book clubs, at speed dating events, and in bars and happy hours hoping to meet that special someone but coming up empty every time, while convicted murderers sit in cells as ladies basically throw caution to the wind and hurl themselves at them.

Melissa, who does not want her family name published due to privacy and safety concerns, was inspired to start the website after seeing similar ones in the United States.

America, fuck yeah!

[Melissa:] “It doesn’t matter what they’ve done. It’s not for me to judge… I’m just a firm believer in redemption and rehabilitation… I believe everybody deserves a second chance.”

Nonjudgmentalism: the leading sickness of a sick society. Or: this is what happens when you let women have the run of the place.

The profiles are authored entirely by the convicts, which means nobody double-checks them for accuracy.

No worries. These are pre-approved alpha males, which means the women will suspend all disbelief.

In a disclaimer on the website, Canadian Inmates Connect states that it’s not responsible for any type of relationship developed through its pages.

And by “relationship”, they mean any love match which may go awry and lead to “accidental” auto-asphyxiation or headless torsos under floorboards.

“They’re taking the chance to write to these guys.”

Yet, for some mysterious reason, the increased risk and obstacles to FMAC (Find Meet Attract Close) alpha inmates don’t deter any of these women from their dates with destiny.

Since inmates don’t have Internet access in the clink, initial contact must be made via snail-mail to their respective penitentiary.

There will never be a Canadian Law-Abiding Beta Male Connect website. If you aren’t a challenge, the women are callous.

Julie Young, a single mother from Truro, N.S., credits the website for introducing her to a convicted bank robber she hopes to marry one day.

“I would marry him because I love him and I see him having a really good future now,” said Young, whose sweetheart, Steve Mehlenbacher, is serving his fourth federal sentence after a total of 16 bank-heist convictions.

We have our first hamster sighting.

“We get really deep and personal in our letters about our pasts and just stuff like that, so we’re able to open up to one another.

“I never was able to open up to anybody before him.”

When women say this, what the really mean is “I never *wanted* to open up to any of the boring beta herbs I knew before I met my supremo alpha king.”

Eventually, they plan to go to school together to become child-care workers.

Would you entrust your kids to these two? Stick a fork in the West, she’s done.

Young argues that it’s probably safer to get to know a convict than to meet someone at a bar or on standard dating websites.

The hamster has gone feral.

“I heard from a lot of people there’s a lot of weirdos on there,” she said, referring to one popular matchmaking website.

“You could talk to somebody on a dating site in the United States, and you could talk for like three years every day after work or something, and that person could be murdering a bunch of people and you don’t know because they’re just some everyday person, right?”

By comparison, Young says, an inmate cannot just show up at your house uninvited right after you meet them. And she believes they would be less likely to lie since you already know why they were sent to jail.

“You just do your research on them, or whatever, and you’ll be good,” she said.

Congratulations, Julie Young, you are the Chateau’s Hamster of the Month! Or, rather, your hamster is hamster of the month. You, Julie Young the person, are apparently just a fleshy vessel to nourish your hamster which squats in your skull in complete operational control of all your faculties.

Many of the notes, [alpha criminal thug] said, were from women hoping to see him at the prison for conjugal visits.

“I already had women who were willing to do that,” Mehlenbacher said.

“That’s not what I was looking for.

“I wanted to find a real relationship.”

A thousand betas wept in unison.

[Melissa, the owner of the inmate dating website] said her cousin has died since she started the website and the death occurred in a suspicious case that she said police believe might have been murder, though the investigation is still ongoing.

Melissa added that she’s been in contact with the potential suspect and even brought that person to the funeral home when nobody was around, so the person could say a final goodbye to her cousin. All of this was with her family’s blessing, she added.

“The person’s still a human being,” she said.

“I don’t think anything that happened that night was intentional.

“Would I allow this person to join the website? Absolutely.”

Is it possible that two giant, feral hamsters, zombified by a disease of platitude prions, are on the loose in one news story? Yes. Congratulations, Melissa, you are now our second winner of Hamster of the Month, a prize you share with the esteemed Julie above, sweet girl who knows those murderous alpha male prisoners that leave her snatch sopping are just angels on the cusp of redemption.

I would tell you to go read the full article for more triple-action *facepalm*ing goodness, but what’s the point? Anyone who isn’t a sputtering hater or a complete retard about the female of the human species knows the score by now. It’s just overkill. And overkill is the way the ladies like it. :wink:

In related sequiturs, it’s high time the ruling class ditched their equalism ideology and started offering inmates deals for early release on condition they get vasectomies. Similarly, women with a history of dating societal parasites should be offered cash for Norplant, and those who couldn’t thwart their spawnage in time should be escorted to the abortion clinic by limo, all expenses paid, plus a little extra. Say, two months’ worth of McDonalds coupons.

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In a mainstream media aka Cathedral loser-whistle article (h/t “garter snake”) about older women “””dating””” younger men, one of the interviewed aging beauties had this to say,

Felicia Brings was 31 and dating a 25-year-old man in the 1970s and so feared losing her job over it that she kept the relationship a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you were considered a pervert.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger men — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old — because she finds she connects with them better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her.

“When I was in my 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of my own generation,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Men: New Options for Love and Romance” (New Horizon Press). She noticed younger men, often raised by feminist women, were intrigued by and admiring of her success and experience, whereas older men seemed threatened and expected women to play traditional roles.

Language is supposed to convey meaning, but when a hamster has swallowed it, digested it, and shat it out, we are compelled to sift through the pellets to find the embedded fiber of meaning.

Translated from the Hamsterese, abridged version:

Women are like dog shit. The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.

Translated from the Hamsterese, full version:

Felicia Brings was 31 and banging a 25-year-old boring mediocrity in the 1970s and so feared losing her mind over it that she kept the twice yearly sex sessions a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you considered yourself a romantic failure.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger beta males of EatPrayLove ethnicity who are desperately horny and unable to command attention from non-morbidly obese women their own age — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old abject loser — because she finds she genitally connects with the paid gigolos better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her when younger, hotter, tighter women are available to them.

“When I was in my wall impact 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of every generation who had options,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Effete Manboobs: New Ways to Temporarily Sedate the Pain of Being Sexually Worthless to the Men You Really Want” (New Whorizon Press). She noticed younger closet cases, often raised by feminist women, were pretending to be intrigued by and admiring of her success and caustic careergrrl personality, whereas older men who weren’t piss-stained street bums seemed viscerally disgusted by the thought of sex with her flabby carcass and expected women to be minimally attractive to coax a semi.

Hamster status: nuked and raining tufts of blood spattered fur.

This has got to be a Hamster of the Month contender. The alacrity with which aging starlets resort to the “men who don’t want me are threatened by my career success and life experiences” shibboleth should be included in the DSM-IV as a diagnosable psychological disorder.

< Bizarro Obama > Let me be clear, feminist platitude pushers. < /bizarro obama > Men are “threatened” by the accumulated career success and loudly exhorted independence of aging sirens like they’re threatened by a mound of warm, steaming shit: they think it’s disgusting and don’t want to touch it or smell it, let alone stick their dicks in it.

HTH.

I don’t doubt that there are aging divas getting their overworked holes mechanically serviced by dorky desperadoes bursting with the dull pain of years of unexpelled cum. Nor do I doubt that some of those aging Isn’t Girls manage the miracle of convincing a lonely, thoroughly gelded pudgeball with swaying bitch tits and the hormonal profile of a soybean to stick around for more than a few nights of lusterless dispassion.

But, like Mrs. Robinson’s escape from reality, their younger lovers plungers usually fly the coop as soon as a cute girl half the age of the younger men’s groundbreaking intercourse aging mentors bats a dewy eyelash at them. That’s why so many of these loud and empowered aging dames reel off a laundry list of younger “lovers”; apparently not a one of these sensitive and intrigued lovers was interested in putting a ring on it, or even hanging around beyond the proximity of the industrial-sized bottle of lube. And when you ask the aging maiden about her current relationship status, she’s always “gravitating” toward this or that great type of guy.

If this post wasn’t enough of an ego MOAB for you, allow me to bullet-point the relevant shivs:

1. Older women are not fucking younger men in any appreciable numbers, and certainly not anywhere near the numbers of older man-younger woman couples. The whole notion is a wishful concoction of the feminism-drenched fluff media industry.

2. Every rule has its exceedingly rare exceptions. Older woman-younger man arrangements do exist, however their existence is not proof of a noteworthy reality that can impact the otherwise normal functioning of the sexual market.

3. Within the small subset of older woman-younger man pairings, the romantic dynamic is mostly energized, such as it is, by the easy path to sex provided to the younger man who would otherwise have trouble getting laid. Very few older woman-younger man bedroom jaunts grow into committed relationships. Most end unceremoniously within a matter of months.

4. Within that tiny sub-subset of romantically committed older woman-younger man pairings, the younger man is typically a low value omega male who couldn’t get laid in a libertardian-run brothel with a fistful of bitcoins.

5. A non-trivial number of older woman-younger man sex romps are between aging fat women and younger black men who seem to possess, contrary to what is observed in most other races, a complete and utter lack of discriminating taste in short-term sexual partners. The women in these squalid arrangements resemble, in size, shape, color and texture, don’t forget texture, the great resource-aggregating herbivores of the African veldt.

6. The rare, outwardly loving and seemingly stable older woman-younger man couple that one might occasionally glimpse in SWPL enclaves are often the tired detritus of a relationship that began with passionate keenness when the man was, say, in his early 20s and the woman was in her late 20s, and in the fullness of time and familiarity managed to avoid rupture by sheer force of risk-averse beta male inertia.

Some of you wonder why I drop the hammer of candor on liars and deluded freaks with such Thorian dispatch. What’s the upside?

The upside is that a world with fewer reality-denying propagandists is a world that is capable of turning away from the elevation of ugly and toward the exaltation of beauty. That’s the kind of world I want to live in; a world easier on the eyes and happier in the heart.

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CH’s last Hamster of the Month was none other than punching bag connoisseur Rihanna, who hamsterly rationalized her way right back into the loving-hating arms of the artist who turned her face into soggy oatmeal. Now we’ve got a new contender in the ring, and this lady’s jacked hamster might just be the rodent to take down the reigning champ.

In a BBC News article about readers who supposedly *cho cho chose* celibacy, a 46-year-old woman opened the cage and let her little fella out for an aimless, zig zagging stroll. The trail of tiny poops it left behind smells the tale.

I am a pretty 46-year-old woman, single and I haven’t had sex in almost four years. When I was in my 20s and 30s I had enough sex to last three lifetimes. I rarely went a week without finding someone to shack up with. Then I got older and more picky and I found that most of the guys just weren’t worth the time or the energy. The whole thing got old. I never found anyone compatible with me and I certainly was never willing to compromise my personality and my priorities for a man, so there you have it. I’m actually happier because I don’t date anymore and I’m free to enjoy life with myself. I have a great relationship with myself and my life. Sex really isn’t all that. American Woman, Chicago, Illinois, US

zoom zoom!zoom zoom!zoom zoom!

Please have a gander at her face shot on the BBC website (fourth picture down). That chin, guy! Her hamster is crazed. Hopped up on laced pellets and Five Eras Energy. When one is dealing with a rabid female rationalization hamster in the wild, one must take caution when capturing and tagging the varmint. Once caught, the hamster can be squeezed until concentrated delusion juice is extracted, and then the juice mixed with the proper reagents to produce the distilled truthful equivalent of the rationalization. CH lab technicians have already done the dirty work for you, and the following is the woman’s honest and true feelings translated from her hamsterese:

I am a 48-year-old pale shadow of the unattractive manjaw I once was, involuntarily single and I haven’t had real sex besides the penetration of my mouth, anus, or vagina in a bathroom stall at the Early Bird Buffet in Pensacola FL in almost ten years. When I was in my 20s and 30s I had too many soul-crushing empty pump and dumps with meth heads and aspiring rappers to last twenty pointless lifetimes. I rarely went a week without finding some total loser to bitterly cling to. Then I got even older than old and pickier at a time of my life when I should have been dropping my standards, and it slowly dawned on me that all of the love em and leave me losers I happily spread for just weren’t going to stick around and put a ring on it. My whole body and energy level got old. I never found anyone willing to put up with my acid bath personality and cauliflower mug, and I certainly was too selfish and too delusional to budge in the direction of making myself more appealing to the increasingly beta men realistically available to me, so there you have it. I’m actually sadder because I don’t date anymore and I’m fated to suffer my terrible loneliness. I have a hallucinatory relationship with myself and the last leg of my life. Loveless celibacy really isn’t all that.  – American Woman, Team Edward, Fatopia, Comingapartville, US

*shudder* So painful to read. Take this truth serum away and lock it somewhere safe. Bring back the hamster! That cute fuzzball is a lot more fun to watch. Haha… look at him go… round and round the wheel. Aaaahhhh…. so much better. Hold the Xanax.

Some readers ask, “Why do you give so much shit to obviously deluded and tragic headcases? What harm is she doing to anyone but herself?”

Harm is a conveniently vague word that’s often used by those who don’t understand the concept of externalities. A functioning nation is comprised of broadly like-minded and temperamentally similar people. The collective character of those people determines the character of the nation. In the course of time and the tumult of events, a people’s character can shift to accommodate new incentives. A nation will, during these shifts, follow more or less a path of lies or a path of truth, as befits the psychological needs of her people and the monied interests of her ruling elite. When the willing embrace of lies predominate, the cohesiveness of the nation frays under the strain and her aesthetic bounty fritters from neglect. Inexorably, too slowly for the average person to sufficiently apprehend to refuse her servitude, the cacophony of lies begins to demand its tribute. And that tribute is a steep price, indeed. Paid sometimes in blood, but more often in the humiliating betrayal of good sense and in the surrender of self-assurance. A resignation of the spirit accompanies the disheartening assent to moral neutering.

In the gloomy twilight of receding greatness, what was once the lonely wail of the societal defective harshly but rightly estranged from the common good becomes the discordant battle hymn for a broken people bereft of purpose and vulnerable to experimentation with novel hierarchies of morality and aesthetics.

American Woman and her Rationalization Hamster is a propagator and a product of that novel hierarchy of twisted morality. Her self-medicating lies are an insatiable mind virus that won’t stop their multiplying at the contours of her body. The virus will leap into the ether, strengthened on the gruel of sophistry, into the unhappy, inviting, doubt-whipped minds of those teetering on the precipice of postmodern annihilation.

Her lies to herself become the lies that others tell themselves, until the cancer has culturally metastasized and there is no longer a way to distinguish the self-told lies from the lies meant to deceive converts.

If you believe that harmless little delusions are in fact the craggy building blocks of degeneracy total, then you grip your CH-issued shiv of sadism, press the tip against the beating breast of the poisoned id, whisper tenderly into the deformed monster’s ear to silently accept its necessary death, and drive the cruel cleansing metal of mockery to the hilt, until its black lifeblood has drained out. You hang the freak corpse from a lamppost as an example for the others. And then you remind yourself that you, like everyone else, is a depraved human, slave to his nature, who enjoys the suffering of losers and mind disease vectors.

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What deranged psychology motivates the defecatory self-flagellating of masculinity-hating manboobs like Hugo Schwyzer? At first glance, they seem broken souls driven to assume guilt for imagined evils committed by the group to which they ostensibly belong. They side with freaks who hate their kind. They mouth empty-headed platitudes and brazen lies with such alacrity one wonders if they can any longer distinguish reality from fantasy. They relish the whip coming down on their backs and the backs of those remotely like them with sick masochistic zeal.

Hugo Schwyzer is a cartoonish copypaste of the manboob archetype. He’s such a vile and transparent emissary for the reject crowd, that you really have to wonder if it’s all an act. I imagine there are at least a few sufficiently brain damaged co-eds who lap up his runny shit to make it all worth it. I bet he’s still leveraging his prof power dynamic to score illicit tail on the down low. It would explain his behavioral similarity to closeted gays who rail against homosexuality.

Or maybe he’s a True Believer. If that’s so, he’s an even bigger pud than I peg him for. At least one can understand, if not condone, a fraudulent shucking and jiving act to off-pitch feminist tunes in order to dupe dumbo conformist leftoids still in the bloom of youth to give up the goods. But a guy who dances like this with his junk tucked between his legs because he actually enjoys two-stepping like a spaz eunuch? It beggars comprehension.

So we must delve deep into the neural swamp of the self-annihilator, on a journey of adventure to darkest manboobery, to examine up close the stunted, sniveling, fetal id crouched like Gollum at the center of their twisted psyches. For to understand one’s enemies is to hone the precision of one’s ridicule aimed at them. You can plunge the soulshiv into the outer folds of the prefrontal all day long, but the delusional crackpot will merely incorporate legions of á la main ego-assuaging dendrites to rapidly bridge the wound in response. The killing blow comes at last when you have located Smaug’s lone, unjeweled breastplate — revealing an open pathway to the core leprotic force animating the multitude of ego layers — and held the gom jabbar wickedly, tantalizingly, against the defenseless, quivering, pustular infant monster within. Only then, will you have hit the mother of all nerves.

Chuck, over at GLPiggy, offers a diagnosis of Schwyzer’s underlying manboob illness.

Hugo Schwyzer’s latest piece is typical.  What you first have to understand about anything that Schwyzer writes is that he’s attempting to alleviate his own guilt by painting every transgression of white men against others as a systemic issue in which we are all complicit.

Schwyzer has done a lot of screwy things in his life so he believes that it is now his job to throw all other white men under the bus.  He avoids trying to deal empathically with white men by harping on “white male privilege”.

Guilt alleviation. The one emotional compulsion, above all others, that appears to guide and channel the self-annihilator’s moral preening, if not his moral compass. Schwyzer has had, as he has himself admitted, a number of “improper” affairs with his female students — affairs of the sort that would send the typical self-identifying feminist into a tailspin of scattershot histrionics about the “white male power structure” if done by any man other than a mewling manboob who effusively apologizes for his pleasure as penitence to his femcunt overladies. But Schwyzer retains just enough charm and traitorous gusto to keep his erstwhile feminist foes safely within his orbit of self-congratulatory sympathy.

But does Schwyzer really feel guilt for his naughty sexcapades? I’ve known quite a few womanizers in my life, and one thing I can say about them is that none were genuinely guilt-ridden over their scores of intimacies. None felt any pressing need to convince the world that their peripatetic love, or the behavior of men who do the same, was exploitative badness. They are healthy men at peace with their natural, masculine desire. Sure, they may occasionally pretend to introspection when in the company of finger waggers or glaring wives, but one could tell that was all for show. There was enough wink wink, nudge nudge to remind of their sanity.

So, no, I don’t believe that Hugs Shyster feels guilt, real guilt, for his past (and probably present). Most self-annhilating whites (and it is mostly whites who suffer from the appalling condition) don’t act out of guilt; they act out of a crass, surging impulse to step on their closest co-ethnic competitors in order to lift themselves up. Narcissism of small differences, and all that. They are, before all else, status whores, even if they don’t realize it themselves. And the status points that count will change depending on the context one finds oneself, or the context in which one deliberately inserts oneself. In Schwyzer’s case, he has been, and is, surrounded on all sides by clucking man-haters, women who loathe male desire in all its permutations save the one which can be wholly choreographed by feminist puppeteering.

The irony of it all is that Schwyzer has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to apologize or repent for, whether to himself or to others. His leverage of his occupation’s high social status and situational dominance to seduce young women by giving them what they want is no less part and parcel of the natural evolved order of romantic interlude than the woman who keeps herself trim and dresses sexily to capture the appreciation of the high value men she desires. You can argue that Schwyzer imprudently crossed an ethical line peculiar to academia, but what you can’t argue is that he acted immorally, strangely, misogynistically, or with patriarchal hate in his heart toward those women who welcomed his wooing.

But if suppressed guilt is the real motivation (and I concede that the possibility exists in the most egregious cases of manboobery, such as that evidenced by Schwyzer), then Chuck is right to identify the mechanism as an ego-salving one which attempts to shirk the blame off to an entire group as indicative of a “systemic issue” instead of manfully accepting sole blame for one’s individual failings (as one sees them). But the full-blown narcissist will have nothing to do with taking responsiblity for his actions when a whole world of patriarchal privilege and cultural constructivism is out there which will take the blame for him.

A second theory of manboob mind is that the proselytizing self-annihilator (and by extension, group-annihilator) suffers from a case of pathological altruism. Pathological altruism is likely an acute manifestation of biologically inherited leftoidism. While there is no proof to date that political bias is genetic in origin, evidence is mounting in favor of the hypothesis. Pathological altruism is a mental illness that possesses psychological dimensions not unlike Stockholm Syndrome, which compels the afflicted to heal the world’s hurt, and to demand inclusion for the world’s monsters and failures, no matter what cost to oneself (or, more likely, to one’s taxpaying compatriots). It is liberal universalist perfectionism run amok, and it eventually devolves, as it must, to subverting normality and truth and beauty and to sanctifying deviancy and lies and ugliness. (And genocide, if you look at the historical record.)

The motivation of those who hold themselves Messiahs to the Monsters can often be murky to the untrained eye, but the motivation of those who are actual monsters is clearer. The designs of the latter to institute not just the social acceptance, but the social desirability, of degenerates and degeneracy stems from a survival instinct. To be cast to the metaphorical icy wastelands is metadeath, and in the ancestral state of nature the casting out would have meant real death. But what to make of monster apologists like Hugo Schwyzer who, superficially at least, don’t immediately provoke disgust in people? What motivates them? If the pathological altruist theory of manboobery is correct, then “normals” who suffer from it are motivated by the warm, dopaminergic good feelings they receive from “fighting oppressors” and “lifting the oppressed”. It’s a savior complex that earns brownie points the more self-indicting its message. This is similar in function to how the handicap principle operates.

Which leads to the third theory of manboobery: subversive status whoring.

Ultimately, if evolutionary biologists are correct, pathological altruism (PA) will subordinate to the genetic imperative for status accrual, for all human traits are merely more or less successful evolutionary experiments cobbled together under ecological pressures to maximize survival and reproduction. PA might have been socially adaptive in small hunter-gatherer tribes, but in the modern context of atomized city dwelling that pushes millions of humans shoulder to shoulder, PA becomes more individually adaptive while also becoming more societally maladaptive. Now we are right back to the original speculation that manboobs are, in their own bizarre fashion, raising their status within their postmodern milieu via the mechanisms of narcissistic martyrdom and shared blame redistribution to the entire group in which they putatively belong. PA is, in a sense, a sneaky fucker strategy, a cheater’s ploy, which relies for its success on the existence of a strong, commanding overculture to parasitize. Once that culture is gone and the gutter filth are in charge, there is no longer any gain from letting your freak flag, or your freak-enabler flag, fly.

The manboob with PA disorder may sincerely believe in his good intentions, but he is actually a servant carrying out ancient genetically-coded algorithms that will redound to the benefit of his personal social status and, hence, his reproductive fitness. You scoff at “reproductive fitness”, but in fact this tact appears to have worked for Schwyzer, who, if his claims are to be believed, has enjoyed an ample supply of nubile, young, gullible feminist libtard majors.

We come to the fourth theory of manboob mind, and perhaps the most cynical of the theories: That manboobs like Schwyzer don’t believe a word of the crap they brownly vomit; that their bleatings are a minstrel show for the tiny niche of ideological sympathizers who fortuitously happen to be decked in the plumage of alluring boob and ass that all men, even revolting manboobs, want to defile. (Almost) every male endeavor has its female groupies, and manboobery is no exception, (except when the manboob is so physically deformed or dispositionally neutered he cannot even hope for gnarled table scraps left behind by greater manboobs than he).

The feigned male feminist act doesn’t even have to find fruit among its intended audience for it to be a successful mating strategy. Schwyzer could get no play from the Jizzebel crowd, but it won’t matter as long as attractive women closer to his social circle observe the laurels he receives from thousands of anonymously obese feminist skanks thankful for his words which soothe their scorched feelings of self-worth. All he has to do is humblebrag a little, shit on the “right” sorts of men, and sit back as innate female desire for preselected men works its magic. For all we know, Schwyzer may be a stone cold dominating quasi-rapist in bed with women, once he is free to drop the “this is what a feminist looks like” charade. And how much you want to bet the women he fucks — or fucked, I hear he’s married — are slender, height-weight proportionate, facially attractive women on the fertile side of the wall? Lindy West wept.

A corollary to the fourth theory of manboob mind — the theory that manboobery is a cynical ploy to attract niche female attention — is the notion that manboobs deliberately scheme to rearrange the contours of the sexual market so that their types have more access to women. It’s a strategy to clear the field of competitor males. It’s obviously not possible to literally clear the field of other men (unless you imprison them or kill them), but it is possible, through silver-tongued verbal calisthenics, to build insular social contexts that delineate and ostracize outsiders from insiders, and attract women simpatico to one’s message, much like the growth of a religious cult. The key to this mate competition strategy is to execute it with sincere-sounding passion, creating emotional states that coax the girls to be more open to the manboob’s wiles. An actively promoted, pro-femcunt system allows manboobs like Schwyzer to successfully compete with other men, whereas in a sane, anti-feminist, anti-sophist culture he would be at a distinct disadvantage competing against manlier men who eschew the mincing dishonor of passive-aggressive subterfuge.

Finally, we come to the fifth theory of manboob mind, and one I include for purposes of thoroughness rather than insight, as it shares obvious common threads with the previous four theories: Manboobs are simply bigoted against those not like them, which amounts to being bigoted against their betters, and will tirelessly do or say whatever is necessary, no matter how inconsistent or hypocritical, to bring down those they irrationally hate. I leave it as an exercise for the reader why a guy like Hugo Schwyzer would reflexively perceive the majority white male contingent as the Other.

In summary, here are the five primary theories of manboob mind, in no particular order of probability or explanatory power:

1. Guilt complex
2. Pathological altruism
3. Status whoring
4. Mate competition strategy
5. Raw bigotry

These theories don’t have to be distinct entities; they can overlap, and they probably do. A status whoring manboob on the make for chubby feminist love might harbor guilt for some strange perversion he committed in his past. A bigoted hater might also be a pathological altruist who goes livid when the subject turns to inequality, and if you think those two emotional states are contradictory, well you just don’t know the leftoid mind very well. Let’s say internal consistency is not their strong suit.

It wouldn’t be CH if we didn’t punctuate a SERIOUS post with a goofy coda, so to head off those jesters salivating to bombard the comment section with theories they deem to be the most obvious explanations, yes, manboobs like Schwyzer may just be acting out revenge fantasies birthed in the crucible of some punch to the jaw they took by a frat bro when they were striplings making their way through a man’s world. You could call that theory of manboobery, “Punchuated Equilibrium”. Those slights of youth have amazing staying power to warp the adult mind. Hate for normal, healthy men can germinate in such seething soil. You’d not be far from the mark to guess that a lot of the more monstrous manboobs nurse grudges from some rejection they suffered by a girl who never reciprocated their LJBFery in the way the manboobs hoped. But instead of turn against normal women or themselves, they shifted their hate beams to those men the girls liked.

As a theory of manboob mind, I don’t buy this tact. For every skulking manboob with a distant humiliation fueling his misandry, there are a thousand men who suffered similar high school slights who never went the egregious manboob route. Something else, some other psychological misfire, has to gird the ancient grudge, to give the grudge its unusual outsized power. And that is where you have to dig deeper, to the transgendered id, where the murmuring heart of the manboob pumps sewage through his buttplug-shaped cerebellum.

PS Schwyzer and his ilk might just be garden-variety closeted gays, which I know will be the preferred theory of a lot of tradcon types who have a hard time fathoming the queer workings of the manboob mind. But that’s a dismissive assertion that’s hard to subscribe to when there are years of evidence, past and current, that the Hugo manboob under the microscope has enjoyed, and continues to enjoy, the sexual company of women. We don’t live in an age where gay men need a parade of beards to function in society.

PPS Feel free to include your theories for the existence of nauseating manboobs in the comments. If there’s a better theory out there than the five presented here, we’d all like to hear it.

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Sometimes, in moments of deep reflection, I wonder… just what delusional depths can the typical American woman plumb? I thought I’ve seen it all… attack lawyers bitching off the shoulder of sensitive niceguys… I watched cockblocks glower in the bar near the target babe. All those delusions will be spun in time, like hamsters on wheels. Time to self-deceive.

But now I see there is more out there. A bigger, better, faster hamster. A rodent so enormous on a wheel spinning so violently it creates its own black hole of irrationality, sucking in logic, reason and common sense to an event horizon doom.

Behold: The Hamster of Hamsters. The Mother of All Rodents. The MOAR you know… the more you despair that America is in the grips of a virulent, and wholly undeserved, narcissism determined to sink the nation ship with the utmost alacrity.

The beast hungers:

In that sense, vanity is yet another stick with which people are beaten — because women are told, constantly and without any real deviation from the message, that they have to look a certain way to be worthwhile, to be of value. To be REAL, in some sense.

This is, of course, utter bullshit. Because any woman who identifies as a woman is a real woman. There’s a lot of different ways that can look and they are all valid.

“Because any woman who identifies as a woman is a real woman.” Is this the ur-tautology? Or just the usual gibberish from the usual losers unable to cope with the revelations from clear thinking?

Leaving aside for the moment any presumption this particular breed of hamster vessel knows what she means by the word “valid”, it is absolute falsehood that all women have value no matter what they look like. A morbidly obese land whale has almost zero romantic value to nearly all men. A woman who is so disgustingly fat she ceases to retain even the merest shimmer of womanly shape is a female of very low physical value.

Her post seems melancholy to me in some ways, caught and struggling in the web of the social expectations that are thrust upon women.

Expectations exist because we are biological machines with biologically-based desires that react to specific body types. When those body types deviate from the desirous norm, we recoil as if we have seen a monstrous creature of the nightmare world.

if you are fat and you accept your body as it is, you are often bombarded with “Your fat!” (they never get the “you’re” right)  [ed: female humor] in email and comments and sometimes in person, as though you need the reminder because you’ve risen above your station.

If you accept your fatness, then you wouldn’t be bothered by people calling you fat. Is Donald Trump bothered when people say to him “You’re rich!”?

One of the best things I ever did for myself was to consciously make an effort not to judge people’s bodies.

Here comes the patented feminist self-contradiction within two sentences…

I do not care if your hipbones stick out.

But you noticed, didn’t you, Judgy McJudgemytwoextrabeefpattiesonasesameseedbunfueledwideloadass? The “hipbones stick out” descriptive excess is classic fatgirl speak for healthy weight, slender women, hidden under an obfuscating layer of plausible deniability that she “does not care” about those skinny girls and their jutting hipbones. Fat shits just love their propaganda that the world is about to be overrun with thin women on the verge of mortal anorexia.

Your body is awesome.

Yes it is.

I do not care how many chins you are packing.

Men do. And that’s what matters.

Your body is awesome.

No it’s not.

So is mine.

I’ll be the judge of that.

Awesome, indeed. Awesomely rotund.

“So is mine.”

It’s like listening to a small child argue. The mind on display here is underdeveloped like a child’s, but at least children have the excuse that their brains are still a work in progress. This is an adult woman talking like this. Acting out like a petulant brat that reality is what she says it is, and so there!

“There’s no place like my body. There’s no place like my body. There’s no place like my body. Yay, I’m happy with myself again!”

If you wish for it hard enough… well, you’re still a fat crap.

My vanity — when I am not compromised by my own intrinsic self-doubt (two days before my period, like CLOCKWORK) — is of the traditional form. My vanity is in thinking that I am absolutely worth being looked at, absolutely worth being seen. Absolutely worth thinking of myself as talented.

Correction: You’re not worth being looked at, you’re not worth being seen, and goshdarnit, you’re absolutely not worth thinking of yourself as an alternative and equally worthy female form. And this fact will not change no matter how much you lie to yourself otherwise. It will never change until you change the fact itself, by losing weight and slimming down to a reasonable facsimile of a sexy woman. In your case, the fact itself looks to weigh about 100 unnecessary pounds.

Vanity is distasteful in people who at least can claim some justification for feeling vain; we may not like it but we understand. In contrast, vanity is farcical delusion in people who don’t possess a scintilla of real world evidence to justify their bloated self-regard. The vanity untethered from reality is a joke; it’s Generation Lookatme! on uppers, their heaving bulk held aloft by a helium-filled entitlement complex. The best thing for society would be to have these BubbleBoars disabused of their fanciful self-delusions. Of course, it might take more than a few stabs with the soulkilling shiv until they get the message. There’s a lot of ego blubber to cut through.

I wouldn’t call that inflated. I wouldn’t call that undue. I’d call that actually having a pretty good grasp on being confident that I am, in fact, a worthwhile human being.

A person’s actual worth is inversely proportional to the efforts she takes to convince herself of her worth.

Other than the death fatness and the blue hair, I’m actually pretty conventional in my appearance, according to the social beauty imperative: I am white, I have a clear complexion (mostly), I have thick curly hair on my head but little body hair. I have an hourglassy shape.

You’d have to be sober-ish to think she’s hourglassy. Hey, I thought all body types are worthwhile? She shouldn’t preen about her clear complexion and hourglassy shape. Is there something wrong with hirsute women?

I am still going to advocate for everyone being at least a little vain though. Because “pretty” should not be the sole criterion for “worth being seen.” Because “pretty” is actually kind of a bullshit narrow construct.

The hamster has gone suborbital.

In fact, when people who do not fit into the effing oppressive beauty standard that is going on in America are vain as hell, I love it.

“I am a beautiful, healthy woman. Fuck you, dad!”

I think it’s powerful and subversive and political and awesome.

No, it’s just retarded and transparent and silly and self-defeating.

Because fuck those folks who think you don’t deserve to be seen.

The problem is that there’s too much of you to see.

It’s worth clarifying as well — not only is no one required to participate in beauty culture,

No one is required to participate in breathing oxygen, either, but there are consequences if you choose non-participation.

you are still awesome and worth being seen [for the degenerate freak show you are] if you reject beauty culture entirely.

ftfy.

If vanity is about excessive pride in our appearance, well, let’s just say I’ll be damned before I look in a mirror and hate what I see just to avoid being vain.

Interesting reasoning. I didn’t know the opposite of vanity was self-hatred.

My only caveat regarding the awesomeness of vanity? Your intense and concentrated awesomeness does not mean other people are not also awesome.

I bet she doesn’t think Todd Akin is awesome.

Jane and the xoEditors actually have a whole new project in the works that will celebrate all things VAIN. It’s pretty hella exciting.

I used to think that setting these insipid behemoths straight would require nothing more than ignoring them. The sexual market is cruelly indifferent to one’s constructed vanity, and fat shits would find in short order how unloved they were by men with options. But now, I dunno… cold indifference doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. Pointing and ridiculing is the next step in the campaign against raging American female egotism, and if that doesn’t work, well, there’s always diabetes, chopped feet, and early death.

Why do I put crazed egomaniacs like this woman on the breaking wheel? What’s the point of being so mean to someone who is probably nice to puppies when she isn’t eating them? I do it to set an example for the others. To push back against evil ideologies that infect innocent minds. And make no mistake, this woman’s message is evil. If other women who had not yet ruined their bodies by blowing up to her repulsive dimensions took her words to heart, they might feel entitled to let themselves go, figuring that their body is beautiful no matter what it looks like, and shame on you for saying differently.

And then the world would be a little bit sadder, a lotta bit uglier, and a hella lot fatter. And that would be decidedly un-awesome.

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