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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

Over at Jizzebel, internet archipelago of misfit romantic rejects, a woman breaks the ogress omertá and bares her shiv-scarred soul for the world to leer at with morbid fascination. In a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark, ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood.

You will realize that getting older is not only NOT as terrible as you thought, but that it actually it confers untold advantages you couldn’t have even imagined when you were busy running around doing cartwheels staying up all night wearing miniskirts.

Ugly truth time: Old age is a horror show. The mind fogs, the body rots, the sex organs wither, the energy level plummets. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to avoid really shitty decay accelerants like heart disease or cancer. What about these facts of the toll of aging is not terrible? Old people have remarked to me that the only upside to their loss of youth was a growing sense of serenity, aka calm resignation to a total lack of power to do anything about one’s wretched deterioration. Here’s an easy question for platitude pusher Tracy Moore that will highlight the bankruptcy of her feminist feels: How many 80 year old women would instantly and painlessly shave 60 years of aging off their bodies with a snap of the finger if they could? My bet: A lot. About the same number as the number of parents-to-be who would instantly and painlessly cure a gay germ infection that was discovered in mommy’s fetus. (The following ‘heh’ directed at Andrew “Rawmuscleglutes” Sullivan:

Heh.)

Moore continues her psyche triage by quoting an advice seeker from an “Ask Polly” column:

“And so, the prospect of losing [my looks]—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread. I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop [the aging process]. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over. I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears.”

The fear of old people is real, because, of course, they aren’t a separate species, but a mirror of our future gnarly selves. This woman is expressing a real fear based on a real understanding about how the world, and the mating market, work, even if her worry borders on obsessively unhealthy. The correct advice to give her is not to impugn her character or chide her for her lack of faith in feminist boilerplate credentialism, but to tell her to stop worrying so much about something she has no control over and to get out and enjoy her boner-inspiring, beta-manipulating youth n beauty while she has it, because it is good. And then perhaps to recognize that, yes, the day will come, sooner rather than later, that her looks will be gone, and she should prepare for this eventuality by limiting her time on the cock carousel and extracting commitment from a worthy man before her carriage turns into a fatass pumpkin. A few tips about age-slowing eating and lifestyle habits wouldn’t hurt, either.

Tracy Moore, as is the wont of members of her subterranean sisterhood, imparts a distinctly uninspired take that vibrates with barely-concealed acknowledgement of biomechanical reality:

Obviously, we could make a lot of assumptions about where this advice-seeker has gone wrong — namely by being too caught up in her own appearance and the joy it brings her and others. But we would do better to remind ourselves of the double-edged sword beauty brings to those who posses it: great rewards, an often over-reliance on its door-opening magical powers to the exclusion of cultivating the self, an expiration date, being taken less seriously, etc.

An “expiration date”! A term so closely aligned with Chateau Heartiste that suspicions are aroused Moore is a secret reader.

Nevertheless, Moore’s laundry list of youthnbeauty downsides are feelgood pablum: There is not only no laboratory evidence that beautiful women don’t “cultivate the self” or that they are “taken less seriously”, there is hardly any real world evidence of these nostrums either. If anything, beautiful women are taken *too* seriously, and get a leg up in just about every aspect of life by obsequious men… until they hit the wall. And since beauty and IQ correlate, there is a better than random chance that a beautiful girl will be a more interesting personality than will be an ugly girl.

Sometimes the Thing You Notice About Aging Is Oddly Comforting

Even when these moments come — I can’t get drunk like I used to; What’s that popping sound in my hip every time I stand up? Must use more moisturizer — rather than feel bad, I actually feel good, good that I am alive and this age and still totally healthy, in spite of how much I wasted my youth, or rather, got wasted while young. Think about it: Your body says fuck you to gravity most days of its existence. Pretty amazing.

It’s only “oddly” comforting because Moore understands, past the confines of her well-manicured ego, that aging is not a comfort show at all. Yes, pretty amazing. You keep telling yourself that Tracy, because those wasted years not finding a beta husband to tenderly stroke your anvil mandible while you still had a semblance of sexual marketability are never coming back. May as well ease the pain with a stirring morning motivational that exults in your achievement of breathing air for another day.

Yes, There’s Regret, But Not Like You Think

Once I remember talking with a friend when we were in our late 20s, and she remarked casually that she wished she’d worn more cute clothes/risqué stuff when she was younger and had a “better body,” and I agreed reflexively, like, yeah, of course, who doesn’t. But then I realized that in order to have done that, I would have had to have been a completely different person. I have never really been the type of person to dress provocatively at any age.

Just like a feminist to wish she had been sluttier when she was younger. Hey Try-Hard, I got news for ya… younger women can wear a friggin potato sack and still look more bangable than a 40 year old in a cocktail dress.

What crazy person would trade that [life experience] for a slightly higher set of boobs?

False choice fallacy. But this is feminist-land, where logical fallacies are coin of the realm.

And if you so happen now be the sort of person who wants to wear a miniskirt, wear a fucking miniskirt and shut the fuck up about it!

This is not recommended for cougars and fatties, or does Moore believe that women should be exempt from feeling bad about any visual appraisals that aren’t sufficiently and simultaneously respectful and lascivious?

The Thing You Really Notice is How Little You Care

Sorry, I know it’s a bumper sticker at this point, but the hands-down, best motherfucking juice that comes from being older is how much better you know yourself, and what’s more, you like this person you’ve gotten to know, even when you accept her worst flaws. This is more liberating than all the fresh-faced ignorant bliss in the world.

You know what else would qualify as “liberating”? Admitting to yourself that you look shittier now than you did ten years ago. And then adjusting your man-sights accordingly.

Trying to appreciate where you are right now is the big triumph of life.

Feminism: The new tard olympics.

Knowing that wherever you are right now is where you are, and looking for the best thing in that, with an eye on how to keep it going toward wherever you want to be, is the point.

Has a sentence more devoid of substance and more burdened with vapid nonsense ever been written by a woman? It reads like a post-modern architectural shoebox of stacking “right now is where is right is now is point is where” clauses.

Your Looks Never Actually Bail

If so, where do they go? In the crawl space at your last apartment? Is there a dumpster in the sky where all the young, beautiful faces go, like some weirder, more mutant version of the movie Face Off? Duh, you always look like you! Because you are you! And you are an evolving thing, a thing that ages!

So Tracy, is the fact that this concluding paragraph of yours contradicts just about every stated and implied premise you made earlier in your article fill you with shame in your chosen career? Jes askin’.

So if you are young and terrified and reading this right now, I say, please, enjoy the shit out of what you’ve got, and spend the rest of your time building an exquisite bridge to the next phase of your life, so that you can enjoy the shit out of that, too. That is the secret to sheer magnetism, no matter how old you are.

Actually, men will be a lot less tolerant of your “sheer magnetism” when you’re old and ugly. But your fat feminist snarky BFFs will continue to lap up your runny shit, so there’s that.

Why else can we not stop drooling over Helen Mirren?

Newsflash: No one is drooling over Helen Mirren but deluded feminists fearing a crash impact with the wall, and their suck-up orbiter manboobs who secretly want to prematurely dribble a tepid spurt of their feeb seed all over your jungle bush.

PS: The following is *not* a valid example of an older woman having sexual market options:

PPS: One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.

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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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A reader with an urgent family emergency has turned to the Chateau for help.

I have been reading your site for many years now and thank you for all of the wisdom you have shared. Your blog has improved my life in many ways, and I humbly ask your advice now to convince my brother that he is about to make a terrible mistake.

My brother is the pride of the family – went to a top school undergrad, graduated med school last year, and is now on his way to becoming a surgeon. He is a well-adjusted, mature man who has had a couple of long term relationships in the past and possesses above average intellect, physical, and social skills.

For the past 6 months he has been dating an unemployed divorcee who is 8 years older (he’s 28, she’s 36). This summer he will be moving across the country for his next rotation and they have decided that she will also move and live together with him. She has no social network in the region and even if she finds a job will be relying almost entirely on him financially, emotionally, etc. Not surprisingly she has been pushing him for a ring and a baby, and he seems to be happily going along with this.

My parents and extended family are distraught. We have all tried to reason with him but to no avail. You and your esteemed commentators can all see the train wreck that will occur if my cousin decides to marry and start a family with this woman.

My question to you is this: how can I talk him out of it?

Nervously Poolside,
Dr. No

This reader’s brother needs an intervention. A strong, powergut propelled, three pats on the back intervention. The best teachable moments are those which sock the nascent quisling in the face with a blistering infographic:

The graph is via GLPiggy. As you can see, more women have sex before age 25, but after that the dynamic flips and it’s men who enjoy the edge in sexual pleasure. The why is simple: women are most desirable when young. Men are most desirable when older, and continue staying desirable well into middle age. The underlying why is even simpler: Female attractiveness is almost entirely a function of their physical beauty. Male attractiveness is a function of multiple causes, including status, power, charm, looks and social dominance.

This is CH 101, aka Life 101, aka Feminist Soul Implosion 101.

So tell your brother it makes no sense to marry a woman eight years older than himself when he has the SMV goods RIGHT NOW to land a hotter, tighter, younger babe without divorce baggage, said baggage which itself is strong evidence she will divorce again. And on top of that, his SMV will only increase for another ten, perhaps twenty years, while hers, if she is the typical woman following the usual senescence track, will have a date with the wall of sexual expiration just about the time his appeal is maxing out.

That’s a recipe for marital failure. It makes no sense for him to hitch his cart to this gimp horse, unless….

she’s hot.

I mean, balls tingling, cock leaping hot.

You left this out of your description of her. Be honest, how hot is she? A hard 10? And not just for her age? Because if that’s the case, (however unlikely), many would find it difficult to dissuade him from experiencing the kind of glorious transcendental passion that most men can only crave from the sidelines of their gloomy masturbatoria.

You see, a man falls in love with a woman’s beauty. He does not fall in love with her smarts, her job, her credentials, her family connections, her employability, her future time orientation, or her ability to stand against the patriarchy or avoid the pitfalls of divorce.

Her beauty inspires his devotion, his lust, his love, his tenderness, his protectiveness, his delirium. Once inspired, he begins the journey of discovering all those other little things about her that seem now to him so powerfully alluring. Her beauty is the buttering ram that slides open doors to aspects of her subtler being that are joyously and post hoc-ally embraced by him as motivating reasons for his ardor.

Save this man, yes.

But save him from what? Himself? Or your family’s concern with appearances?

I ask with all sincerity. Because you need to be sure that you will act in your brother’s best interest. If he’s a man of solid self-possession who happens to be truly, deeply, crazily in love, leave him be. If he’s a beta who is clinging to what he imagines is a lifeline from a fate of grinding loneliness, then by all means get in his face.

Show him this blog. Let him sponge up the message that is both necessarily hateful and nourishing.

Slyly introduce finer specimens of femaledom into his life. Let him smell their intoxicating aroma.

Employ the carrot and the stick, the coax and the shame. In time, if he is not completely lost to the forces of self-doubt so preciously cultivated by our feminism glorified society, he will find his footing.

Preferably in the bed of a 22 year old stripper.

UPDATE

An astute commenter has noted that the reader requesting advice referred to the man in question as his brother, and then as his cousin. This may indeed be a troll email.

Nevertheless, the message stands. Trolls can often serve as useful springboards to discuss larger matters which do impact the lives of many men.

UPDATE 2

From original emailer,

My sincere gratitude for your post.

The cousin is a typo, he is my brother and this is a very real situation.

The woman in question is not hot at all, though not ugly – clearly post wall looking to latch on to a provider. 5 at best.

We are acting in his best interest as we can all see what will happen a few years down the road as your readers have already noted. He is more the latter than the former in terms of self possession vs beta – our working theory is that he fell headlong into this because he was in a new city working brutal hours without close friends around.

I am staging an intervention imminently and will keep you posted. The red pill will be hard for him to swallow but its better to go down swinging.

Just inform him that there are hot 21 year old women he can meet just about anywhere who would swoon for his surgeon swagger. Once he knows that, tell him he needs game. Direct him to the resources at this blog. Rudimentary game is all it should take for a whole world of young, exquisite pussy to blossom before his eyes. It sounds like the beta is strong in this fellow, so his shift in attitude from a scarcity mentality to an abundance mentality will need to be swift and sure. Good news: the shift will fully reflect his real opportunity.

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Met online? Check.

Beta herbling? Check.

Chubby American woman on the wrong side of 30? Check.

Pretentious SWPL photo? Check.

Rode the cock carousel until age limit was reached? Check.

Two people settling for each other when options have run out? Check.

From this article, a treasure trove of dating tawdriness and romantic bleakness confirming many CH maxims.

I was 30 years old, just out of a long-term relationship and no longer interested in playing the field. It was time to settle down with the right man, get married and start a family. At the urging of several friends (and my worried mother), a strategy was settled upon: I joined Match.com and JDate, a website for Jewish singles.

What followed was a series of bad dates worthy of a romantic comedy: stupid sexual remarks, too much alcohol consumed (by them). A surprising number of men high-fived me, for reasons that remain unclear.

You can read the rest at the link, if you have the stomach for it. Warning: it’s bad. Here’s a taste:

I quickly realized that the popular women seemed to know something I didn’t; they were clearly attracting the sort of smart, attractive professionals who had been ignoring my profile. Being hypercompetitive, I wasn’t about to let some bubblegum-popping blonde steal the neurotic Jewish doctor of my mother’s dreams.

Here’s some advice, ladies, straight from the lords of the Chateau, and you don’t even have to reverse engineer online dating by making dummy JDate profiles and Excel spreadsheets to benefit from this advice:

1. Don’t get fat.

2. Don’t be ugly.

3. Don’t act like a man or a bitter feminist.

3. Don’t wait until you’re over 30, rode hard and tossed away wet, to start looking for a serious partner worthy of marrying.

See how simple that is? 1,2,3,4. Voila, love! But I suppose the simplicity is the problem for you girls. There’s no way to hamsterize the advice into something palatable to your egos.

PS As a bonus, here’s some CH advice for the men:

1. Don’t be a beta.

2. Don’t act like a woman or a manboob.

3. Learn game, bust a move and date the women you really desire before you’re forced to settle for the above.

Yours in Yahweh,

CH

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A reader writes amazedly:

I like sex as much as the next guy, but I’m amazed at what men will throw away to get it: a Presidency (B. Clinton, DSK), a 38 year career, CEO positions, money, respect, freedom…it just doesn’t make sense. No matter who she is, she’s not worth it. IMHO, obviously.

He speaks of Generals Petraeus and Allen and their Lebanese immigrant, faintly masculine mistresses (last I checked of this labyrinthine lovers’ octagon.) Yes, the scent of an attractive, height-weight proportionate woman is strong, stronger still when her surroundings are populated by bloated pustules formerly known as women. Scent of a Womb, you could call it. Men sniff it in the air, like a wolf picking up the odor of prey animals, and they are sprung to action. But it is useful to remember that as strong as that fertile pussy odor is to men, equally strong is the alpha male odor to women. Perhaps even stronger in women, since alpha males are so much rarer, and thus more exciting when discovered, than are young fertile women to men, who need only stroll around a SPWL neighborhood for a few minutes to ogle ten or fifty babes who can adequately stiffen the staff.

A woman in a room with a four star general is as overtaken by powerful urges to FUCK AND FUCK NOW as a man is when in the company of a pretty, young woman with suppleness in all the right places. You just don’t fiddle with the god of biomechanics and expect a slurry of sexual harassment lawsuit threats or career-ending consequences will keep His Dark Eminence at bay and the work environment safely borg-like and aridly void of sexual tension.

Feminists can screech and shriek, manboobs can pule, white knights can huff and puff, but, like all of us, their knees too will bend to the cosmic prime directive.

The scandal itself — so mundane in its predictability* — is only noteworthy for three reasons:

1. The conspiracy angle. It’s hard to avoid suspicions that Petraeus was not going to be fully cooperative on Benghazi and was therefore summarily deep-sixed by timely revelations courtesy of Team HopeandChange.

2. The male archetype on display of the “beta male in alpha clothing”. Too many people readily confuse occupational status for alpha maleness, when it’s a man’s attitude, first and foremost, which imbues him with the alpha allure. Although very high social status and alpha maleness correlate, it is by no means exact. Petraeus’s (or was it Allen’s?) self-incriminating email avalanche is some proof that he harbors the soul of a beta. A real alpha male does not do the email equivalent of gushing like a lovestruck schoolgirl, unless he really was lovestruck. (More on that later**.) He especially does not do this when he is high ranking military brass with a lot to lose should his illicit effusions be discovered.

As for the archetype of Beta Males In Alpha Clothing, these types of men get action from women entranced by their status, but then quickly lose these women’s interest when their betaness reveals itself in manifesting clinginess. The leader of men can be just as blind to the nature of women as the celibate omega male or the cloying beta male. Leader of Men beta males are often victimized by their mistresses because the women don’t have the strong feelings of love and loyalty to them that they would have to attitudinal alpha males.

3. The game lessons contained therein. Petraeus and Allen both miserably failed the Jumbotron test. You do not write tens of thousands of sappy emails to your mistress that you wouldn’t be comfortable airing on a Jumbotron for the world to see. That goes doubly for CIA directors. I like to follow the KISS principle in matters of the heart: Keep It Scarce, Stupid. And for God’s sake — the Draft folder? Have you dumbasses never heard of anonymizing remailers?

There are many tawdry twists and turns in this saga soon to come, I’m sure, but you really only need to see two pictures to understand pretty much 99% of what’s going on.

The wife…

And the mistress…

Wow, notice that masculine digit ratio she has? That, plus the squared off, clenched jaw and forehead zit are leading indicators that this broad is well on her way to breaking a land speed record for cock gobbling the alpha males in her midst.

How in tarnation is Petraeus’s potato sack poster wife for Puritan living supposed to compete with this fuel-injected sex machine? There isn’t a man alive who would pass up a chance at tapping that harlot if his only alternative was Miss Massachusetts 1687. You may as well dangle a chunk of raw meat in front of a starving lion’s maw and expect it to sit still for twenty years.

Look, I’m not claiming Broadwell is any raving beauty. She’s probably around a 7, adjusted for age. And she has that incipient manjaw going on, a classic tell of the late stage America, careerist shrike tankgrrl female with clit dick. But in relation to the wife, she’s a hard 10. Hard enough to cut diamond. If your wife — and I say this with the utmost clinical detachment — is utterly unbangable, then a 7 prancing around your office day in and day out, year after year, in high heels, pencil skirt and a sexpot squint will test the resolve of the most religiously indoctrinated or divorce theft-averse man. Every day you don’t expel yourself in the tramp’s come hither wicker is one more day you drag yourself home to suffer in stark contrast the sad, depressing sight of the Michelin Ma’am dutifully holding down the home post. Your guilty thoughts will eat you alive either way, so you may as well enjoy the benefits of the burden of that guilt.

The God of Biomechanics does not reward virtue. His works are Total Gonad.

I find the notion coming from some quarters (feminists and white knights and manboobs, oh my!) that Petraeus ought to have been more virtuous absolutely laughable. The man’s station in life, if nothing else, made him a rock star in his milieu. Women would have made their sexual intentions known to him rather blatantly. Virtue is easy when there is little to realistically tempt one to vice, as is typically the case for nearly all omegas of either sex, and betas of the male sex. This was not the case here. Petraeus had the equivalent of a thousand attractive men’s temptations thrown in his face every day. A choir of heavenly saints would have trouble keeping the Boner of Light in their pants under such circumstances.

Which brings me to my next jeremiad: Tossing men and women together in the workplace is a recipe for dissolving marriages, sexually dispossessing beta males, and corraling women under the banner of a few industry captain alpha males. Men and women in a putatively monogamous society are simply not meant to be in each other’s company, away from family, all the day long and night. Is it any wonder, really, that female infidelity rates are now approaching that of men’s rates? The gender neutral workplace experiment has brought alpha males and fertile females together like no other arrangement yet devised by man. And it happened under everyone’s noses, because no one bothered to note that human nature is real, and it isn’t going anywhere soon.

There is a reason why newly minted wives rush their husbands out to the suburbs, and it’s not just to get their kids into good white schools: it’s to sequester their men from the sea of luscious young pussy that swims the streets of the cities. Similarly, most husbands are much happier when their wives either stay at home or work in jobs where they are mostly surrounded by other women or beta males, like teaching or accounting. The goal for each is the same: to reduce excessive alpha male/hot female temptations.

Of course, don’t bother telling feminists this undeniable aspect of society: they’d rather stuff purple saguaros in their ears than contemplate the merciless, gender aneutral reality of humanity. Their willful ignorance is rivaled only by their catastrophic stupidity.

*How predictable was this affair? Very. The greater the sexual market value disparity between a husband’s wife and his female coworkers, the likelier the odds of his having an extramarital affair with a woman closer in SMV to himself. This postulate is best expressed graphically:

A high status man whose wife is a full 10 points lower on the looks scale than the women he works with is guaranteed to cheat, and cheat a lot. You will notice that some alpha males advanced in the ways of self-abnegation can resist the temptation to cheat, so long as the other woman is no more than a couple points better looking than the wife. But once the other woman crosses that threshold from “kind of prettier” to “yup, she makes my wife look like a duffel bag of laundry”, the infidelity is set in stone. And only those who loathe male desire will see fit to condemn such a man for his actions.

For the recent members of the studio audience: Feminists and their lapdog beta supplicants tend to be the types to nurse an irrational loathing of natural, normal male desire.

There are those tricky little trolls who will innocently(!) ask “Don’t you feel sorry for the wife? What did she do wrong?”

I do feel a twitch of pity for her, but it stops there. She did nothing “wrong”, in the Biblical or PC sense, but the fact that she obviously felt it reasonable to so fully let herself go is evidence that she cared not a whit for her husband’s animal desires, and was probably up to her ears in feminist ideology about the uselessness and evil of appealing to the visceral demands of men for physically attractive, slender lovers. Had she stayed thin (something which is entirely possible, barring very rare physiological ailments), she would have enjoyed more loving sexual attention from her husband. But she is undoubtedly a creature of the zany zeitgeist, and as such was likely imbued with latent hatred for the idea of pleasing one’s husband in the way that husbands prefer to be pleased.

There is also the matter of expectations that are inevitably placed on women who have managed to capture in unholy matrimony a rising star alpha male. The pressure to stay sexy and feminine will be much more strongly felt by a wife hitched to a valuable alpha male. After all, he has options most men don’t. The luxury of resting on her wifely laurels to scarf down a pint of Edy’s is not in the cards for such women. To put it mildly: Ladies, if you want the alpha male, be prepared to put in the hard work to keep him amused. If you don’t want that responsibility, then go marry a beta male who won’t have the SMV leverage to complain or seek alternate humanistic outlets for his needs.

Naturally, some of you women will balk. But try this thought experiment on for size:

The fat wife of an alpha male is the SAME THING as the unmotivated, dull, needy husband of an alpha female.

If you would be hard pressed to place full blame on the alpha female for her succumbing to infidelity, then so should you think twice before placing full blame on the alpha male for his succumbing to infidelity.

If you cannot grasp this elementary logic, then you are either a raving feminist loon, or a very feminine woman who confuses feelings for reason.

**Was Petraeus in love? I bet he was. Broadwell was considerably younger than him, and considerably sexier than his wife, and those two things are prerequisites for illicit love to bloom in the heart of a man. Feminists often sputter angrily when they see a much older, powerful man with a younger woman, a reaction which arises because they are aware that what they are seeing is an asymmetrical power relationship, but even worse, that the subordinate woman in the relationship ENJOYS IT! The man likes having a pretty girl look up to him, and the woman likes having a powerful man to look up to.

I think it is within the realm of possibility, then, that Petraeus really loved Broadwell, and saw her as much more than a fun fling. He returned her love, though in the end it appears she didn’t get what she wanted from him, and her knives came out.

Will anyone in the media beside this blog talk about the genuine love Petraeus, or Allen, had for their respective mistresses? No. The belief that a man cannot love more than one woman at once is ingrained deeply in the psyche of the masses. Most cling tightly to hopes that non-monogamous relationships cannot be loving. And who wants to believe that an older man can truly fall in love with a younger woman? Certainly not the legions of older wives!

Then there is the uncomfortable fact of female nature: who among the media elite really wants to confront the reality of the base desires of women, of their yearning for powerful men, and of their natural inclination to happily assume the subservient role to such men? Who will mention how cavalierly women will dismiss the far-reaching consequences of their actions if such actions bring them closer to joyful fulfillment in the arms of their married lovers?

Love can thrive in relationships where lust is the driving force. When I read that Petraeus was having an affair with Broadwell, I was happy for him. Imagine the torment such a man with his temptations must suffer, just to keep up appearances in service to his political career and his dreary family life. But he went ahead with his affair anyway, and he did it for love. He put love ahead of duty and the wrath of the PC Kommisars. He chose to live not as the mass of men live — empty of any joy. Petraeus may be a fool and betrayer, but he is also a bold, exuberant romantic. A man willing to risk it all for a pretty woman’s love, the best thing that there is in this godforsaken world.

In the final analysis, the magnetic appeal of this story is clear:

Petraeus is us.

PS I predict that the cuckolded beta male hubbies, both of whom are “conventionally alpha” doctors, of Broadwell and Kelley will be the least examined aspect of this story by the media. Remeber, folks, men are expendable! And that goes triply for beta males. They are the forgotten lepers in the wilderness of unspoken tabulations of human worth. We will hear a never ending tale of woe about Mrs. Petraeus, but hardly a peep about the sad sacks who suffered their wives’ unfaithfulness. Some sexes are just more equal than others.

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Ah, the knee-slapping never ends when two feminist spinsters on a fast track to wall collision gab about their dating exploits and using men for either fun or profit. Naturally, their window for “using” men in any fashion is rapidly closing in lockstep with the degree of their drooping flesh, so any gchats that conspire bewteen these pitiful specimens often provide hours of voyeuristic entertainment watching what amounts to this:

Is anyone else down for a good, old-fashioned soul flaying? I know I am!

Chatting About Hookups and “For-Real” Dates with Sex Writer Tracy Clark-Flory

By Amanjaw Marcuntte

After reading Tracy Clark-Flory’s Salon piece from Saturday extolling the glories of traditional courtship, I knew I had to talk with her in more depth.

Clark-Flory’s (never trust a woman with a hyphenated name) swan song to her sexy and vital youth is basically an admission against interest that her high flying, alpha cock carouseling 20s are over and now that her sexual market options are dwindling she has to settle for boring dates with beta herbs who promise they will stick around like office fixtures instead of bolt while she’s coming off a multiple orgasm. Naturally, she hamsters this as a paean to the glories of “traditional courtship”. What’s the scientific term for this cognitive function? Oh yeah… making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Tracy, who has been writing about sex and relationships for years, often in defense of the casual hookup, expressed a more nuanced view of the entire situation,

“nuanced” = deluded.

explaining how her increased interest in taking-it-slow, more formalized dating

“increased interest” = panic.

doesn’t, in any way, mean that she thinks that a past of more casual hooking up was the wrong choice.

The odds of divorce for a woman go way up the more partners with whom she has premaritally casually hooked up. Clark-Flory needs to think with more clarity.

Her take really cuts to the heart of what so many pro-sex feminist commentators have been trying to say for years about dating and sex, so I grabbed her on Gchat yesterday to talk more about it.

What follows is a beautiful digital mutual clit diddling wherein two mangy cougars assert they can have their cake and eat it too.

Amanda: I really liked your piece on going on a for-real date.

Tracy: This was literally my first for-real date ever.

What a catch! You know men — or should I say, desirable men with options — just love throwing tons of money and time and sexless dates at has-beens who spent their prime pussy years hooking up for free with men who agreed with them that dates were an unnecessary nuisance.

Tracy: Well, I should be clear: I’ve online dated. I’ve gone on dates. But most often they’re presented super casually. Like, hey, “Let’s hang out.” This was the first time someone clearly said to me: I want to take you out on a date, and here is the plan. Typically, whether it’s with “hang out” dates or hookups, it’s very low-investment—emotionally, financially, you name it.

A man will invest only as much as is required to get in a woman’s pants. Clark was obviously a pump and dump stock in her 20s who’s now trading for pennies but acting like a tech IPO. You know who invests in loser companies? Suckers.

Tracy: Right. I think it’s great that people can get to know each other casually. Grab a burrito and a beer! Make out at the bar! But it’s also nice to not feel totally stuck with diminished romantic expectations—as in, I can’t expect more than a taqueria “hangout” arranged last-minute via text message.

You should have thought of the danger of diminished romantic expectations while you still had the goods to entice worthy buyers. PS Having a history of being a big fat slut is not exactly an advertisement that you’re marriage material.

Amanda: That’s something I’ve noticed that a lot of friends complain about since I’ve moved to NYC: They think a lot of guys are just a little too eager to keep it casual. Which makes me wonder if it’s just that now that I’m in my 30s, my friends are developing higher expectations, or if it’s a geographic thing, where men in Texas, where I used to live, were more serious from the get-go?

No, it’s just that now that your female friends are in their 30s, and looking even more like fuzzy Chinese Crested versions of Samantha, they’re desperate to get hitched before the god of biomechanics cruelly escorts them to spinsterland, where cats compete with noodly beta males for their attention and the men they really want peer around them like they’re annoying houseplants obstructing the view of hotter younger tighter women.

Although it is a refreshing change of pace to see cathedral mascot Amanjaw give redneck Texas men a shout out for their chivalric wooing. I guess SWPL manboobs are finally grinding on her? (Double entendre intended.)

Tracy: I think both are probably very real factors! For me, at least, “hookups” have been a great way of getting to know myself, getting to know other people and getting to know what I want, romantically and sexually.

Hilariously self-serving cliché. How many penises does she have to straddle to get to know herself? Does the penis imbue some sort of special “consciousness raising” enlightenment once it has parted the labia? Should high school guidance counselors tell graduating girls to hop on a cock for career advice? I bet Clark has no trouble, being a member in good standing of the feminist cooperative, explaining to her acolytes that women require penetration by erect penises to discover the strong goddess inside them.

Now, personally, I think that a good rogering does help clear a woman’s head, but I’m not sure feminists would be happy to hear that from me.

But as I’ve gotten older—how I hate that phrase—I’ve wanted a broader spectrum of romantic scripts. And that’s when the hookup/low-commitment default became frustrating.

“broader spectrum” = loosened standards. “romantic scripts” = hiding her slutty compulsions. “hookup/low-commitment default” = couldn’t get a high value guy to stick around. “frustrating” = pumped and dumped.

Amanda: I think that’s what I really liked—your high regard for diversity.

Gabba gabba hey.

It’s not that hookups are bad, you said, but that they seem mandatory.

When all you have is a lack of options, the world looks like a mandate.

Why do you think it got to that point?

Gee, I dunno… age, attitude, obliviousness?

Tracy: I can at least speak to my own experience: I think I gravitated toward casual hookups during a time when I wasn’t quite ready for more serious commitment. I needed some time to play and experiment.

It’s all fun and games until no one wants to play with you anymore.

I think many people feel that way in their 20s.

There’s a reason why, historically, women were encouraged to get married before they hit 30. People used to be wise to the fact that women can easily forget how little time is on their side.

Amanda: That’s something that really was brought home in Hanna Rosin’s Atlantic piece about hooking up. She spoke to researchers that said that women were driving the culture as much as men, in no small part because, frankly, boyfriends can get in the way of other goals like getting your career underway.

Higamous hogamous
man is polygamous
hogamous higamous
woman is oblivious.

Amanda: A lot of people still buy the line that it’s something that men impose on women, that men are taking advantage of women’s, uh, “easiness”.

Well, men won’t exactly look a gift whore in the mouth.

That always bothered me, because there was never really a clear line for me between how quickly you slept with someone and whether or not it turned into wuv.

Here’s a clear line for ya: The hotter you are, the more quickly it will turn into wuv for the man, the other party involved in the interaction.

Amanda: Your point was really satisfying,

“Thank you, I needed that.”
– Ego

which is that what we really need is the ability to diversify: hook up if we want, go slow if we want, just do a bunch of different stuff depending on where we’re at.

Feminists, and women more generally, hate the idea of judgment and of consequences for their actions. They want to slut it up, take it slow, hook up, hang out, drag it out, do the woo, and try a bunch of different stuff without the judgment of men or other women cramping their uteri, and without worrying about the consequences which might ensue as a result of their panoply of choices. This is what is known in the literature as a fantasyland: a wonderful place in the puffy white clouds where human nature doesn’t exist and actions don’t cause reactions, except those reactions that the feminist dearly desires, which desire is subject to change at any given moment depending on the feminist’s whim.

But reality, so ugly in its clunking machinery, has a different plan for such utopian fruitcakes. Women *will* gossip unfavorably about sluts because those sluts represent a mating threat to their interests. Men *will* push for sex faster, and avoid commitment more studiously, with women they perceive as slutty. Sluts really *do* have tells that experienced men can clue in on. Cockteasers really *do* risk losing alpha males if they drag out the waiting period for sex too long. Aging, unfeminine spinsters with hairy chins and cheese grater attitudes really *will* have to settle for less desirable men than they could have gotten when they were younger, better looking and more docile. And hamsters really *will* spin their wheels more feverishly the higher the pile of delusional self-medicating lies grows.

I think that sort of thing causes a lot of men anxiety, though. I’ve noticed a lot of men in online spaces clamoring for a script.

Nah, that’s just you noticing that men are noticing your stupidity.

Tracy: Yes! There’s anxiety now about falling back on the more traditional dating script (which is not an entirely bad thing, mind you).

Can you blame these men? I’d be anxious too, if I had to traditionally (i.e., sexlessly) date a woman I knew gave it away for free in the past. And maybe present.

I think it feels too desperate, too eager to many young men. And, of course, intimacy and vulnerability have always been absolutely terrifying.

Why do feminists assert nonsense that intimacy is terrifying to men? Answer: it’s a female-friendly response that explains in elaborate mental calligraphy why they can’t keep a man around for more than a few ruttings, conveniently sidestepping the role that their physical unattractiveness might play.

Men are terrified of large, charging predators, like bears or lions or drunk fat chicks. They are not terrified of showering your overworked vagina with their warm seed. Get some perspective, will ya?

Amanda: Did you go on a second date with flowers guy who wanted to do nothing more but make out on the first date? Do you mind my asking? (I’ve been in a relationship for over six years now, so other people’s stories are my entertainment.)

The parameters of her… relationship… must be unique. Try to imagine the epic manboob who would have to settle for Amanjaw for six years, and then try to picture how long a normal man, such as yourself, would be willing to listen to her insane yapping.

Tracy: Actually, we’ve gone on something like five dates in a little over a week!

Lessee… guy wants to do nothing but make out on the first date. Clark dismisses his rapist effrontery by going on five more dates with him in the span of a single week. The femborg will be disappointed to hear this.

Tracy: Yes! It’s incredibly refreshing. And a large part of it is that I’m ready for that for the first time in my life, you know?

We know, Tracy, we know. You’re ready… because you have to be ready. That door won’t stay open forever.

It’s not like I’ve been yearning for that this whole time and have only now found a guy willing to give it to me.

Funny how you suddenly yearn for the self-abdicating loving lovingness of a desperate beta willing to lap your weirdo feminist shit when your expiration date is coming into focus.

Amanda: LOL yeah, that strikes me as an incredibly critical point.

Strike while the ego is exposed.

But that really leads to the question I know a bunch of men are asking themselves, which is how do you know what script a woman is interested in?

You misspelled “how do you know what script a hot woman is interested in?”

How do you know if you should keep it light or show up with flowers and a request that you take it slow?

False dichotomy. A man can keep it heavy and fast, too. In fact, that’s the best way to get a woman into bed, if you’re needing a script that has a high success rate.

Worst script: Pre-sex flowers. Never do that, at least not with women who still have more than a few eggs left in the chamber.

Tracy: Well, see, I think timing is so much of it. It really isn’t something that can be faked.

Oh rilly? I’m pretty sure in the history of the world there were more than a few men who successfully faked long-term romantic intentions to get speedy sex.

You can only do what you’re ready to do.

Bromide pie to the face.

If you want to bring a woman flowers, do it.

Hey, you can do anything you want, but that doesn’t mean it’s an advantageous course of action.

If you want to have casual flings, do that.

What if Clark’s flower guy decides during week number two he wants a casual fling?

Eventually you’ll find a lady who wants the same thing.

A lady now! How polite of you, madam. Will a Furry who likes to masturbate into soft bunny costume velour eventually find a lady who wants the same thing? What about a Bronie? A street flasher? A serial killer?

Oops, scratch that last one.

Amanda: That’s something I think gets lost in the overflow of dating advice out there, which is that it really is something you can figure out for yourself.

Then why the hell are you flapping your gums? And more relevantly, why the hell do media outlets continue giving shell entities like yourself a publishing platform? Mysteries of the universe.

Allow me to cut a serrated swath through this post-gender, social constructivist swamp muck. Amanjaw Marcuntte and her ilk absolutely hate men in the abstract and loathe unrestricted male desire. They work tirelessly for a world, however ultimately fruitless the endeavor, where female sexuality is free to roam wild and unjudgeable and male sexuality is straitjacketed, regulated, restricted, demonized, ridiculed and made obedient through law or eunuch alliance to female, particularly feminist, caprice. This is modern, critical theory feminism in a desiccated ovum. It’s a farce, but the bigger joke is that media organs happily provide advocates of this farce a forum to dazzle their awomen choruses.

Her’s a little slice of truth… just a little mind you, enough to qualify as hope and change but not so much to entice pointing and sputtering… for the Slate and Salon crowds and the Clark-Flory-Hamster-Hi-I’m-A-Useless-Self-Gratifying-Hyphen contingent:

There is no difference between hookup men and “for-real” men. The men you skanky, aging broads want “for real” are the hookup men who weren’t interested in the same thing you wanted back when you had more to offer. So you dropped your standards and unilaterally declared the more pliable men willing to play by your newly-discovered “traditional cougar courtship” rules the “for-real” men you claim you always desired.

That hatetalk is drawn from real world observation. Mine, and the collected wisdom of millions of men like me. Now, if you don’t like common sense derived from real world observation, then you can always turn to science, which has a funny habit of frequently confirming what we can all see with our lying eyes, and of debunking cherished feminist narratives.

“Under the hormonal influence of ovulation, women delude themselves into thinking that the sexy bad boys will become devoted partners and better dads,” Durante said. “When looking at the sexy cad through ovulation goggles, Mr. Wrong looked exactly like Mr. Right.” [...]

“When asked about what kind of father the sexy bad boy would make if he were to have children with another woman, women were quick to point out the bad boy’s shortcomings,” said Durante. “But when it came to their own child, ovulating women believed that the charismatic and adventurous cad would be a great father to their kids.”

“While this psychological distortion could be setting some women up to choose partners who are better suited to be short-term mates, missing a mating opportunity with a sexy cad might be too costly for some women to pass up,” said Durante. “After all, you never know if he could be the ‘one.’”

If you didn’t get that, what it means is that women want their alpha hookups to turn into “for-real” men, but, unlike Clark’s assertion that she’s the one making the choice in which men she considers “for-real” dates, it’s actually the men (coupled with her desperation fueled by her rapidly closing attractiveness window) who are indirectly deciding for her which of them she’ll have to settle with in happily “for-realness” after.

Yes, the hookup jerks chicks love are also the jerks chicks wish would stop dicking around and CHOO CHOO CHOOSE them.

If you are a man, the lesson is obvious:

Do you want to live free as a hookup man with the option to convert to a “for-real” man, or live knowing you’re the backup plan as a “for-real” man with no option to convert to a hookup man?

I think I know which man most men would prefer to emulate. But don’t tell it to Clark-Flory. She might ask you out on five straight dates in the same week after your tongue has been down her throat wooing the shit out of her.

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Shiva the Detroyed Feminist locates a crumb of feminist hope amid a sea of feminism-crushing scientific studies and reality-assaulting dissonance:

I think this will win comment of next week:

This just blew open the “wall” theory. [ed: she wishes.]

sure, women may not be at the prime of their beauty in the future but they’ll still be in prime fertility at , say, 45.

Wow.

[ed: just wow.]

The schooling shall commence…

The wall is a function of women’s looks, which are, evolutionarily-speaking, a proxy for women’s fertility. Ovary transplant tech may extend fertility but it won’t do a damn thing for aging women’s declining looks. Men’s eyes don’t see women’s ovaries, they see women’s bodies and faces. Men are wired to respond sexually and emotionally to youthful female looks, not to a hidden working uterus. A 70 year old woman could be rejiggered to bear children thanks to the intervention of science, but she’ll still look 70 years old, and so men won’t be turned on by her. She will suffer the indignities of wall victimhood, having to settle for conceiving children with a turkey baster or a blind old goat who gets around on tennis balls. Tragically for feminists nursing delusions of sustained desirability, in the gene-governed sexual market where visual cues are men’s primary information medium it’s the proxies that matter, not the actual biowiring underneath.

There’s really no point to explaining the facts of life to feminists and other assorted grievance groups with real reasons to fear and loathe the truth — beyond its entertainment value as a button-pusher — because in three weeks’ time the same lot of them wander back into this happy hunting ground babbling the identical, debunked bromides all over again. Logic and reason hurt their wee egos for a brief spell, and then when enough time has passed for their self-medicated ids to baseline to normal and reconcile their cognitive dissonances, (say, ten minutes), they are right back to chanting pretty lies, sticking their fingers in their ears, and stamping their ascii feet. Never underestimate the lengths to which humans will lie to themselves and, consequently, to others to maintain an illusion of high sexual or social market value in the face of rapid deterioration or expendability.

If I had to put a number on it, I’d guess 80% of the human population is aggressively self-deceiving, with the number reaching close to 100% in backward societies and within certain ideological sects. With those numbers arrayed against you, it’s fruitless to battle for hearts and minds. The best you can do is mercilessly mock their pretensions to high holy hell, preferably in front of an audience, until some tiny illumination of self-preservation sparks in their limbic chimp systems and they sulk off to lick their ego wounds rather than face the psychic torture of further debasement on a public stage. Even the most blockheaded deluded dumbass will think twice about shrieking his or her stupidities when Total Ridicule is the only reward.

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