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Sometimes you just want to go home, but you’re stuck being a man in public.

You get on the train after a long day. The doors are trying to close and a big fat woman jams them open with her bulk, unintentionally letting on another guy. A man in a military uniform takes his earbuds out and says to the obese door-blocker, “Don’t hold the door open.”

“What did you say?”

“Don’t hold the door open.”

“Did you just touch me? That’s sexual harassment!”

You can’t help staring at the scene, like a rubbernecker slowing down to check out the carnage surrounding a car accident, and unfortunately the nasty fat woman catches you gawking at her. You take a seat as far away from her monstrous apparition as possible and try to disappear into your Kindle, averting your eyes. Everything finally calms down.

The door-blocker, who’s already proven herself to have zero qualms about confronting normal-sized people, is looking at you. You can see her in your peripheral vision — she’s hard to miss – and you can feel her looking hungrily at you.

You’re at a distance, but your suit is faddishly undersized and you’re wearing Sex Walrus cologne so you know she noticed you. Keep reading, keep looking down. You briefly wish you were less attractive or a woman or that you were wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt so she would stop thinking you were interested in her. She keeps looking at you. There is nothing worse than an ugly fat woman with delusions of attractiveness and a penchant for false eye rape accusations making life uncomfortable for you, the average man in public.

The person on the inside of your seat needs to get off. You hold your breath as you let them out and you move in, thinking of all the things you’ll say and do when she tries to plop down next to you like a tranquilized elephant and talk to you when you just want to avoid that gross feeling of a ham-shaped arm pressing into your side.

You exhale when an older woman rushes to take the seat you’ve vacated. You’re safe and insulated by the window now.

Door-blocker exits at the next stop and the imaginary sexual tension leaves with her.

It’s only been a few minutes, but this is what goes through your head when you’re existing as a man in public and ugly fat women assume you want them, when all you were really thinking was “why is this fat bitch hyperventilating?”.

Originally published at the fittingly named Jezebel Groupthink blog.

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Her arms, those perfectly rounded seat belts
which safely hold you on a ride in her plus-mobile
are oh so beautiful
And once they are back in resting position
hanging beside her body
then forming a sort of secondary cleavages
as if you did not already have enough of
her naturally large cleavage.

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HerewardMW proposes a sterling idea,

Lets actually have a prison for fat people. The perimeter wall will be five feet high and the bars three feet apart. The prison will have a gym. If you can escape you’re free to go.

What percentage of fat feminists do you think would stay locked up for life, bitching and moaning the whole time about thin privilege and the unfairness of denying them prison bars five feet apart? 99%?

Runner-up comment winner is Dirk Johanson,

I once read a novel where there was a scene where a circus fat lady on the verge of death got fucked to death in a gang-bang – she enjoyed it so much, eventually her heart gave way. Its a pretty disgusting thought to me – especially the part where the guy was describing that her shit-smell was permeating the circus tent- but for guys that are really undersexed and can’t afford a good-looking hooker, that type of thing could be a revenue-generator for the concentration camps.  After all, all that food won’t be cheap.

It’s this kind of creative free association that makes the Chateau so respectable among mainstream media outlets.

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In my travels far and WIDE, I have seen fat people do some really funny shit, usually unintentionally, or have funny shit happen to them on account of their abnormal size, weight, girth and texture. Can’t forget texture.

- Unknowingly dribble food bits and drink down their chins. A fatty completely oblivious to the organic particulates accumulating outside his mouth is a comedic sight to behold.

- Knock over chairs and rattle tables as they were shimmying into seats at restaurants. I once witnessed a fatty so humongous and ill-equipped to navigate her own circumference turn over an entire four-seater table in slo-mo, as her massiveness rounded the bend and she settled her planetary obstruction into her pitiably undersized chair. The table came crashing to the ground, spilling dinnerware and a sad candle onto the floor with a loud clatter.

- Fart with the slightest exertion at the waist. No matter how uptight you are, you won’t be able to restrain a chortle when you hear a fatty rip a sonorous cheek-flapper as she’s bending over a mere inch to straighten a wrinkle on her tent pants. And lest you think you can politely hide your amusement, remember that a fatty’s fart is ten times as loud as a normal weight person’s fart, given that the fatty’s back draft has multiple zones of blubber to travel before final release. You’d think this would act to muffle the offending blast, but instead, like a geothermal well, pressure builds until the equivalent of a refinery’s worth of gas has parted the outer ass layer, and the slapping of cheese-cleaved butt roasts produces a ten-piece trumpet tremolo worthy of the Philharmonic.

- Break a chair. Yes, despite its clichéd nature, I remember clear as the day the time a fatty sat her bulk on a chair and one of the back legs gave out, flinging her backwards like a post-breach whale. She landed with such adiposity that… and I swear this as Lucifer is my unholy mentor… she bounced a little upon impact.

- Take a direct hit from an out-of control bicyclist and barely nudge as the guy on the bike goes flying in the opposite direction. A particularly overgrown specimen of fatty — a man weighing in the arena of 400 pounds, mostly confined to the belly and, steatopygially, to the buttocks — was winged by a bicyclist who, inexplicably, didn’t see the fatty before it was too late to avoid collision. The fatty took the brunt of the front wheel’s tangential blow to the bull’s-eye on his hanging midsection and fell back two steps, still miraculously on his feet, while the bicycler, and his bike, ricocheted like a bank shot pool ball at a tidy 45 degree angle from point of contact, finishing their macabre pirouette in a heap on the ground, front wheel futilely spinning in the air, grasping for asphalt that wasn’t there. The fatty did eventually fall to his feet, but only well after the dust had cleared, ostensibly to catch his breath from the blow’s radiating shock waves of pain, thirty seconds post-crash, that were just reaching his delicate innards. Bystanders rushed to help the bicyclist but assistance for the fatty was, of course, beyond anyone’s ability, given that no witness appeared able to deadlift 400 pounds of dangerously shifting weight.

- Absorb a sunburn in a perfect circle on the abdomen. A fatty female who, incomprehensibly to those with sense, was wearing a bikini and sunbathing on her back, stood up to reveal a bright red spot that circumnavigated the entirety of her yeast-risen belly. The perfect geometry and smoothness of edge was astounding, and gave her front the look of a red-rumped baboon in heat.

- Smoosh flip-flops into micron-thin atomic layers. Take a look at a fatty’s flip-flops sometime. Notice how wafer-thin the soles are. Then laugh as you wonder if the flip-flop’s atomic lattice was pressurized into a new periodic table element.

- Push seven large, sweating and grunting, adult men to the breaking point during the Horah. No further elucidation needed.

- Since this is a non-denominational shaming session, I once saw a fatty with tits so grossly inflated completely bury her Madonna-esque crucifix in folds of breast blubber. Jesus wheezed.

And my favorite fatty funny….

- Listen to a fat chick expound at length about her “great catch” boyfriend, only to watch her unscripted surprise when he showed up, apparently uninvited, at the social gathering we were attending, and thereby proved without a doubt, by evidence of both his notable lack of swagger and blank personality, just how far he actually was from being a “great catch”. But the best part was when, later, she asked for a sip of his beer and then proceeded to chug nearly half the bottle, leaving him with a sorry puddle of dregs at the bottom, which he stared at forlornly for an uncomfortably long spell.

Some people, probably fat asses themselves, with a constitutional aversion to the idea of mocking fat fucks for fun and aesthetic profit, have forwarded CH a study* which claims to show that fat shaming doesn’t work as a method to persuade fatties to slim down. To that, I say, that’s not shaming! You want shaming, I’ll give you shaming. Real shaming, not this pussyfoot crap based on an amorphous concept like “discrimination” favorable to Narrative guidelines.

*There is a major flaw with the “fat shaming” study. Specifically, the researchers relied on self-reporting questionnaires that asked whether participants had experienced discrimination. Anyone who is familiar with the hamster rationalizing of assorted losers in life, such as fat grotesqueries and chisel-chinned feminists, will tell you how adept those people are at blaming anyone but themselves for their wretched wretchedness. So it should be no surprise that a bunch of fat shits waddled into a quiet study to fill out a form with cheetos-stained fingers blaming the equivalent of THE MAN for their love of wolfing down greasy fried food and pints of ice cream.

Now, if you want real shaming that actually BITES, try shaming fat shits with methods proven to work. Charge them more to use public transit. Laugh openly at them. Make a spectacle of them. Flay their souls for the mirth of the cheering, howling mob, a la Chateau Heartiste. Sneer at, belittle, and viciously mock them. Or, if you prefer the crueler, subtler art of soul shivving, converse with them in innuendo and sly entendre that lets them know, forever and ever, how repulsive they are to normal people.

If, after years of this psychological torture, most fatties don’t find the fortitude to push away from the table, then you may say that shaming doesn’t work. But I suspect, rather strongly based on real world observation, that many fatties would discover in themselves a hidden untapped well of willpower, and lose the weight. For those fatties who prefer to abandon all hope under the social shaming onslaught and retreat to a dank bedroom to eat until they explode, well, consider it culling the herd. Evolution in action. The untimely dispatch of a species’ deformed members gets a bad rap, but it’s a good thing for the species’ survival as a whole. And the slim phoenix that rises from the rendered ashes will be a good thing for lovers, such as CH, of truth and beauty and sexy babes who can inspire authentic boners.

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…is keeping her away from her fat friends.

I’ve seen it happen too many times, the slender girlfriend of the happy man — attending an endless procession of house parties with an expanding (heh) circle of girl friends slowly but surely piling on the pounds month by month, year by year — suddenly wakes up one morning to notice her muffin top has rolled over and her boyfriend’s eyes have glazed over.

You have one duty ladies… ONE. Stay thin and sexy. And yet so many of you can’t seem to manage that simple fucking thing. We lenient gentlemen of the jury aren’t asking for much. We don’t care if you drive a sports car. We don’t expect you to climb the soul-killing corporate ladder. We don’t give a flying fig if you went to grad school. We don’t inexplicably lose our interest if you happen to get overly affectionate. We don’t burden you with demands for more commitment or drill you for opinions about how our butts look in these jeans. We instead ask for simple things from you, such as a refusal to turn into this:

Men, you can help your lover stay thin by keeping her the hell away from her fat and feminist girl friends. Her fat friends will infect her with their fat disease, through some poorly understood mechanism of orca osmosis, and like fatty fat fatass pockmarked dominoes one after another thin girl will get knocked down, until not a single height-weight proportionate babe is left standing. You think I’m joking? Nope, ♥SCIENCE♥ has found that obesity is socially contagious.

Her feminist friends will infect her with the mind diseases of nonjudgmentalismbeauty equalism and loathing of male desire, all of which are the psy-ops trifecta for brainwashing a girl against her man and turning her into a ham-shaped self-entitlement cartoon.

Relationship management takes work. But men don’t need to make it harder than it needs to be. An easy intervention that will improve relationship health and harmony is staring men in the face. Give your girl the gift of lithe. Cast her BBBFFers to the icy wastelands.

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Answer:

A clue to the sorts of “””men””” who willingly date human tubas is in the photo attached to this fatso’s confessional about getting befuddled stares from people when she’s out in public with her thin boyfriend.

Hmm, where have we all seen that neotenous face?

The article is too unintentionally hilarious not to pull illuminative self-contradicting quotes from it.

I’m overweight and my boyfriend’s not. Big freaking deal.

We’ve been dating for 18 months, and wherever we go—whether we’re walking hand in hand through the mall, airport or down the street in his hometown (Glasgow, Scotland) or mine (San Jose, California)—we get confused looks that say, He can do better than her!

People are uncomfortable with monstrous aberrations.

When people say things out loud, their comments range from cruel (“Is he blind?” or “He’s only with you to get a green card”)

A reasonable suspicion.

to quips such as, “It’s great he can see past your looks”

:lol:

or “He’s so nice for being with you.”

:lol: :lol:

 I usually respond, “He’s not doing me a favor—he’s my boyfriend!”

When you’re a sexual market loser, the whole world is doing you a favor by tolerating your presence instead of tossing you out on your fat keister to the icy wastelands.

Now and then, even people close to me made unkind remarks. Once, when I confided to a friend, “I can’t believe he likes me!” he answered, “Yeah, I know!”

The more repulsive you are, the harder it is for people to conceal their true feelings in your company.

I have a YouTube channel, Glowpinkstah, with more than 250,000 subscribers, and, as a comic,

She swallowed the belly laughs.

I review beauty products,

At least she understands that female beauty matters. Now all she needs to do is realize that lipstick on a pig just makes the pig look goofy.

answer fan mail,

“I love how you own your fat body! Can you give me tips on how to hide my wiping implements so guests won’t see them when they use the bathroom?”

share my edgy brand of humor

More like rounded brand of humor, amirite?

and details about my life, so they know all about Ali and me.

Does Ali sleep in the piano case with you?

While most are supportive, there are a fair number of bullies:

“She has a boyfriend? What is wrong with the world?”

Shamelessness.

“These two had sex?! Oh god, why?”

Lack of options. Mental illness.

Some have gone so far as to ask how we have sex.

Pulleys, a garage jack, industrial lubricant, and the jaws of life.

I feel like saying, “If you have to ask, clearly you missed an important class back in the fifth grade.”

Whatever that class was, it wasn’t physics! :wink:

I just really liked food, and I didn’t think about consequences.

Not thinking about consequences? Sounds like a feminist fantasy world.

Also, I didn’t care that much about the way I looked

We can see.

—but other people did.

They can see.

In middle school, one guy imitated the way my thighs rubbed together when I walked.

I think I was friends with that guy.

While it upset me, I realized that it was more his problem than mine.

That’s just something the targets of cruelty say.

While I was talking about my dreams, he volunteered to decode them. “I study psychology,” he explained.

What a waste of game.

So I gave him my Instant Messenger screen name.

“Pelican Gullet”

Two-and-a-half years later, the miles and time zones between us hardly mattered. We were spending so many hours a week talking online.

A two and a half year talking relationship. For once, a closeted gay man beta dweeb didn’t mind years of blue balls.

I thought Ali was cute too, but I figured someone like him wouldn’t have feelings for me.

Gay men are like that.

I knew he was into big girls—his exes were chubby.

Ah, the elusive fatty fucker. Good news for fat chicks: a few men appear to suffer from brain defects that make them aroused by the sight of undulating blubber. Bad news for fat chicks: For every one of these invaluable fatty fuckers, there are one hundred of you trampling over yourselves trying to get at him.

Some think it’s weird, but it’s like having a thing for blondes: It’s just a preference.

“That’s just, like, your opinion, man.”
- Stalin

Not long after, Ali—who I was now seeing exclusively—told me he loved me. We had yet to meet in person.

She had Skype sex with a turkey drumstick, while he masturbated to photoshopped nudes of Justin Bieber. No one was the wiser.

I turned around and saw him walking toward me with a huge smile on his face. He gave me a hug and kissed me on the lips. I thought to myself, He’s my boyfriend, and he’s here!

“And his kisses feel like I’m kissing my brother!”

Another ex told me, with sincerity: “Maybe if you lost weight, my parents would accept you, and we could be together again.”

Most fatty fuckers are actually loser men who piss themselves in the company of attractive women who would be elated if their fatso girlfriends slimmed down. Of course, the elation wouldn’t last long, as the newly thin girlfriends would quickly dump their loser boyfriends and cash in their sexy figures for love with better men.

I have days when I say, “Why do you like me?” He says, “Because you’re beautiful and for the person you are.”

Those are sweet words of acceptance. Let’s see if he means them.

And he’s been good for my health. I was at my heaviest when we met, and I’ve lost 40 pounds since. My goal is to lose 80 pounds total, and he’s very supportive.

Nope.

Before Ali, I never showed any skin whatsoever, but he makes me feel confident going out in a cute little dress

Aka house gown.

that doesn’t cover me head-to-toe.

More’s the pity.

I can wear a sleeveless dress, shorts

Aka canvas tent.

—things that typically people don’t want to see me wearing—and not care.

Yes, you sound like you don’t care at all.

So, with Ali’s support, I started The Beauty Adjustment, a collaborative video project in which my subscribers help me spread the word that there is no one “normal” way to look or love. Beauty and relationships come in all shapes and sides: brown, yellow, short, tall, thin, fat—and one partner doesn’t have to mirror the other.

Great, more fat acceptance. Just what America needs. An excuse to get galactically fat.

Despite her sweet-sounding entreaties for acceptaaaaaaance, let there be no mistaking her message for what it is: Vile, ugly lies. The more women who heed her comfort food words, the fewer sexy babes there will be in the world, and the unhappier everyone gets. It affects me personally when women think they can bloat up without consequence. And since I am, as a human male, representative of the way most men think, the resentment at having our shared environment stripped of its most beautiful creations is a universal feeling.

At Le Chateau, there will be no acceptance of human garbage. There will be no excuses. There will be only the white hot sting of shame, of mockery, of ostracism. And, in the end, when the losers have gone through the crucible of hell — some burning in everlasting torment, others finding cool relief in self-improvement — will the world be a more beautiful place, and hence, a more truthful place.

The good-looking beta male who takes up with the gross fat chick is a riddle to most people, but that’s because most people have a narrow vision of what constitutes the desirable man. They retreat to a simple and readily-identifiable criterion of worth, e.g., looks, not understanding that such a criterion, while useful as a measurement of women’s sexual worth, is woefully inadequate as a metric for capturing a man’s sexual worth. The good-looking beta male dating the fat chick is not betrayed by his looks; he’s betrayed by his attitude. His psychology. His lack of confidence. His cowardice. His closeted homosexuality.

Whatever those traits are that women love in men are missing in the man who fucks a flesh pierogie when he could be fucking a slender girl. He’s a loser just as much as the ugly fat man who will lay with land whales out of expedience; the differences in each man’s looks are subsumed by their similarities in psychology. It’s the psychology of the feeble, the insecure, the deranged, and the undiscriminating.

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After searching desolate psychological topography for years, a team of Chateau adventurers believe they have found the very bottom of America.

Discrimination against fat strippers? Wow, just wow. I don’t even. I stopped reading at…

The inevitable logic of misfit liberals’ exaggerated sensitivity to harm and faaaaaiiiirness is that anything that hurts someone’s feelings somewhere, justified or not, and as long as that someone who hurts isn’t the ur-oppressor white male, will come to be seen as discrimination requiring legal correctives. And so we find ourselves wading through the rectal effluvium of America confronting smelly wildebeasts like the thing above LOUDLY and PROUDLY proclaiming that fat strippers who earn less money, or who don’t get sufficient stage time from their (blind) club managers, are being discriminated against by the patriarchy, or by men, or by whatever boogeyman term of fart happens to have lodged itself in their donut-drenched and -holed brains.

Never once will it occur to these rotund retards that fat strippers earn less because men don’t like to look at fatsos, and especially not at naked fatsos. If it does occur to them, they tax themselves mentally trying to locate and broadcast implausible alternatives to explain away their wretched public reception that absolves them of any personal responsibility for their loser lives.

This is what happens when the parasites, dweebs, cranks, monsters, degenerates and headcases get ahold of the narrative. They push and push until farcical “anti-discrimination” policies that not too long ago would have seemed unimaginable to sane people become the law of the land. Case in point: It’s now illegal to refuse to grant job interviews to ex-cons.

Progressivism isn’t about progress; it’s about progressive rationalization of increasingly stupid ideas. The whirlpool of useless human debris multiplies on the one end while CIA-funded orc-world psychopaths multiply and invade on the other. No wonder normal people who still trust their common sense and their powers of observation feel as if a dark force is gripping them by the throat.

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hbd chick asks,

if you were jason richwine, how would you have reframed the “discussion” about his thesis? wanna learn more about this reframing business.

For those readers who don’t know, Jason Richwine is was the Heritage Foundation data cruncher who got metaphorically burned at the stake (a witch hunt in all senses but for an actual pyre) and canned from his think tank job for a dissertation he wrote while at Harvard which trafficked in horrible, no good, very bad hatefacts.

Also, for those who don’t know, “reframing” is a well-known game concept that means to change the context of a conversation so that it is more personally advantageous to one’s goals. Reframing is an old sales technique (“Picture yourself owning this…”) that was reformatted for use as an applied seduction technique. Here’s the PUALingo definition of the term:

To say or do something that alters the context (“frame”) through which someone sees an idea or situation.

If the girl is shit testing the pick-up artist, he can reframe with a smarter remark or ignore her altogether. For example:

HB: Are you trying to pick us up? (in negative tone)

PUA: Is that the first thing you say to anyone who approaches you? I had a simple question to ask the group, but it’s alright, I will ask someone else more polite.

So what hbd chick is asking is for an explanation of how Richwine could have appropriated a powerful seduction technique to “seduce” the media gatekeepers and (dwindling) numbers of truly open-minded fence-sitters over to his side. Or to at least curb the frothing bloodlust of the witch hunters so that his job with Heritage was spared.

A very good question, for a lot of the tactics that successful womanizers use to bed women can also be put to good use in other social arenas.

First, a quick primer on reframing. A good reframe should flow from an attitude of self-amusement, or amused mastery. Self-amusement means you will respond to attacks against your character or your status with condescension, ridicule, sarcasm, or utter disregard.

A good reframe, like the one illustrated above, will put your interlocutor into the defensive crouch. In matters of seduction, the defensive crouch is where pussy tingles are born. In politics, it’s where The Narrative — aka The Cathedral, aka The Hivemind, aka The Anti-White Male Establishment —  is undermined.

Reframing follows the principle of “The best defense is a good offense”. If a girl calls you a cad, you don’t apologize or try to deny it. That would be defensively acceding to her frame. Instead, you accuse her of being socially awkward. By putting her on the defensive, she is forced by the sudden change in momentum of the conversation, (and, if a crowd is assembled, by their expectation), to answer your charge. Answering charges is the lower status, WEAK POSITION. Delivering charges is the higher status, STRONG POSITION.

Chicks dig a man in the strong position.

And casual observers dig a data cruncher who stares down the lords of lies and calls their bluff.

So how could Richwine have reframed the national conversation about his factual findings — yes, remember, he was vilified for FACTUAL findings on the basis of BUT MY FEELINGS! AND THEIR FEELINGS! AND BIGOT! — so that he emerged from the ordeal perceived as an admirable man and his enemies the sputtering idiots they are?

There are FOUR main reframing methods, and I’ll give an example of a hypothetical Richwine response using all four.

1. Agree and amplify.

THE TORCH-LIT MOB: Richwine, you have sinned against the Church of Anti-Racism. Your thesis is bigoted and hurtful!

RICHWINE: So hurtful, I know! The truth has that effect on lying pussies. I hope to send more of you into hysterics. You put on a good show. Dance, monkeys.

2. Ignore and redirect.

THE TORCH-LIT MOB: Richwine, you have sinned against the Church of Anti-Racism. Your thesis is bigoted and hurtful!

RICHWINE: Math is hard for a lot of people.

3. Self-serving misinterpretation.

THE TORCH-LIT MOB: Richwine, you have sinned against the Church of Anti-Racism. Your thesis is bigoted and hurtful!

RICHWINE: You really know how to make a guy feel powerful. But don’t worry, I don’t bite. You can stop pulling your skirts over your heads.

4. Flipping the script.

THE TORCH-LIT MOB: Richwine, you have sinned against the Church of Anti-Racism. Your thesis is bigoted and hurtful!

RICHWINE: I understand. You have to have a bad guy so you can feel like the good guy. But you can be more open-minded. Anyone can be, all it takes is having your awareness raised.

Now naturally, Richwine wouldn’t have to reframe with quite so much Heartiste-y flourish, but the concept is applicable to all modes, highbrow, lowbrow or shiv-woww, of verbal sparring. As long as you get the concept, the words will fall into place.

I suggest Geoffrey Miller, the latest sacrificial realtalker to be targeted by the angry equalist mob, get on board the reframe train. Forget apologetics, Geoff, that’ll only feed the beast’s hunger. You don’t bend over and make it easier for the fatass-rammers, especially not when the facts support your contention that fat craps really do have problems with self-discipline.

As for the personality traits mentioned above, Angelina Sutin and colleagues at the National Institute on Aging, National Institutes of Health, and the Department of Health and Human Services, have conducted perhaps the ultimate study on this, using some 2000 participants, spanning over 50 years and applying 14 500 measurements of weight. And they didn’t just content themselves with the Big Five personality factors but looked at all the subscales. They found that weight gain was most clearly related to Impulsiveness (a facet of Neuroticism), Warmth, Assertiveness, Positive Emotions (all facets of Extraversion), and a lack of Order and Self-Discipline (facets of Conscientiousness). [...]

So yes, the obese group is not unlike its negative stereotypes. Of the, “lazy”, “sloppy”, “less competent”, “lacking in self-discipline”, “disagreeable”, “less conscientious”, “poor role models”,” unintelligent”, “unsuccessful”, “weak-willed”, “unpleasant”, “overindulgent”, it seems “disagreeable” and “unpleasant” are the only clear misses.

This is not to hate on the obese, but to call a spade a spade. The idea that the problems of the obese are outside themselves is an unhealthy illusion here examplified by Slate Magazine’s Daniel Engber,

Stop hating. If we weren’t such unrepentant body bigots, fat people might earn more money, stay in school, and receive better medical care in hospitals and doctor’s offices. All that would go a long way toward mitigating the health effects of excess weight—and its putative costs

This under the false assumption that fat people have the same intelligence and Self-Discipline and that the reason they cancel appointments is not due to Impulsiveness and lack of Conscientiousness but only because of other peoples prejudice. In doing so, he enables fat people to stay fat and to blame society for their problems, and to, like the Obesity Society, view the condition as unrelated to willpower.

The harsh truth is that the obese are in a lot of trouble. They are less attractive in the workplace because of their combination of intelligence (or lack thereof) and personality. Work performance is best predicted by IQ scores and next best of Conscientiousness. Impulsive behavior on the other hand predicts crime and accidents. Most employers are probably not aware of the research linking obese people to these characteristics and outcomes, but they know from experience that employing an obese person is a financial risk with no apparent reward.

Chateau Heartiste is now offering PR services to any neoreactionary PACs.

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GLPiggy has a post about fat customers at his restaurant joking about their weight and putting wait staff in a difficult spot.

A co-worker at the restaurant came looking for my wisdom the other day.  “What do you say when a fat customer jokes about their weight?”  This happens a lot in booth sections, by the way.  Fat people struggle to squeeze into booths and, because they are embarrassed about it, make light of their size.  I have a friend at work who makes jokes about being big. I don’t bite by lying and automatically saying that she’s skinny.  She’s not fat, but she’s not skinny.  I just don’t want to play that game so I tell her, jokingly (yeah, I cop out), that it’s not right to put people on the spot like that.  You’re either begging for a lie or making that person feel like a jerk for agreeing.

How people should respond to self-deprecating fatties and how people will respond are two different things. Here is how people will respond, based on the type of person subject to the awkward fatty self-flagellation:

Fatty: “Oh, wow, I must be getting fat. I can’t fit into this booth.”

Thin woman: “No, you look good!”
Thin woman, later with her friends: “Did you see that fat bitch?”
Fat woman: “No, you look good!”
Fat woman, later to herself: “What a fat bitch.”
Omega male: “No, you look good!”
Omega male, later to himself: “I wonder if she liked me?”
Beta male: *smiles and nods sympathetically with pursed lips*
Beta male, later with his friends: “I’m getting tired of these fat chicks hitting on me.”
Alpha male: *blank stare*
Alpha male, later with his friends: “Hey, Beta Male, the really cute chick at table six wants you to come out and say hi. Says she knows you from her World of Warcraft guild.”
Alpha male who doesn’t care about losing his job: “Admitting you have a problem is half the battle.”

The following is how people should respond with an eye on shaming the nation of human supernovas to end their sixty year gromance with self-inflicted deformity:

Fatty: “Oh, wow, I must be getting fat. I can’t fit into this booth.”

Avatar of Lightness: “Yup.

Chuck likes the idea of “agreeing and amplifying” a fatty’s self-deprecation. So, for instance:

Fatty: “Oh, wow, I must be getting fat. I can’t fit into this booth.”

Avatar of Lightness: “You and me both!” [this is even funnier if you're skinny and patting your flat stomach while saying it] “I’ll put you down for a Diet Coke then?”

Or, if you prefer to insert your Shiv with more subtlety:

Fatty: “Oh, wow, I must be getting fat. I can’t fit into this booth.”

Avatar of Lightness: “Don’t worry about it. The booths are made for anorexics. Anyone who judges you is just jealous.”

The game lesson here is as applicable to girls who self-deprecate as a way to “entrap” beta males as it is to fatties seeking a sympathy compliment. You can validate them and play their game, or you can joust and play your game.

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Is there a bigger shit test than a woman getting fat and expecting her man to put up with it? In the anals of shit tests, this has to be among the stinkiest.

One year ago, Pamela Doyle was busy preparing for her fairytale big day, which would be held in a stunning Scottish castle.

But with just weeks to go before her wedding, she was dumped by her fiance and lost her £2,000 deposit – all because of her weight.

At size 24, Pamela, 31, tipped the scales at a massive 17 stone. But the Glaswegian call centre worker has had the last laugh.

Not only has she lost seven stone and slimmed to a size 12, her ex has been left ‘stunned’ by her dramatically changed appearance.

‘He ended the relationship because of my weight and the issues surrounding it,’ said Pamela of her former lover - a serving soldier who she does not want to name.  It was making him miserable.’

Fiancee bloats up. What do most beta males do? Swallow that shit sandwich and walk the aisle to a dreary state-enforced future of endless nights of tripping the porn faptastic.

What does an alpha male do? Leave her just short of the blessed wedding event she has been dreaming of since childhood.

And because he was an alpha male about it, she wants him back.

Pamela, who now weighs just under 10 and a half stone, is still in touch with her ex-boyfriend and said she has not ruled out a reconciliation.

There are no ways in which being alpha is not better than being beta.

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