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Archive for the ‘Pretty Lies’ Category

If you waste ten minutes of your life scanning relationship or dating advice from female columnists, one theme you’ll often read is the belief that compliments and flattery are the way to a woman’s heart. Naturally, as it goes with 99% of the “””wisdom””” of your feminist elders, this advice is a crock. Any man who has interacted with live women in anything other than a submissive capacity will quickly learn from experience the self-defeating consequences of attempting to court women with compliments.

Reader Joe Sixpack forwards an example of the awful advice you’ll ingest from Hivemind drones, and of the glimmering shards of Realtalk that are beginning to pierce the veil of vapidity,

A Game element leaks out, of all places, a Yahoo! message board comment:

This was regarding an article that said, “Here’s a wakeup call for you: Women spend an average of 55 minutes getting ready every morning — frittering away the equivalent of 6.4 hours a week, or 335 hours a year, on looks alone, a new survey finds. ”

There is a good way to reduce these numbers. Men, tell your woman that she is pretty. I once dated a guy who told me on a regular basis how pretty I was, how much he loved my eyes, how I was the smartest girl he had ever dated, ect. Who cares if he didn’t mean all of it, it made me feel good. I started wearing a little less makeup and found simpler ways to do my hair just so I could get over to his house early before work. He still said the same things. Sadly the whole thing started to go downhill after his daughter called me mom. Now I’m married to a man who never tells me I’m pretty, smart, ect. I put on loads of makeup and wear revealing clothing around him all the time just to get his attention with no success. I have decided to use up my makeup and only replace the ones I really care for. Maybe he will notice when I’m no longer trying to dress like the playboy playmates he claims he wants.

So, the one beta guy tells her how hot/smart/etc. she is all the time. The result? She turns frumpy and obviously is no longer with him.

She is now married to a man who never tells her such things. The result? She puts on “loads of make up and wear revealing clothing around him all the time just to get his attention” and dresses “like the playboy playmates he claims he wants”.

[Ed note: Link no longer works.]

You can sometimes pry nuggets of truth from women, but it requires a facility with comprehending subtext. Women will drop clues revealing their true feelings stuffed between over-sized cushions of egoistic pabulum.

Do you want to persuade your girlfriend or wife to keep up her looks? (And if you’re a non-gay man with T readings above 0.1 ng, you will.) Then keep her on her toes.

Maxim #101: Compliments breed complacency. Critique breeds conciliation. A woman will never work as hard for a man’s approval as when his approval is most elusive.

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A distinct pleasure of being alive during the decline and fall of a Western world power is bearing witness to the technicolor debris that spins off of rapid cultural collapse. CougarLife.com is one such belch of asocial ejecta. The promo video is short and sweet, so recline poolside and sip your Molotai cocktail as CH presents to you a dating website dedicated to matching imminent Wall victims with inexperienced younger men hauling a knapsack of blue balls.

CougarLife.com’s catchphrase is “Meet divorcees, single moms, and sexy singles looking for a young stud!” (Studs are called “cubs” for female members trying to emulate Mrs. Robinson.)

The revelation in this cheesy ad is the surprising bounty of (unintentional) bracing truth. Of course, the truth is mixed in with a dollop of sophistic slop, but it doesn’t take much reading between the lines to uncover some timeless Heartistian shivs.

So let’s play a game. (“Let’s not and say we did”, says the recovering beta practicing his alpha chops.) Watch the vid, and list all the ways it conforms to sexual market realities. See if you found as many sterile Easter eggs as CH.

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OK, here’s what I found.

1. Right out of the spinster gate, a roar of propaganda hits us. Few cougars are as Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE)* fuckable as porn star Julia Ann. Your typical cougar looks like this:

grandma why are you clawing my chest?

The Wall feasts most gluttonously on former beauties who never thought the day of reckoning would come. I’m not about to make an account to tally what kinds of mangy cougars are on offer, but I’d be surprised if Julia Ann quality cougars numbered more than 1 out of 100. 1 out of 1,000 might even be pushing the odds.

By way of comparison, your typical man — cub, as it were — who joins a dating site specializing in cougars, single moms, and divorcees looks like this:

it’s been ten years! my precious fell off.

2. “So are you tired of meeting the same types of girls in bars?” Translation from the cougarese: “So are you ready for an easier if less visually stimulating lay?”

3. Julia Ann shoves a sandwich in the face of a not particularly skinny younger woman, (the girl’s reply: “Ugh, meat!”), implying she needs to grow some curves. Notwithstanding the absurdity of the implication (the younger woman is far from anorexic), this amply demonstrates the anti-feminist ugly truth that women are other women’s most misogynistic enemies.

4. A younger woman snidely remarks on her date’s job as a “computer geek”. Julia Ann leans in (her giant tits leading the way) and reminds the girl she folds sweaters for a living. Awesome reframe… which would be far more useful to a man who wanted to knock down the self-esteem of a bona fide hottie a peg or two.

5. Older women may know what they want (“young guys”, according to our esteemed MILF, because apparently the older guys are too busy chasing younger women), but that doesn’t mean they automatically get it. The presumption that cougars can get sex when they want it from younger men rests on the unspoken premise that the kinds of men most likely to take up the offer are undersexed goons or desperate virgins. Or non-famous YOLO black guys. And even that low grade supply will get cut off once terminal Wall impact is achieved.

6. Younger woman (to her date): “Buy me a drink?” Cougar drop kicks her and assumes her place. She smiles at the man, “How about I buy *you* a drink?” This is just a plain admission that older women have to price themselves lower if they want a scrap of male attention that younger, hotter, tighter women take for granted. (Note: The guy sitting across from her doesn’t look all that young.)

A sexual landscape of prowling unmarried cougars, single moms, and divorcees forced into settling for two minutes of cartoon love with awkward dweebs ten beers deep is indicative of a fraying society. All boundaries are coming apart; the hedonist impulse is the last standing principle. Interestingly, CH not only predicted the rise of cougardom, we held it up as an ideal arrangement in an anarchic sex bazaar where the broken incels and insols pile higher than the 99% vacancy rate Burj. Neophyte beta males increasingly getting shut out of the sexual carnival can get their rocks (and their apprehensions) off in the dusty muffs of grateful cougars, while older, suaver players can scoop up the younger morsels for long time love.

*Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE) Fuckability is a simple concept: Given a den of cougars (or other category of mostly undesirable women) and a lack of better options, how many are more interesting to your penis than your crabbed hand? For most normal men with functioning self-esteems and some experience bedding younger women, there will hardly be more than a tiny fraction of cougars capable of stimulating arousal beyond that which can be accomplished with one’s hand and imagination. The few cougars that can outclass your hand are said to be HATE fucks.

The HATE fuck ratio is actually a very useful stat for measuring a man’s standards and discriminating taste (which, ultimately, are themselves contributing factors as well as conspicuous indicators of his overall SMV). For example, if urgency and circumstance dictate an opportunistic cost-free 30 second rutting, and you are willing to fuck one cougar in a roomful of one hundred stalking cougars, then your HATE fuck ratio is 1:100.

The higher your ratio, the lower your standards, and the more you hate yourself for requiring the shabby hole of a bottom shelf jezebel to alleviate your incel. That is the essence of the HATE fuck… a tepid squirt of pallid pleasure in exchange for your dignity and psychologically distressing confirmation that this is the best you might ever do.

Consider yourself lucky if you have a HATE fuck ratio of 1:100. Some omega males shuffle along this mortal coil carrying the burden of a 1:2 HATE fuck ratio. Imagine being that guy who surveys the wrinkled menu at a cougar convention or the buffet at a NAAFA mixer and thinks to himself, “Yeah, I’m desperate. I could make myself sexually available to at least half of these assembly line rejects.” If you’re that guy… WAYSA?

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The self-gratifying meme that feminists have begun to lock labia around to exploit explain Elliot Rodger’s killing spree is exemplified in this American Prospect stream of runny shit by Amanda Marcotte, she of the furry manjaw and associated masculine temperament. The meme, a rather simple-minded one, goes like this: “Pickup artistry, loosely affiliated with the manosphere, drives men to kill.”

Other unattractive feminists who have spent many years playing second banana to their prettier friends getting all the attention from exciting players are circling the wagons around this kindergarten interpretation.

Marcuntte’s libelous propaganda rests on a singularly false premise. She lies,

Despite PUA guarantees to the contrary, there’s no reason to believe any of this actually makes you more successful with women, which is why a site called PUAhate, which Rodgers was a frequent contributor to, emerged. Members of PUAhate, by and large, are men who bought wholesale into the PUA ideology, only to find it doesn’t work for them.

You’ll never go broke underestimating the rapidity with which feminist warthogs abandon journalistic integrity in pursuit of a predefined agenda. PUAHate was not filled with men who “bought wholesale into the PUA ideology”. Quite the contrary, if this raving cuntess had spent one minute trawling the site she’d know that it was filled with shut-in losers who never followed PUA advice and nursed an inordinate hatred for PUA marketers whom they considered, rightly or wrongly, were pushing snake oil.

If Marcuntte were to concede this point, the entire edifice of her Prospect article crumbles to the ground. That’s why she lies. Without lies, these feminist freaks would have nothing.

In related shivving, I wonder how Manboobz, nee David Futrelle, feels about having happily linked to a website that harbored a mass murderer and fed his despair and homicidal tendencies? The blood of four men and two women are on his hands.*

*If femcunts and their blobby male lackeys want to dispense with any pretense of objectivity and get in the gutter, I’ll be the first to open the sewer doors and toss them in with the rats and pigs.

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Girls may be sugar and spice and everything nice, but in the no holds barred, winner take all tournament to the procreative death known as the sexual market women are just as ruthless – perhaps more ruthless – than are men to their same sex competition.

How do women undermine other women? They employ two strategies.

1. Ostracism/shaming.

Ostracism is public shaming. And despite the torrent of nonsense, (of which feminists have a seemingly inexhaustible supply), asserting that men are the primary slut and fatty shamers, that honor actually belongs to women.

2. Disinformation.

The other tactic women deploy to kneecap their competition is far more invidious. Women are adept at the art of disinformation campaigns, a strategy that both superficially soothes the fragile egos of other women and manipulates them (borrowing a legal term) to declare against interest.

Disinformation is essentially the propagandizing of pretty lies. Its power rests on an implied flattery. “You don’t need to slim down to find love, because you’re great just the way you are!” The hope of disinformation propagators is that their marks are gullible enough to follow their bad advice, thus reducing the number of sexy female competitors for the tiny pool of desirable alpha men.

(Remember from the CH archives that women feel the pressure of the sexual market more acutely, in part because there are far fewer alpha men for all the women who want them than there are bangable attractive women for all the men who want them for at least a night.)

A classic example of strategy #2 is this PuffedHo demotivational poster.

bikini is now a synonym for elephant hide

Women, especially loser women, love love love to hear these platitudes that validate their romantic worth, but the reality that would result if women followed this deceptive advice is more fat and ugly women (waddling around beaches in tent canvases) and more desirable men focusing all their attention on shrinking numbers of slender women. A sexual desirability skew of this nature would be a godsend for the hotties, who would experience an increase in their options so profound that the entire SMV sorting system would seismically shift. Thin cuties would be able to amass multiple greater beta orbiters and extract commitment from alphas who would otherwise pump and dump them or ignore them for hotter prospects in a dating market within which female attractiveness was more evenly distributed.

It is therefore in the interest of every red-blooded man to call out this manipulative female bullshit wherever and whenever he sees it. It is his DUTY to warn women against the forked tongue of other women seeking to cripple their competition with fat and ugliness apologia. Beauty is truth. Aesthetics is no mere formality hinting at deeper revelations. Aesthetics IS revelation. Chateau Heartiste has made this maxim central to its mission statement with full understanding of its cosmic importance and its centrality to all that is good and true.

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When yer lurvable CH manor lord was a wee lad sprinkled with fresh down, many illusory obstacles set themselves in his path to mastering the hearts of newly teenaged girls in the plum ripeness of supercuteness. He would carefully listen to them dictate to friends in squealing cadence the qualities they loved about the boys they loved. Words like “cute”, “hottie”, “great body”, “muscular”, “flat stomach”, “bedroom eyes”, “so sweet” and related would zip around from ear to ear, never reaching a depth of analysis beyond the barest superficiality.

Schoolboy CH would then examine himself for this or that girl-approved quality and decide he had come up short compared to the handful of boys who best exemplified what the girls claimed they loved. Momentarily discouraged, CH grit his teeth and put into motion plans of passionate adolescence that would vault him to the ranks of the beloved.

But a funny thing happened on the way to molding himself into the male blueprint drafted by girltongue: CH stayed alert long enough to notice the kinds of boyfriends all that supple teenflesh eventually began to gravitationally orbit. These boyfriends were, in the unsparing judgment only a teenage boy can summon, neither cute nor hot nor muscular nor temperamentally sweet. They were quite often funny-looking, soft, pudgy, awkwardly bony, and clearly unsweet. They did not have bedroom eyes; they had mole eyes.

But one thing they DID have, and a lot of, was preternatural confidence. They walked and talked with bravado. They stood athwart their girlfriends with impassive stubbornness. They nodded with a glaze of coerced recognition in the general direction of the girls who were showering them with admiration and affection. They moped with a practiced air of perpetual dissatisfaction. They were heartlessly cruel and emotionally blank. They crushed romantic hopes like a bulldozer smashing grub life to mush.

And beautiful babes loved them.

From those earliest beginnings, a truism about the soul of woman would guide CH to the heights of romantic bliss. He had learned, and not a moment too soon, to watch what women do and ignore what they say about their romantic needs. For all the men who knew nothing about what women wanted, even fewer women knew themselves.

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

Behold the Twenty Commandments of Involuntary Celibacy:

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

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

Or:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do the dishes.
We can take turns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t crash girls nights
No men allowed.

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

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

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

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The question put before us, gentlemen, is why the President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama, lies about the sex wage gap and the nature of its origin and scope, as he recently did during his State of the Union address, and in so doing assists in propelling it further into the media narrative as the nefarious plotting of boogymen misogynists, when an obscene preponderance of evidence exists in the literature on the subject disproving any favored notion that the sex wage gap is caused by male discrimination or similar hobbyhorses of the cackling feminist collective.

Gentlemen, ignorance of the facts is no excuse for propagating lies and stupidity, particularly when those lies cause real suffering to segments of the population, but willful ignorance is especially inexcusable in the President of the United States of America, Barack Hussein Obama. Of all men, he should know best the power of lies from a public representative to contort opinion and sacralize injustice against political enemies. Of men of station, he is most keenly aware of the truth and the requisite need to seek it, and so his insistence on spreading bald lies is all the more malevolent, coming as it does from a fount of spite and ill-will rather than a forgivable foolishness usually characteristic of the lower classes.

Why does President Barack Hussein Obama lie, then? More importantly, how can we, the assembled, end his reign of lies? You gather here, under the stone carapace of this haunt, to discuss just these weighty matters. Intimations of revolt whisper in the halls. Mutterings of secession, even civil war, trickle like condensation from winter windows. A slow heating rage, its potency strengthened by patient superintendence, arcs like static electricity on the deep pile rugs.

The verdict is unchallenged. President Barack Hussein Obama is a willful liar. He lies with breathtaking expediency and has as little concern for the truth as suits his political calculations or personal pique. He is aided in his mendacity by coteries of lickspittles and an opposition, such as it is, of cowards. Any hope that the light of truth might penetrate the hardened bunker of the current administration and its houses of sniveling, ineffectual partisans must be abandoned. The truth rarely glides to prominence on the feathered wings of angels. Instead, it drips from the bloody edge of swords.

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