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Archive for the ‘Psy Ops’ Category

This one time, in gigolo camp…

I’d like to relay a conversation I had with a past lover who asked a very pointed question as we were strolling along a riverbank (yes, really! Hallmark called and wanted their moment back), in hopes that it will impart a valuable lesson for the next generation of pussy houndlings. Our love ended when she moved far away, but she later returned for a few weeks and met with me to wax nostalgic over old times. The pertinent part of our convo follows:

Her: Did you use game on me?

Me: (momentarily rattled) What do you mean?

Her: I mean did you say things that would make me fall for you? Were your feelings real?

After a few seconds pause to collect myself and stop from blurting an ill-formed, self-incriminating reply, I stowed my easy smile and summoned my Very Serious Face.

Me: Since when did you become so cynical? One thing I’ll always regret is turning a woman like you into a cynic. It doesn’t suit you.

Her: I’m not cynical. I was just wondering if you meant what you said to me.

Me: Tell me, was I a bad influence on you?

Her: No.

Me: But I was. You sound like a different girl today. That’s not good. You’ve lost something, and it kills me inside.

Our conversation took a detour at that juncture, as we passed a store that reminded her of the place where I picked her up. When we returned to the subject, she asked me what I meant when I said she was different now than when I met her. All talk of “game” had ceased.

Note three themes: 1) I never answered her question directly. 2) I redirected the conversation so that she was put on the defensive, having to reconcile both a possible change in her personality for the worse, and blame for making me feel like “it was killing me inside”. 3) The “bad influence” assumption fed her desire for JERKBOY drama.

The wild-eyed feminist reader shrieks, “That’s manipulation!” Is it? Substantively, nothing I said was false. Her fling with me really did provoke in her a small measure of cynicism. It’s also true that she was a naturally big-hearted girl for whom cynicism conflicted with those temperamental attributes that made her special to me. And finally, I did in fact feel kind of bad for arousing in her dark suspicions. And it is a fact as well that women welcome a bit of badboy excitement in their love lives.

But there would’ve been no gain to be had, for either of us, from admitting under interrogation that I had used game on her or from expressing regret for the use of game rather than regret for the effect that it had on her uncorrupted, trusting love. Because I knew from experience that when women ask seemingly pointed questions, what they really want to know goes much deeper, to primal feelings that women hold near and dear, like, for instance, the nature of loving reciprocation. Directing my replies to those deeper feelings in her, as if I was talking to a separate being or the real woman behind the curtain, would yield fuller intimacy.

So I had used game. And I meant what I had said to her when we first met. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Game was the best way to persuade her that my feelings for her were genuine, because I knew that she would need that professionally administered seduction to be open to receiving my sincere message of love. Yes, you evade tough questioning from a woman to sidestep discomfort and bad feelings, but you also evade her dead end inquisitions to grapple with the turbulence of her hidden, animating emotions. The art and science of seduction can be as enlightening as it can be bewildering. And there’s no woman in the world who doesn’t love it for both reasons.

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A reader suffered a grievous insult to his dignity when a man caressed his face and recommended masturbation as an alternative to competing in the sexual market.

So here’s my situation … There’s this girl that I like.

The prologue of every beta male lament ever.

I’ve liked her for over 3 years, and made out with her when her and her ex (now current boyfriend) broke up. This guy left her and started seeing her sister for 5 months, yeah he’s that big of a douche bag, and he’s not even that good looking!! See attached pic. (That’s his profile pic on Facebook..)

Verified.

I’ve tried to AMOG this guy using the information on your site, I’ve tried in school and I’ve tried at clubs. He’s literally patted my cheek and told me to “go jerk off” right in front of her!

Physical contact with the face is a thermobaric dominance move. He may as well have been taking you from behind to the roars of the approving crowd. This dude is a Nimitz class AMOG.

And she doesn’t say anything!

Of course she doesn’t. Her tongue is trapped in a cognitive dissonance dimension where her estrogenic tingles for the douchebag and her oxytocinic pity for your debasement drive her to catatonia.

She just says sorry then asks him to be nicer to her friends, which he shrugs off!

He shrugs it off because he knows her words mean nothing when her vagina is saying something else.

This guys an asshole and doesn’t deserve her at all!

The epilogue of every beta male lament ever.

I’ve tried talking with her secretly and telling her he’s an ass and that she deserves some one better, even if it isn’t me!

Are you pulling our legs?

He didn’t get her a birthday or a Christmas present, and on their anniversary he tried to convince her to have a threesome with her sister!

Didn’t even bother with the bag of Skittles. Alpha.

She stormed off, to my house ;) unfortunately couldn’t get any, she was too rattelted up, and he went off to her house, where her sister was! This guys not an alpha, he’s an ass hole!

For all practical purposes, one and the same.

I hired a professional “PUA” in [Canadian city] to help me out we went to the club they were at and [XXXX] (the mPUA) approached her at the bar and within a minute one of [XXXX]‘s (the douche bag) friends was all over [the mPUA] telling him to “fuck off – she’s taken”. [The mPUA] tried to AMOG his friend by tapping his shoulder and trying to continue conversation and he got punched in the face! I’ve never seen this animalistic behavior before between grown men! How do I AMOG this guy!?

Now that I’ve read through the entire email, I’m 99% certain it’s a variety of troll known as the exaggeratum ad absurdum troll, the intent of the troll being to discredit game blogs by trapping them in long-winded debates about the merits of this or that tactic for dealing with a fabricated crisis.

It’s a good bet none of this stuff ever happened. So why publish it? Because it’s funny. More importantly, because far out on the asshole curve there really do exist men like the guy in this reader’s fantasy story, who will tool you horribly in front of a girl, say by patting your face and telling you to fuck off. You won’t meet these kinds of guys often (if ever), but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared should you have the misfortune of crossing paths with one of them. It therefore behooves the reading audience to use such troll attempts as a springboard into wider discussion about how to handle AMOG antagonists who love to humiliate lesser men in public.

Let’s get the crux of the matter out of the way. If a man malevolently touches your face, that’s grounds to sock him. No question about it. A demeaning face pat is the G-rated equivalent of a cock slap against your cheek. You reply with a hammer blow to his gut or nose. This goes whether a girl is present or not.

If, by some chance, the fighting force is too weak in you to muster it at the moment it’s most justified, then you can try the “agree & amplify” technique for disarming brazen AMOGs. A dude pats your cheek, you look at the girls, then back at him, and say, “Was that like a signal for gay sex? Because I have to tell you, I don’t roll that way.” Or, “You can’t stop thinking about my cock, can you? Don’t worry, I won’t judge. My cock is unforgettable.”

If you really want to fuck with the AMOG, ask him within earshot of everyone what it’s like to date sisters, at the same time. Then direct some of your artillery at the girls themselves, to implicate them in the AMOG’s assholery. Tell the girls you’re really impressed with their willingness to share a man, that it’s very 21st century and open-minded. If you think this is a step too far, recall that the AMOG (allegedly) punched a PUA in the face. (Some readers may get a thrill up their legs about that little detail, but let’s try to empathize with the beta here. He’s the one who wrote for assistance.)

In the meantime, reader/troll, go find a new social group and next the girl. She’s obviously cunt over heels for this lunkhead, so let her be with her Chris Brown. It’s a good life strategy to avoid getting entangled with girls who helplessly swoon for ragebots, if for no other reason than the increased likelihood one of her exes will come back to take what he thinks is his, and his problems become your problems.

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A reader emailed a run-of-the-mill question about the effectiveness of his text game, seeking advice from Chateau paragons of carnality. He’ll get his question answered, but there’s a bigger theme to this post.

I’m trying to extract the most fun out of this conversation with a girl. Comments? I’m building my skills. Met her on college campus and she gave me her number on the spot. Do post it if you wish, but keep my name off the post please.

Friday: Me: Hi. I see you around sometimes. Saturday at noon buy me lunch at _____; we’ll forget the world and relax in a limited time.  20-30 minutes; more if the world will wait.

The bloated prose of overgaming. Why did you text “I see you around sometimes” after she had given you her number? It sounds disjointed. Good rule to follow: there’s never a scenario when “I see you around sometimes” doesn’t sound stalker-ish. The rest of your text is comical in its romantic abandon. I know you’re trying to be ironic and funny, but does she know that? Your intense come-on, however disingenuous, reveals the limitations of text conversations.

Her: Hey sorry if this sounds rude but I’ don’t really feel comfortable texting with you and definitely not comfortable meeting up with you. I don’t know you. And also I don’t know what your intentions are and I have a boyfriend. And we don’t feel comfortable. Sorry.

The lead may have been warm, but after your initial text it went ice cold.

Sunday. me: I laughed.

Did you laugh to yourself, or did you text her a status update on your chortling?

(another text) me: Silly your defense mechanisms activated. congrats your gfs are proud. I’m not interested in dating you or telling the world I’m talking with you. Assumed I wanted more? good girl you freaked out so hard. now I want shaved ice at ______(different place).

So hideously try-hard. Of course she assumed you wanted more. You’re reaching out to her, right? Implausible deniability is the branding of the butthurt beta who chewed off a bigger mouthful of chick sass than he could handle. If it’s obvious to everyone here reading this then it was obvious to her that you were stung by her rejection and backtracked clumsily into a transparently empty denial of intent.

I forgot to mention the girl is light-skinned Asian, about 5’5″ or 5’4″… a six or seven among the asian pop. (pretty big at my school), a four among the other white girls. I’m white. 5’6″.

Mostly irrelevant. Asians girls need more emotional investment than do white girls, but this minor racial difference wouldn’t have mattered in your case. You nuked yourself from orbit.

You came for comments on your game and suggestions for improvement, and you’ll get that, but there’s a bigger problem you need to solve: your mental state.

Better reply:

Her: Hey sorry if this sounds rude but I’ don’t really feel comfortable texting with you and definitely not comfortable meeting up with you. Sorry sorry sorry blah blah sorry sorry no tingles sorry sorry sorry you’re creepy sorry sorry sorry sorry.

You: so marriage and kids are out, then?

If you want to leave the impression that you don’t take a girl’s dodges seriously, you should approach with an attitude of amused detachment. Like she’s nothing in the scheme of your life. Which she is. If you think a girl you just met is more than nothing, your behavior will reflect your inner beta psychology. And lame, needy and tactless is no way to go through life, son.

No matter how many text suggestions you read at this blog, you will continue making the same mistakes, because your ATTITUDE is WEAK. You feel aggrieved, you feel urgency, and you feel scarcity constraining your dating market options. As long as you feel those things, you’ll never quite grasp the art of flirtatious badinage. You might parrot a killer line here or there, but that line will be book-ended by pages of betaness.

So instead of giving you a clam to eat, we’ll teach you how to fish clams for yourself. There’s really only one thing you need to know: have the right attitude, and the details of seduction, with just a little prompting, will fall into place. What’s that attitude? It’s best summed up in a thought experiment:

A girl communicates with you. It’s on! You get nervous. Don’t want to blow it. Don’t be beta don’t be beta don’t be beta. You strain to retrieve some smart response that establishes your alpha boner fides.

Instead of struggling for that perfect quip, access your deeper psyche and mold your emotional state. What would you say to her if you received her message while swaddled in the smooth flesh of three gorgeous nymphets going down on your knob?

There’s your answer.

Now let’s revisit your hopeless interaction, but this time in the form of a super alpha male luxuriating in the caresses of three darling dainties.

You: what’s up. drinks fri?

Her: Hey sorry if this sounds rude but I’ don’t really feel comfortable texting with you and definitely not comfortable meeting up with you. I don’t know you. And also I don’t know what your intentions are and I have a boyfriend. And we don’t feel comfortable. Sorry.

You: sweet.

That’s the aloof attitude to have if you want success dating the modern single woman. She doesn’t love lovesick Romeo. She loves lovestuffed Romeo whose sexy attitude is a product of getting wrung dry by a cortege of concubines.

Maxim #14: Whenever you’re at a loss for what to say to a girl you like, imagine you’re a man in bed with three beautiful women. Then say what that man would say.

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The Cathedral (refresher) has many ways of beating you senseless with lies and propaganda until your morale improves. The Cathedral clerisy has won so many victories over the past decades, and their power is so entrenched, that their hubris has made them sloppy. How else to explain laughable, over-the-top indoctrination like this?

Fuckin’ Toronto. Locus of equalist filth. It’s hardly worth the bother to itemize the lies and distortions of reality evident in this classroom activity designed with the purpose of derogating the self-worth of white men, but let’s have at it for entertainment value.

First, if anyone’s gonna be caught smoking at a subway station, it’ll be a Tonto in Toronto. Blacks and whites smoke at about the same rates.

Second, no black woman waiting to ride a bus will gently rebuke a smoker in the King’s English: “Sir, could you please put out the cigarette as the smoke is being blown in my direction? I am very allergic to smoke. The sign on the wall says this is a no-smoking area.”  :lol: !! Yeah, what universe does this happen in? More likely: “Yo, get dat smoke outta my face, mufugga, fo I wreck you azz!”

Third, the entire premise is a joke. Any leftoid twit who rides subways and buses, given enough anonymity and truth serum ABV, will admit that blacks are responsible for about, oh, 99% of infractions, annoying and lethal, on public transit. Fuckin’ white SWPLs who ride buses don’t smoke and anyhow wouldn’t be caught dead blowing smoke in the face of some ghetto momma. Toronto whites are probably like amped-up versions of urban striver faggot whites everywhere: bending over backwards to appease blacks and avoid setting off their infamous hair trigger tempers. You want a realistic conversation between a black woman and a chipmunk-cheeked white man at a bus station in SWPLville? Here:

Black woman: snarl

White superSWPL: smiles warmly Cute kid. Hey there little guy!

Black woman: Get yo perv ass outta here.

Fourth, the fantasy reply by the white man is something you wouldn’t hear in the West. Not anymore, now that white men have had their testosterone drained from them by constant brow-beating and the repulsive visage of fat women. But assuming there is a white man who would speak so impolitely, the facts support his imputation: 72% of blacks are born to single moms.

Reflective Questions

  • Was oppression manifested in this situation?

Yes, I feel oppressed by the amount of tax dollars white men have to pay to grease your vocation of shitting on white men with impunity.

  • What type of oppressions can you identify?

The Danegeld.

  • What does this tell you about how oppression works?

If you’re in power, you get to dictate the who-whom terms.

  • How would you have responded if you were the black person?

“That’s real retarded, sir.”

  • How would you have responded as a witness?

Around blacks, never relax.

  • Would you have responded at all?

I’d stop taking drugs if I heard a single black mom at a bus stop speak in coherent English.

You ever get the notion that these blurts of Cathedral brainwashing are revealing glimpses into their deepest and truest feelings? That in fact the Narrative is one big case of mass psychological projection? One day, sooner than the elite think, the white man will WAKE UP, and, if history is any guide, when the slumbering beast of the North is finally roused from hibernation the ground will shake and the heavens will rend with righteous retribution.

Or not, and this beautiful creation of Western whites will slowly decay into a cesspool of encroaching Third Worldism and corn and porn saturated ennui. Place your bets.

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Ellipsis Game

We know girls love men whose flirting is laced with ambiguous intention. Ambiguity, especially when coupled with alluring male ambivalence, gives the female rationalization hamster room to run, generating a store of energized drama that all women need to imbue their romances with more expectation and more thrill than their mere earthly existence can afford.

What is the vanishing point of infinite ambiguity? A stone-faced expression? Radio silence? No, those are messages that, by their absence, hint of negative thoughts. True ambiguity must leave the recipient in a state of confusion, helplessly flailing as she sifts for hidden meaning in the paltry sum of white noise. One manifestation of event horizon ambiguity that can plausibly invoke that feeling of pure female joy when confronted by opaque romantic intention is something reader walawala writes about:

Very timely post and I would like to share 2 things. First a new game text I adapted and have used with interesting results. Let’s call this “The power of ‘…’”

this: … three periods. It’s now my go-to response for girls who I want to alert that their behavior is not on, that I’m expecting a response, or that I want to trial text them but have nothing to say. This … gets the hamster going.

Background, girl I’m gaming, and have maintained a clear sexual vibe with has her hamster in over-drive. We went out a few weeks ago, good time major make out, then a flake. But I didn’t get upset, just kept a positive vibe.

Here’s our text exchange from last night and “the power of …”

her: I wanna be up front. I am looking for someone ready to settle down..i u just want some fun.. we shud just be friends.

Me: …

Her: I am being ridiculous. Yesterday I met my friends for dinner..bf of one of them joined us. they just started…I think I am jealous. I also wanna bring someone special to join the dinner but no one to bring.

A few learnings:

one, note how I maintain my frame and while I don’t really know what to say I use “…” and get this huge hamster barf. I may set up drinks later. she’s up for something.

Secondly, if you’ve been following my other story, my ex gf who’s fairly hot has been chasing me since she broke up with me rather cruelly 2 weeks ago. I also maintained my frame. No beta butt-hurt crap, no lashing out, just “ok”…and ignore her.

She deleted my on FB yesterday. I considered ignoring it. Then I considered confronting her. Both are bad moves. But at the same time dead silence is kind of lame. She has tried to reach out in her angry girl butt-hurt way.

So I shot off a text late last night: …

This was my way of sending an ambiguous message to get hamster spinning knowing full well the deletion was aimed at pissing me off.

Ok, two things to consider there for you guys: girl who wants a guy to piss off her friends and ex gf crying out for attention and getting “…”

In both cases “…” is the common game tool that is more ambiguous than “gay”.

“gay” is a vitamin-enriched hamster pellet. It does the job by giving her hamster some get up and go. But there is room for it to be misconstrued by women in a way that is unfavorable to your goals.

“8===>” is a steroid injection for her hamster. It more than does the job; her hamster will hip-check Kia’s as it races toward the Golden Spinning Wheel.

But “…”, now that’s something else. A proprietary blend of genetically modified superfoods, ECA stack, endurance boosting EPO, bovine growth hormone, concentrated Red Bull (illegal in all countries except China), yak penis, distilled beet sugar, bioavailable uranium with a half life of 36,000 years, and 100% pure Colombian snow that will make her hamster spin so fast the earth’s orbit will slow and time will go backwards. A hamster eight balling on one of these “…”s is on record as spinning up the mental equivalent of a ferris wheel and racing through tubes ten miles long before sputtering out in exhaustion.

Better to disorient a woman with an intriguing ellipsis, than to blab like a beta and ruin her fun.

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The Jizzebel hokumguzzlers have built a retard empire on the fantastical premise that demonic men oppress angelic women, and that the end of such oppression would herald a femme utopia for land whales, skanks, proud sluts, transborgs, homonormatives, globular polyamorists, selfie-abusers and really cool smart chicks with pink hair who use the word “douchecanoe” a lot and think that makes them a member of the literati.

Except that, out here in the real world where the rubber hits the hole, it’s about as ass-backwards a belief as one can diligently nurture in the face of contradictory facts. If stepping outside the confines of the gloomy bedroom internet portal and listening to ♥science♥ hold any quarter with the self-delusion set, they would have to recant everything they profess, for the facts show that women are the worst enemies of women.

Who hurts women? Real rapists (as opposed to the phantasm of “regret rapists“) very infrequently hurt women. But the threat to women, as measured by battle effectiveness and sheer force of enemy number, is other women.

The rumor spreading, shunning and backstabbing of “mean girls” may be a relatively accurate picture of women’s social interactions, one researcher says.

Though both men and women use such indirect aggression in relationships, women use backbiting to demoralize competition and take sexual rivals out of the picture…

“Women do compete, and they can compete quite fiercely with one another,” said Tracy Vaillancourt, the paper’s author and a psychology professor at the University of Ottawa in Canada. “The form it typically takes is indirect aggression, because it has a low cost: The person [making the attack] doesn’t get injured. Oftentimes, the person’s motives aren’t detected, and yet it still inflicts harm against the person they’re aggressing against.”

Why do women choose the tactically lower risk method of indirect attacks? Because of the fundamental premise that acts like a brain virus upon everyone’s underlying psychology: women are biologically the more valuable sex.

That led Vaillancourt to hypothesize that the behavior is rooted in humans’ evolutionary past. But why would sneaky meanness have become so ingrained in the female repertoire?

In short, because mean girl aggression works so well.

Because of women’s role in childbearing and rearing, they are less expendable than men and couldn’t risk injury by settling disputes with their fists, said Anne Campbell, an evolutionary psychologist at Durham University in the United Kingdom, who was not involved in the work. Instead, social exclusion and talking behind someone’s back allowed women to work out conflicts without endangering their bodies.

This research lends support to the suspicion that the feminist zeal to cavalierly throw around the accusation of misogyny at men is really a classic case of psychological projection of their own states of mind. Or: only a real misogynist would impute misogyny to everyone else’s motives. You have to be one to know one, right ladies? Heh.

In related crimethoughts, those who drop the “raciss” accusation on the slimmest pretexts are likely themselves raving racists. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Not only does such cattiness make the targeted women too sad and anxious to compete in the sexual market, some studies suggest it can make men find rivals less attractive — provided the badmouthing comes from a cute woman, Vaillancourt said.

Yeah, that last part is the crucial condition. A fug badmouthing a hottie has about as much influence over a man’s judgment of female attractiveness as another man would. That is to say, none. What would be interesting to follow up on would be an experiment that examined the reactions of hotties and fugs to social ostracism by other women. My bet is that hotties can withstand female cattiness a lot better than can uglier women. Because hotties have constant feedback from men that their worth in the sexual market is unassailable.

Women often punish perceived sexual transgressions, Vaillancourt said. Studies in dozens of countries have found that women use indirect aggression against other women for being “too sexually available,” Vaillancourt said.

“It’s women who suppress other women’s sexuality,” because if sex is a resource, then more sexually promiscuous women lower the price of it, Vaillancourt told LiveScience.

Slut walk sloganeering notwithstanding to the cuntrary, most slut shamers are other women. Men may avoid sluts for marriage, but they won’t shame them. Why shame a snatch freebie from landing in your lap?

One way to avoid the most destructive effects of girls’ indirect aggression is to make sexual policing less powerful, Campbell said.

“We want to achieve a situation where that accusation [of promiscuity] had no power, where we don’t have that double sexual standard,” Campbell said. “But how we get there, I don’t know.”

Good luck with that. She may as well try to get humans to subsist on hemlock.

And women don’t compete over things they don’t value, Vaillancourt said. So women who put less emphasis on dating, or women who are past their sexual peak, are less likely to engage in mean girl behavior (at least over men).

The sexual market is the one market to rule them all.

So women backbite, backstab and fall back from attacking other women when the heat comes around the corner. That’s some RealTalk™ the Jizzebelers assiduously sweep under their gnarly rugs.

The fembot soul serrating doesn’t stop there. What other sins against women that feminists routinely accuse men of committing are committed by women in at least equal measure? Welp, how about objectification?

A new study has confirmed something women have been complaining about for years.

The research, out of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and published in the Springer-published journal Sex Roles, essentially corroborates the belief that people tend to focus more on the breasts and figure of a woman when analyzing her appearance than they do on her face. [...]

People tend to focus first on the important information about a woman.

Unsurprisingly, women with narrow waists, full breasts and larger hips – the classic hourglass figure – were rated more favorably than their less voluptuous counterparts, even when men were asked to assess a woman’s personality (rather than attractiveness) based on her appearance in the photos.

But perhaps what’s most interesting is that women also tended to objectify other females in the same way that men did. They, too, spent more time focusing on figure than face.

Can you believe the nerve of those men… hold up, wait a sec… hmm… those women objectifying women that way? Ugh, I can’t even… wow just wow… creepers!

Feminism will go down in history (along with her parent ideology equalism) as the stupidest potpourri of delusions ever propagated by a mass of degenerates sufficient in number and influence to dump their poison in the public’s ear. The Chateau stands ancient and true, thwarting the lords of lies at every point of attack.

“Generally speaking, people are more positive towards a more attractive woman than a less attractive one,” lead researcher Sarah Gervais said. “However, attractiveness may also be a liability, because while evaluating them positively, ‘gazers’ still focus less on individuating and personalizing features, such as faces, and more on the bodies of attractive women.”

There’s an important game concept tucked in the crevice of this quote. Can anyone find it?

.

.

Answer: Thermal exhaust port. Hot women have weaknesses, primary among them the nagging fear that they’re only loved for their bodies. You, as an aspiring assaulter of the pink abyss, can exploit this point of id entry into the attractive female’s ego. Disqualify and challenge — “I only hang with women who have something going on for themselves besides their looks” — then assuage and connect — “I know people judge you on superficial stuff, and how tough that makes it for you to find someone who can connect with you on a deeper level. I get that”.

A cute girl’s ego is like a finicky vineyard. You must first coax the fruit to their exquisite ripeness by introducing slight stresses to the soil of her self-conception; you must avoid overwatering and over-fertilizing, which can cause the grape (ego) to become too plump and lacking in distinction; and finally, you must pluck her exercised ego at the perfect moment and turn it into a fine wine that she is eager to pour a glass of herself for you to appreciate. Chin chin.

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The Cathedral — the term of art for the social and political apparatuses of equalist progressivism — is mentioned in the abstract quite a bit at Dark Enlightenment idea factories, but seldom are the actual, unholy workings of the Cathedral’s machinery explored in excruciating detail. This post sets to rectify that oversight. Reach for your vomit bag, because what you’re about to watch is a video of the nuts and bolts of Cathedral indoctrination. We are about to descend into the Ninth Circle, a place reserved for the vilest of sinners…

The subject is the Common Core educational reading and writing recommendations for primary age students in the state of Utah. Primary age is first grade — 6 year old children. It’s never too early to infect curious minds with distilled evil.

Right from the get-go, look at that book cover and tally the number of Cathedral propaganda symbols (you could call it Cathedral branding): The rainbow umbrella, the three races of children (and the white representative is, of course, a girl), the invidious title (voices — they all matter!) and subtitle (“good neighbors” — don’t build fences!), and is that black kid wearing a hoodie? :lol:

0:39 – “…students use their voices to advocate solutions to social problems”. And right underneath that, where it says “Central Question: What makes a good neighbor?”, it appears the Cathedral wishes to impart the lesson the the most important goal for a six year old child is to advocate for social justice.

The narrator then explains that the book teaches the teachers how to properly brainwash illuminate their charges.

1:24 – Chapter 1: “How to use emotional words… have the students use emotional words to get readers to feel so strongly about the problem that they want to do what is asked of them.” :shock: The Cathedral wants children to dispense with logic and reason in favor of emotionally charged words (i.e. “dat raciss!”) that appeal to the leftoidian exaggerated sensitivity to the moral dimensions of harm and unfaaaairness.

2:34 – “By stating the worst that could happen, if the company builds houses, the writer appeals to the readers’ feelings of anger.” When I first read this, I thought this excerpted red part was supposed to be a message to the kiddies about what NOT to do. Then that sinking feel came over me as I realized it’s actually an Alinskian call to arms to load up the kids’ brains with effective agit-prop. Gotta love the anti-capitalism touch, too.

3:20 – “Emotional Words.” The verdict is out: Education has become a cat lady ghetto. Boys and their unique way of thinking are cast to the icy wastelands, where hairy-armed, manjawed gorgons wielding bullwhips break them over the psy ops wheel until total obeisance to the feminist imperative is achieved. End result: John Scalzi. What is the point of this Common Core curriculum except to train a new generation in the ways of shitlib whining, passive-aggressiveness, and shrieking, womanish hysteria?

5:30 – Assessment Manual. It’s time for the children to try out their street theater tactics on their parents. Yippee! Do the kids even spell?

6:55 – More vibrant cover art. Is there even a token white boy on this cover? I guess we’ve progressed far enough to dispense with that formality.

7:15 – The goal is for teachers to measure students’ “attitudes, beliefs and dispositions”. Goodbye, budding thoughtcrime!

7:47 – “Does the student [ed: note, these are third graders] effectively use the first-person plural ‘we’ and ‘our’ to advocate ways to solve social problems?” The first thing that must die in a leftoid utopia is the individual. Can’t risk any free thinkers upsetting the narrative. The next thing that must die is straight talk.

So there you have it. Is anyone else indulging fantasies of America slipping into the sea and through the gates of hell? I mean, the Cathedral has certainly earned a place seated beside the Lord of Lies himself. It’s as if every lesson the West has learned to teach children to be virtuous citizens the Cathedral rejected and inculcates the exact opposite. Truth = lies. Beauty = ugliness.

PS Homeschool. Your children’s sanity depends on it.

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Michael Blowhard once challenged CH and readers to look at what the great writers in the Western literary tradition had to say about courtship. Many responded.

Alas, it is not God’s plenty. A man who relies on literature for his models can easily get swept away by the glorious pedestalizing.

Ovid’s seduction manual, The Art of Love, is pretty uneven in its advice. Stendhal’s On Love is pretty good. Castiglione’s Book of the Courtier is a good manual for how to be an overall attractive man. (Both were used to good effect by Robert Greene in The Art of Seduction.) Moliere shows what not to do in The Misanthrope, as does Flaubert in Madame Bovary. Byron has some scattered good thoughts. Burke, from a more traditionalist perspective, has some profound thoughts on masculinity and femininity. I’ve never read Casanova’s memoirs so I cannot tell you how good they are as literature or as pickup advice. I haven’t read Laclos’ Dangerous Liasons either. It’s been a long, long time since I read Richardson’s Clarissa, with its famous seducer Lovelace. Freud expounds nicely on female narcissism.

I’d also throw in How to be the Jerk Women Love by F.J. Shark (truly a great classic in the annals of lit-ra-choor), Nine and a Half Weeks by Elizabeth McNeill, and Story of O by Pauline Reage. Even pulp romance novels, however hackish, can be helpful to your learned pursuit of utterly dominating a woman’s will and heart. As with the last two book recommendations, female authors will invariably reveal their pulsing erotic ids through their characters. The trick to reading romantic literature written by a woman is to pay attention to what TURNS ON the female character. Not what the character claims to want in a hypothetical boyfriend or husband, but what she specifically describes that got her tingling like a Van de Graaff generator. Editorial commentary can be ignored, because the prerequisite for becoming any woman’s ideal lover is to first become her actual lover.

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This one comes from “Roger Rabbit”,

So you guys have your opinions and all.  Is this like a website just for trolling? What’s with all the anger? because i cant figure out who gives enough of a shit about fat chicks, omega males, or anything else presented here to create a whole site about it.  You don’t respond to anyone that challenges you with anything more than a fuck-off or “you must be a fat chick/omega male/feminist bitch” – take your pick.  Which is fine, that’s your right as the alpha male gorilla, chest-beating idiots you are.  But it’s so ridiculous I think it’s gotta be just a place for you to troll.  Are you actually like 12?  That’s rhetorical. By the way, I’m sure you already guessed it, but I am a 520 pound white chick with a dark mustache, slimy stinky cheese growing in my fat folds because I can’t bathe properly, hairy arms, legs, & pits because – well for obvious reasons.  I’m so pathetic I let my dog lick my cunt and clean the curdled scum nestled in my fat folds while I eat cheese puffs, smoke, and look at porn of gorgeous 18 year old girls I will never look like and can never have.  As a favor to you and everyone who knows me (that’s not many people) I think I will try to end my miserable existence later on tonight.  No thanks necessary.  I can imagine your appreciation even as I type.  Thank the good lord for survival of the fittest.  Oh before I die, I’d like to leave you with this idea – why not start fat camps but when us fatties get there, you shame us and over feed us and insult us while torturing our fat-asses in the most sadistic ways you can come up with.  Almost like concentration camps.  Instead of the gas chamber, lead us to a room promising a huge buffet, then force us to eat to death.  Keep up the good work on this site, encouraging all of us disgusting low-lifes in whatever form we take to off ourselves and therein paving the way for the rise of your super breed of men and women.  Better save a few of us though, just so you’ll have someone to kick around.

You ever notice how deeply unaware the equalist losers in life appear to be to their own psychological projection? It’s similar to how the first commenter to drop the n-word in a thread about a racially-charged news story is often a leftoid saying “Yeah, you wingnuts want to off the niggers and spics, just come out and say it.”  The id revealed, indeed.

For the record, “Roger Rabbit”, fatties and other assorted misfits who know their place aren’t the primary designated targets of CH’s very special lessons. It’s the loser apologists and degenerate freak mafia claiming the equal worth of medusas, monsters and manboobs who earn the privilege of serving as voodoo dolls to poke with pins and laugh at as they twist convulsively from searing psyche pain. Twisting which you have illustrated quite spectacularly here, for the sadistic pleasure of all reading.

So, yes, CH will continue making an example of you and your ilk to serve as a warning for the others who might get it in their heads to propagandize equalist bullshit that makes the world an uglier, fatter, gloomier place.

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Hugo Schwyzer, buffoon. Hugo Schwyzer, hypocrite. Hugo Schwyzer, self-proclaimed male feminist leader. Hugo Schwyzer, lover of porn stars, seducer of younger coeds, defiler of the matrimonial vow, potential giver of the herpes simplex Types 1 and 2, self-pegging fap-exposing murder-suicide contemplating part-time homosexing beacon of hope to dumbass feminists and their suck-up allies.

Now we can add one more honorific to Schwyzer’s curriculum vitae: Disgraced, womanly pity whore.

And who, besides Schwyzer himself, helped bring Schwyzer to the depths of the most public of public humiliations? Who was the first to mock his phoniness, ridicule his idiotic male feminist musings, turn him over on the spit for the world to poke with pointed sticks, implicate his supporters and advocates for hitching their fortunes to his ass-kissing self-aggrandizing lies?

Who, indeed.

Schwyster knows all this, too, which makes him a phonyfuck of the highest caliber. The guy spent his early years as a professor cashing in his higher status for the pleasure of fucking his 18-21 year old students. Maybe he is wracked with guilt, and his current ultrafeminist stance is his form of atonement. Or maybe (and more likely, in my view) his hypocritical feminist sycophancy is a ruse to get in the panties of the deluded naifs who take his classes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The difference between me and a lickspittle errand boy like Schwyster is that I don’t go around claiming there’s something psychologically wrong with men for desiring the hot bods and feminine charms of young women. I don’t blame a guy like Schwyster for wanting to stick his dick in his peak fertility students, nor do I stroke feminist egos to earn PC brownie points and page views.

If you want to know who got under Hugo’s skin the most, you need only see which of his tormenters goes missing by name from his meltdown Twitter feed and from his confessionals to less sadistic bloggers than CH.

The reason Hugo doesn’t want to credit the source of his everlasting torment is because CH stuck the shiv in his mottled hide hard and deep, and it’s the twist that still pains him. Unlike many more charitable judgers of Hugo Schwyzer, I feel no pity toward him, nor any incipient feeling of charity. He is a liar, a phonyfuck, a charlatan, and a male attention whore with flapping labia where his mouth should be. He is an enabler of the worst of society, a useful tool conveying the rotten propaganda of assorted losers and misfits and degenerates, singing their off-key tune while he happily cashed in his exploitative scheming for the very nubile rewards his mass of followers tune in to hear him rail against. He is utterly repellent, a lizard in human clothing. I hope that he slices lengthwise, and should he do so, I will dance a happy snoopy dance the likes of which the dark side of the internet has never seen.

But there is a bigger story here than Hugo’s personal twilight, and that is the quickness with which mainstream, widely read feminist media outlets are attempting to bury and conveniently forget their association with Schwyzer. Hugo was, for a long time, a well-regarded paid contributor to such popular feminist and feminism-favoring organs as Jezebel, BlogHer, xojaneThe Atlantic, and The Good Men Project. As Chuck noted,

But a few outlets like The Good Men Project, Jezebel, and The Atlantic took a chance on the history and gender studies professor from Pasadena City College who established himself as a male pop feminist by kissing the right asses and having sex with the right people.  Those outlets have avoided addressing their relationship with Hugo.  Jezebel’s editor Jessica Coen wrote a slippery post which was clearly about her former writer, but she wasn’t willing to actually mention Hugo by name. The post was evasive, and many commenters at the site called Coen out for it since Jezebel generally has a confrontational style.  I pitched my conversations with Hugo to The Atlantic as a tale of how two adversaries had spoken about his troubles.  Maybe my low Klout score kept the editor there from accepting the pitch.  And I didn’t go to The Good Men Project with a piece because they’re boring.  Regardless, all of those outlets saw the same person before them that me and many other critics of feminism saw, but they hosted Hugo for years.  Behold the power of telling people what they want to hear.

Funny how that works. You tell an ego-parched fug feminist what she wants to hear, and she opens her legs to your cock and her internet real estate to your cockamamie drivel, believing… oh, so very believing!… .that the male feminist lunacy dripping like honey into her ear palate was the Word of Goddess Herself. Hugo had a niche, and his sneaky fucker strategy netted him the adulation and the blowjobs he craved. Such a niche is not without its merits, but do keep in mind that being a community college professor to dimwits, however lowly in the academia hierarchy, is the lube that greases the coed skids. Playing the male feminist for fun and profit is not likely to work for the man who doesn’t have that hypergamously-grooved prof podium from which to tingle the tangles of thick-bushed queer gender studies acolytes. I don’t fault Hugo for pursuing this snatch-accumulating strategy. But I do shit in his lying face, and I do shit again in the faces of those who took his lies for truth.

So this is a glorious time to be an anti-male feminist. The wails and the rending of pit-stained t-shirts of the manboobs and the scalzied and the Dumb Hams of the world are the dulcet melodies of soaring symphonies, punctuated by the thunderous cymbal crash of lies being smashed. Ahhh, indeed.

But Hugo is an impenetrable pathological narcissist. No amount of soul shivving, however poison-tipped or torturously twisted to tickle vitals, will bring him the event horizon pain he so richly deserves. A shell entity who lives and breathes publicity, bad or good, will only welcome the psy knife that surgically pries his id. No, Hugo will only feel pain, real pain, when something else, something much more threatening to his ego survival, is presented to him. And that something else is Ostracism Total.

The targets of tender CH ministrations, then, are Hugo’s benefactors as much as Hugo himself. Jizzebel, The Atlantic, Good Men Project… you were duped, but only because you wanted to be duped. You wanted to believe in equalist, man-hating lies that caressed your stunted, shriveled, gimpy souls. You bent over and received the tepid diseased injection of a broken freak who knew how to locate and lick your ascended testes. Losers of a feather…

Jizzebel et al., you are served notice. I have you and your lackeys in my sights, and your filth that spews from the fountain of filth which is your whole stillborn existence is the effluvium I will shove back down your throats until you choke on it and recede from public discourse to clear the shit from your veins. The days when you can hire gutter liars like Hugo Schwyzer, and wallow in his fetid stink free of consequence, are over. Your only hope is to drive the Schwyzerian rats from your manicured harridan shelters, so that your circle diddles may continue under the radar of stone cold soul shivvers like yours truly with an eye and a scalpel for finding and dissecting egoistic neediness.

Then, when you — Jizzebel and the rest of the twisted sisters — have cast Hugo and his fellow castrati to the icy wastelands, will the real howls of pain fill the air to the delight of CH guardians of truth and beauty. For nothing will torment the likes of Hugo Schwyzer more profoundly than the torment of solitude.

Hugo, I know you’re reading this. If my words will bring any goodness and light to this world, your days as a lying sack of shit media token shilling for other lying sacks of shit are over. No one will call you, not even your former feminist allies. No one will publish you. No one will admire cross-eyed your throbbing intellect. No one will talk of you. No one will even think of you. When that day comes, and the barrel of the pistol is nestled in your mouth, lazing metallically on your tongue as your thinning, middle-aged lips glide over the shaft like long-ago unshaven feminist coed lovers used to do to your anti-feminist, patriarchal boner, no one, not even your family, will give a shit.

And that will be the lonely solitary pain from which you can’t escape or repurpose to your craven desires. In that moment, that sweet final moment of true and real reflection just before self-deliverance, you will think of my words, and my reminder that you had a choice to turn yourself against the mountain of lies you willingly embraced as your totem and your fate and your salvation. Sweet dreams, eternal darkness.

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