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Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

The datanauts at OKCupid ran the back channel numbers for New York City to find out who among the city’s 400,000 users on the dating site were the “most desired”, an appellation that relied on the simple metric of which users received the most messages from lovelorn horndogs. (More on that later.)

CH has taken issue before with OKCupid’s liberal-leaning data crunching team for sampling bias and misinterpretation of their findings. Analytical flaws aside, this very rough measure of “most desirable OKCupid user” does offer us a glimpse into the radioactive, hyperventilated, full metal jacketed sexual market of New York City, the American city with, arguably, the greatest concentration of 9s and 10s after LA and Miami. What does the crude sampling of OKCupid messages received say about New Yorkers’ sexual tastes?

I’m afraid, not anything flattering. However, there’s nary a fatty in sight, so at least NYC cleared that low hurdle.

First up, the NYC woman “voted” most desirable by OKCupid message ballot count is a heavily tattooed courtesan with a FUCK MY STARFISH cumdumpster gaze:

Cutting to the lace, this chick, as seen here, is a 7.5. CH deems her in her present state totally bang-worthy. But what does she look like underneath her three layers of industrial grade make-up and complimentary lighting? Drawing on my vast reservoir of expertise, I bet she drops to a 6 in the sunshine-y morning sans artificial face. The tats, of course, are a major slut giveaway. Not that sluttiness is necessarily a bad thing; it depends on a man’s perspective. Does he want a faithful girlfriend, or a bedroom adventure?

The impression this girl wants to leave on potential suitors is 1. I’m a fucktoy, 2. I will keep you at a distance and never let you know the real me, and 3. I’m an attention whore with a burdensome and unnecessary high female IQ and a low self-esteem nurtured by doubts about my ability to get a real alpha male player to commit, and so I will pretend I’m the one choosing my inglorious cad-chasing, pump and dumping lifestyle.

If you don’t believe my astute psychological diagnosis, here’s some choice quotes from her:

It doesn’t hurt that Lauren, after getting out of a four-year relationship with a “pathological liar” [ed: chicks dig... ah fuck it, you know the drill] who had a drug problem, isn’t necessarily looking for anything serious. So, in OKCupid’s searchable “I’m looking for …” section, she, like most women, selected “long-term dating,” “short-term dating,” and “new friends.” Unlike most women, she also selected “casual sex,” figuring she might as well tell the truth.

“At first, I thought if you listed ‘casual sex,’ guys would realize that even though I don’t want to be in a relationship with you, we can still go out, get drinks,” she says, but it triggered a vulgar explosion of come-ons. “It’s like, I’m not a prostitute. But they don’t get that.”

The attention, she admits, has been flattering—an ego boost after a rough breakup. She also confesses that she was “never the pretty girl” growing up and appreciates being in the position to approve or ignore other people.

Online dating: Inflating the egos of subclinical headcases since… I dunno, when did this clitshow start?

The finding of Lauren as most desirable NYC OKCupid girl also tells us a lot about what men value in women they meet online: namely, quick sex. Undoubtedly, there are hotter girls than Lauren peep toe-ing along the city’s sidewalks, but they’re not on OkCupid. Or if they are, they’re not as likely to create an image of themselves as around-the-way gothgirls. Lauren’s incomprehensibly vaunted position in the OKCupid universe is symptomatic of the problems with online dating, for both men and women: One, users (especially female users) are a self-selected bunch of marginal SMV participants. The really ugly and the really pretty are, respectively, too dispirited or too romantically successful in the real world to bother with the hassle. Two, women who dress like they spread faster than melted butter will naturally attract the eyeballs of a lot of men looking for a good time. Try to explain this common sensical functioning of the dating market to an SMRT, HIGH IQ city sister and you’ll get an earful of feminist boilerplate in return.

And don’t forget the probable demographic of OKCupid’s male users. Whom do gothgirls with NASA links attract? Nerds. What’s a nerd’s dating life like? The vast empty cosmos. Put the two together and you get a Lauren-sized ego relishing the desperation of 8,000 loveless nerds. 8,000 smart, economically productive nerds who don’t stand a chance against pathologically lying, badboy drug addicts.

I’d fuckin laugh if it weren’t so banal. No wait, I am laughing. Shitting on nerds’ hopes still puts a smile on my face.

Next up, the lesbian found to be most desirable dyke in NYC:

Justin Fuckin Bieber! Lesbians may all be grossly obese and tolerant of their scissor partners’ fatness, but judging by the photo above of most desirable lesbian in NYC, lesbians would prefer to be with very skinny women. Obligate lesbians (as opposed to cute chicks who experiment sometimes) are ugly and go out of their way to look like men, but they retain particulars of the heterosexual female mind, such as a preternatural ability to overlook physical flaws in a lover. Now I wonder if perhaps lesbians secretly desire the love of thin women, just like straight men do, but don’t give enough of a shit to bother with the effort since they know that gardening and softball sublimate nicely for bed death.

Anyhow, enough of this lesbian. I can’t stand looking anymore at those two bones passing for an ass on her.

For prolapsed giggles, here’s the photo of New York’s most desirable gay man on OkCupid:

Can we stop prancing around the subject and just admit that gay men are borderline Peter Panny pedophiles who love dat schoolboy charm? Not that I’d give them too much shit for it. If straight men had the option and the social sanction, we’d all be banging barely legal girleens.

One of the “winners’ was a straight man, but I see no reason to include his pic here. Not much to say, except he’s decent-looking and appears to have a sense of humor and knows how to demonstrate higher value, (of which the latter two traits are likely the greater attributing factors to his OKCupid popularity).

At a dark, candlelit West Village bar, James Hawver, a 29-year-old real-estate agent and New York’s most popular straight guy, is the living embodiment of his OKCupid handle, MyTiesAreSkinny. Preppily handsome, he’s dressed in a well-fitting H&M blazer with, yes, a skinny black tie and matching pocket square. James’s profile is peppered with references to his travels in Nepal and China and self-deprecatingly confident jokes like: “Ryan Gosling could play my stunt double. That is, if I didn’t already do my own stunts.” The whole profile is self-aware, right down to his height, which he lists as five-foot-nine, though he’s an inch shorter. “They say most guys add two inches,” he says, quoting OKCupid’s statistics blog, OKTrends. “I’m already behind!”

He also has a practical grasp of “law of large numbers” game.

But James has a few simple hacks to further improve his odds. He uses both ­OKCupid­ and Tinder, an app that is almost solely photo-based. Both are owned by IAC, the company that also owns Match.com. In the three and a half hours we spend talking, the phone will ping 47 times: On Tinder, 35 women will match with him; 12 women on ­OKCupid­ will either ­message or favorite him. The week before, he took a screenshot of a Tinder notification: 890 new matches, a personal record. And he has a basic strategy. Like a lot of guys, he was wasting time studying the profiles and photos of women who would never respond. Then a friend shared a deviously simple online-dating trick.

“You ready for the secret?” James asks me. “Not to blow your mind, but it’s disgusting …” He picks up his phone. “So, every couple days, I will do this,” he says. He opens the Tinder app, but before
I can see the first woman’s face, he swipes right: interested. If the woman he likes also swipes right, he has an official match. In short: He never swipes left (not interested).

“I will say yes to every single person,” James says. And he never follows up with someone who hasn’t already confirmed her interest. On ­OKCupid,­ he does the same thing: He gives everyone five stars (and if someone gives him four or fives stars in return, the site will notify him of a match). By doing so, he exposes himself to less risk, an appealing upside to James, who’s had two difficult breakups. He’s since had thousands of matches—so many that he’s had to refine his strategy.

By the way, you’ll note that James receives FAR fewer messages from women than Lauren receives from men. A handsome man simply can’t expect the same kind of lustful stampede from hordes of women than a pretty woman signaling sexual availability can expect from men.

“The last person I matched with was Allison,” he says. If he were to send a message to Allison on a Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday, it would read: Hey there Miss Allison. What kind of trouble did you get into this weekend? :) “That’s exactly what I do, every fucking time,” he says, laughing. For Wednesday: Hey there Miss Allison. What sort of trouble are you getting into this week? :) Thursday or Friday: What kind of trouble are you getting into this weekend? :) And if it’s Saturday: What kind of trouble have you been getting into? :)

Kind of a cheesy line, but if you drop it on fifty girls a week you’re bound to hit pay dirt on a couple.

The overall vibe one gets from the current online dating scene is one of self-protectiveness and exploitation. Not that it hasn’t always been like that, but these two trends have accelerated since I entered the plunderdome as a pre-teened, continuously turgid stripling. Some men are wising up to the mechanical nature of female sexuality, and women, in response (or as causal agents) are building emotional, snarl-fueled barriers around themselves, and sometimes even physical barriers like tattoos, which intimidate the beta saps and signal the alpha players to swoop in for the thrill. Women bitch about this state of affairs, but, like always, watch what they do. The vagina speaks louder than a million words.

It’s helpful to keep in mind when trawling online dating site data (you listening Rudder?) that “desirability” and “hotness” are not necessarily the same. A slutty 7 will get a lot more messages than a modest 10 for the simple reason that most men, average by definition, consider attainability in deciding which women to hit up for a romantic evening of ass eating.

And the same is true in real life. It may seem paradoxical, but the hottest girls actually get hit on less often than ordinarily cute 6s and 7s. If you want an explanation why 7s seem to have bigger egos than 9s, or why that fantastic 9 tossed you a lascivious look while that chubby 5 steamrolled right past you, there you go. This doesn’t mean really hot girls don’t know their own sexual value. 8s, 9s and 10s may not get directly hit on, but they experience plenty of indirect attention from men in the form of shell-shocked stares, furtive glances, craning necks and nervous fidgeting. Hotties subconsciously pick up these cues, but consciously may remain unaware just how awestruck men are in their company, which contributes to their frustration with not being approached as often as those subtle attraction clues from men would indicate.

It’s been said on other pickup sites, and it bears repeating: As a student of applied charisma, you’ll be surprised to find yourself having more success with hotter girls than you’re used to rather than with the plainer girls which have been your self-limiting expectation.

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Via:

The ghost of George wept.

I’m sure there’s a segment of the American public — let’s call them dickless cucks — who look at this and see a vision of progress, an America hurtling toward a bright future of rhythmic world beats, Oval Office courtship displays, and white pissboys gamely pretending to enjoy their cultural annihilation. But those of us with a bigger picture mentality see a different harbinger.

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Organizing for Action, a creepily nondescript leftoid group tasked with propagandizing President Barack Obama’s (jesus it still sticks in the craw to say that) healthcare law, have released an ad campaign on Twitter under the hashtag #GetTalking that, well, you’ve gotta see to believe.

I didn’t think it possible that the Barack Boyman Brigade’s “Hosurance” ads could be beat in loathsomeness, but you’d never go broke underestimating the junk-tucking faggotry of Obama’s sop troops. You could build an online comedy empire just copy/pasting Obama Administration-authorized jpegs.

No wonder feminists are so bitter. These are the newborn androgynes they’re stuck dating. The feminist has sold her womanly soul — what was left of it — for a battalion of bootlickers to escort her to ideologically reaffirmed spinsterhood.

Can you look at that swaddled manlet for more than two seconds without laughing? I could carve a better man out of a banana. We laugh because that’s one of our natural human reactions to seeing something repugnant. It’s similar to the chortles induced when watching a fat woman trip and bounce a few times off the pavement. So gross, we have to laugh it off.

Think about why this ad was approved for mass distribution. Your first instinct is to ask yourself, “What were they thinking?”. A fair question. It’s targeted at urban liberal SWPLs, just the demographic filled to brimming with these vegetable lasagnas. A brimful of asslove off the 95.

So right there you know that Obama’s healthcare law needs these effete clever sillies to sign up so that the money can be compassionately thieved and redistributed to the parasite class (soon to capsize and tip over into majority status). Perhaps the creators thought that a gelding in a onesie was the way to appeal to the SWPL yuppies they need to sign up. If they thought this, and their intentions were sincere, we can conclude that stuff like this works on SWPLs because SWPLs take a kind of twisted retard pride in acting and looking like house eunuchs. To them, this androgynous lifestyle of hot cocoa and plush jammies signals sophistication and success. They’re so coddled and insulated in their Caplan-esque bubble that they can’t tell when they’re coming off like perfumed pansies. Cerebral Scalzi, meet schizopareeneia.

If Obama’s supporters and media messengers are all mental and sexual onesies — and evidence accrues that that is indeed the case — then these ad creators would have no clue that they’re broadcasting prime mockery material to their enemies. It’s hard to believe that could be true, what with all those 130+ IQ neoCalvinists comprising the Obama cult machine, but accelerated social sorting by ideology can easily blind a person to how they’re perceived by those not like him.

The other explanation is that “Organizing for Action” knows exactly what they’re doing, and have concluded that savagely ridiculing their own base and benefactors is the road to victory. I’m not sure how they connect the dots in that strategy, although I could see how self-deprecation can work as a status signaling tactic among people ensconced in a hermetic cultural milieu. It may also reflect a deep-seated need by Obama’s leftoid advocates to burnish their anti-white (really, anti-self) bona fides, and belittle the American white man as a satisfying reminder of his diminishing place in the homeland he built. For many SWPL liberal whites, astonishing as it may seem from an evolutionary genetic perspective and to people still in possession of healthy mental faculties, the thought of psychological and demographic self-castration sends a tingle up their legs.

So here we are, presented with yet another emasculated white male as the punchable face of Obama’s America. There are shreds of hope…

…but the balance is rapidly tipping, in numbers and in influence over national affairs. The man on the right dies in pointless wars for a ruling elite staffed by an army of de-balled fancyboys like the male on the left. Who do you think sets the agenda, writes policy, propagandizes it and puts it into action? It isn’t the guy with the gun. As a commenter at Randall Parker’s Parapundit wrote, if we had a real democracy, a political system where the majority’s wishes were actually obeyed by the elite, America would look a lot different:

The elite support democracy but democracy of the sort the Western industrialized nations have in which all but the most trivial decision-making processes have been removed from elected representatives and placed in the hands of unelected judges, bureaucrats, and trial attorneys.

Populism is in complete opposition to this type of democracy. If the people could vote directly on each individual issue, they’d support all these things: an end to almost all immigration, legal and illegal, and sending back people in the country illegally. Strong defense, but non-interventionist foreign policy. Strong tariffs on just about everything to put American workers back to work. Tough crime laws and severe prisons. Death penalties after one month. Gun ownership, but with licensing. Removal of vagrants from the streets. Forcing the mentally ill into institutions. Equitarianism not egalitarianism. Forced government jobs for everyone who can’t find one in the public sector. An end to affirmative action. You get the idea, they are on the opposite side of the elites on all issues.

A male in a onesie. There’s your ruling elite running the country into the ground.

Populism — strictly, white populism — is dangerous to the elite, and that explains their program of importing a new people to undercut the influence of the middle class whites who represent the greatest threat to an avaricious, globalist, culturally severed ruling class intent on hoarding power until their last breaths and the last breaths of their assortatively inbred posterity. And you know, the elite might win, because the majority’s wishes, courtesy of the open borders project of soft genocide and demographic replacement, will soon align with the elite’s wishes.

A soft, neutered pale Ewok as the representative of America’s bold march into a progressive, humanist future. A discrete choice made by a discrete committee in a sea of remarkably similar thematic choices, and yet this seemingly trivial promotional decision tells us so much about the mind of an enemy moving precariously close to outright tyranny as the next evolution from psychological debasement to achieve its goals.

You know what’s happening? Multidirectional, multivariate, multicausal American decline. Every metric, every signpost, every judicial fiat, every subversive narrative points to the same destination: The drain. The deviants and degenerates and destroyers are as close to the sun now as they’ve ever been. This is their moment. They can feel the warmth of validation. The radiant glow of coerced acceptance. The flare of triumph over human nature. Fat Pride, Femcunt Pride, Freak Pride, Furry Pride, Slut Pride, Anti-White Pride, Gay Pride and now Pantywaist Pride. Pride cometh before the fall.

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Our devolving culture is disaggregating into its origin slime so rapidly it’s hard to distinguish parody from reality anymore. Behold:

Do not adjust your vertical or horizontal. What you are seeing is real. It’s an Obamacare ad campaign, currently appearing in Colorado (which means Coloradan taxpayers may be funding this flagrant farce). As an astute reader noted, advertising can be pretty creative when there’s only one choice on the menu.

Just when you think you’ve got a handle on how low the US elite can go catering to the orc and pork armies, a new shit pit is excavated. Ponder the above.

- Ebonics website URL (doyougotinsurance.com? what’s next? muhfugginfreeshit.com?)
- Fat ass chick crushing her giant pink ball. This is the new rotund normal, you’d better embrace it, fucknozzle. I don’t care if your hands can’t reach past her second belly fold.
- The dispensing with any pretense that Obamacare is about anything other than a money spigot that no one (worth caring about) has to pay for.
- The ankle tattoos. Is that a “Z”? Did Zorro rapier her snatch and leave his calling card?
- Gotta love the wine and exercise juxtaposition. Yeah, that’s how you want to work out… drunk.
- Success in life is measured by how many good bottles of wine you can score.
- The whole scene is meant to evoke the livin’ LARGE lifestyle of the modern SWPL brunch-scarfing, egg-dying, government-idolizing liberal tart. I think the fat one is shitting Shonda Rhimes.
- Dat manjaw on the left one. In case you forgot that testosterone-charged women are now running the show… into the ground.
- Ali and Caitlin are not sweatin’ it, because women were not put on this earth to worry about how they’ll pay for all their nice shit. Who are you, some misogynist who wants to stop giving women freebies? *squaawk* War on women!

You want to rebuke the ruling class for assuming the average American woman is an idiot, but then they have a point. This is our culture now, and the lords of lies are merely speaking the primitive language of their degraded subjects.

Another one:

Why do ads that, by any reasonable suspicion, seem primarily aimed at the problems of minorities, feature white people? CYA? Revised expectations? Or is it that our new healthcare overlords know they need white people on board, because who else is gonna fund this free lunch extravaganza? We’re living in a banksters paradise, and you’re the sucker.

“OMG, he’s hot!”

OMG, the country is going bankrupt.

“Let’s hope he’s as easy to get as this birth control.”

Because men are hard to entice with sexual favors. :roll:

“My health insurance covers the pill, which means all I have to worry about is getting him between the covers.”

Slut pride. Daddy’s little girl is all growed up. The disclaimer is a riot. What’s this “common sense” they speak of? Not sleeping with every man who will dump a quickly forgotten fuck in her? Talk about a fine print buzzkill.

“Susie & Nate, Hot to Trot”

Girl: He doesn’t have to stick it in my pooper anymore! *thumbs up*
Guy: You mean I can cum in this sloot and get my Aunt Gertrude and that fat beta in accounting to pay for the privilege? *smirk*

CH has drawn up amended — and more bracingly honest — editions of these CO Obamacare “hosurance” ads.

Hold on… I’m getting an image in my head… a picture is forming… a picture of America in 2013. Ah, here it is:

Put her down.

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One of the biggest problems of our phallocentric culture is the constant pampering to the superficial behavior of men. The dating arena is a prime example of this. I won’t ridicule mainstream dating advice. That the “golddigger” strategy is dubious at best should be common knowledge by now. Instead, I want to attack a particular corner of the Internet that proclaims that they have the solution to the dating problem: the so-called “women’s issues” community. A lot of the criticism applies to the “glamourmagosphere” as well, though.

What struck me always as absurd was that those alleged relationship madams didn’t teach women to “woman up”. No, not in the “be a real woman and get a high-paying career so you can marry a grateful niceguy after you’ve had your fun”, but for real. They just don’t tell you to stand up for yourself. No, instead you are supposed to become an expert on cosmetology, fashion, exercise science, gossip, looking your best, behaving in a sweet feminine manner, and all kinds of frivolous nonsense. This alone should make any reasonably smart woman very skeptical. Even if this stuff worked — wouldn’t you want to have an at least halfway intelligent man instead, since as we know intelligence and primal biological sexual preferences are mutually exclusive?

That’s not all, because mainstream relationship madams also tell you how you should react to his ambiguous behavior. They call it “charming” when he’s acting flirty towards you, and tell you to “just keep making him chase you, girl!” Do you know what any girl with an inkling of self-respect would do? If he’s charming, you just move on, but if he’s really sexy and dangerous, you can just tell him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, some men are so damned sexy that they’ll get turned off by that and next you.

The men you’re interacting with are supposed to be adults, but if he behaves like a high value man with options, you have the choice of either confronting him or trying to change his behavior. Have fun with that! What also works is to not bother with him and looking for a more mature man instead. By “mature” I don’t mean some boring man with no game, but a man with a modicum of mental maturity who has a bug up his ass about the idea of having to impress the opposite sex. Mental maturity depends on a cultivated resentment that there exist two sexes with differing reproductive goals and psychologies that must be accommodated if one is to make it through life as something more than a loveless loser. There are plenty of shockingly immature normal people who don’t carry chips on their shoulders — men and women — around.

Let me just dwell on this topic a bit longer. Probably any girl who ever agreed to go out on a date with a man, or went along with it when he wanted to “hang out” will have experienced that some men just won’t commit. No, they don’t toss you out of bed. Instead, they just don’t show up three months later. A smart way of dealing with this problem is to make the man wait a little for sex so that you can tell if he’s the type just looking for a fun time or if he’s really into you and wants a deeper relationship.

It is not the case that men are unaware that they are cagey about commitment. I guess the “matriarchy” keeps them down so that they can’t pick out a ring and marry you, or just say “I don’t want a relationship” in the first place. What do those ridiculous dating madams aka your grandmas tell you, though? They talk about “getting Mr. Right”. You’re supposed to keep showing cleavage and dressing sexily and putting on make-up and watching your figure and flattering him to “build attraction”, and if he still won’t commit, you’re supposed to play hard to get and withdraw sex and generally act as if time is short and you need real commitment before your peak fertility window of desirability closes.

I mean, whom are those “relationship artists” kidding? Even if you managed to eventually win such a man over, what kinds of precedents did you set? If anything, the man now knows that you like him for more than sex (horrors!), and that you’ll work hard to pin him down in a long-term relationship. He knows that you’re a completely normal woman who happily gives up self-righteous celibacy for the remote chance to get some love. As if a man’s love was the solution to anything (*snort*)! Instead of calling him out on his foot-dragging, you invite him to remain indecisive, and you even make excuses for his normal male behavior, all for love!!! This is nothing but absurd. Congratulations, you’ve turned yourself into what they call a “lovestruck girl.” Yes, this — “relationship game”, they call it — is the supposed alternative to mainstream dating advice. It’s laughable.

“Relationship management” and “beautification” are just more elaborate forms of penis worship and pedestalization. Women will never earn their self-respect until they are ready to “go their own way”.

Many thanks to Paul Elam for publishing this post at his blog A Voice For Women.

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It’s that time of year. Secularized America’s new number one holiday demands your careful consideration. As a man, you have one job every Halloween: dress in a costume that tells the world an alpha male is hiding underneath.

Rule #1: Don’t do “couples costumes”. Actually, that’s the only rule. Not only are couples costumes betatizing, they’re dorkifying. If you insist on doing a couples costume, make sure it’s a) something totally demeaning to polite company:

or b) something super sexy that leaves you with a semi all night:

In the above couples costume scenario, you’d be the guy holding the scissors to a piece of her tape. “hold this thread as i walk away… as i walk awaaay!…”

If the very limited selection of acceptable couples costumes isn’t your thing, you can go the conventional alpha male costume route:

Or, for you renegade alphas who love to both follow orders and break rules:

But the best alpha male costume is one I saw many years ago, if by “alpha male costume” we mean a costume that attracts battalions of beautiful babies. That is, after all, what alpha male is supposed to signify, right? A man of irresistible allure to women. Or, in this specific case, a costume that imbues a man with irresistible allure. Drumroll please….

CONTRAST IS KING!

Yeah, that’s it above. The most alpha male costume I ever saw, judging by the number of giggling women gathered round to admire and caress him, was a muscular guy wearing nothing but an over-sized diaper and baby bonnet, holding a rattle.

Talk about baby balls.

WARNING: Do NOT try this if you’re a soft, pasty, herbaceous manboob. It only works if there’s a contrast between the baby costume and your natural virile masculinity. This means if you look like John Scalzi, wearing a diaper will freak people out who might mistake you for some weird sexual pervert who strayed from his masturbatorium. Yes, even on Halloween.

Since we’re on the subject of diapers, it would be a tremendous alpha male coup if you could manage to dress up as the Engineer from Prometheus.

CH: “No body suit required.” :wink:

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Sperglord, or Master Meta-Troll, Bryan “the moral and utilitarian thing to do is open the border to my rectum to any undersexed homosexuals so that Gross Domestic Penis is increased” Caplan is hosting an Open Borders Logo Contest. Naturally, the site was infiltrated with mischievous pranksters (Leroy Krune!). My favorite so far:

I think the funniest thing about the pranksters is how oblivious Team Autist appeared to be to their pet project getting tooled so blatantly. One of the Team Autist members, Rojas, “Liked” Krune’s obvious trolls multiple times.

If I were to design an Open Borders Logo, it would pack a little more visceral punch.

UPDATE

Here’s the Immigration Restrictionist Logo:

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The modest Lion of the Blogosphere tirelessly works to alert the citizenry to the threat of death by cow, but there is another evil that lurks in our nation’s parks and quiet retreats: death by tree.

This is not the first time a rogue tree has snuffed out a life. Four years ago, a woman was killed and a man put into a coma by falling tree limbs. Three years ago, a man walking through Central Park minding his own business was taken out by a psychopathic tree limb. Witnesses heard someone yelling “This is for Treevon”, which news outlets were slow to divulge.

The number of casualties and severity of the crimes tell the story: Trees are more dangerous than cows.

My suggestion is to remove your headphones when walking through areas known to be populated by aggressive, killer trees with low future time orientation. You need to be aware of your surroundings so that you can move out of the way when you hear the crack of a giant limb about to hurtle to the ground. Another suggestion is to reduce immigration of less competent people.

Delligatti and other people who live nearby told Fox 5 they were not surprised by the falling tree. They say many of the trees in Kissena Park appear to be in bad condition.

“They need another program where competent people, tree people, [sic] to come around and assess which trees should be taken down, because it’s a mess,” said Delligatti.

The demographic future of America is on track to be comprised of many more incompetent people than we have now, so expect these sorts of “mishaps” to occur more regularly. It’s time to plan your daily life around the reality that there is a big, intrusive government which claims it will take care of you but actually does a bad job of taking care of you.

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I’m a stay-at-home dad to twin 4-year-old girls who are already smarter than me, and my wife is a brilliant doctor who kicks ass and saves lives every day.

From an article by a nominal man who feebly spurts many words onto Slate’s page describing how much his penis scares him.

Congratulations, Mr. Andy Takes-It-In-The-Hinds, your utterance is event horizon manboobery.

The manboobs have been emerging from their micropeen dens in force lately, poking their cock thimbles into the daylight for a breath of fresh air. There is no depth of self-degradation which they will not entertain to relieve themselves of the burden of being born male.

It’s enough nauseating masochism and putrid suck-uppery to make one wonder if the whole thing, written on the Slate halls and the Salon walls, is one giant schtick. Performance parody art that has somehow gelled organically to coax the mischievous participation of male simulacra from across the media landscape.

If only it were so. But no, the likelihood is that these loathsome creatures are sincere. Blame it on estrogen in the water, the lack of a cleansing apocalypse, or feminist shrikes lashing fat nerds with their six inch clits, the fact is that the sack of America is shrinking and her bitch tits are filling up with ululating manboobs.

Some readers may wonder, if this guy is such a grotesquerie in spirit and mind, how did he manage to get a wife? Well, quality matters. If you’re fishing around the dregs of womanhood, it’s not hard to wife up. The orcas and pasty frumps and stubbly manjaws will practically throw themselves at you. Another thing to keep in mind is that just because a guy can claim married status doesn’t necessarily mean he’s enjoying the marital fruits, if’n ya know what I mean.

UPDATE

A charitable reader suggests that this manboob is actually engaged in a form of psychological passive-aggressive warfare with an intended audience of one: His breadwinner wife. He wants his ballbusting, careerist Asian wife to know he has options, or at least that he has been thinking about having options, and the manbooby way to deliver this message is by puling about how ashamed he is of his lustful thoughts for all the hotties he sees every day. Of course, he wouldn’t have to put on this circus if he wasn’t a stay-at-home castrati married to a Tiger doctor. But he is, and so he finds himself using a warped variant of Dread Game to keep his wife interested.

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Behold your modern White man of the West. Honored descendant of great warriors:

…brilliant thinkers:

… and sturdy yeomen:

Fatter, wimpier, more pathetic. Bequeathed a noble heritage that perhaps surpasses every other culture’s heritage come before or since, the modern Western White man disgraces his forebears in all manner, by every measure. His disgrace and capitulation to pampered weakness is so complete, the great men of his lineage would scarcely recognize him as human, let alone as a child of their righteous loins.

He submits to the raping of his countries’ largesse by invading foreigners and citizen subversives. He excuses the actions of those who would sooner wipe him from the face of the earth, and whips himself into a fervid masochistic spectacle for imagined sins purged on the altar of social standing. He spits on his brothers for a pittance and he salts the soil from which his dwindling posterity must grow. He amuses himself with parlor games and slick sophistry, while he hypocritically runs from the very heart of his words to outpost gardens that shelter his sermonizing from scrutiny. He has let his women run wild, appeasing their last whim, and in return has been rewarded with their total disrespect for his pleasure, for his dignity, for his presumption. He indulges in stupefying drugs of the belly and the mind, concentrated by his soft-pedal puppeteers for maximum potency, and loses himself in petty pop culture distractions so perfectly crafted to sedate any spark of fighting spirit or any glimmer of awareness at his decrepit prospects. He licks the boots of his self-assumed betters and endures their debt-propped credentialist servitude in hopes of a place at the shrinking table, or he denies betterment and retreats to a spiteful underculture of crass gluttony and exhilarating dysfunction. He dutifully mouths ruling class slogans as he bristles incoherently within a maze of diverse strangeness and under the gaze of cold surveillance. He wars with his masculine essence, surrendering to caricature or to simulated castration.

He farms gold, he uploads, he downloads, he pants loads, he MGTOWs, he cube codes, he Insta-chodes, he’s friendzoned, he faps alone, he dates low, he marries old, he’s sorta ‘mo (he’s proud to show), he cornholes, he corn sows, he’s a cuddle pro, he tucks a micro, he’s equality yo, he’s a harmless bro, he fucks slow (first licks her hole), no means no (as he well knows), he’s wow just wow (brash scares him so), he’s status quo, he’s a quota goat, his girlfriend’s gross (he won’t tell her though), he nuzzles cows, he scrapes and bows, he’s a cog-to-go, he luvs a ho, his titties grow, he’s GIRL YOU GO!, his ex-wife’s boyfriend spends his dough, his girlfriend fucked an asshole…

…he knows no home to call his own.

The modern Western White man is one fat fold away from watching forlornly as his scepter and orbs of manly pride dip below a tragic horizon, forever out of sight.

But, hey, those smartphones are nifty, right? You can use them to call for help when another fat feminist or ingrate racial huckster shits in your face for fun and profit.

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