Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

Over at GLPiggy’s, a discussion has ensued about an article written by a white man describing his experience growing up in a predominantly black neighborhood in Philadelphia. It’s the heartwarming story of a good white liberal daring to confront his deepest, darkest thoughts on the subject of race and what we in the sanity industry call “reality”.

Normally, good white liberal forays into the topic of urban real estate require a handy dandy translator service if you aren’t up to speed with the encryption used to guard the moral boundaries that separate crimethink (what we in the candor industry call “realtalk”) from cocktail party sophistry. That pulpit isn’t going to draw the flocks of finger-waggers if you can’t maintain the plausible deniability of the self-righteous neo-Puritan thundering against the boogeyman of Southron witches.

Good White Liberal Translation Dictionary

“dangerous” = black
“bad” = black
“sketchy” = black
“marginal” = black
“touch and go” = black
“rough” = black
“crime prone” = black
“inconvenient” = no cabs = black
“gun free zone” = black, as translated from the MSM-ese
“no-go” = 100% black
“ghetto” = archaic, so black has become unacceptable as a euphemism
“teen gangs” = the blackest of black
“seedy” = black + street walkers
“scary” = witnessed a black committing a crime there
“tricky” = black, with some mestizos
“crazy” = more trannies than blacks
“edgy” = African immigrant blacks with jobs + overpaid gay web designers
“borderline” = black, but saw some white faces and exhaled with relief
“decent” = less black
“up and coming” = even less black
“expensive” = non-black
“yuppie” = been non-black so long forgot how bad black was
“boring” = asian

This translation dictionary is a valuable companion on your sojourns through the land of clever silly SPWLs. Good luck trying to get a high verbal IQ SWPL to admit to what they’re actually saying. You may as well try to squeeze blood from a lawyerchick. But now you don’t have to do the impossible; with this dictionary, you’ll be able to suffer through semantic legerdemain while nodding knowingly and hoisting a craft brew in tacit tribal affiliation.

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“It’s inexpensive, if you think about it. You’ll pay two-hundred and fifty for a Michael Kors. For something only half as cute.”

If this facade were to burn tomorrow, I wouldn’t shed a tear for its loss.

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The female snarl has become a topic of conversation, which is not surprising because American women in general are becoming less feminine and more churlish. When in the past women would gently demur the solicitations of beta and omega males, today they prefer the unrefined art of snarling like a hyena over a fresh kill, the kill being their overworked vaginas. Meanwhile, alpha males witness them snarling ungenerously and think, “Marriage material? Nope. Pump and dump material? Yes!”

don't bother me. i'm pooping a purple saguaro.

don’t bother me. i’m pooping a purple saguaro.

The author of the linked article posits that the frequency with which women snarl correlates to their age and the sexual market threat level of the targets of their disapproval.

A woman arguably snarls between five to twenty times a day. The frequency is directly related to maturity. The more immature, the more the snarl appears. High school, consistently snarling. College, frequently. Twenties, sporadically. Thirties, only when they see a younger woman. There have probably been a couple snarls while reading this.

Ha haa. I’d add that the snarl is increasing among all female age groups, though younger women do use it more profligately, and with good reason: there are more beta males lasciviously eyeing their goods for penile plunder. What’s a hot babe to do? She has to fend them off by the hundreds, and a fat cockblock won’t be there for her every time. So the snarl is unfurled like a banner of bitchiness.

Why do women overuse the snarl to such potent effect? Simple: they don’t get called out on it by their designated targets. Most beta males wilt like flowers in the high noon summer heat when they get blasted with the snarl shockwave. “Oh, sweet fancy moses, excuse me for so presumptuously intruding upon your oxygen supply. I shall slink away now and hope my penis has reemerged from under my pubic bone when I return hope to fap the night away.”

The thing is, the female snarl is exceedingly easy to call out without resorting to butthurt confrontation.

“Nice face.”

“Are you pooping?”

“Sniffing for grubs?”

“You look like my hamster! Wait, don’t stop doing that. It’s great!”

“Finally got a whiff of my sex panther cologne, eh?”

Or, you could answer the female snarl with the male equivalent:

i'm sorry, are you supposed to mean something to me?

i’m sorry, are you supposed to mean something to me?

Ah, the alpha male smirk. As penetrative of women’s self-entitled bitch shields as their snarl is of beta males’ self-confidence. The perfectly timed smirk is the best comeback plus more. It instantly patronizes, condescends and belittles, without so much as revealing an iota of spite or care that might be used by a woman to anchor another bitchy barrage.

A fantastically egregious bitch — let’s say, a chubster wearing too much makeup and muffin top who thinks every man wants her and deserves her worst shit tests — requires a bit more… encouragement… to reform her ill-suited attitude. In such circumstances, the smirk won’t pack the necessary wallop. You’ll need something edgier.

i see you're wearing flip-flops

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New meme over the starboard bow, courtesy of yours truly.

In case you didn’t get the message, the meme is a celebration of female suffrage and the wondrous blessings it has bestowed upon the United States of America. Thank you, ladies, for bringing freedom, freedom, and even more freedom to the most forgotten among us, and for shitting shining your light of moral rectitude on the poor benighted souls who wallow in ignorance. America is a better nation today for the collected contributions of your wisdom.

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The sports in which women compete that aren’t silly and that are actually fun to watch suffer from the problem of going head-to-head with a much better viewing alternative: namely, the men’s versions of those sports. Because, let’s just cut to the chase, at the elite level of sports (and, really, at all levels of sport except pee-wee), men are, on average, simply faster and stronger than women. Why the hell would anyone of sound mind want to watch a gimped version of his favorite sport when a more electrifying version already exists? This elementary logic escapes the feminist hivemind.

Furthermore, many of the sports in which women compete and men don’t, and which are tailored to women’s particular strengths, are unwatchable by dint of being retarded. See: synchronized swimming. There are only a handful of female-oriented “””sports””” that women compete in at a pro or semi-pro level which garner fairly large, if transient, audiences on par with the audiences that men’s sports regularly achieve. Figure skating is one example (and that mostly because women like the fact it is set to music and colorful, bedazzled costumes are worn).

Really, the only reason men choose to watch women’s sports at all is for prurient reasons, such as the exciting but rare glimpse of a wardrobe malfunction, or the slo-mo replay of pertly bottomed volleyball players diving into the sand. Otherwise, men will pass up women’s sports as long as a men’s sport is on another channel. The dirty little secret is that, among the subset of women who legitimately like watching sports, most of them will also prefer to watch the male versions of their favorite events.

I’m not anti-female athletics. Women should compete in sports, especially femininity-sharpening individual sports rather than competition-emphasizing team sports, primarily to sculpt their figures into beautiful, sexy visages that will help attract the attention of alpha males. Stay focused, ladies.

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Yet again I bore horrible witness to one of those vegetable lasagnas wearing a “This is what a feminist looks like” t-shirt. This specimen was particularly nauseating, owing to the noodled form he assumed slumped in a seated position with legs crossed, bent over at the waist as if straining to empty his bowels. No, if it were only so; had he pipetted a rabbit pellet into his skinny jeans that would have been more masculine than the real reason for his neutered posture: leaning in to hang on every word a tatted, obese woman was orating regarding the glory of Aaron Sorkin’s new libcrack show, “The Soapboxroom”.

Christ, what a spectacle.

This peculiar, penis-smooshing posture — one I see an increasing number of “males” performing uncoerced — is truly the eunuch’s mark of self-denial. It is the body language of the beta male veering into the omega dreg. It is the guilt stigmata of the man who is uncomfortable with the insouciant protrusion of his genitalia, who wishes on some Freudian level he were a girl, and who has somehow convinced himself his excitable self-flagellation is the stuff of women’s fantasies.

With this in mind, I hereby propose the universal logo of the feminized Western Male:

If someone could crop this and zoom in, that would be great. Better yet, if someone could find a human version of the above pose, with one hand propped under chin, eyes watery with intense listening, even better. Nothing quite captures the essence of the de-balled 21st Century Western male better than this sitting pose, imo.

I don’t always sit, but when I do, I sit like a boss.

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In a story about the Secret Service agents and the Colombian whore with the fake tits, I was thrown by this jarring editorial commentary that was inserted after a quote attributed to one of the agents:

“I was really checking [Sarah Palin] out, if you know what i mean?” [Secret Service agent] Chaney wrote in the comments section after friends had marveled at the photo. He is married and has an adult son.

I’m not seeing the relevance of his marital or fatherhood status to the story. Is it the “””reporters’””” contention that staring at Sarah Palin’s ass (a fine one, for a middle-aged woman) would be Ok if the agent admitting to it was single and childless?

You’ve really gotta wonder what planet these Columbia J-school grads live on. Planet Stupidity aka Feminism? Yes. You’d have to be delusional, evil or thoroughly brainwashed to think that a man’s sexual desire and attraction for hot bodied women somehow disappears after he gets married and his kid grows up. If women really think that married men stop checking out other attractive women, then I’ve got a bridge to sell them to fatopia, where fat chicks are beloved by men everywhere.

This kind of mass delusion among the elite is what happens when you ensconce them from cradle to grave in a gooey bath of feelgood platitudes, post-rationality sophistry and calculating ignorance. Nuke the beast from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure it’s dead.

A man and a woman contributed to that Washington Uterus article. I could understand a woman writing that line, deep in thrall to her rationalization hamster. Of course, an ounce of journalistic integrity should stay her hamster’s paw, but the world has changed and integrity is now a passé virtue. I doubt one bit many of the media propagandists care about their bias. War has a way of enfeebling the moral conscience.

But if the man wrote it? Such a creature would have to be a vaginaman of cavernous magnitude. Vaginaman, beta orbiter hero of feminists! Villain of clear thought and hurty feelings! He can smite logic with a mighty slap of his flappy labia. Swallow testicles in one foul orgasmic up-suck. Helicopter his engorged bitch tits like two signal flares pointing the way downward to bizarro enlightenment. He enters a slut walk, and exits…

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I’ve never understood how this leftie assertion “race is a social construct” got off the ground — I mean, I have two eyes, I can see what people look like — but for whatever reason all sorts of brainwashed numbskulls cling to the meme like a life raft. How do you argue effectively against people who so brazenly defy common sense and observable reality? At some sufficiently degenerate mental nadir it becomes impossible to engage such a person rationally. You just mock them and hope they shrink away in shame.

Mockery’s great, I love it, use it a lot in my daily life. But once in a while it’s pleasing to throw an icy cold splash of scientific debunking on false beliefs. If the perpetrator of the false belief is not insane, actual science proving the contrary might give him pause about spreading his lies. But better than that, and more probable, it will win over weak-minded conformists and status whores who are gullible to the liar’s feelgood, twisted logic, thus ostracizing him from normal people.

On that premise, here’s a loaded study — loaded with implications — about a new DNA test that can ID a person’s race.

Frudakis’ test is called DNAWitness. It examines DNA from 176 locations along the genome. Particular sequences at these points are found primarily in people of African heritage, others mainly in people of Indo-European, Native American, or South Asian descent. No one sequence can perfectly identify a person’s origin. But by looking at scores of markers, Frudakis says he can predict ancestry with a tiny margin of error. [...]

But the real [reason it isn't popular with police]? DNAWitness touches on race and racial profiling — a subject with such a tortured history that people can’t countenance the existence of the technology, even if they don’t understand how it works.

“Once we start talking about predicting racial background from genetics, it’s not much of a leap to talking about how people perform based on their DNA — why they committed that rape or stole that car or scored higher on that IQ test,” says Troy Duster, former president of the American Sociological Association.

Aaaaaaaaand…. meme CEDED motherfucker. You can’t find DNA markers of social constructs, but you sure can of biological reality. The fear here, naturally considering the PC crushing potential unlocked by such technology, is exactly what Troy Duster, former president of the American Sociological ASSociation *cough* dissembling shitsacks *cough* suggests: that the tech will be able to find genetic markers that correspond with certain behaviors and attributes. And at that point, the whole house of equalist cards carefully built up over the last, oh, 150 years, comes tumbling down.

The fear exists because those professing it know, deep in their squirrelly little hearts, that the propaganda they cherish and espouse is wrong, has always been wrong, and soon everyone will know of its wrongness. I think what they really fear is blowback. Or perhaps hopelessness. Or sinecures. Or all of that, plus the loss of a status cudgel to wield against their close cousin lessers.

Tony Clayton, a black man and a prosecutor who tried one of the Baton Rouge murder cases, concedes the benefits of the test: “Had it not been for Frudakis, we would still be looking for the white guy in the white pickup.” Nevertheless, Clayton says he dislikes anything that implies we don’t all “bleed the same blood.” He adds, “If I could push a button and make this technology disappear, I would.”

I bet a lot of members of the current ruling regime are thinking the same thing. Which is why they shouldn’t be in power, any longer.

ps hi Cheap Chalupas! :mrgreen:

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A reader claims to note a trend in online personals:

[T]his is a trend I’ve noticed online, women who are QUITE comfortable with dating someone a handful of years younger but do NOT want anyone more than a few years older than they. What accounts for this trend? I mean, you could meet a 28 year old fat dude, or a 40 year old paleo-hardened guy who looks young. Why pre-emptively discount age like that? Most women I’ve met prefer someone same age or older.

I don’t know how widespread women’s aping of men’s standards in online ads is, because I don’t do online dating (at least not recently). However, from what I’ve read about the subject, most women’s preferences in online ads is for men older than they are; which makes sense, since age is a status marker for men in a way it isn’t for women. But assuming for the sake of argument that there is a small but growing contingent of cougars explicitly seeking younger men in what amounts to a mirror image of the universal trend for men to seek younger women, I believe I have an explanation.

First, keep in mind that it doesn’t matter what women demand in online ads, because outrageous standards that are far removed from reality are quickly weeded out of contention, leaving such delusional women sad and alone in real life. A lot of loser women who do the online thing subconsciously know they aren’t going to get laid by the man of their dreams, so they throw all reason and sobriety to the wind and just go hog wild laundry listing their fantasy criteria. For these women (admittedly greater in number now than every before in Western history), it’s more about ego catharsis than about actually meeting a man. ASCII therapy with a public audience of like-minded Medusas one-upping each other to the top of the entitlement heap.

Happily punching in a feverish list of ridiculous expectations in an online ad is the emotional equivalent of plopping in front of the TV (all shows cater to women except ‘Mythbusters’ and sports) and wolfing down a tub of ice cream. Feels SOOOOO good, even if it’s SOOOO bad for her health, looks and love life. Kinda makes a tidy little metaphor for civilizational decline.

Second, the few cougars who aren’t ugly, ragged or grossly obese but who left their prime years far behind in a haze of drunken binges and cock hopping, will sometimes recognize, on a primal level, that their odds of getting a good (read: high value, sort of charmingly dickish) man of the type they pined for at age 20 to commit to them in a loving long-term relationship are very low, and that their efforts are best spent putting out for horny younger men who will at least offer a short term thrill in the sack. This phenomenon — of older woman transforming into clitorally turgid quasi-men — is not common, certainly not nearly as common as the media would have you believe. But they do exist, and you can be pretty sure that most of them could cut glass with their jaws and suffocate small dogs with their jungly, frosted pube patches. Do note, as well, that as women age their testosterone levels rise in step with their lowered expectations, making the prospect of loveless one night stands more palatable to their still feminine egos.

Let’s just say that these horncat cougars are not exactly the sorts of women older men with options want at all, and they aren’t the sorts of women younger men with no options want for more than a few no muss no fuss bangs in which to drain their aching teen balls. Because younger men, just like older men, prefer the exquisite intimacies of young women. Cougars probably know this on some deep supraegotistical level, so they respond to their constrained sexual market choices by pretending to prefer the company of younger men when in reality all they’re trying to do is avoid the soul crushing loneliness that would inevitably result if they adhered to the standards of their real desires and had to face the brutal and merciless cruelty of the sexual market head on.

Women never really lose the ability to extrapolate a one night stand into some fantastical dramatic relationship story arc, so a cougar having a couple of perfunctory fucks with an indiscriminately horny college student in a dating slump can sometimes mean the difference for her between having the will to live for another day and resigning herself to gardening and obesity. It’s not an avenue most older single women are willing to take, but for a few desperate specimens with male-like sex drives and bodies that haven’t yet gone completely to shit, it beats suddenly and unceremoniously being dumped into the invisible fringes of forgotten wastelands. At least for a few more years.

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When I had made an end of my morning labors slathering lotion on my skin to protect it from the sizzling tropical sun, it was eleven o’clock — hot but now tolerable, the air stirred by cooling winds, the rays glancing at a blinding angle off the sand. Laying on my towel face up, inviting the browning of my flesh, I swiveled my head to the left and right, to ensure my immediate area was clear for uninterrupted napping, and to savor perhaps one more plump, glistening nude buttock before I closed my eyes.

Sunlight ricocheted off the pocked sand, blinding me as I squinted to the smallest aperture possible to view my surroundings. To my right, about ten feet, two girls, early 20s, lay on a blanket on their backs, faces craned skyward. Skimpy bikinis concealed only the most imprudent parts of their lithe figures, and their pale skin, nearly as light in hue as the sand which enveloped them, showcased off-toned strap lines. I knew this because they had untangled their tops, letting the cloth rest loosely on their breasts. Giddy with freedom, they nonetheless couldn’t muster the insouciance to splay out entirely naked. Here they allowed a mere hint of their wares on one of the most notorious full nudity beaches in the world.

My right eye lingered on one girl’s twinkling side boob until I began to drift off.

As the surf sounded the seconds, there came a faint, seemingly distant patter approaching from my left.

slap slap slap

At first I thought it was the blood rushing through my ears, but as the sound congealed it became apparent the source was foreign and the noise it made strangely rhythmic, almost monotonic.

I smiled, — for what had I to wonder? Although the beach was only a third full, nothing of note ever occurred except the infrequent native pitchman hawking his trinkets. I strained to catch sight of the intruder, curious about his product for sale, but saw nothing save for bloated humps of tourist flesh possibly rolled over on their infant walruses. I grimaced that such aging monstrosities are often the ones least susceptible to self-regulating modesty.

I bade sleep welcome. But not soon enough, for the steady patter returned.

slap slap slap slap slap slap

I listened intently this time, agreeing with myself that the sound most resembled the light thwacking of a heavy, uncooked sausage against a wall or open palm. It grew ever so slightly in loudness, until, Doppler-like, it passed behind my head at its zenith and then receded, to return to prominence again in a few minutes as it swooped around the opposite side where my feet pointed.

slap slap slap SLAP SLAP SLAP slap slap slap

Ere long, I felt myself getting disconcerted and wished the sound gone. My head heavy with stupor, each time I looked around to locate my pattering torment, dazzling sunlight obscured my vision.

Had no one else been hearing what I heard? The walrus humans snorted and quivered like Jell-O, periodically scratching a fold. I fancied a hallucination brought on by the heat: but still the terrible soft patter encircled me. The gentle slaps became more distinct, less distinct, then more distinct again: I talked myself into believing it was an energetic small child bemused by a new toy to get rid of my curiosity: but it continued and once more gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise had stopped ten feet from me.

No doubt I now grew very intrigued; — but I remained unwilling to sit up for a clearer visual inspection that would solve my mystery, for there were only a few minutes left to the conclusion of my facial bronzing, a chore I had planned in advance and hoped to premiere at that night’s danceclub opening. Yet the sound stopping aggravated me even more — and why would that be so? It had stopped for a reason, and so close by, and I had to know its purpose.

I arched my head to the right, toward the girls again, and slowly gazed upward into the blackest silhouette imaginable, backlit by the blazing sun. I could see the geometric contour of a thin, sinewy man, standing close to six feet tall, looming over the heads of the girls, his face totally hidden in shadows like an eclipse, and below his torso, equally cast in impenetrable shadow, a tubular structure swung languidly like a pendulum, its edges shimmering from a corona of sunlight.

I propped myself on my elbows — could it be? And yet the beachgoers saw it not, or pretended not. The girls had just opened their eyes, possibly rousted by the man’s shadow cast across their faces, and one of them audibly gasped as she looked straight up into the vortex of the pendulous tube swaying inches over her forehead, and past it into the barely perceptible grinning mug of the man holding some primitive face masks in his right arm.

Her open mouth frozen in shock, perhaps awe, the man inquired loudly in the local dialect.

“I have masks. Very good art. Good party masks, too. Dancing masks. You wanna buy? Ten dollars, my friends.”

No reply. He talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the girls’ catatonia steadily increased. I stared at the spectacle, pondering a rescue, but all I could see were wispy limbs, torsos and heads swirling nebulously around the mammoth tube.

Finally, the girls both wriggled to their sides, holding their tops against their chests with a free arm, and assumed a kneeling position a few feet away from the pubic proboscis. They erupted in giggles, looking at each other for confirmation that what they were seeing was in fact real, and one of them shook her head no. But the other, ostensibly the mischievous one of the two, asked about his selection, which prompted him to extend his arm full of masks, the motion of which caused the tube to swing in a parabola before their faces, inciting another round of stifled giggles.

Though cast in shadow, his toothy, brilliant grin was nonetheless visible enough, accentuated by the obvious creases in his cheeks. I was certain he prowled defenseless, but easily entertained, fillies in this manner every day of the week.

A brief bargaining ensued with no sale, and the man shrugged and walked off, the slapping noise commencing once again. I watched him retreat, his consciously exaggerated gait betrayed by his muscled legs sweeping outward a bit, and as if excited to fury by the giggles of the women, the tube arched upward then fell heavily from its own weight, thumping against his thigh, grazing the knee.

And then I knew. The slapping — the irrepressible noise of flesh on flesh, growing louder, louder!, then quieter, heard by others for certain who irritated me sourly, for they never let on that they suspected the source of the noise (they knew! they were making a mockery of my horror!), and still they sunbathed pleasantly, and glistened like oiled slugs — the slapping was his enormous member, thick enough around to plug a truck exhaust, bouncing happily off one leg, then the other, as he strolled, each stride punctuated by the beast’s shaft and head landing on the thigh like a breaching whale on the ocean surface, just short of the kneecap, a full 17… 18? 22?… inches from its origin point.

slap slap slap

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I mentally swore at the thing for refusing to suppress my prejudicial stereotyping! I sat up straight from the towel upon which I had been laying, and watched the snake slither across the beach around mounds of apathetic onlookers, pausing every so often to surprise a mark into an impulse buy. I noticed he studiously avoided the naked men, who, I guessed by their indifference, had either seen the snake handler before and were inured of his infamy, or were gallantly hiding evidence of their insecurity with quick hoists of bathing suits over blotchy, reddened privates. In time, every woman, even the old ones, who caught sight of the unearthly appendage tittered like schoolgirls, laced with a hint of anxiety.

“Fake!” I announced to the brightened girls next to me, “It’s so fake. You have to admit it.”

“I don’t know. It looked real to me,” girl one demured.

“Yeah, you were pretty close to it,” scoffed girl two at her friend.

“He could rape a girl from across the beach!” girl one whispered loudly.

Disgusted with their levity, I told them that if they had grabbed the thing and tore it off at the root, they would have found the little guy hiding underneath. That it would be surprising if sex stores didn’t have very lifelike organs nowadays for sale, and this thing was his gimmick to sell child-like art to dumbstruck tourists.

In the distance, a good hundred yards from our spot, maskman waded into the turquoise water, still in shadows, his member nevertheless clearly distinct and hanging like a giant grandfather clock chime from his crotch. He grabbed the shaft in the middle with one hand (his hand did not make it all the way around), the unattached end of the leaden pipe drooping toward the water, and took a piss into the waves.

The girls looked back at me. “Fake?”

I smirked. “Camera tricks.”

Later that evening, for the first time in my life, I was less than proud of my god-given nine inches. It would be nothing but small-vaginaed asian girls for me, from then on.

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