Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

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.


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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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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