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If you hang out with a mixed group of friends on regular occasions and at venues that encourage the taking of group photos, you can’t help but notice patterns in how the women organize themselves for the camera lens. This snapshot (heh) of female behavior illuminates so much more than lighting and focal preferences.

There’s always the Lens Hog, of course. She’s usually the hottest and most sociable girl. Her spot is right up front, center, and smiling like she has a huge secret about a rival she can barely contain. She stands with her hip jutting outward for maximum femininity. She is a leader partly as a function of her looks and partly because her looks have facilitated her fearless socialization, which often cows other girls to fall in line behind her.

Where it gets interesting is in how the women below the Lens Hog on the female hierarchy self-arrange for “spontaneous” group photos. The jockeying for snapshot status is nasty, brutish and short; a years’ worth of repressed emotions often gets played out in the few seconds it takes for a bunch of women to line up for a group shot.

First up is the Court Concubine. This just-short-of-pretty girl has flirted with every man in her social group, and has probably slept with at least two of them who have high fived each other over it. She’s fun, but she’s no alpha’s first choice. She will scoot right away for a position wedged in between the men standing in the back line of the photo, with her arms draped languidly over the adjacent dudes. She’s the one whose boob “accidentally” presses into some guy’s chest. (Or belly, if she’s short.) And in every photo her headlights are on, for some reason.

Next is the Queen’s Consort. She’s the second in command girl who’s almost as pretty as the Lens Hog but not as extroverted. She shadows the Lens Hog and will quickly assume a position at her side for a photo. Her smile hints at resentment. She looks like she sticks pins in a voodoo doll of her hotter friend. She screws like she’s getting back at all the Lens Hogs who robbed her of the throne, and that’s a good thing.

Then there’s the Chubby Jester. She’s sorta cute, sorta chubby, and lots o’ fun. She has the personality of a hot girl trapped in a mediocre girl’s body. She will beeline for a spot in no-woman’s-land, tucked between the front and back lines, so that her body is obscured but her face shines for the camera, looking like it sits, disembodied, atop the shoulders of the girls situated just in front of her. It’s all smoke and mirrors with this girl, but at least her smile is genuine.

The interchangeable Pawns are next. These girls are filler for the cheap seats. Neither pretty nor ugly, sociable nor shy, they dutifully attend to their posts in the wings of the photo, adding heft and preselective gravitas to the stars at the center. Many of these girls are off the market, and have grown weary of the group photo circus. They no longer care about maneuvering for status or pleasing the men or the Lens Hog; they’re just there out of a sense of obligation and to drink and say to themselves that at least they’re not like those couples who sit at home all the time schnoococoonoocuddling. They take their sweet time finding a spot in the photo line-up, which ironically makes them seem more photogenic.

In the mix you may toss the Facebook Whore. A subspecies of the classic attention whore, the Facebook Whore angles for a position that will produce a photo she can upload to Facebook that will best reveal her carefree, sexually wild social life to the asshole ex-boyfriend she still loves. She is the one with her tongue out, like Miley Cyrus having an epileptic fit. She’s not particularly well-liked by anyone, so she often winds up at the edge of the photo leaning way in, out in front of the other girls, grabbing some of the Lens Hog’s limelight. She’s a clueless photobomb. A photoboob.

The Pained Plain Jane cuts a sad figure. She hates these stressful social tests, because she knows she’s not pretty enough to compete with most of the girls but there’s no opt-out clause that would save her dignity. If she tries to ignore the group photo, her friends will think she’s being anti-social and draw attention to her pitiful solitude with cloyingly earnest solicitations. If she joins, she looks out of place, her bland features thrown into saturated relief, her smile so fake and try-hard and now permanently recorded for history. So she loiters around the periphery of the assembling and rapidly congealing group, takes a shot at a position well within the bowels of the group in hopes she’ll get lost in the jumble of faces, gets pushed aside by another girl gunning for the same spot, and eventually settles like a gimp sea turtle shuffling into a hole in the beach sand at the far reaches of the group to lay her forgotten eggs, where ironically everyone who views the photo will notice her because she’s the only girl not being embraced by anyone.

Finally, there’s the Photogeneric Fug. Ugly, knows it, has stopped pretending she’s not. She doesn’t need the excuse of a group photo opt-out clause. She just heads for the bar to munch on beer nuts and mentally formulate her next Tumblr post about cisgender privilege.

The group photo sociosexual dynamic provides plenty of opportunity for the player to exploit. For instance, take a firm hold of the shoulder of the Pained Plain Jane as she’s wandering in utter confusion and panic around the gathering crowd, and hustle her into your orbit at the center of the group. You’re now her white knight rescuer. Except little does she know you’re using her as a pawn to tease the hottie you really want. “Hey stop hogging the camera. Your big head is blocking out your friend here.” You get points for the chivalry and the neg. Caress your wallet condom, because it’s about to taste freedom tonight.

PS: There’s one other type of girl you sometimes see at group photos. She’s a rare bird, but getting less rare. Her sleazy beauty is juxtaposed against her abominable character. She’s the “group selfie” girl who will stretch out her arm and take a selfie — like Barack Kenyatta Obama recently did at Mandela’s funeral — of herself surrounded by her group of sycophants. It’s one thing to take a selfie in the privacy of your bathroom and tweet it because THIRSTY ATTENTION WHORE, or to take a selfie in public while on vacation because you’re too shy to ask for assistance; but it’s a whole other level of narcissistic indulgence to force all your friends to squat like a human halo around your awesomeness as you point that camera straight up your nostrils.

You, Group Selfie Girl, deserve exactly one pump — like Obama’s first term — and one dump — like Obama’s second term.

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Friendships across the sexes appeal to different kinds of men, and among those men who pursue them only a paucity are any good at it. Most men are bros; they don’t have close friendships with women they aren’t banging. They have, at best, acquaintances of the opposite sex, beyond their girlfriends or wives.

What kind of man has lots of real female friends? Usually, the kind of man who has trouble making real male friends, or who has little desire to hang out with men. A select group of men do have real friendships with women, but these men, by virtue (or vice) of their talents with the ladies have difficulty building solid friendships with other men.

Men who are good at befriending women and bad at (or otherwise uninterested in) befriending other men fall into three identifiable categories.

1. The Latent Lover

The classic sneaky fucker, minus the malevolence. This guy is charming, challenging, and a pro at making women feel sexually alive. His MO is to flirt with every woman who passes the threshold of bangability. He loves the company of women because he genuinely loves the peculiar qualities of femaleness. Married, single, feminist, feminine… he seduces them all, though he may not necessarily have sex as a goal in mind. He loves the lip-licking, hair-tossing, heel-dangling, cheek-blushing, pupil-dilating, mannerism-mirroring reactions of women who delight in his dispensations.

As you can guess, the Latent Lover engenders envy and defensiveness in other men, particularly men whose women happily partake of the LL’s deftness at handling their hamsters. He may mean no harm, (although he sometimes does), but women’s submission to his graces threatens their watchmen. This dislike between mate guarders and smooth charmers is a two-way street; the Latent Lover is indifferent and often bored by the company of men, especially after 5pm. He prefers a life of adventure, and what’s more adventurous than navigating the alien terrain of women’s minds?

2. The Fun Chum

This guy is funny, upbeat and expert at syncing with women’s predilection for unseriousness. When things get tense, he’s the man that blows it open with a well-timed quip. What the fun chum lacks in a sexy vibe, he makes up with a commitment to social levity. He won’t generate any tingles, but women love to be around him because he takes their minds off of the constant intrasex backbiting that characterizes most female friendship rings.

The flaw in the Fun Chum is how quickly he annoys the shit out of other men. They think he acts like a fool. Or, worse, like a dancing monkey. He’s not romantically threatening, but he is unmanly in his quickness to resort to histrionics. He’s a man who takes more pleasure is making women laugh than in making other men comfortable with his presence. In small doses, he’s liked by everyone and a welcome spice to any party. In doses large enough to vault him to the center of attention, his accumulation of male enemies rapidly multiplies.

3. The Beta Supplicator

We all know this archetype. He’s got a lot of female friends for one reason only: he has trained their egos to be dependent on his incessant flattery and awesome ability to sympathize, sometimes to the point of tears. Some women — really cool bitches, usually — see through his act, but most enjoy their own little lickspittle to lavish them with the “you go grrl!” nostrums that they need to survive the endless judgment of a ruthless sexual market. And the Beta Supplicator is happy to indulge, because without his facility at vomiting a steady stream of nauseating unctuousness he would get no female attention at all, asexual or otherwise.

Naturally, the BS man is despised by other men, including BSers. His worst sin is not that he sucks up to women, as bad as that is, but that his suck-uppery is so blatantly ineffective and his motivations so transparent to men, if not to women. He’s a eunuch in practice, an anhedonic lump of indeterminate doughiness. A worm. A lapdog. A nasally herbschling. He has few real male friends who can stand his schtick. So why is his kind so numerous? Why do other men tolerate him? One, he’s no romantic threat, so most men find the effort to dislodge him from their women’s lives a bother not worth tackling. Two, the Beta Supplicator can occasionally serve a useful purpose as an emotional sponge who absorbs all the boring relationship talk that those women would otherwise dump on their jerky boyfriends. The BS boy is like the harem guard, except instead of guarding them from sexual predators they guard the harem king from dealing with the bitching and moaning of his concubines.

***

As archetypes, it should go without saying that plenty of exceptions exist. For instance, the company of socially savvy, “leader of men” alpha males is sought and enjoyed in nearly equal measure by other men and by women. And plenty of Latent Lovers and Fun Chums are socially adept enough to know where the romantic line is drawn and to know how to speak the language of men. The above archetypes are simply examples of men who are unusually good at befriending women while being noticeably less good at befriending men.

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The Anti-Gnostic writes a very good post about Obamacare, and the unsustainable folly of the welfare state in general.

There are many layers of confusion [about the medical insurance business], so let’s take a look at some facts.

1) Most people lose money on insurance, because most of the time insurance doesn’t pay out more than it takes in.

2) Thus, a “good” policy is a catastrophic-coverage-only, high-deductible policy, where most payments are out of pocket. This is a policy that protects you against the downside risk, but where you lose a lot less on average.

3) This is because the purpose of insurance is to protect yourself from *catastrophe*, not to make routine purchases.

4) For example, if you went to Best Buy and whipped out your home insurance card to get a new flat screen TV, everyone would look at you as a crazy man. “Don’t you know that home insurance is only for fires and floods, and not for routine purchases?”

5) And so it should be with health insurance, because you’ll actually — *provably* — pay less with a high deductible plan for all but catastrophic conditions.

6) Indeed, the most innovative and technologically advanced areas of medicine are ambulatory areas in which people feel that markets are “ok”. These are paradoxically the most trivial areas: lasik, plastic surgery, dermatology, dentistry, even veterinary medicine.

7) Why are these areas so advanced? Because people pay cash money, because they choose based on quality, and because they are *able* to choose — i.e. they aren’t being wheeled up to the hospital in a gurney in a no choice scenario.

8) Moreover, with every technology ever, from cars to cell phones to air travel to computers, things that start out expensive become cheaper when enough people demand them. With medicine it seems to bite more that money means differences in care. But at the end of the day doctors, patients, nurses, drugs, ambulances…all that stuff means real resources, and a refusal to do explicit computations just results in massive waste as costs are shunted to a place where no one looks at them.

9) How insane is it, for example, that in this age of internet shopping that you can’t do comparison shopping on a hip replacement or a physical on the internet? It has to do with the irrationality that surrounds the concept of paying for the most valuable service of all: for someone saving your life.

10) Now let’s consider the elderly. The big problem here is that there IS going to be a catastrophe that hits them with probability 1. It’s called dying from being old.

11) If you know anything about medicine, you know that futile care is a ridiculous proportion of healthcare expenditure.

12) Now, in the abstract everyone is all about taking care of the elderly. Witness [another commenter's] bleeding heart:

“Were they to offer profitable policies to old people, the premiums would be unaffordable.”

The whole point is that *old people are going to die* with probability 1. So let’s take those evil capitalists out of the question, and assume for now that no innovative entrepreneur could figure out something win/win for his own grandpa. …
Now we are in the realm of social justice. Which sounds so nice in the comments section. Until [the commenter] answers the question: how much of his children’s money does he want to spend on futile care for 83 year old Emma in Ohio? For 74 year old Bill in Texas? For countless, endless, unnamed others?

Because you can spend ALL of your money on futile care. Literally every last penny.

So now he says, “well, of course there have to be limits”.

And here we come to the nub of the matter.

This is h-bd land. We are adults. We understand hard facts.

One of those hard facts is that until Aubrey de Grey really gets on the hop, people *are* going to die.

The question is whether they die when THEY and their family run out of money — localizing the catastrophe — or whether every single one of them is connected to a public purse that they can draw down without consequence.

Because draw it down they will.

You see, for most of us, if our own mother was on a deathbed, if we had the ability to tax and steal from Joe and John and James to keep her alive we wouldn’t think twice about it. Because even if it took a million dollars in stolen tax money a day to keep her alive, well, hell, then I guess they’ll just have to work harder.

The problem, of course, is when everyone thinks this way.

Because what quickly happens is that once you’ve given the government access to that giant pool of money, they make damned sure that no one ANYWHERE is spending that money other than them…and then too only for the express purpose of the vote-buying schemes that our esteemed host has bought hook, line, and sinker.

That money is not spent for saving any more mothers.

Not for actual care.

Not for innovative treatments.

Not for anything other than the necessary minimum to keep up the facade, to buy people’s votes.

But hell, what does it matter, right? At least now we’re all equal. Equally poor in health. We’ve defeated the Magic of the Market. We can now allocate scarce resources not through merit or money, but through queues and connections and politics.

Like this.

Biogen Idec is running an early-stage trial of the drug in multiple myeloma, but Baron doesn’t meet the criteria to participate.

Baron’s a prominent donor to the Democratic party, and many of his powerful friends, including Lance Armstrong and Bill Clinton, made appeals on his behalf. And the family agreed not to sue if anything goes wrong.

Ultimately, his doctors at the Mayo Clinic worked directly with the FDA to find a “legal basis” for giving Baron Tysabri. The deal was announced on Baron’s son’s blog late yesterday. The details remain unclear.

Fantastic work, all of you. We’ve now taken the profit out of health care. No more profit motive to encourage ambitious young geniuses to develop miracle drugs rather than program social networks.

Instead it’s just pure politics.

This is what we need to get back to: a basic understanding that health insurance is meant for catastrophes, not routine check-ups or money spigot end-of-life care on old people waiting for death’s imminent and unstoppable escort.

Harsh, but true.

And isn’t this just the problem with leftoids’ over-sensitivity to harm and fairness? It’s all egogasmic hurty alleviation… until the credit line that funds their moral posturing is maxed. And then it’s time to memetically move on to the next civilization and repeat the process of suicide by feels.

It is an awful dilemma. The State, having assured the taxpayers that their geriatric needs would be met, must now breach its covenant with its citizens. As several commenters noted, there is no way out.

… As a society we are suffering tremendously because we forgot that the best retirement program is to have 6 children and teach them how to be prosperous and then stay on the good side of at least a few of them.

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return.

I have my own fantasy of a nice little country that extracts the minimum taxes necessary to fund its military and maintain the social safety net. I’m sure that has been the selling point trotted out by every welfare state politician since Bismarck. But inevitably it seems, net tax consumption increases, birth rates fall, the culture shifts to high time-preference, and the State inflates the currency and runs deficits–further distorting the productive economy–to keep the Ponzi scheme going.

GBFM lzollzollzol’ed.

Obamacare is a ruling class pet project. It’s labyrinthine opacity is a feature, not a bug, that enriches the corrupt managerialist Top and the blood-sucking parasitical Bottom at the expense of the beta niceguys in the Middle. This formula is bad enough in homogeneous societies, but in racially and ethnically diverse ones like America, where ability and temperament and charitable fellow-feeling are all unequally distributed at both the individual and population group levels, it’s a guaranteed failure.

Strip out the market-distorting and depraved actor-attracting opacity of medical insurance — this means ending employer provided coverage and nationalized healthcare — and return it to the economically and morally sustainable notion that insurance is supposed to protect one against devastating… and relatively rare… calamities.

If this is not possible, well… try separatism. It may be that a precondition of solvent and sustainable medical insurance programs is ethnic kinship.

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In a recent comment thread, I asked a reader a very simple question, which remains, predictably, unanswered.

A very simple question for the Obamanauts who think their savior deserves the presidency: if he had been white, would he have been elected President? Reaction time in your answer will go toward your final score.

There is only one correct answer: no. There ‘s not a chance in hell Obama would have gotten anywhere near the White House had he been a white community organizer, aka shiftless bum. The beauty of asking leftoids this oh so innocent question with such an oh so obvious answer is that I get to enjoy a spectacle of self-debasement no matter how they answer. If they answer, “Yes, he would have been elected as a white man”, they must betray any belief in their personal virtue to lie so blatantly. If they answer, “No”, they betray their professed ideology and the true motives for electing Obama.

Obama doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of America’s future, because Obama was elected as a fighting symbol for the various warring groups that presently comprise the riven nation; groups who are ultimately driving the cultural and economic trajectory. He was always, and remains so, a totemic symbol with zero substance. Nothing more than a herald for malignant tumult already set in motion by the time he was bounced aloft by the vaporous politics of feels.

- SWPL coastal whites (Yankees in hereditary vernacular) voted for Obama so they could experience a full body orgasm from furiously stroking their tumescent egos for their enlightened attitude. Obama symbolized validation of their belief in their innate goodness.
– Hispanics voted for Obama so they could enjoy the blessings of government largesse. Obama symbolized leverage against more productive and smarter people.
– Blacks voted for Obama because he is (half) black. Obama symbolized the ascendancy of their tribe. (Temperamentally, Obama is about as black as Christian Lander.)
– Native Americans voted for Obama because they were drunk. Obama symbolized another round.
– Asians voted for Obama because he isn’t conspicuously Christian. Obama symbolized the opposite of those antediluvian religious whites who built America from scratch.
– Single white women voted for Obama because he’s the soulful sugar daddy who justifies their lifestyle and stifling conformism. Obama symbolized rebuke of boring beta white men.
– Other voted for Obama because, deep in their hearts, they know he is one of them. Obama symbolized the normalization of deviancy.
– The Top voted for Obama because he symbolized suppression of the Middle. The Bottom voted for Obama because he symbolized ingestion of the Middle.

Obama the Symbol. Obama the Shell Entity. Obama the Therapeutic Cipher. As diversity, both of the elite and commoner varieties, within a nation expands, so too does the need for ever more powerful yet increasingly empty symbols of each tribe’s worth.

What about those whites (aka Cavaliers) who didn’t vote for Obama? Romney did, after all, garner a majority of the total white vote, at levels unseen since the Reagan presidencies. (But, unlike the Reagan years when whites were still a ways from electoral diminishment, Romney couldn’t win with those substantial white tallies against the unstoppable force of demographic shift.)

To those whites not with the program, their vote was a blow against a terrible symbol of antagonism. They saw the bloody banner flapping in the wind as enemy tribes crested the horizon and slowly surrounded them. And they reacted with a swiftness, cleaving to their own symbol, even one as ineffectual and emotionally disconnected as Romney. But their numbers were just too few, and getting fewer by the day.

All you will ever need to know about the imprint that the Obama Presidency will leave on the psyche of this segregating nation was shrieked by delirious followers in the streets on election night in 2008:

Hope and Change!

Like the buffoonish, thin-skinned meathead who loudly proclaims his prowess to a doubtful crowd, the chorus of cultists repetitively singing the Hope and Change anthem till tears welled in their eyes betrayed a deep disillusion with the substance of their yearning. The lesson is unmissable: the more insistent the emotional incantations declaring universalistic hope and change, the more likely the chanters have base, tribal motives. Emotionalism is a hallmark of a people that no longer believe in anything but egocentric validation, and rationalizing by whatever sophistry necessary their will to self-endorsement.

In totally unrelated news, a “group of teens” is at it again! The Cathedral has become such a rank parody that the time is right to tactically step aside and let the enemy discredit itself. Why waste energy fighting a foe at full strength when you can just jeer at him as he punches himself in the nads?

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Never let it be said CH shies from bringing to the world the more devious applications of game. This example crops up in the player literature now and again: pretending to be gay to score same night lays.

If you’re the type of man who prefers winning to behaving ethically or manfully, you can’t go wrong with Fake Gay Game. But don’t whip yourself too hard for delving into the darkest of arts. All women are complicit in their seduction. Yes, even when they are seduced by men pretending to be gay. After all, she can leave his den of deceit any time. No one cuffed her to a bed post, or forced her to try and “convert” a gay guy.

Running a multinational corporation? No. Pretending to be gay? Now that’s how you bang out the modern American woman.

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We may be entering an era when the romantic fortunes of the Renegade Alpha reach a zenith. A culmination of culture shocks will magnify the appeal of the nonconformist cad, energizing a state of illicit affairs which could last for twenty years before the pendulum swings back into the camp of traditional alpha males.

Who is the Renegade Alpha? It helps to know the context within which he lives. An elegant description of the male socio-sexual hierarchy exists deep in the CH archives.

Make no mistake, at the most fundamental level the CRUX of a man’s worth is measured by his desirability to women, whether he chooses to play the game or not. Pussy is the holy grail. That is why the obese, socially maladroit nerdboy who manages to unlock the gate to the secret garden and bang a 10 regularly is an alpha male. And that is also why the rich, charming entrepreneur who, because of an emotional deficiency or mental sickness lives mired in parched celibacy, is not an alpha male.

Due to this enduring confusion about what makes an alpha, I submit the following system, in the form of a handy chart, to help clear the air. It hits on the three major factors influencing male rank — how hot are the women he can attract, how strong is that attraction for him, and how many of those women find him attractive.

Some readers unhappy with this reductive (and thus clear-eyed) partition of male sexual worth balked at this definition, claiming it was circular. But great truths often distill as tautologies, which is why the CH definition of the alpha male is so sweeping in its scope and yet unassailable in its detail.

The blogger Vox, an esteemed member of the realtalker shock troops, has his own delineation of male status based off of the original CH socio-sexual classifications, which he has said is a refinement of the original, but which CH guardians of the Good Word of Game say amounts to an aesthetic rewording of the primeval texts. Vox’s male ranks could easily superimpose onto CH’s ranking system, because the CH hierarchy is not, as is commonly assumed by readers who have barely skimmed the ancient writings, a stark dichotomy separating alphas from betas, but rather is a continuous SPECTRUM running the gamut from the lowly omega dregs to the zero-point-one percenter super alphas. Within that spectrum there is room for every male socio-sexual rank, including the mysterious Renegade Alpha, which Vox names the Sigma Male.

Sigma: The outsider who doesn’t play the social game and manage to win at it anyhow. The sigma is hated by alphas because sigmas are the only men who don’t accept or at least acknowledge, however grudgingly, their social dominance. (NB: Alphas absolutely hate to be laughed at and a sigma can often enrage an alpha by doing nothing more than smiling at him.) Everyone else is vaguely confused by them. In a social situation, the sigma is the man who stops in briefly to say hello to a few friends accompanied by a Tier 1 girl that no one has ever seen before. Sigmas like women, but tend to be contemptuous of them. They are usually considered to be strange. Gammas often like to think they are sigmas, failing to understand that sigmas are not social rejects, they are at the top of the social hierarchy despite their refusal to play by its rules.

Lifetime sexual partners = 4x average+.

In equivalent CH terms, then, the Sigma Male would fall somewhere between a Greater Beta and a Lesser Alpha. An ample supply of cute girls are attracted to him, and some of those girls want to be with him exclusively. He oozes badboy allure, and he’s been known to make a girl or two cry in despair, and perhaps to have had his heart broken in return. So he is, by most men’s paltry standards, a successful predator of poon. (A noodle-armed emo crooner fronting an indie band is a well-known Renegade Alpha archetype.) But he doesn’t have the broad social leverage that a traditional “leader of men” alpha male has at his disposal, and this somewhat limits the Sigma Male/Renegade Alpha from monopolizing the attentions of a large pool of 9s and 10s, or of enjoying the distaff fruits of a wide and deep social circle of admiring friends and accomplished business partners eager to play matchmaker.

However, that same outsider status and rule-breaking dereliction of the Renegade Alpha also frees him from having to live up to the expectations of an insular social group. This freedom is especially nourishing if that group is a cult of winners with an unforgiving, judgmental distaste for deviance from the norm. Oftentimes, the libidinous and romantic urges of a traditional alpha male are straitjacketed by the conventional demands of his peers, and he looks with envy upon the Renegade Alpha reclining with some starry-eyed scenester who didn’t go to Harvard but who loves to take loads to her pink hair-framed face.

Very loosely, the Renegade Alpha is a seducer of women first, and a leader of men second, if at all. Though in fact the two conditions are not mutually exclusive. A cad bounder who defies the rules can also lead a small contingent of men, although the sweep of his influence may be constrained by his chosen hedonistic lifestyle.

So what does the present American sexual market tell us about the fortunes of the Renegade Alpha? For one, this is his moment. He thrives in formerly stable cultures that are experiencing paradigm shifts which shake up the old rules and create disincentives to social cooperation. Confusion, ennui, distrust, discord, fear and uncertainty — these are the conditions that craft his playground of poon. Where there is emerging chaos, you will find the reign of the Renegade Alpha.

Probably the best historical example of this reality is Casanova, one of European history’s greatest womanizers who pursued his passions during the Age of Enlightenment, a time in the West of tumult and change, leading eventually to the French and American Revolutions.

Will something similar happen in our lifetimes? America today is also experiencing tumult, and a new dark enlightenment is set to crash the scene like an unwelcome guest, upending tribal affiliations and cherished beliefs alike. Something strange and frightening is a-blowin’ in the wind, and the Renegade Alpha is there to take your hand, comfort you in your time of need, lead you to a better place, arouse you with intimations of transcendental escape, seduce you, and evade rebuke under cover of urban anonymity and social atomization.

It’s no coincidence that the Pickup Artist movement, spearheaded in the 1990s by intellectual revolutionaries (yes, really), came to prominence when it did. The eroding culture was primed for it. Frayed social cohesion and rapid advancement in communications have allowed the PUA and his message to flourish. The PUA, a creature of his environment, is a specialized Renegade Alpha.

So the Renegade Alpha, or Sigma Male in Vox’s terminology, excels at exploiting cratering cultures and the tender, psychologically scarred minds that inhabit them. Societal collapse is his serendipity. The cri de coeur of broken souls his symphony.

When the actual collapse comes, delivering real pain to the old order and its pathetic servants, the Renegade Alpha will retreat from the scene, his services no longer needed by sufficient numbers to warrant his active, daily participation in the hunt. Post-collapse, the weepy, suddenly straight-thinking women will crave the firm footing of authorial alpha males and predictable beta males. The female desire for romantic excitement will be quenched by the real excitement of destitution, decay and doom.

Oh, he’ll always have a place at the pussy table. When the Leader of Men alpha males rule, the Renegade Alpha finds niches within which he can profitably work his magic, posing as the “outsider” who provides subversive entertainment in times of mundane prosperity and social comity. But under those conditions his numbers are necessarily inhibited by the checks and balances that are naturally emergent in a strong, high trust culture that believes in itself.

In weak, low trust cultures that have lost the faith… he dines tonight.

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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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If a man is presented with a choice between a butterface (ugly face, hot body, everything “but her face”) and a myspace angle (cute face, ugly body), his decision will depend in part on whether he’s down for a short-term fling or if he’s seeking a long-term lover.

The reason for this is not hard to figure out upon reflection: the prime directive is to survive and reproduce, and that means, for men, getting seed into womb (or wombs, as the opportunity may present). A man with pump and dumps on his mind will shift focus to girls with highly fertile bodies, placing less emphasis on their faces. His dividing rod will target women with 0.7 WHRs, 17-23 BMIs, fruitfully ripening in the age range of 22-29. Since he’s not planning on investing much time or energy in his little red curvette, he doesn’t sweat the worry of romantically gazing into the limpid eyes of a plain jane year after year.

A man who is more K-selected, i.e., more NW European white or East Asian (ain’t I a steenker!), feels a cosmic pull toward hitching himself to a woman for the long term so that his few kids have a shot to thrive in a resource-restricted environment. It’s the quality over quantity strategy. To this man, a woman’s facial prettiness matters, a lot. He’s gotta look at her and provide for her for a long time, and he won’t be much inspired to do either if her face isn’t intoxicating. The body is still important (fat chicks left out in cold again, news at 11), but now the contours of her face have become a crucial determinant of her acceptability as a mate. His dividing rod will be recalibrated toward younger women — ages late adolescence to mid-20s — with large, expressive eyes, small chins and jaws, and exquisitely molded subcutaneous fat deposits.

This is the theory. In practice, such choices rarely come up, because there is a strong correlation between a woman’s facial prettiness and her body attractiveness. When a rift between body and face does occur in the same woman, it is typically a butterface. Homely-faced women with slender boffable bodies are more common than pretty-faced women with unappealing bodies. Fat chicks stir the needle a little toward myspace anglers, but just a little, because it doesn’t take much weight gain until a girl’s face begins to display the deformity that is evident in her body. Another example of the myspace angler is the masculinized woman with a striking model-esque face tethered to a curveless body built for spiking volleyballs.

Another point worth making is that men, regardless of their mating strategies, will only choose between butterfaces and myspace anglers when they HAVE to choose. Most men, given a free choice, will choose women who are blessed with both. Plotting cads and plodding dads will both choose the woman who has it all, face and body (and yeah, personality too, I guess) if such a woman is a real prospect.

Originally, this post was meant as conjecture, based on observation and hunch. But to my surprise, there are ♥♥♥STUDIES♥♥♥ available for perusal which have looked into the issue of male preference for female body versus female face and how that preference might change depending on a man’s mating strategy. These studies, naturally, confirm CH hunches, as they almost always do, because it’s hard to be disproven by SCIENCE when you simply keep your eyes open to watch how the world works.

PS The Area Code Rating System is a handy method for efficiently categorizing your dates by their bangability and relationship worthiness. If you regularly hook up with 000s, might I suggest you lay off the absinthe?

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Some readers took yesterday’s post as an opportunity to grind an axe about the supposed fact of alpha males rutting with undesirable females. Puzzlingly, a few readers credulously assumed the factual basis of the featured BDF’s (Bitter, Delusional Fattie) proof-free assertions that she has spread for the seraph rods of “Adonises” of “wealth and success” with “chiseled abs”, despite the BDF having a history as a hardcore delusionist spinning weird, often self-contradictory, fantasies on feminist websites.

Sorry, gullible readers, but this does not happen in real life, at least not nearly as often as fat, deluded shits trying to pump their sexual market value would like you to believe. Perhaps a reacquaintance with the rules of the sexual marketplace are in order:

1. Men prefer younger, hotter, thinner babes over older, uglier, fatter broads.

2. Men with options — aka alpha males — will exercise their freedom to date and fuck and even marry younger, hotter, thinner babes.

3. The sorts of men who date and fuck older, uglier, fatter women are men with fewer options, aka beta males and omega males.

I hope this clears things up. But if not, allow me to bring the abstract down to earth with a personal story.

I know a guy who possesses almost every single genetic and personality marker for high male mate value that a woman can dream of in her wildest fantasies — he’s charming, funny, top 2% looks, wealthy, mesomorphic, ambitious, has a certain amount of local fame, loves kids, owns a dog, stylish, seductive, and cocky — I mean, the dude is heaven sent for women, no homo. If he has a flaw it’s that he’s not very interested in romantic gestures, or putting much effort into pursuing women. It’s a flaw most women he dates are all too happy to dismiss as irrelevant. Mostly his “game” is to demonstrate social status by cracking jokes that get the whole group laughing, tease any hot girls nearby, pull back, and wait for them to throw themselves at him. He is very lazy about the follow-up and closing the deal, preferring instead to call it an early night, skip out on exchanging numbers or insta-dates, and walk home in anticipation of sex as the girl nips at his heels, eager to oblige. His laziness in regards the courtship of women means that he will often “slum it” with 7s and 8s rather than put in effort to get the 9s and 10s who would be ecstatic to assume the role as his natural prey. He is the perfect emblem of the “lazy cad”, iow.

In all the time I’ve known him (a long time), he has never, not once, not even a little bit, bedded a woman less than a 7. And when he has bedded a 7, he treated her with a summary cruelty that would be the envy of badboy loving feminists diddling their beans to female porn about sadistic billionaires. Worse still, when shameless BDFs like the chick showcased in yesterday’s post shower him with attention and practically beg for his cock, he stares at them coldly and arrogantly waves them away, as if to say “what in the hell makes you think you have a chance with me?” He does not disguise his contempt for the over-reaching, sexually aggressive BDF. Most alpha males don’t disguise their contempt, because to be approached with an almost open invitation for sex by a grotesquerie is a slap in the face, a denial of the alpha male’s high standing.

This is, I believe, an accurate reflection of the workings of the sexual market at large. True “Adonises” are not slumming it with gross pigs. They are ignoring them, totally, utterly, completely. That is, when they’re not ridiculing them for shits and giggles. Instead, the rare “Adonises” that BDFs claim to fuck are much more likely, upon closer inspection, to be revealed as simply chucklehead losers or, on very good nights, slightly higher value than bland, nondescript lesser betas. In all my forced acquaintances with these “Adonises” who were banging BDFs, the dude turned out to be much less than the BDF proudly advertised. And, along these lines, you have never seen a more wretched prototype of man than the omega orbiter who revolves around BDFs hoping for some of that fat slut love.

In reality, the following observations are the typical scenarios for low value women:

BDF 3s pumped and quickly dumped by male 4s or 5s, with a very lucky few once in a decade (or year, depending how depraved the slut allows herself to become) getting a shot at male 6 penis. And penis is all she will get.

BDF 3s getting short term flings with male 3s or 4s.

And BDF 3s getting long-term flings with male 2s and 3s, possibly male 4s, and most of the times with no men at all.

The rarity of the BDF 3 hooking up with a male 7 cannot be over-emphasized. It happens, but it happens so infrequently that it tells us nothing generalizable about the mating market. I have never seen nor heard of a male 8 or higher hooking up, even for a few seconds in a dark corner of a club, with a BDF 3, unless he was so blotto that he couldn’t clearly see the pig he was sticking.

Some readers will balk and offer Arnold Schwarzenegger and Hugh Grant as examples of alpha males who slummed it with ugly women. Yes, but the reason they are noted punchlines of jokes about indiscriminate horny men is because they are exceptions to the rule, and hence less forgettable than the hordes of alphas who only abide the love of hot babes. For every Arnie banging a Mexican maid on the DL, there are hundreds of Clooneys, DiCaprios, Pitts, Depps and Berlusconis who have a long, long history of banging only grade A ass. And let’s not forget that Arnie has been under the judgment-altering influence of steroids on and off his whole life, and if you have any experience hanging around meatheads on roids, you know that their powers of discrimination quickly yield to their wall-climbing horniness. I once knew a a guy on the juice who said his erections became so uncomfortably insistent that he would look at any hole, animate or inanimate, and wonder about ways to make it conducive to penetration. He was once caught masturbating into a gym towel in the locker room. No one paid him much mind, though, because apparently it is common practice among juicers to relieve themselves at the gym.

Other readers will claim that high testosterone makes men indiscriminate, and they will point to young men or black men as examples of “alphas” who will bone almost anything, thus vindicating the assertions of the BDF. Two problems with this: One, teenage youth — which is the age at which young men have the most free-flowing T and are presumably the most indiscriminate, is not in and of itself an attractive male trait to most women. Since women judge a man’s mate value on a suite of factors of which facial attractiveness is only one variable, it stands to reason that younger dudes out for a thrill would be lower value to most women. So their rankings, from the BDF perspective, would be lower than what she is claiming to score internet debate points. Two, most white women, which is what the BDF under discussion is, want to date and sleep with white men. They may claim their lovers are Adonii, but if their lovers are black men, the BDF is likely to feel that she is settling.

Black men are, not to put too fine a point on it, more willing than are men of other races to fornicate with the dregs of womanhood. I know there are brothers reading this site, and I know you know that I’m right. This point, along with accompanying scientific evidence, was made in the coda to yesterday’s post, so I suggest readers peruse it again so as to avoid these annoying redundancies. It is a horrible, viciously sadistic point I make, but it is a true point. If the black guys in the studio audience have a problem with it, they can start raising their standards and stop dumping in plumpers. I won’t be holding my breath.

Still more readers argue that every man goes through a dry spell, and it is during these periods that BDFs get their holes morosely plundered by alphas. Again, this claim falls under closer examination. First, alpha males have fewer and shorter dry spells than other men. They are rarely without the company of cute girls, so they rarely feel the need to dumpster dive. When they do experience the odd down time, they attempt to end it by aggressively pursuing… more cute girls! Second, beta males, who would be the natural constituent of BDFs looking to satisfy a hypergamous tingle for higher value men (remember, the omega male is the BDF’s SMV equal) are MORE likely to retreat to video games and porn than to recklessly dumpster dive with a fattie! Even betas have a sense of self-respect, arguably a greater sense than do alphas, for the beta is ever so closer to falling permanently into a BDF dating career track.

Finally, there are some readers who argue that alpha males dumpster dive a lot because “they just don’t give a fuck what people think”. Funny, this theory. Since when has a “don’t give a fuck” attitude been incompatible with adhering to standards for oneself? If anything, alpha male don’tgiveafuckness correlates highly with not giving a fuck about risking rejection from hot girls.

The bottom line is this: Alpha males, like all males, prefer thin babes. The difference is that alpha males have the power to fulfill their preferences, and they do. Betas and omegas are the men who must make sacrifices in quality, and who will occasionally dumpster dive because they feel more urgency to grab those infrequent opportunities when they arise.

And doesn’t that just get to the heart of it? Alphas make their opportunities. Betas mind their opportunities.

Nothing in this post should be taken wholly as a counterfactual to the above claims of BDF sexual opportunity. There is, in fact, truth to the notion that BDFs occasionally get their sloppy wet holes serviced by men somewhat higher in value than the BDF could be expected to realistically date in longer term arrangements. The issue I take with those readers who credulously (and curiously) buy BDF assertions of sex with Adonises is the lack of perspective they reveal about the relevance of sexual market hierarchy gradations.

Dumpster diving men above the omega male threshold do exist, but they are rarer than BDF fantasists assert. And they are not nearly as alpha as the typical BDF will eagerly claim in credulous company. Accidental real life meetings with the “sex toys” of BDFs usually confirm suspicions the BDF was lying to stroke her ego: The “lovers” are either black men who are gonna bolt in two days time, or they are white men who are way more beta, charmless, goofy, older, uglier and/or socially awkward than the BDF let on prior to public exposure of her “conquests”.

But even if the BDF gets her ego temporarily massaged by a parade of one night stands only one SMV point higher than herself, that is still enough pressure exerted on the mating market to skew the pairing up and pairing off outcomes. A one point SMV differential between herself and her regretful pumper can be enough to raise the expectations and entitlement of the BDF, and when a slew of these fly-by-nighters are accumulated, the BDF may actually come to believe her own bullshit. When that happens, omegas and lesser beta males who would be the rightful and natural heirs to the puffy sausage hands of BDFs come to find themselves passed over by these beasts who continue to trawl the singles scene hoping to capture the attention of an out-of-sight greater beta male.

The BDF who thinks herself a CSB (Certified Sexy Babe) is bad news for the nation’s betas, who are forced by circumstance of bloated BDF entitlement to put more effort into wooing women lower on the sexual market totem pole. Luckily, this is a self-correcting market skew, as the egotistic BDF who has not made a realistic reappraisal of her romantic worth is left, at last, lonely and unloved under the rubble of the wall that smashed down on top of her.

This is why game is so important for reasons beyond simply the promotion of techniques for snagging verifiably cute chicks; game is an invaluable market-correcting mechanism that redounds to the benefit of beta males who only wish to date IN THEIR OWN LEAGUE. Game opens pathways to hard 10s, and closes off dead ends to flabby 2s.

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What deranged psychology motivates the defecatory self-flagellating of masculinity-hating manboobs like Hugo Schwyzer? At first glance, they seem broken souls driven to assume guilt for imagined evils committed by the group to which they ostensibly belong. They side with freaks who hate their kind. They mouth empty-headed platitudes and brazen lies with such alacrity one wonders if they can any longer distinguish reality from fantasy. They relish the whip coming down on their backs and the backs of those remotely like them with sick masochistic zeal.

Hugo Schwyzer is a cartoonish copypaste of the manboob archetype. He’s such a vile and transparent emissary for the reject crowd, that you really have to wonder if it’s all an act. I imagine there are at least a few sufficiently brain damaged co-eds who lap up his runny shit to make it all worth it. I bet he’s still leveraging his prof power dynamic to score illicit tail on the down low. It would explain his behavioral similarity to closeted gays who rail against homosexuality.

Or maybe he’s a True Believer. If that’s so, he’s an even bigger pud than I peg him for. At least one can understand, if not condone, a fraudulent shucking and jiving act to off-pitch feminist tunes in order to dupe dumbo conformist leftoids still in the bloom of youth to give up the goods. But a guy who dances like this with his junk tucked between his legs because he actually enjoys two-stepping like a spaz eunuch? It beggars comprehension.

So we must delve deep into the neural swamp of the self-annihilator, on a journey of adventure to darkest manboobery, to examine up close the stunted, sniveling, fetal id crouched like Gollum at the center of their twisted psyches. For to understand one’s enemies is to hone the precision of one’s ridicule aimed at them. You can plunge the soulshiv into the outer folds of the prefrontal all day long, but the delusional crackpot will merely incorporate legions of á la main ego-assuaging dendrites to rapidly bridge the wound in response. The killing blow comes at last when you have located Smaug’s lone, unjeweled breastplate — revealing an open pathway to the core leprotic force animating the multitude of ego layers — and held the gom jabbar wickedly, tantalizingly, against the defenseless, quivering, pustular infant monster within. Only then, will you have hit the mother of all nerves.

Chuck, over at GLPiggy, offers a diagnosis of Schwyzer’s underlying manboob illness.

Hugo Schwyzer’s latest piece is typical.  What you first have to understand about anything that Schwyzer writes is that he’s attempting to alleviate his own guilt by painting every transgression of white men against others as a systemic issue in which we are all complicit.

Schwyzer has done a lot of screwy things in his life so he believes that it is now his job to throw all other white men under the bus.  He avoids trying to deal empathically with white men by harping on “white male privilege”.

Guilt alleviation. The one emotional compulsion, above all others, that appears to guide and channel the self-annihilator’s moral preening, if not his moral compass. Schwyzer has had, as he has himself admitted, a number of “improper” affairs with his female students — affairs of the sort that would send the typical self-identifying feminist into a tailspin of scattershot histrionics about the “white male power structure” if done by any man other than a mewling manboob who effusively apologizes for his pleasure as penitence to his femcunt overladies. But Schwyzer retains just enough charm and traitorous gusto to keep his erstwhile feminist foes safely within his orbit of self-congratulatory sympathy.

But does Schwyzer really feel guilt for his naughty sexcapades? I’ve known quite a few womanizers in my life, and one thing I can say about them is that none were genuinely guilt-ridden over their scores of intimacies. None felt any pressing need to convince the world that their peripatetic love, or the behavior of men who do the same, was exploitative badness. They are healthy men at peace with their natural, masculine desire. Sure, they may occasionally pretend to introspection when in the company of finger waggers or glaring wives, but one could tell that was all for show. There was enough wink wink, nudge nudge to remind of their sanity.

So, no, I don’t believe that Hugs Shyster feels guilt, real guilt, for his past (and probably present). Most self-annhilating whites (and it is mostly whites who suffer from the appalling condition) don’t act out of guilt; they act out of a crass, surging impulse to step on their closest co-ethnic competitors in order to lift themselves up. Narcissism of small differences, and all that. They are, before all else, status whores, even if they don’t realize it themselves. And the status points that count will change depending on the context one finds oneself, or the context in which one deliberately inserts oneself. In Schwyzer’s case, he has been, and is, surrounded on all sides by clucking man-haters, women who loathe male desire in all its permutations save the one which can be wholly choreographed by feminist puppeteering.

The irony of it all is that Schwyzer has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to apologize or repent for, whether to himself or to others. His leverage of his occupation’s high social status and situational dominance to seduce young women by giving them what they want is no less part and parcel of the natural evolved order of romantic interlude than the woman who keeps herself trim and dresses sexily to capture the appreciation of the high value men she desires. You can argue that Schwyzer imprudently crossed an ethical line peculiar to academia, but what you can’t argue is that he acted immorally, strangely, misogynistically, or with patriarchal hate in his heart toward those women who welcomed his wooing.

But if suppressed guilt is the real motivation (and I concede that the possibility exists in the most egregious cases of manboobery, such as that evidenced by Schwyzer), then Chuck is right to identify the mechanism as an ego-salving one which attempts to shirk the blame off to an entire group as indicative of a “systemic issue” instead of manfully accepting sole blame for one’s individual failings (as one sees them). But the full-blown narcissist will have nothing to do with taking responsiblity for his actions when a whole world of patriarchal privilege and cultural constructivism is out there which will take the blame for him.

A second theory of manboob mind is that the proselytizing self-annihilator (and by extension, group-annihilator) suffers from a case of pathological altruism. Pathological altruism is likely an acute manifestation of biologically inherited leftoidism. While there is no proof to date that political bias is genetic in origin, evidence is mounting in favor of the hypothesis. Pathological altruism is a mental illness that possesses psychological dimensions not unlike Stockholm Syndrome, which compels the afflicted to heal the world’s hurt, and to demand inclusion for the world’s monsters and failures, no matter what cost to oneself (or, more likely, to one’s taxpaying compatriots). It is liberal universalist perfectionism run amok, and it eventually devolves, as it must, to subverting normality and truth and beauty and to sanctifying deviancy and lies and ugliness. (And genocide, if you look at the historical record.)

The motivation of those who hold themselves Messiahs to the Monsters can often be murky to the untrained eye, but the motivation of those who are actual monsters is clearer. The designs of the latter to institute not just the social acceptance, but the social desirability, of degenerates and degeneracy stems from a survival instinct. To be cast to the metaphorical icy wastelands is metadeath, and in the ancestral state of nature the casting out would have meant real death. But what to make of monster apologists like Hugo Schwyzer who, superficially at least, don’t immediately provoke disgust in people? What motivates them? If the pathological altruist theory of manboobery is correct, then “normals” who suffer from it are motivated by the warm, dopaminergic good feelings they receive from “fighting oppressors” and “lifting the oppressed”. It’s a savior complex that earns brownie points the more self-indicting its message. This is similar in function to how the handicap principle operates.

Which leads to the third theory of manboobery: subversive status whoring.

Ultimately, if evolutionary biologists are correct, pathological altruism (PA) will subordinate to the genetic imperative for status accrual, for all human traits are merely more or less successful evolutionary experiments cobbled together under ecological pressures to maximize survival and reproduction. PA might have been socially adaptive in small hunter-gatherer tribes, but in the modern context of atomized city dwelling that pushes millions of humans shoulder to shoulder, PA becomes more individually adaptive while also becoming more societally maladaptive. Now we are right back to the original speculation that manboobs are, in their own bizarre fashion, raising their status within their postmodern milieu via the mechanisms of narcissistic martyrdom and shared blame redistribution to the entire group in which they putatively belong. PA is, in a sense, a sneaky fucker strategy, a cheater’s ploy, which relies for its success on the existence of a strong, commanding overculture to parasitize. Once that culture is gone and the gutter filth are in charge, there is no longer any gain from letting your freak flag, or your freak-enabler flag, fly.

The manboob with PA disorder may sincerely believe in his good intentions, but he is actually a servant carrying out ancient genetically-coded algorithms that will redound to the benefit of his personal social status and, hence, his reproductive fitness. You scoff at “reproductive fitness”, but in fact this tact appears to have worked for Schwyzer, who, if his claims are to be believed, has enjoyed an ample supply of nubile, young, gullible feminist libtard majors.

We come to the fourth theory of manboob mind, and perhaps the most cynical of the theories: That manboobs like Schwyzer don’t believe a word of the crap they brownly vomit; that their bleatings are a minstrel show for the tiny niche of ideological sympathizers who fortuitously happen to be decked in the plumage of alluring boob and ass that all men, even revolting manboobs, want to defile. (Almost) every male endeavor has its female groupies, and manboobery is no exception, (except when the manboob is so physically deformed or dispositionally neutered he cannot even hope for gnarled table scraps left behind by greater manboobs than he).

The feigned male feminist act doesn’t even have to find fruit among its intended audience for it to be a successful mating strategy. Schwyzer could get no play from the Jizzebel crowd, but it won’t matter as long as attractive women closer to his social circle observe the laurels he receives from thousands of anonymously obese feminist skanks thankful for his words which soothe their scorched feelings of self-worth. All he has to do is humblebrag a little, shit on the “right” sorts of men, and sit back as innate female desire for preselected men works its magic. For all we know, Schwyzer may be a stone cold dominating quasi-rapist in bed with women, once he is free to drop the “this is what a feminist looks like” charade. And how much you want to bet the women he fucks — or fucked, I hear he’s married — are slender, height-weight proportionate, facially attractive women on the fertile side of the wall? Lindy West wept.

A corollary to the fourth theory of manboob mind — the theory that manboobery is a cynical ploy to attract niche female attention — is the notion that manboobs deliberately scheme to rearrange the contours of the sexual market so that their types have more access to women. It’s a strategy to clear the field of competitor males. It’s obviously not possible to literally clear the field of other men (unless you imprison them or kill them), but it is possible, through silver-tongued verbal calisthenics, to build insular social contexts that delineate and ostracize outsiders from insiders, and attract women simpatico to one’s message, much like the growth of a religious cult. The key to this mate competition strategy is to execute it with sincere-sounding passion, creating emotional states that coax the girls to be more open to the manboob’s wiles. An actively promoted, pro-femcunt system allows manboobs like Schwyzer to successfully compete with other men, whereas in a sane, anti-feminist, anti-sophist culture he would be at a distinct disadvantage competing against manlier men who eschew the mincing dishonor of passive-aggressive subterfuge.

Finally, we come to the fifth theory of manboob mind, and one I include for purposes of thoroughness rather than insight, as it shares obvious common threads with the previous four theories: Manboobs are simply bigoted against those not like them, which amounts to being bigoted against their betters, and will tirelessly do or say whatever is necessary, no matter how inconsistent or hypocritical, to bring down those they irrationally hate. I leave it as an exercise for the reader why a guy like Hugo Schwyzer would reflexively perceive the majority white male contingent as the Other.

In summary, here are the five primary theories of manboob mind, in no particular order of probability or explanatory power:

1. Guilt complex
2. Pathological altruism
3. Status whoring
4. Mate competition strategy
5. Raw bigotry

These theories don’t have to be distinct entities; they can overlap, and they probably do. A status whoring manboob on the make for chubby feminist love might harbor guilt for some strange perversion he committed in his past. A bigoted hater might also be a pathological altruist who goes livid when the subject turns to inequality, and if you think those two emotional states are contradictory, well you just don’t know the leftoid mind very well. Let’s say internal consistency is not their strong suit.

It wouldn’t be CH if we didn’t punctuate a SERIOUS post with a goofy coda, so to head off those jesters salivating to bombard the comment section with theories they deem to be the most obvious explanations, yes, manboobs like Schwyzer may just be acting out revenge fantasies birthed in the crucible of some punch to the jaw they took by a frat bro when they were striplings making their way through a man’s world. You could call that theory of manboobery, “Punchuated Equilibrium”. Those slights of youth have amazing staying power to warp the adult mind. Hate for normal, healthy men can germinate in such seething soil. You’d not be far from the mark to guess that a lot of the more monstrous manboobs nurse grudges from some rejection they suffered by a girl who never reciprocated their LJBFery in the way the manboobs hoped. But instead of turn against normal women or themselves, they shifted their hate beams to those men the girls liked.

As a theory of manboob mind, I don’t buy this tact. For every skulking manboob with a distant humiliation fueling his misandry, there are a thousand men who suffered similar high school slights who never went the egregious manboob route. Something else, some other psychological misfire, has to gird the ancient grudge, to give the grudge its unusual outsized power. And that is where you have to dig deeper, to the transgendered id, where the murmuring heart of the manboob pumps sewage through his buttplug-shaped cerebellum.

PS Schwyzer and his ilk might just be garden-variety closeted gays, which I know will be the preferred theory of a lot of tradcon types who have a hard time fathoming the queer workings of the manboob mind. But that’s a dismissive assertion that’s hard to subscribe to when there are years of evidence, past and current, that the Hugo manboob under the microscope has enjoyed, and continues to enjoy, the sexual company of women. We don’t live in an age where gay men need a parade of beards to function in society.

PPS Feel free to include your theories for the existence of nauseating manboobs in the comments. If there’s a better theory out there than the five presented here, we’d all like to hear it.

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