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Archive for the ‘Tool Time’ Category

Cuck Up

Cuck up, idiom, slang, origin: Chateau Heartiste.
1. Variation on the “man up” theme; to demand of a cuckolded man that he support the bastard child of his cheating wife or girlfriend.
2. A taunt directed at a beta male to ostensibly shame him to provide for the child of another man’s seed, often delivered by ugly feminists and low SMV white knights who are projecting their fear of mass beta male abandonment of a sexual market skewed by law and custom to satisfy the preferences of women and women alone.

Courtesy of reader Waffles, a (probably fake but still illuminating) story on Reddit that serves as a wonderful microcosm of the murky churn at the bottom of the sexual market, where fat sluts dupe manboobed omegas into race cuckoldry.

Off topic but will be appreciated by the CH crowd. Over on Reddit a debate was going on after some guy posted this. His kid came out black. There apparently were actually people telling him that he should “man up” and take care of the kid as his own! Delusional.

The OP:

I did not walk out on anything. It is not my responsibility to raise a kid that did not come from me. I may sound like an ass, but I can’t believe the people who said to raise it as mine. Imagine your wife finally getting pregnant, only to see a different race pop out, and you realize it’s not yours. I am not raising that kid, however enjoy your free karma.

definitely not master of her domain

Some choice replies:

Some white babies do come out looking black though, sometimes you gotta let it air out for a little bit for the complexion to even up.

:lol:

At least your wife had the decency to fuck a black man, so you could tell she cheated on you. So you’ve got that going for you, which is nice.

Womb half-full.

Did you drink grape soda the day before?

Science!

Before you lawyer up and sue for divorce, I would ask you to take a step back and a deep breath. Try to remember that it isn’t the little guy’s fault.

Cuck up… “for the children”.

I must ask, are you mad that the child is not yours; Or is it because the child is Black?

Because racism is the true moral outrage here.

He has your palms.

at least he has a chance to get laid before he turns 30

You laugh, but every other relationship depicted on televagina these days is essentially a warmly accommodated race cuckold fantasy. Sorry White knighters… white women eat that shit up.

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“i’m biased against PIV”

The Germans have a word (the Germans always have a word) for “a punchable face”: Backpfeifengesicht.

Why do these male feminists all look the same? Is there a factory that shits out bald, pale, pencil-necked, peach-fuzzed, brony fluffers who were born with full diapers?

Self-flagellation is nothing new for the pillow biter set, but one wonders how effective the male feminism pose is as a mating strategy. Assuming the androgyne above isn’t a bottom, he must cop this degrading attitude on some level to score flabby feminist poon. It’s either an evolved behavioral strategy that works juuust often enough to prevent it from being culled from the male population, or, like open borders race cuckoldry, it’s a maladaptive expression of a genetic trait that may have been useful a long time ago in a different sexual environment when the steppe thundered with brazen misogynists and the sensitive man had some relative value to women.

Regardless, the male feminist strategy sucks for attracting cute girls unless you have compensating attributes like charm or social status.

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Word of advice: Barring extenuating circumstances, don’t go out with a group of guy friends and one cute woman. You will righteously tool yourself before you’ve taken two steps toward self-hell into the bar.

The ultimate in toolbaggery is the group of mirin’, pleased-as-punch über orbiters who show up to a venue with one hot girl in tow. Or rather, at center stage. Because that’s where she inevitably ascends — straight to a social throne that her gaggle of beta pissboys have adorned for her.

I recently witnessed such a spectacle. Five men — not strange looking by any stretch, just normal dudes in department-wear — and one flaxen-haired hottie tucked in the middle of her men-ses, like a small sun radiating through a Saturnian Tool Belt. Everywhere she drifted, they followed, establishing without a doubt to the unbiased third party eye who was gravitationally in charge. When she smiled, her triptych of tools smiled on cue. When she pointed at something, they looked en masse in the direction of her pointing finger. When she laughed, they laughed uproariously. When she sat down, they encircled her even more tightly, parting occasionally to unwittingly afford her a better view of better men.

And when she touched the arm of any one of them, the rest shuffled and frowned with noticeable agitation.

But the coup de brah by a long shot was when the five guys enlisted the help of a passing bartender to take a photo of the girl surrounded by her eunuch guards. The barkeep obliged, and the assembled onlookers retched. When he walked away after returning the phone-cum-camera, I was privy to his eye roll and bastard grin that he signaled to a colleague still behind the bar. The girls in my company also noticed the entire scene as it unfolded, and politely strained to hide their pity.

No one respects a beta orbiter, not even women. Everyone knows a beta orbiter when he sees him. But FIVE beta orbiters hoisting the royal palanquin of a darling princess? Have you no shame, sirs?!

Not one of those men was boffing that girl, I would bet your life savings on it. Every one of those men *wanted* to boff that girl, continuing in the theme of betting your life savings on it. She had no interest in boffing any of them, and to this bet I would add your mom’s life savings.

What is happening to men of the West? By most indicators they have forgotten how to be men, or if they know they’ve lost interest in the art. They kneel at the feet of women, kiss her painted toes, and kowtow to her every whim. They gleefully sacrifice their dignity to public judgment and ridicule. They thirst for the pussy like lost adventurers lapping sand from hallucinatory oases.

Mind you, my complaints extend as far as my big-picture interest in preserving the culture which facilitates my poolside time. As a practical, day-to-day calculation, the abject fealty of my competition increases the destructive power of my game.

If you’re a beta suffering a lengthy dry spell, don’t expect relief to come from the accompaniment of an asexual female friend. Certainly don’t expect it if she is accompanied by four more of your male buddies. If you must go out accompanied by a cute female friend, leave your buddies home. Insist that any additional hangers-on exclude too many of her male friends and include a few of her female friends. And, for the love of all that is hole-y, check the game literature for strategies and techniques detailing how to use a cute girl-friend as a pivot to other cute girls you have a realistic chance of sexing. Because that’s about the best use of a cute female buddy.

It’s almost tragic how unaware beta males are of the latent male SMV-boosting power which resides in an attractive female friend who can trigger the preselection algorithms of nearby girls. Unaware, and incapable of exploiting it. But isn’t that just another dulcet note in the battle hymn of the beta male? Strike suicidally at one’s own breast plate, and drip blood until a chubby spinster with sprog on the mind rescues you.

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Remember this post about the romantic Kiwi betaboy who followed an American woman around all night on New Year’s Eve like a puppy dog, only to part at 6AM with nothing to show for it but her coy instruction to “find me”? The niceguy romantic beta had one photo of her on his phone, which he promptly enlarged to masturbation size and uploaded to Facebook hoping she would see the green light at the end of his pier and the world would help them reunite in McLovin bliss.

There’s an update to this story. The girl found out about his Facebook campaign to locate her. Guess what happened.

A lovelorn New Zealand man who asked the Internet for help finding the American girl he met in Hong Kong last year on New Year’s Eve has found her – and she doesn’t seem too happy about it.

Reese McKee, 25, gained thousands of followers when he posted a picture of ‘Katie’ and his story of dancing the night away with her last December. She left him only with a first name, a hint that she lived ‘in D.C.’ and the alluring request: ‘find me.’

He has now revealed that online sleuths did, indeed, find her. And they mobbed her with so many messages that she deleted every single one of her social media accounts within hours. [...]

Mr McKee says he hasn’t reached out to her yet – he’s waiting for the online furor to die down.

But, as one slightly horrified blogger points out, it’s likely she has no desire to to speak with Mr McKee now. Their romantic night took place nearly one year ago.

‘A year is enough time for someone to get married, go through several relationships, or even have a child,’ blogger amiantos writes.

It takes a lot of beta to convince a blue city American girl to tear down her Facebook wall. She must have felt the kind of disgust that’s typically reserved for mutilated bodies, dog shit, and flabby male feminists.

Moral of the story: Women are so predictable.

Some good does appear to have come out of this niceguy’s romantic abandonment.

Even Mr McKee seems a little sheepish about his quest to be reunited with the girl he had a chance meeting with a year ago. He told the Herald that he has turned down multiple media interview requests – including from ABC’s Good Morning America.

Shortly after Katie was found, he deleted his Facebook profile and the Facebook event that invited fans to help find her.

What’s that sensation hiding between the lines? Oh yes. Burning shame. Enough time has passed since the RealTalk Revolution invaded the public consciousness that it wouldn’t be a stretch to think betaboy here caught his eyeballs on a few websites such as this one and experienced a rude awakening about the nature of women and his own self-defeating courtship missteps. Two people win when a man is saved from incel purgatory: The man, and the woman he dates who gets to experience the joy of a proper seduction.

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Fat apologists:

Environmental shocks:

Keepin’ it real.

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The post title is a quote of Tyler Cowen, aka Cheap Chalupas aka Bargain Beans, from a Walled Street Journal review of his book “Average is Over” (h/t to Plucky Gents, Inc.),

To sum up, Mr. Cowen believes that America is dividing itself in two. At the top will be 10% to 15% of high achievers, the “Tiger Mother” kids if you like, whose self-motivation and mastery of technology will allow them to roar away into the future. Then there will be everyone else, slouching into an underfunded future of lower economic expectations, shantytowns and an endless diet of beans. I’m not kidding about the beans.

Poor Americans, writes Mr. Cowen, will have to “reshape their tastes” and live more like Mexicans. “Don’t scoff at the beans,” he says. “With an income above the national average, I receive more pleasure from the beans, which I cook with freshly ground cumin and rehydrated, pureed chilies. Good tacos and quesadillas and tamales are cheap too, and that is one reason why they are eaten so frequently in low-income countries.”

Cowen likes to eat his nation’s heritage with a sprinkling of freshly ground cumin and a side of refried beans. You can’t make this shit up. If it were any other psychologically healthy person, I would say this quote is a deliberate self-parody to subvert the deracinating Elsa Island narrative. But Cowen is borderline sperg, so you can assume his sincerity.

Commenter Porter responds,

More pleasure from the beans than what? Wearing a gimp suit? Having a sigmoidoscopy? And do the epicurean delights of bean consumption occur with or despite a higher than the national average income?

Does this Maria Antoinette actually believe his imported oompa loompas will forever docilely dine on discarded legumes while he devours caviar, truffles, and quail eggs? More importantly, does he have any subsidiary labor units…what pre-beaners called “children?” What are his hopes for their future? A warm grate in the winter? A cozy 300sqft favela? A hale old age of 35? Perhaps he assumes his higher than the national average income will purchase for them the best electrified concertina money can buy. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t give a damn. After all, The Economy is a jealous master.

An above national average amount of open borders nutjobbery is abetted by low ruling class fertility. When you don’t have kids, you don’t care much for entrusting a prosperous and livable nation to its posterity. You mostly care about cheap iPhones and status whore feels with your ideologically inbred SWPL courtesans. Your coin of the realm is phony morals instead of fecund maidens.

On a related TCCC post about Switzerland’s recent pro-national integrity vote to curb immigration, commenter The Anti-Gnostic writes,

how much immigration is possible without a backlash?

Lots, when you have an entire Cathedral that mandates equal treatment and endlessly reminds everyone how horrible and stupid they are for not allowing high-rise apartments on every square foot of available space.

Also, of course this is all framed in terms of “backlash.” In the Cathedral’s calculation, corporations exist but nations do not, and people are interchangeable cogs.

The more important question is how much immigration is possible before the traits which made the host society desirable to begin with are lost? I think that percentage is probably quite low, particularly for K-selected societies importing r-selected societies. My hunch, and it’s just a hunch, around 5%/yr immigrants assimilate. Around 10%/yr they gravitate to certain areas and leverage their presence. The natives start withdrawing. Above 10%/yr, the immigrants want their own country. Sure, they may speak the language and adopt some superficial norms, but at that point it’s not about assimilation but transformation.

The natives, lacking anywhere to withdraw, start shutting down.

Taking a cue from The Anti-Gnostic, a good metric for predicting at what levels Diversity + Proximity will explode into War by whichever means is a tiered alert system based on percentage of country that is foreign or otherwise ethnically or racially very different from the people who created and sustain the nation and its culture. CH suggests a reformatted DEFCON warning system, called DIVCON, for Diversity Overload Condition.

DIVCON 5: Five percent of population is genetically and culturally distant from natives. Assimilation probable with minimal fiscal outlay or native sacrifice.

DIVCON 4: Ten percent of population is genetically and culturally distant from natives. Assimilation possible with substantial fiscal outlay. Social cohesion index (SCI) shows first signs of stress. Foreign immigrants begin to self-segregate into politically potent neighborhoods that serve as conduits for overseas relatives and the continuance of their homeland cultures.

DIVCON 3: Twenty percent of population is genetically and culturally distant from natives. Assimilation improbable without enormous fiscal outlay and native sacrifice. SCI records explosion of cultural and racial fault lines running through regions and communities. Foreign immigrants and non-native minorities control entire neighborhoods and some cities. Multilingualism is codified into law. Native and racial flight from these non-native outposts of political and cultural control accelerates.

DIVCON 2: Thirty percent of population is genetically and culturally distant from natives. Assimilation impossible despite massive debt-propped outlays and propagandized humiliation of natives to abjure their culture and identity. SCI passes threshold from greater social cohesion to greater social strife. States begin to switch political allegiances as demographic change sweeps out native majority status. Native/racial flight peaks in intensity, limited only by economically constrained immobility. Self-segregation reverses historical integrationist policies. Regional power bases coalesce as federal power simultaneously strengthens and fractures. Anti-native propaganda loses its influence to inform native sensibilities and self-identity.

DIVCON 1: Forty percent or more of population is genetically and culturally distant from natives. Nation begins irrevocable transformation into resembling the countries from which the non-native populations originate. Political compromise impossible. Jury system breaks down along ethnic and racial boundaries. Wealth inequality reaches historical maximums. SCI red lines. Social discord and native ennui/withdrawal from civic processes undermine legitimacy of state apparatuses. “Anarcho-tyranny” — underclass and overclass lawlessness combined with police state intimidation of native middle class — is implemented to tamp down rising hostilities. Major cities and some states are abandoned by natives to non-native control. Redistribution to politically powerful non-natives impoverishes the natives. Anti-native propaganda assaults every cultural institution, becomes bolder and more transparently aggressive. Natives begin active and unapologetic campaigns against ruling class propaganda. Racial and cultural tensions provoke excessive and violent government response. Free speech surrendered as a founding principle. Mass surveillance and kangaroo courts operate with impunity.

At DIVCON 1, political and armed rebellion become distinct possibilities. Secession movements grow in number and intensify rapidly. Tax evasion increases. Tax havens multiply. Political parties realign. Military volunteerism bottoms out. Third parties experience surge in popularity. Tribal nepotism and corruption in every facet of life erodes trust, bankrupts communities, endangers citizens, and reduces standard of living and other measures of personal happiness. Mental illness and symptoms of psychological distress increase. Private militias, high- and low-tech security systems and fortress communities sever the last strands of national unity. Break-up is inevitable barring repatriation of immigrants, anti-dysgenic fertility policies, and social and economic protection of native middle classes.

America currently sits its rehydrated, pureed ass at DIVCON 2. And as any good economics PhD will tell you, this is good news. So bend over and take it like you like it. Those PhD models of human nature can’t be wrong.

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The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold, sung to the tune of:

The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they called “Cuckold Freddie.”
The cuck, it is said, sits alone near the bed
when the thighs of his wife spread to darkies.
With a load of mandingo twenty inches more flaccid
than the Beta Male Cuckold at full chubby,
that goon man and true worked his bone black and blue
when his wife and her lover slapped uglies.

The cuck was the pride of the 4channer side
coming back from some brony convention.
As the big betas go, he was fatter than most
with manboobs and a belly in tension,
concluding some terms with his wife of 12 years
when they agreed to bring in an “acquaintance”.
And later that night when his wife’s gina danced,
could it be the lost tingle they’d been missin’?

The suck in her snatch made a tattle-tale sound
and a tremor broke over her vulva.
And ev’ry man knew, as Freddie did too
’twas the twitch of desire come on her.
The dusk came late and his wife couldn’t wait
for the big dicked intruder to come over.
When all three were there he called himself “Bear”
as his wife pressed her hand in his crotch bulge.

When sexytime came the sad cuck came to bed sayin’
“Fellas, I’d like to now join ya.”
But in his wife’s eyes he saw his demise,
And she snapped, “Go wait in the kitchen!”
The cuckold bemoaned he heard sex noise comin’ in
through the walls two rooms wide clear as ever.
And later that night as his wife screamed delight
came the wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

Does anyone know where a proud atheist goes
when his wife’s moans turn the minutes to hours?
The cisgenders say he’d have kept his wife tame
if he hadn’t leased her out like a street whore.
They might have split up or they might have hate fucked;
but at least Freddie’s shame would be no more.
But all Freddie hears through his hot beta tears
is, “put a gag in his mouth so he won’t direct”.

Cuckold suffering tolls, Hypergamy sings
in the rooms of Freddie’s Mountain Dew mansion.
Bear’s black mamba creams in his wife’s wet vajeen;
Her asshole and mouth are for Bear’s fun.
And farther below, Freddie’s marital ho
takes in what Bear’s privilege can send her,
And Freddie will know as all swinging alphas know
it’s two women-one man not the inverse.

In a musty old hovel in a basement he prayed,
in the “Beta Male Cuckolds’ Cathedral.”
The blade shimmered twice as he sliced quick lengthwise
for the dignity that Freddie surrendered.
The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they call “Cuckold Freddie.”
“A sperm puddle,” they said, “dripped from his wife’s cleft
and ’twas that ended Freddie’s life early!”

***

A tip o’ the fedora to these plucky gents for digging up the pastiche of true stories this song is based on.

The original:

ps yeah, i know this is closer to omega male territory, but poetic license demanded the use of beta.

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When did the pussification of America’s men begin? Speculating on this sort of thing is always fun, but it serves a larger purpose: If we can identify the origin of the Ascended Testes Era, we can theoretically reverse it.

One reader believes he has an answer,

I was just thinking back to my early 20s, when I found myself married to the dumpy chick I knocked up.  [ed: pre-game, natch] I did what was expected of me at the time, which meant marriage, and it meant Lamaze classes, and La Leche League, and all this girlie baby nurturing liberal SWPL crap I’m sure pajama boy would totally embrace in his plaid onesie.

There was only one other father in the Lamaze classes.  All the pretty girls were there with a friend or a neighbor or a mother, and the only two fathers there were with dumpy average looking chicks.  The other guy was such a wuss he kept passing out during the videos, and his wife had to revive him repeatedly.  (They eventually had like six kids, and are still together as far as I know.)

Yeah, beta males may have slightly more kids on average than do alpha males, but would you want to be a beta? (Procreation Pusher: “wouldn’t you like to be a beta too… be a beta, doooon’t be a playa…) No, I think I’ll skip out on the incomparable joy of loading up the belly of a frump.

I’ve been reflecting on the whole Lamaze thing, and how hot girls don’t have babies with guys who would go through that kind of crap in the first place.  Can you see Mystery in Lamaze classes?  I can’t.

Where was Tywin Lannister when his kids were being born?  The same place my father was, and my grandfather, and every man back for thousands of years.  Smoking cigarettes and letting the women handle woman’s work.

I blame Lamaze for the pussification of America.  It all starts with dads going “hee hee hee hooooooo” with their dumpy wives.  It really does.

Besides, blood, shit, and gore belong on the battlefield, not in the vagina you’re fucking.  No man should ever have to see that.  History had this right.

Lamaze was invented by a French fop in the 1940s, and gained cultural traction in the US a decade later. In the annals of herstory, I’m sure a few alpha males were hornswoggled into attending a Lamaze class (which they undoubtedly instantly regretted), but those men who agreed to attend without a fight or, worse, who happily jumped at the opportunity, are truly the most beta of betas.

No man worth his two taters will enjoy any aspect of the Lamaze spectacle. I bet a man’s T level drops 300% as soon as he steps foot in a Lamaze classroom. And given that betas are already short a couple liters of T, they can’t afford to have their precious reserves siphoned off by the sight of distended bellies, pork roll camel toes, and red-faced plumpers method acting the passing of a gargantuan turd.

So, yeah, there is obviously some selection bias going on with regard to the types of men who can be found empathy birthing in a Lamaze class. More telling is what this reader noticed about the hotness of the pregnant women who weren’t with their men. What he observed was a female selection bias that complemented and reinforced the male selection bias: Hot babes have more choice in men, and they invariably choose high value alpha males who are the least likely to sit through an insufferable Lavaje class. These alphas could be captains of industry with no time for Lamaze silliness, or they could be dominant personalities who won the test of wills contest. Either way, it shows that hot women — women who have, after all, an incredible array of sexual market options — will choose insensitive sociopaths before new age sensitive empaths.

Lamaze was probably not a cause of the emasculation of American men, but it was a harbinger. All those betas lining up to hee hee ho with their women were castrates in a coal mine. A mere fifty years later, we have Youtube videos of bronies coming out with their stuffed animal lovers.

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A writer, Andrew Smiler, for the e-zine ‘The Good Men Project’ has unintentionally parodied the mission statement of that blog with such zeal that one expects their next post to advocate mass castration. Titled “A Guy’s Guide to The Gender-Minimized 1st Date“, Smiler offers suggestions to men for how to date without being a man. You think I’m joking. I’m not. The intro paragraph is auspicious:

It’s not possible to have a completely gender neutral date. Gender, our cultural and personal notions of how people should act based on their biological sex, influences too many aspects of our behavior to be completely neutralized. In the dating context, gender roles provide an outline of how things “should” work. But in a day and age where equality is the expectation, why stick to a rigid outline based on your genitalia?

Weighing the efficacy of mocking the puffboy’s pretensions or spelling out in tiresome detail where his premises are wrong, I am stuck deciding between low effort fun or high effort usefulness. *flips a coin* The latter it is.

1. Gender is not a synonym for sex. Only appeasing nancyboys throw around the word gender like candy, ostensibly to ingratiate their feminist overlords.

2. There’s no such thing as a sex neutral date. The point of dates is to bring together the two sexes and determine if there is enough shared attraction, based upon sex-particular needs, for a romantic entanglement. The sexes’ differing reproductive goals, especially the woman’s, require a relatively lengthy courtship period to override natural trepidation.

3. Cultural and personal notions don’t influence people to act “based on their biological sex”, (is there any other type of sex?). Rather, the innate biological foundation of sex differences influences cultural and personal expressions of dating behavior.

4. The moral presumption that sex differences should be neutralized is a feature of the warped mind of losers who compete poorly in the organic sexual market.

5. “Gender roles” don’t provide an outline of how things “should” work; instead, sex roles emerge naturally and unbidden from primal biological impulses that are activated and sustained in the most intractably evolved parts of the brain like the limbic system.

6. “Equality” is only an expectation in the stifling prison complexes of liberal arts universities and on the broadsheets of leftoid propagandists. Among normal people, concerns for equality are about the last thing on anyone’s mind during a date.

7. The genitalia produce no dating protocol outline, rigid or otherwise. The brain is primarily responsible for the phenomenon of sex differences in courtship behavior. A man or a woman don’t follow rigid outlines only after they locate and identify their genital package. (For Smiler, this could take hours.) They follow sex-specific behavior patterns because their brains are wired differently, and this wiring began at the moment of conception, and before that at the moment the human race was conceived.

Now you see why low effort glibness when dealing with these fruits is so tempting.

I’m trying to write this guide to apply across all genders, masculine, feminine, trans*, etc.

There are two sexes. Anything else is an escapee from nature’s discard pile.

 If I’ve missed or something is very wrong, I have faith someone will let me know in the comments.

Good sire, I think yee’ve forgotten the thimblepeeners. Inclusiveness is job one, chop chop!

The butch asks some version of “I’d like to take you out to dinner, a movie, coffee, etc.,” does all the logistical work to make that date happen, initiates physical/sexual contact, and is responsible for starting conversation the next day if “he” wants the relationship to continue.

“He” is in nuance quotes because I suspect this pastry impersonating a man has relinquished the butch role to his morbidly obese feminist dates to take the lead jamming antique walking sticks up his rectum.

Hetrerosexual American guys assume they’ll pay for the first date, regardless of whether they endorse traditional or egalitarian gender roles.

More precisely, beta males assume they’ll pay for wallet-busting dates. Savvier men know the smart play, if a free date isn’t an option, is to pop for a cheap drink and tease the girl about buying the next ten rounds.

This role means the femme becomes the “sexual gatekeeper” because “she” is the one who accepts or rejects the butch’s sexual advances.

These “roles” you speak of are intractable properties of evolved human sexual psychology. They aren’t tasteful dresses you slip on in the privacy of your masturbatorium before an enthusiastic audience of Realdolls and brony onesies.

Very little of this requires sexually dimorphic genitalia.

Technically, this is true. You could lop off a man’s junk and he’ll still have a male mind, with the suite of behaviors that entails. I’m sure pudding bowl here has a wealth of experience in the matter.

Talking to someone, kissing and groping, and asking to see someone again (or not), requires a heart, a brain, a mouth, and the ability to communicate.

Well fuckin knock me over with a feather! Here I thought disembodied telepathy was all the rage.

Your genitalia—and your partner’s genitalia—are only relevant if you prefer some types of genitalia over others.

Trying to parse this, getting nowhere. I think he means a vagina is optional on a date. Her vagina, not his.

To minimize the impact of gender roles,

you’ll need to think about this now so you know what you want to do before you start doing it.

Hmm, sounds like… game!

Before you can do something new, you’ll need to get past the messages that have been beaten into your head by American culture.

“Cultural conditioning.” Define this “cultural conditioning” without resorting to circular shamanistic chanting. Use of any mathematical formulae in your presentation of evidence for cultural conditioning discernibly influencing sex specific mating behavior earns you bonus points. Stamping your wee feet doesn’t count as evidence.

Male feminists so funny thinking they can wave away biological reality by uttering two words ad nauseum. Which antediluvian “messages” have been beaten into American men’s heads the past sixty years? The gay marriage message? The black doctor message? The fat is beautiful message? The Lena Dunham is hot message? The white privilege message? The you go grrl message? If I didn’t know any better I’d say the cultural messages percolating throughout the entirety of the media and academia complexes extols a qausi-androgyny and sex role reversal. Funny, too, how *this* cultural conditioning has been so effortlessly rebuffed by all those men and women who continue to adhere to outmoded sex norms.

One part of this is learning to adopt the other role, at least at times.

“I’m wearing panties. The lace tickles my scrotum!”

Given how many times most guys hear some version of “don’t act like a girl,” that may not be the easiest way to approach it.

Maybe men are advised to not act like a girl because it’s a turn-off to women? Just a thought.

Instead, think about being asked out as someone paying you a complement and offering to buy you dinner in exchange for the chance to get to know you better.

If men wait around to be asked out by women they are gonna be pulling their puds alone for a long time. I suppose to get around this minor obstacle, you could taser women until they agree to your enlightened terms of engagement.

If a woman asks a man out or puts the sexual moves on him, it doesn’t mean she’s a slut (and it never did), it just means that she was ready for those things to happen before he was.

Leftoid reductionist thinking. Women don’t usually make the first move because it leaves them feeling less attractive, and it robs them of the need to gauge a man’s ardor and his drive. A man, of course, will take a pussy freebie if it’s thrown his way, but he won’t prize a woman as much as if she had retained her womanly prerogative to play coy and coax his initiative. These are fundamental principles of human value assessment that exist because the reproductive goals of men and women are different, and that transcend lazy, vapid platitudes about “being ready” first.

 If a guy doesn’t initiate, it doesn’t mean he’s a wimp.

A leading indicator of gutless lapdog faggotry is a penchant for using the word “guy” in place of “man”, yet maintaining the use of “woman”. As some readers might have perspicaciously noticed, CH combats this puling media trend by using the terms “man” and “girl” with bracing regularity. The upturned prolapsed rump of the anklebiterrati must be balanced by the forces of righteous phallocentrism.

He might be shy. Or maybe he doesn’t trust his ability to read your nonverbal messages and has adopted a “better safe than sorry” approach.

No nuts, no glory.

In any dating scenario, you’ll need to decide if and how much sexual contact you want to have with this person at this time. Remember,guys are allowed to refuse,

This is how eunuchs like Andrew Smiler rationalize their never ending procession of sexless dates.

even if you’ve never heard one admit doing so.

The universal cheat code of the SMV reality denier. Something about the sexual market that bothers you because it highlights your inability to compete? Just claim the opposite happens all the time, but no one admits to it. It’s super secret and stuff.

If you’re not sure, you can always say something like “I’m not ready to [fill in the blank] yet. Can we go back to what we were doing?”

A man who says “I’m not ready to get a blowjob yet. Can we go back to what we were doing?” as the girl is unzipping his pants has to think seriously about his sexual orientation.

Some of this is inevitably influenced by those gender scripts we’ve all learned

Present a hard copy of this gender script for examination.

If you want to get out of gender-land quickly, share some of your “gender atypical” interests.

“I masturbate into doll houses.”

Or, if you’re really bold, talk about the fact that you don’t really (or only partially) buy into gender stereotypes. Heck, you could even send the link for this article.

Along with a restraining order form she can fill out at her convenience.

Interestingly, there is a subgenre of game that implicitly mocks the new age sensitive gumbo that is especially effective on overt feminists. By adopting a pose of antipathy to “traditional” sex stereotypes that will be taken as intellectual flattery by the feminist, the sneaky player can breach her perimeter defenses and then seal the deal later by acting like an unreconstructed cad. The feminist will have to square contradicting paeans to her worldview with behavior that speaks directly to her libido. The enticement to “understand this wild man” will be insuppressible.

When you ask someone on a date, it means you make all the plans. Start by selecting an activity (e.g., dinner, bowling, movie) and asking your partner if they’re ok with that choice.

Never ask a girl if she’s ok with your date suggestion. Make a plan, and leave it to her to nix it if it’s something she really doesn’t want to do. If she demurs, make a counter offer, and if she nixes that one, sarcastically admire her spontaneity and adventurism.

I firmly believe that whoever does the asking is also responsible for paying.

How conveeenient, since it’s men who will have to do the asking if they want to get anywhere with women who aren’t desperate, purple-haired fatties.

When I’ve initiated a date, the bill comes, and my date has asked to split the cost, I’ll usually just say “why don’t you pay next time?” But if it’s going poorly and I don’t want there to be a next time, I will accept that offer to split the cost.

If the date is going really poorly and the girl turns out to be a first class cunt, slip out the back Jack, and leave her with the bill.

If I’ve asked someone out, I never ask them to pay for half, even if it’s going poorly. I asked, so I pay.

This is why if you’re going on a date with the expectation you’ll be paying, just go for drinks. May as well liquor the girl up on your dime and make a dent in her inhibitions.

You’ll need to get ready before the first date. That means getting dressed in a way that shows who you are and may—or may not—mean emphasizing the parts of your body that are sexually desirable.

I’m trying to think of a scenario where emphasizing the parts of one’s body that are sexually repulsive is the winning move. I suppose men can get away with the tactic as part of a game of signaling overconfidence by self-handicapping, and making light of it. Women should not pursue this strategy under any guise.

Given that our standards of attractiveness are closely connected to gender, this is one place where you probably want to get all gendered up.

How conveeenient, part 2.

Then again, “getting all gendered up” might be confusing if you’re mostly not following the standard gender script.

I could carve a straighter man out of Andrew McRawGlutes Sullivan.

Beyond this, there’s no formula. You can maintain one roll (leading or following)

You *can*, but it would be personally advantageous, if you’re a man and not a castrate, to lead rather than to follow, because the overwhelming majority of women prefer men in the former role to the latter role. So yeah, switch sex roles around all you like; just don’t expect to avoid the consequences.

Although it can be awkward, I recommend having at least a little conversation about gender roles—especially as they apply to dating and sex—during the first date.

Do NOT talk about “gender roles” on a first date in anything but a humorous, self-aware tone. I can’t think of a faster way to deep six a date than droning about society’s pressure on women to conform to cross-legged sitting positions. If you’re gonna game a hardcore feminist by pretending to be sympatico with her dumb beliefs, at least choose topics that are tangentially related to sex, so that the idea of sex with you gets lodged in her brain.

If you 1) have a disagreement about one of these topics and 2) it’s a topic that you both feel strongly about, it may be a sign that you’re not supposed to be with the person. Personally, I’d rather know sooner than later. If the two of you are able to find common ground and resolve that difference, that’s also good to know.

Older men with abysmally low testosterone levels become more interested in finding “common ground” with women at the expense of getting laid. Then they upsell it as enlightened thinking when all it really reflects is an inability to get aroused by the wrinkly cougars they’re stuck waltzing to arid dinner dates.

If you’ve been leading the whole time, then momentum says it’s your job to follow up.

How does momentum say this? Citation number counts toward your final score.

If you enjoyed the first date, tell the other person;

Because no woman worth pursuing ever liked a little bit of ambiguity in a man.

From here, it’s back to flirting and you’ll need to make a decision if you’re going to initiate the second date or wait for your partner to do it.

Never have so many words said so little with such dullness.

The key here is that you don’t need to stick to a set of gender-based rules that are older than you are.

These rules are ancient for a reason, you dumb fuck. You shitlapper. You Facebook mom.

You and your partner can structure your romantic and sexual life—who is responsible for what and when—any way you like.

You can live in your home any way you like.
You can take care of your body any way you like.
You can shit in public parks any way you like.
But that doesn’t mean women want to live in pig sties, bang soft manboobs, or date men who crap into water fountains.

Actions have consequences. Repeat until your misfit rage against reality consumes you.

Apparently, to the desiccated male specimens at The Good Men Project, a good man is a gelded man. This Andrew Smiler and his ilk are the mirror image of the fatty feminists who assert with no real world evidence besides apocryphal anecdote that fat women are just as desirable to men, and women should stop worrying so much about staying slender. The gelded man asserts an equally pernicious and debilitating reality warp about the appeal of asexual psychological neuters that would, if taken to heart, contribute to the total repository of ugliness and unhappiness in the world, both by men suffering romantic rejection and by women suffering the disappearance of alluring men.

One wonders what motivates these modern manlets. Are they sincere, or are they fly by night viral marketers for page views? Are many of them in the midst of sexual identity crises that collaterally drive them to public forums in outsized numbers to broadcast their self-hate? Is there really some kind of a gender-bending parasite, or a chemical, that has seeped into the rivulets of Western society and shriveled the nut sacks of millions of men?

Whatever they are, whatever their origin, CH will stand as a bulwark against the anhedonic emasculati’s dangerous nonsense. The Shiv of CH will disembowel their id viscera and display the mess on the operating table for the world to ridicule as mercilessly and joyously as we turn out the vitals of the freak feminists and malign equalists.

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The desperate male is a subspecies of the beta male. His modus operandi can be summed up in three words:

Always be chasing.

His philosophy is a simple one, assembled from the cut scenes of a thousand rom coms where the persistent Lloyd Dobler gets the girl in the end. He adheres to the core belief that women reward men who lavish them with flattery and intense declarations of romantic fealty.

Sometimes, once or twice in a millennium, he succeeds. Most of the time, men like him fail to get the girl they want, and often accomplish the opposite of what they intended: they incite the wrath or contemptuous pity of their pedestaled love interests.

To celebrate the craven puling of the desperate, clingy ünterbeta male and his mule-headed refusal to see women for what they are, the sheiks of the shocker, the maestros of the magic fingerbang, your ever ‘umble viceroys of entice ploys, CH house lords will feature occasional exposés of the sorry males whose testosterone glow went out a long time ago.

Today’s entrant to the pantheon of pathetic is a Facebook chatterer and a reminder why women are evolved to instantly assume the proto-Heisman blocking maneuver whenever they’re in the company of strange men who carry the stink of the undersexed:

Cute girls are at risk of acquiring omega male stalkers if they don’t nip their amorous wooers in the bud. This is why women have at their disposal an arsenal of shit tests and social shaming tactics. The former for those men who haven’t yet been identified for their mate worthiness; the latter for those men who have been deemed unworthy but lack the social savvy to know when to retreat. We men may not particularly enjoy having to hurdle the roadblocks that women put up on the path to sweet loving bliss, but the better of us should understand why those hurdles are necessary to women, and devise ways to circumvent them.

Besides the obvious if sick humor of it all, a couple of notable quotables jump out from the above one-sided exchange:

1. The guy violated just about every Poon Commandment. He quite spectacularly turned the Commandments on their heads. Commandment VIII took the worst beating; I half expected him to apologize for being born.

If you want to guarantee failure with women, read the Poon Commandments and do the opposite. This will ensure failure better than wearing a placard in public declaring your infidelity, buying flowers on the first date, or getting convicted of pedophilia.

2. As if we entered some bizarro universe where the sexual polarities are reversed, the girl replied in pictograms while the male wrote novellas airing his emotional laundry (and unused sperm-polluted mental health). Had the sexes been swapped in this exchange, I would be confident that these two were getting laid in the near future. But since the male has occupied the female role and the female the male role, there will be no sex.

3. Any man who thinks promising a woman that he “won’t take advantage of her” is the way to her heart is a power tool. Chivalry works in the abstract (specifically that abstract where unicorns are a possibility); in practice it’s an abysmal failure. A woman, if asked, will always say she wants a man “who respects her need to take it slow”, but in reality, where her words meet the unstoppable force of her tingles, a chivalrous gentleman’s pose is the equivalent of downselling: “Sure, this smartphone looks fast and functional, but it actually has parts made from Fisher Price toys. Try this cheapskate badboy clamshell over here instead.”

4. “Hows the pretty lady doin” could have worked as a funny opener if a parrot pictogram was appended to it, but midway through three weeks of unreciprocated Facebook self-immolation it’s the death warble of a man who’s forever been Pluto in women’s solar systems: A distant orbiter who barely qualifies as a space rock.

So here’s to you, “Hows the pretty lady doin” Man. Your travails are a life lesson in how not to act with women.

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