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A viral load of white female privilege dropped in the patriarchy’s lap this week. It’s a video produced by a racist white puppeteer featuring a racist white woman, Shoshana Roberts, (OK, maybe she’s a “convenience white” woman), walking through some vibrant and culturally nonconforming New York City neighborhoods for ten hours recording the reactions of the underprivileged men around her.

Wow. Just…. wow. I can’t even…. I can’t watch any more of this video. I feel physically ill from the othering. FCKH8!

The racist subtext is obvious. Some cisgendered white woman with a rap sheet of unchecked privilege and internalized racism claims to speak for all goddesshood, and trawls through Harlem like she’s on some safari, baiting the heterodusky into othersexual, courtship-positive mating displays. What does she expect, imposing herself on their colorful and enriching gape culture, blaming the victims for her socially constructed alabastercentrism? This is nothing less than minority shaming. And with her mile-wide ass she should know better.

There’s clearly a superstructure of anti-indigeneity in her feminist pose. Colonialist oppression is not far from her dismissive gestures. This woman wants to fight against Hollaback discourse, but all she really is doing is promoting Collablack sexual politics. She wants to collar all the blacks and Ricans who don’t accept her barely caucasian hegemony to decide rules of intergender solicitation.

Well I ain’t no collablack girl, and to this racist white woman pretending to be a real feminist I say, “Don’t impose your values on under-served, differently amorous communities. Not every catcall needs your affirmative consent if it doesn’t come from a rich, white man with good manners.”

Or maybe Shoshana Roberts and her racist white moneygrubbing masters would like to explain the reactions of her white sisters to this man? Should he just accept their creepy, threatening harassment, or should there be laws against this kind of female objectification of the male body (part)?

ps hi jezebel!

pps videotaped reactions (or indifference, as the case may be) from men on Wall Street and the Upper East Side were, for some odd reason, left on the cutting room floor. rumor has it shoshana made out with a few men who glanced her way.

ppps heh.

UPDATES

- As reader CAPSLOCK HUSTLA suggested, the anger of white women toward catcalling stems mostly from the fact that a lot of catcallers are low value men who think the girl is on their level. No woman, especially not a striver 6 like Shoshana, likes the feeling that losers think they have a chance with her. It makes her second-guess the power of her looks to intimidate lesser men (or attract better men).

- It’s no coincidence that most anti-catcalling feminist indignation comes from white chicks. Although META ANALYSIS and PEER REVIEWED STUDIES have yet to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, I suspect that non-white women, as equal inheritors of their race’s genes, respond more positively to catcalling men and also know how to handle those men (e.g., by refraining from showing vulnerability that could be misconstrued as sexual interest).

- I noticed over at the comments at iSteve that there still exist ignoramuses who think crude low class catcalling of the sort filmed in the video is the “game” taught by aristocads like yours truly. They’re ignoramuses, or they’re disingenuous liars. Yelling streetways at a woman to “smile more” and asking her post-rebuff “Am I too ugly for you?” is pretty much the opposite of game.

- Diversity + Proximity = A gauntlet of crass, 24/7 catcalling. White women will get misty-eyed for those long-ago days when a white man would walk up and say hi.

- Catcalling, if you couldn’t already tell, is mostly a non-asian minority thing. Only Mediterranean whites like Italians come close to expressing the… unsolicited robust amour… of blacks and guapos. And even then, the Italians in America catcall with a stylishness far removed from the ghetto version. It’s so rare for white men that I can’t honestly remember the last time I saw one catcall like those loping suitors in the video. And I’ve lived in a number of vibrant communities. I could set up a GoPro with Minka Kelly in Peoria, IL and go ten years without a single catcall caught on tape.

- I’m not completely without sympathy for women having to put up on the daily with nonstop catcalling that borders on creepy. The closest analogy for a man would be having to tolerate homeless bums begging for handouts every block. That would get annoying after a while. Of course, the answer is to avoid walking in areas where bums congregate. Or to have a grand ol time telling them NOPE with a sadistic grin.

- It’s as natural for vibrants to catcall as it is for white women to dislike it. The solution is to minimize the amount of proximate diversity. Hello, is anyone listening…?

- Shoshana, like her kin Lena Dunham, is a Ditz Class attention whore. She hates catcallers but loves reminding the world of her DD tits. Hypocritical attention whores like these two broads are a blight on civilization. The internet has certainly enabled their craft, but larger societal paradigm shifts away from patriarchal oppression and toward total female sexual freedom are to blame.

- Allegedly, Shoshana FatAssa is dating a bankster. I wonder how her street stooges feel about being set up by an entitled bitch?

- Here’s a funny, if less than biting, parody video. “Pumpkin spice season son!”

- Although they may feel threatened or uncomfortable in the moment, deep down most white (and white-ish) women are turned on a little by the feral male attention. It’s that dualistic female arousal mechanism at work again.

- Ultimately, the problem with stupid, bitter feminists and their lackeys is their inability to understand, let alone empathize, with how differently from women that men are aroused to desire. Once you have convinced yourself that there are no real biological or sociosexual differences between men and women, it’s a small step from there to bemoaning catcalling while your tits are thrust three feet in front of you. This is what a religious adherence to feminist lies gets you: Fear and loathing of men because they get turned on by visual stimulus with an intensity that is alien to your gynocentric worldview.

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Reader PA linked to an old video featuring four famous French singers embodying four distinctive styles of womanhood. All four are fantasizing about hitting on the same man who’s leaning against the bar. PA comments,

This is a delight in its own right. It’s also a Game tool: ask a girl which style, of the four shown here, is hers.

(Stay tuned for 3:34. Assuming it’s not electronically altered, dude has the deepest frog voice I’ve ever heard.)

The video is fun, and yes it does contain material that would serve very well reconstituted as a game routine. Which is what I’ve done.

Naturally, in most situations you’re not going to pull up a Youtube video for a girl you just met so you can ask her with which femme fatale she most identifies, (although there’s nothing wrong with doing that if you can manage it).

Do you remember the archetypical femmes fatales? The classics? The Chateau archives have posts about them and their particular gaming needs.

The golddigger.
The waif/neurotic.
The eternal ingenue.
The Amazonian alpha.

Asking a woman which female archetype she thinks she is will light up her eyes and deepen her conversational commitment. (Most girls like to think of themselves as ingenues. Be wary of the girl who proudly proclaims herself an amazonian alpha. Also be ready to bounce her home for the NSA bang.)

In the video, the singers represent, respectively (and commenters are free to argue with my categorizations):

Singer #1: The shy girl-next-door with a secret raging passion.
Singer #2: The fun-loving free spirit with a naughty side.
Singer #3: The elegant romantic who can throw a dinner party as well as she can flirt.
Singer #4: The take-charge seductress who might walk out with your wallet in the morning.

(Timeout to note how crazy beautiful and feminine Frenchwomen can be. I’d even consider monogamy with that first singer, and it takes a lot to inspire me to that sacrifice. Tragically, the times, and our women, have changed.)

If the girl you’re hitting on can watch this video with you, simply asking her which type she relates to will get the comfort stage ball rolling. Without the video, you’ll have to keep the above four (or eight) femmes fatales stored in memory for retrieval as part of the Femme Fatale Game Routine.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Women love to put men in boxes — you know, the frat bro, the nerd, the momma’s boy, the player — but there are types of women too. Femmes fatales. And men can tell a lot about a woman by her type. [pause for her curiosity to get the best of her. look away during this moment, so you don't leave the impression that you're anxiously anticipating her reply.]

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Really! So what type am I?

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: That depends. You see a man you like. You want to grab his attention. Do you look at him, then look away, blushing? Or do you bounce up to him and act flirty?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Act flirty.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: So you see yourself more as the free spirit than the shy girl-next-door. Ok, now if the choice is between being a free spirit, or sidling up in a sleek cocktail dress and remarking on his sense of style or whatever, which do you choose?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Ooh, I like cocktail dresses. I’d do that.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Ok, so you’re more of an elegant romantic than a free spirit. Now you have to choose between being an elegant romantic, or wearing a sexy dress with a plunging neckline and whispering racy innuendo in his ear. The take-charge seductress.

LITTLE BO QUEEF: That’s too much for me. I’ll stick with being the sophisticated romantic in a cocktail dress.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Typical American woman. Great! Now I know what type you are. Ready?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yes!

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: The elegant romantic is passionate, but not crass. She’s no prude, she just likes a long build-up before going for the kill. She thinks herself sophisticated [ed: note that this is a challenge], and tries to dress stylishly [ed: another challenge]. She’s emotionally mature and has that natural sexiness which makes other women jealous, but not so jealous that they feel threatened. Men feel good about introducing you to business associates.

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yay!

If words aren’t your thing, you can run an abbreviated version of the Femme Fatale Routine.

DEVIL’S REARGUARD: Shy girl-next-door, or naughty free spirit?

LITTLE HO’S SHEAF: Both!

DEVIL’S REARGUARD: That’ll do.

***

PS I understand that the “style” PA refers to may be the man’s style, but I think the routine works better as a pickup tool if you ask the girl about female-specific styles.

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Stanley Kubrick On Game

Hat tip: Sunny Bunny.

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It’s time to do the same with obesity.

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Homeless Gay Game

A million readers have sent CH links to this video and accompanying story of a purportedly homeless dude picking up girls for sex and flophouse stays.

I haven’t bothered to write about it because, well, watch the video and you’ll see why.

Strong gay vibe. This video is either a production house put-on or a confused gay man’s misdirection. If he’s a rump raider, then you should believe exactly 0% of his words. If, despite loudly pinging gaydar, he’s straight, AND telling something close to the truth, then godspeed exiled git of the vertical slit. Faux gay game has its place in pickup history; many a fine dandy wooed women with their aloof, refined charms.

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In your travels across the landscape of women, you will encounter a few ice queens who play the soulkill game as well as any sociopathic man. The first exquisite experience with such a woman leaves one breathless with awe; the second experience invites reciprocal devilry.

I’m not saying e-eeevil women will carve you up with as much dramatic poise as Nicole Kidman does in this scene from Eyes Wide Shut, but I am saying these kinds of women exist and the flair they possess for digging deep to the male id and serrating it (usually after fellating it) is a power that would reduce most beta males (and some alpha males) to whimpering self-doubt or reckless vengeful rage.

Pop quiz for those aspiring to Amused Mastery Level of Alpha Maleness:

Given a similar situation, how would you respond to a lover pulling the “Check out my merciless female hypergamy” shiv on you? I know what I’d do. Let her finish her monologue, wait a beat for the moment to grow flush with threatening potential, grin, sit back in bed, and say “Cool story babe”. Better yet, if I were drunk and hadn’t the mental storage space for cutting quips, I’d get up midway through her speech and leave unceremoniously, as if the noise of her voice was giving me a headache.

To respond with fury or hurt would be perceived as her victory; calm dismissal is a tried and true shiv parry that enervates even the most sadistically charged thrusts.

UPDATE

Via reader PA. This scene from Witches of Eastwick is a case study in how an alpha male steals the frame and totally deflates a bitchy woman’s stream of emasculating insults. Be Jack’s amused mastery, and then, when your antagonistic lover has had the wind knocked out of her shivvy sails, go on the offense until her former snarling attack posture is reduced to a quivering crouch of passivity.

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Her pockets are longer than her shorts.

Dat body language. It’s like she caught a whiff of dog shit. Betaboy doesn’t know it yet, but she checked out of their one-way playdate relationship long ago.

The story is here, in all its lurid, coalburning detail. I’m warning you so prepare yourself as you see fit. No matter what you tell yourself or others, the deepest recesses of your hindbrain will twitch in revolt. If you’re white. If you’re black, your heart will swell with tribal pride.

A white hottie with a soulless gaze cheated on her beta “””boyfriend””” (see above). And by cheated, I mean she triple lindied into a Rwandan pre-machete spree pep rally and had her clam shucked and pried by a diorama of dark continent dick. Pics and video and insta-taunting tell the tale. Rumor has it the video and pics didn’t catch all the action, and the full measure of her character was assessed by twelve mugging mandingos tickling the back of her throat.

I do enjoy a descriptive id punch.

[NB: She's leaning poolside. Looks like she's a product of a happy middle (upper middle?) class suburb. Witness born for those who want to insist race-crossing sluts are all low class land whales.]

As repulsive as is her self-mockumentary, what her sackless beta shitlapper borefriend did next was (if it’s possible) even more repugnant.

I’ll give you one guess what it was.

.

.

.

.

Drum pail, please….

He forgave his princess.

He forgave her after being subjected, no less, to a barrage of very personal muh dikking.

A man shames not just himself, but his male ancestors and male descendants, the whole lineage in a straight line from past to present to future, when he defends the honor of a dishonorable slattern. He betrays his close kin and extended race. He surrenders his dignity. He prostrates himself for a pence of peripatetic pussy. He is the human equivalent of shit speckle on a public toilet seat. I could carve a better man out of a banana.

Now, if the “””boyfriend””” had just said (in so many words), “Hey, I had my (weirdly platonic) fun with this discount bin whore, and now I’m cutting her loose based on the available evidence of her unsuitability as a long-term mate”, all would be forgiven of him. Her… not so much. But that is stain for another day.

Naturally, given that the attention whoring has grown beyond her limited means of message discipline, the party favor skank has tried to play the “I wuz drugged” get-out-of-slut-shame card, but no one is buying it. As well they shouldn’t. Post-cock rationalizations always carry a whiff of desperate image consultancy.

Where was her father in all this? Has he self-delivered in the aftermath, or did he essentially self-deliver from raising his daughter long ago? There are 99 ways a father can fail his children, but this way is FATHER FAIL numero uno. You’d have to be less than human to not feel the burn of shame if you were this father. Will he show his face in public again? Or doesn’t he care? Is this escapist self-annihilation — by both white father and white daughter — the new growth of an invasive society species that chokes to memetic death the value of fathers and the forward-thinking modesty of daughters?

The less judgmental among you could argue she and her pitifully loyal white knight lapdog and absentee father are sick in the head and deserve compassion. Maybe. But I tend to another hypothesis: What we see happening around us is the symptom of a society that has relinquished all controls over female sexual prerogatives. Female sexuality, when left unattended and free to do as it pleases, often travels into very dark and depraved cul de sacs, and can circle there for generations, creating a vortex that sucks in all civilized life to a pathetic and predictable doom.

Worse, this removal of restrictions on female sexuality has been accompanied by a perverse reaction in the opposite direction to confound men about the true reproductive nature of women. We see rising lockstep with rank sluts a hapless loser beta peasant class who are so ignorant of the masculine behaviors and vibe women crave that they meander helplessly through a sexual market minefield, bouncing bettys bouncing them from one bloody heartache to another. Repeated romantic failure inculcates in the young beta male’s mind a hopelessness that circumscribes his options well beyond what a realistic appraisal of his SMV would demand.

And so what we have here is what you see with this particular beta male… a stockholm syndrome-type of pathological clinginess that feeds on a feared lifelong incelibacy and is conditioned by this fear to rush to the defense of manipulative psychocunts who play ping pong with his blue balls while joyously gobbling the knobs of hooting ferals who live and die on liberating instinct.

***

Flyover naifs claim that plenty of “good girls” can be found. I’ve no doubt. I have lain with many good girls, and have nothing but the fondest memories (of memories made and memories in motion). But that is a non sequitur. The question isn’t whether there are good girls left in America — there are — but whether their numbers as a percentage of the whole are retreating. We have only our life experiences, anecdotes, and coldly sterile data to consult for answers. (Which normally is enough for examination of routine human behavior, but never is when we put the microscope to the monstrous vitals of the lust-fueled id.)

On the life experience and anecdote metrics, these sordid self-debasements of the slut-proud social media class seem to be increasing in frequency and dramatic flourish. Each week brings a romantic ignominy to top the previous week’s sexhibitionism. Girls raging gleefully at the dying light of patriarchal civilization; men raging impotently at the dying loins of their once virile majesty. One simply can’t help but notice change is a-blowin’ in the wind. And personally, I have accrued enough boudoir time with enough high society ladies to know that there is hardly a one — no matter her class, education, intellect, or family background — who doesn’t have clattering skeletons in her walk-in closet, and fewer still who aren’t practiced in the art of camouflaging otherwise.

(And bless their ladylike hearts for feeling the need to attempt the camouflage to appease my masculine prerogative. Truly.)

Data-wise, the evidence is murkier. GSS self-report surveys hint at a sexual cocooning strangely at odds with the growing portfolio of Facebooked frolicking. If true, it perhaps suggests less a hidden chasteness than a bifurcation in the sexual market, split between evangelical virgins and blue city girls gone wild.

The current CDC data veer more toward affirming the anecdotal, but there too the pussy picture is unclear. Some sexually transmitted diseases are on the rise, but teen sex is down (while teen pregnancy is up *head scratch*). Age of first sexual intercourse is up, but rates of throat and anal cancers in younger women are up as well. “Technical virgins”.

(Do white girls slot a 12-dick coal train into the “technical virgin” category? Kind of like how fucking a dog doesn’t really steal a girl’s virginity? It might explain a lot.)

It is as if two worlds — one a last stand by a besieged former empire, the other a new world disorder where chaos reigns supreme — are in our day locked in a death struggle for preeminence. And here we are, living it in technicolor splendor.

It shouldn’t bear repeating, but every time one of these slutbombs explode in the Chateau gardens, there are invariably “players” who chastise Your Unholy Greatness for his perceived judgmentalism and self-defeating yearning for a better past filled with better women.

Yes, reports tell of a past America that was better. Not better in every way, but better in the ways that mattered. And yes, I will admit to some giddy despair over the dissolution of a nation that no longer lays claim to my heart. But I also won’t look a gift ho in the mouth. If a cute girl makes it easy for me and wants to screw after ten minutes of meeting her, I won’t stop her. I won’t conspicuously judge her, either, except by the bewilderment and pain I plant in her when I prematurely recuse myself from her girlfriend expectations a few weeks (or months, if SMV is 7+) later.

The slut is souldead! God save the slut!

The slut is a useful tool. Great fun, great sex, horrible long-term investment. And that’s not just a gut feeling. The whitecoats confirm. There’s a sound evolutionary reason (white) men are attuned to signs of sluttitude and women are aggrieved by sluts in their midst.

And that’s really the crux of the whorecrux. A girl who surrenders her every orifice to a pack of howlhounds live-streaming for a studio audience the slow flaying of her soul will become the woman no worthy man will think twice about marrying. Her humiliation, so abject and complete and perfunctorily recorded for posterity, (though for now she only feels it in fleeting sensations on the back of her neck late at night through the self-medicating haze delivered in warm liquid doses by her muscly rationalization hamster), will render her utterly unmarriageable to the vast majority of quality men with options. This stone cold reality will make her life incalculably harder, and wrest an incalculable torrent of tears from her mother and an incalculable tribute of emotional withdrawal from her father.

A merciful god would find some way to attenuate their torment. God helps those who help themselves. (If by chance some cleansing… salvation… were to befall the family, it would serve a valuable lesson for the others.)

A father’s shame, more profound, maybe, than his daughter’s. Because what is a father’s mission critical job as regards his daughter? It’s to preserve his daughter’s honor and see her off into the world the kind of woman a good man would want to take up. A failure to complete this job discredits him as a father like few other failures can.

This is the normal state of affairs, and shame and guilt have evolved to ensure that civilized fathers and daughters comport themselves in line with the prevailing social norms. But shame is dead in the West, and guilt is following soon in its brother’s wake. Social norms divide and redivide like a multicellular demon embryo, partitioning into separate and competing camps unsurprisingly in line with the diversity of seed that contributed to the demon’s corrupted cuckolded conception. Le Chateau stands a citadel against the alien revocation of these timeless forces of civilization, and for that we are despised by the wayward and wanton. More deserving enemies we could not pray for.

These horror stories always remind me of a fitting song.

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