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There can never be too many pimp slaps administered to traitorous, cowardly Galactic UberPhag LindsGAY GAYham’s slap-able gayface. Tucker backhands Graham a good one, here.

Keep the heat on these cucks. They deserve every publicly humiliating beatdown coming their way until they slink off into the 9th circle hellscape waiting for them where their lies and malignancy and treachery won’t infect America.

The “American Exceptionalism” era of delusion is over; the Blood and Soil America era is beginning (again, as the Founders intended). A great comment from anonymouslee:

I don’t know why we don’t more often point out the absolutely definitive evidence against “muh Constitution” arguments:

the worst shitholes, however you want to choose them from the Soviet Union to the failed states of Africa to the genocidal warmongers of Europe, have fantastic constitutions. Any country you hate, just name it and find a perfectly nice sounding Constitution.

We are a people. The Constitution is something we decided to put on paper to better organize the government which exists to serve us, the nation. Not the other way around.

The Constitution didn’t write us, we wrote the Constitution. (hat tip to Malcolm Little for getting me down to one line)

Something else we should point out is that rhetoric about how people are not really people paves the way for attempts at genocide. No people, no crime. Case closed!

Emphasis mine. The People are the Paper. The Paper is not the People. Change the People, and irrevocably the interpretation of the Paper changes to suit the disposition of the replacement People. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot, cuck, or lying shyster.

***

On the topic of Realtalk Rebels taking it to the corrupt, sclerotic, anti-White male establishment, here’s a vid of Jordan Peterson shellacking a dumbstruck feminist cunt.

The race by the Chaimstream Media to censor (by commission or omission) and shut down dissident voices is evidence of their fear. Not fear that they’re losing; rather, fear that they have ALREADY LOST and now they’re scrambling to keep the angry mob from tossing them on the spikes lining their gated communities. Institutional Leftoids tamp down so hard on dissident thought criminals because they KNOW that if they lose this war the revenge exacted on them will be epic.

***

Not entirely OT: The only polling outfit you should trust is Rasmussen. They were closest to accurately calling the 2016 presidential election up to a week before Election Day. The rest of the polls are rigged in any number of ways to artificially boost Trump’s negatives or shrink his favorability numbers. Last I checked, Rasmussen had Trump at 46% favorability. Keep that in mind, because there’s been a daily drumbeat of leftoid media orgs pushing the narrative of Trump’s “historically low favorability” using the same polling outfits that were badly wrong all the way through 2016.

It’s as if the Narrative gatekeepers live in a bubble and don’t think Americans are paying attention to their perfidy and lying scumbaggery.

***

Speaking of the loathsome and self-discrediting Chaimstream Media, do the screechy mouthpieces employed to safeguard the Narrative have any idea that their hysterical remote psychological diagnoses of Trump’s mental health are ripped straight from the pages of Stalin’s playbook? Our elite have never been more malevolent or historically ignorant. BAD COMBO

After you read this incredibly Millennial news story, you’ll understand why I titled this post “The Voluntarily Sexless Marriage” instead of “The Voluntarily Celibate Marriage”. Our platonically married couple isn’t celibate at all; they’re just celibate for each other.

The sexless marriage is a timeless rue with an explainable kernel of pedestrian truth to it, but at least it can be said for men trapped in age-independent sexless marriages that their woeful predicament wasn’t contractually inked before the vows were exchanged. Not so for Tiffany Trump’s newlywed friends:

When New York socialites Quentin Esme Brown and Peter Cary Peterson got hitched in Las Vegas over the weekend in front of a small group of friends — including Tiffany Trump, who acted as the flower girl — they knew that people would make some assumptions. Either they were madly in love or drunk, right? In reality, the best friends said they were neither. They’re planning to make theirs a sexless, open marriage, they explained, and this actually sounds like a pretty wise idea to relationship experts.

100% of chaimstream media approved “relationship experts” are charlatans.

“Sexless marriage”. An irretrievably broken, anhedonic society at war with the reality of innate sex differences takes the one redeeming feature of marriage and tosses it away.

A sexless marriage is pointless, but a sexless, OPEN marriage is just plain malicious, because those super progressive, feminist friendly polyamorous arrangements never benefit both parties equally; it’s usually the slutty woman getting her rocks off down the hall as her moans of ecstasy drive her incel “partner” crazy with murder-suicide ideation.

“He has always been my soulmate in every sense of the word

Women and men have competing definitions of “soulmate”. Men tend to emphasize the “mate” part of the term.

and we felt mutually that Vegas was the place to finalize our commitment to partnership,” Brown explained on Instagram. “Peter and I are not romantically involved — in fact we are still dating others and will continue to seek love in all forms — we are just each other’s hearts and wish to begin our journey towards evolution, because the more we face reality, the more we can see that there is no right or wrong.”

Poopytalk. They’re doing the opposite of facing reality; they’re hiding from it under cover of Clown World’s Cloak of Inchoateness. If Tiffany Trump’s friends are indicative of Tiffany’s own views, it’s no wonder Papa Trump practically disowned her.

Susan Pease Gadoua, a licensed therapist

Licensed to bilk.

and co-author of The New “I Do,” has yet to meet anyone else with this kind of marriage, but she says it fits in with the way she sees many people deciding to change the rules to suit their relationship needs.

Dope. People aren’t changing the rules to suit their piques; they’re lowering their expectations and adapting to the encroaching jungle.

“We don’t need to get married for any of the reasons we used to,”

Including but not limited to reasons such as reproduction and generational continuity.

Gadoua tells Yahoo Lifestyle. “Once you’ve got everything else in place, it is like the cherry on top.”

But Brown and Peterson don’t seem to have married for children. So why get married at all?

The question with no answer that won’t sound like a try-hard rationalization.

“We did this because we wanted to finalize our commitment to each other as life partners and best friends,” Peterson wrote on Instagram.

What happened to mutually presumed and unspoken loyalty between friends? If you have to rely on the imprimatur of State authorization to declare your shared friendship, you don’t have anything remotely resembling a friendship. Instead, you have a pose. Two attention whores jockeying for social status within their group of unloveable weirdos.

Brown also put a statement on Instagram, saying, “I am confident my husband and I will break some walls down,” she wrote.

If your official terms of endearment preclude fucking, he’s not your husband.

Husband:

before 1000; Middle English husband(e), Old English hūsbonda master of the house

You haven’t consecrated a house for him to master. You’re two neutered farm animals who happen to be dozing in the same bed of hay and dried manure.

“A lot of these sorts of marriages are in response to society getting increasingly isolated, and people want to create a kinship model. You either have to be married or you have to be blood relatives; otherwise, you can walk away from each other.”

Like I wrote, adaptation to the r-selected jungle.

This kind of union may in fact last longer than a marriage based solely on intense romantic attraction, Gadoua surmises.

Well, sure. Because it isn’t a marriage. It’s a zero-investment masquerade. It’s easy to let a “sexless, open marriage” linger for eternity because the cost of upkeep and dissolution is negligible. No romantic reward, no romantic risk.

The other advantage is that the friends can seek out those romances outside of this relationship. In this way, their setup resembles the kind of polyamorous arrangement that some couples have found to be a better alternative to divorce.

“Some couples” = a few physically and psychologically repulsive losers who can’t hack it in the human sphere where standards still exist.

“Where the complications are going to come in is when people outside their relationship look at it like, ‘I don’t want to get involved in that,’” Gadoua says. “It’s going to make it a little bit more complicated for them to find partners who understand.”

GIRL: hey I’m free for that drink Thursday, but I should tell you I’m married to a great guy, but we never have sex. It’s in our vows.

THE DEVIL’S HARD BARGAIN: fantastic! you sound totally normal. I’m scratching you in now as my third stringer.

Rodman also cautions that this won’t work if one partner isn’t being entirely honest about what he or she wants in this relationship.

“If one person was secretly hoping that this would turn into something romantic or sexual, then that would be quite the disappointment,” she says.

The Voluntarily Sexless Marriage is the next evolution in beta male bait. Watch for hordes of thirsty betas to jump in with both feet hoping a piece of worthless paper has the power to unplug the tingle spigot.

But if we’re to take Brown and Peterson at their word, they’re pretty happy with their decision so far.

“We have one life,” Brown wrote. “Free yourself!”

Combined IQ: 1

Time for a Phys Quiz. The glowing, and strangely tense, lovebirds:

Hm mm mm. So progressive! Tiffany Trump’s friend married her gay bestie. Cameras and Yahoo blog typists are standing by….

PS I was planning to award Peter Peterson both the coveted Beta of the Month and White Male Pussy of the Month titles, but as you can see from the picture above, those titles aren’t applicable.

Sluts are wild women. The wildest, which is impressive considering the basal state of women is sexual wildness when released from cultural supervision. Many an unwitting beta male has thirstily stumbled into a slut’s Venus Thigh-Trap and been liquefied, financially and emotionally, by her muff-shaped machinations. But sluts can be controlled, and their sexual recklessness harnessed for the beta’s exclusive pleasure, no psychological costs or commitment strings attached.

williamk writes that a slut uses her sex like a shackle, binding her quarry into a one-sided relationship that robs him of his dignity and prepares the way for his cuckolding:

Sluts control weak guys with sex.

It’s likely every once in a while he imagines her past and feels disdain rise in his viscera, but then she drains his nuts and dissipates his drive.

He’ll never leave her or cheat because she knows just how much to sate him to own him.

Beta male thirst is more than a tingle-killer; it’s a poisoner of long-term relationships. If you give in to an LTR with a slut solely to prevent your nuts from backing up with unspent sperm, you’ll regret all the times in between nutting that you have to spend with her, and that’s a lot of time, unless you can nut non-stop without turning into a bleached desert skeleton.

A slut who has your cock on a leash will NEVER give you all the sex you want; she will give you THE BARE MINIMUM of sex to get what she wants, which is usually a combination of your money, energy, abject supplication, unreciprocated fidelity, and willingness to excuse any and all bad behavior she wishes to dish out (which sluts will dish out frequently and gleefully).

The experienced man with options knows how to control sluts for the reasons above: his interests as a man will often diverge from the interests of the sluts he bangs for fun. He has no thirst, so sluts can’t play the ol’ dame game of throwing their sex at him in the beginning and then slowly but incrementally drawing their sex away in hopes of reorienting the relationship to one in which the slut has all the hand.

The Slut Whisperer also never commits long-term to a slut unless he is absolutely sure of his ability to control the slut’s sexual manipulations and impulsivity. The number one reason to avoid commitments to sluts that last longer than a three-month fling is because they’re high risks for cheating, divorce, and cucking. As a man, you’d want such a tight grip on your slut’s heartlight that she wouldn’t dare indulge her natural inclinations….and that’s a tall order to suppress what is likely a genetically imprinted predilection.

So, the two most potent slut controlling psy ops a man has at his disposal are:

  • dating options, or the ability to collect dating options
  • his love

Having options, or the confidence that comes from an ability to collect options on short notice, reduces a man’s sexual thirst, thereby reducing his susceptibility to a slut’s exploitation of men’s higher sex drive.

A tried-and-true technique for projecting a powerful perception of your ability to score new poon post-haste is Dread Game. And nobody falls for Dread Game as thoroughly and predictably as the slut, who senses in it (and for that reason cannot defy it) the mirror manipulation of her Sex Apportioning Game. Driving a slut to heights of jealousy will put the brakes on her sexual power games because she will lose the focus to stick to her Gine Directive.

Dread Game is essentially Love Apportioning Game, and as a slut will open and close her vagina to the rhythm of her desires met and unmet, so will an experienced man open and close his heart to the rhythm of his desire met or unmet for a woman who will behave herself to his liking.

In sum,

SEXUAL CHOICE

CONDITIONAL LOVE

are the ingredients to bring a slut to heel.

In woman-conditioning language, I call this

INTERMITTENT REWARD, CONSISTENT PUNISHMENT, OCCASIONAL MERCY

and now you have tamed the slut.

It’s Jerkboy Game Day!

Courtesy of Gabber @LexParsimoniae:

She looks like she’s ready to admit him to her S&M dungeon. A keeper!

FYI the jerkboy move that sealed the deal (or at least sealed delivery of the dominatrix outfit pic) was when Lex dropped the “lol” bomb. Short, snappy retorts like “lol” and “gay”, which in context don’t make a whole lot of sense nor need to, are MASS GAINER snickerdoodle flavored hamster pellets. Also, note the ratio of her words to his words: she’s investing more in the exchange (even microinvestments like total typed letters count towards relative SMV scores and the perception of higher value of the person investing less).

Remember, as you scan that screenshot for eternal wisdom: NICEGUYS PACIFY, JERKBOYS ELECTRIFY

Her: what makes u think u can demand anything from me

Niceguy: oh sorry if i crossed a line *wets himself*

vs

Her: what makes u think u can demand anything from me

Jerkboy: lol *chain texts three other plates*

Update:

I had her over for dinner, she washes all the dishes and the ones I used before she gets over and never complains. She’s 30 I’m 45. She’s used to getting her way. She can’t figure me out.

My guess, she wants to land a man. Doesn’t want kids though. See what happens.

Insist that she wear those cute animal ears whenever she’s with you, including out to restaurants. (This is domination-ownership move you can find in classics of the Unholy Love genre, such as Story of O.)

It Takes A Black Woman…

White women always react the same way to a bothersome kneegr0 beggar: with deference, patience, and finally sorrowful apology for not coughing up enough dough.

Black women react differently: they completely ignore him or give him lip for not minding his own business.

Black women know how to handle their black men.

There’s a lesson there for earnest shitlib White women. #NotLikeUs

A comment from Tiberius that had me chuckling,

The strip clubs around here are more circus than anything. We went to one on a friends birthday. The hottest one had only one arm. She dragged the birthday boy up on stage, ripped the elastic out of his underwear, took his belt, wound it tight around her stub and whooped his ass with it. I’ve never seen anything more surreal in my life. I do not get boners recalling this experience.

I’ll take a wild guess which region in the US this “Weird Americana” titty bar is located: West Texas.

The Scent Of Ripe Sex

A male friend a few years older than me once took me to a high end strip club. It was my first time at a house of ill repute, and I was underage (but of age in the way that mattered). He knew one of the club’s employees and arranged a deal to sneak me in with him through an alleyway entrance.

I’ll never forget the sounds, sights, and….smell….of that experience. They linger today. Blood red light, thrashing heavy metal, and riotous naked pussy assaulted me. I popped a stiffy before we had taken our seats at a table in the back, to my relief cloaked in cranny dimness.

I had by then notched some innocent quality time with Real World girls, but never had exposure to raw, unbridled female sexuality until that field trip with a buddy I would go on to admire for many years afterward as my chaperone to a parallel pooniverse told in tales of thigh adventure.

I remember my friend had informed me the strippers were “just north of jailbait”. Which meant all the girls were older than me, by a few years. We gawked for a while — rather, I gawked, he pretended to soak it in like a seasoned viewer — and then he slipped a twenty in my hand.

“Should I get change?”

“No, that’s for the lap dance you’re getting.”

He motioned to an unearthly beauty with jet black hair framing cum-white skin. She glided over to us on a cloud of estrogen. Her body was perfection to match her face. Slender hourglass figure, levitating tits, and a pert ass. I guessed she was 18 years old. And a hard 10. They exist.

She and my friend exchanged some words, then she smiled at me, performed a lissome posterior chain maneuver that drew her face and body nearer mine, and her hands pried open my legs. Standing in my manspread zone, she unbuttoned her leather miniskirt. It shimmied unceremoniously to the ground (very smooth, I thought to myself), revealing black panty and….was I seeing right?….a rolling hillock of peekaboo vulva adorned with villous springtime fluff. She lifted the elastic on one side of her panty and pulled my moneyed hand toward the pleasure portal; I slipped the twenty in and made sure the second knuckle of my middle finger got some before she closed the gate.

She was unusually practiced at her art for a girl who shouldn’t have been at this line of work for longer than a year. Gracefully and with a patina of eagerness that I had hoped was sincere, she crossed my southern border and gyrated and twisted and grazed and rubbed and pressed and ground……but the sensation that would grab my hindbrain by the reins and steer it to a catatonia I have found hard to replicate in the time since was the sensation that entered through my nose.

Her aroma. It emanated most powerfully from a moist place, a fog bank, a source of life, and more subtly from every square inch of her body. It was the Engineer’s goo if the goo was pink and smelt of a thousand roses and the richest peat. That scent…I can recall it in an instant, and still it stuns me. Later, reflecting on it in the wisdom of my adulthood, I would realize it was the scent of ripe sex. Of a woman in her fertile prime whose sole purpose in this world was to be inseminated by a warrior poet and birth the next generation. Her natural perfume wasn’t of the material world; it was a divinely endowed advertisement that she was laden with a full basket of the freshest eggs.

I would likewise realize that no matter how many women one has bedded, loved, lost, or loved again, there will be nothing that comes later which can precisely capture the stupefaction and delight of that first sniff of a hard 10’s maximally fecund fragrance. It’s like a first love; you’ll love again, but occasionally your heartthoughts will drift to that sun-dappled sweet sixteen siren, a memory unblemished by life’s inevitable compromises.

There have been moments since when I’ve caught whiff of a similar scent, and I remembered it fondly — as one would the surprising intrusion of an odor that recalled grandma’s kitchen — and every association would come flooding back, filling empty neural nooks with lust. But you can’t go all the way back. The past is unsullied precisely because it exists in a magnified amber constructed of sensation, newness, and promise. Pussy #30, however sweet-smelling, can’t hit with the limbic force of Pussy #1. No shame in that ladies, just don’t expect the same invulnerable adoration from a man when you’re his Thirtieth Act.

***

I had met a girl a couple months after that trip to the strip club, and I was so relaxed around her she mentioned it to me with a hint of annoyance. “Are you always like this with girls? So…calm?”, she had suspiciously inquired. No, I had replied, hoping to allay her, only with you, because you’re easy to talk to.

Lie. I was relaxed because I had smelled the scent of God, and the girl sitting with me was an aromatic mortal in comparison.

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