There are only three things that drain the blood faster from a man’s face than the thought of erectile dysfunction:
When your wife serves you divorce papers.
When you catch your woman fooling around with another man.
When your woman busts you for cheating.
The first two, luckily, haven’t happened to me, but the last one has… multiple times. And from those trials by ovarian fire I have learned a few valuable lessons. I’m here to tell you what to do — or, more precisely, what *not* to do — when your girl jabs the infidelity finger of accusation in your face.
Read about my recommendations for correctly handling a suspicious woman who (justifiably) accuses you of cheating. This is can’t miss information for the man who likes to keep a few on the side.
This is Steve Phillips, 46 year old ESPN baseball analyst and former Mets GM, with his 22 year old mistress, a lowly production assistant he met on the job. The bitch mistress filed for a restraining order against Phillips the day *after* she left a taunting letter with his wife saying she (the bitch mistress) and Steve were meant to be together. Chutzpah, thy name is woman.
(Note that stalker behavior is more likely to occur when the status differential between the man and woman is significant. A woman will fall in love VERY quickly and effortlessly with an alpha who deigns to dump a fuck in her, while this same woman would need years to decide whether she loves the provider beta who dotes on her.)
Here is a photo of Phillips’ aged wife, Marni, mother of his four children:
After viewing the first picture with much disgust and confusion, most of you were probably asking “What the HELL was he doing with her?” And you’d be right to wonder. Phillips is a good-looking dude, high status, and presumably loaded. There are thousands of hot 22 year old women who would gladly smoke his pole.
The mistress looks like a fat dyke. I’d rate her a beer-fueled 2. The only thing she has going for her is her youth (24 year age difference between Phillips and her), which goes to show that even an ugly dyke-ish 22 year old can be more sexually appealing to men than their aged wrinkled wives. Although after looking at the pic of Marni Phillips for many minutes of close examination, I’d have to conclude that it’d be a close call deciding which one I’d fuck. I think I’d choose Marni. Her boobs give much love.
So why do some men with options choose to date, or cheat with, unattractive women below their level?
First, keep in mind that the reason we notice weirdo combinations like Phillips and his pig-faced mistress is because they are so rare. We notice that which defies expectation, and we ignore that which is the same old same old. 99% of men with Phillips’ status are either dating or cheating with much hotter women. So don’t get your hopes up, ladies.
Remember, too, that what you see is not always what you get when a good-looking man slums it with an ugly woman. Because a man’s dating market value is determined by so many more variables than those which can be observed by the naked eye, we cannot always assume that a good-looking guy is high status in the same way we can safely judge a good-looking girl is high status. (A woman’s social status is based almost completely on her looks.) That good-looking guy with the ugly girl may have crippling personality flaws, no money, no job, no charisma, no humor, no self-confidence, no ambition, or no game. He may also be too lazy or fearful to put in the extra effort to get a girl closer to his level.
But these unusual dating disparity exceptions do exist, and here are the reasons why I think some high status men will choose to lay with gross women:
Variety is the spice of life. Sometimes a new, ugly pussy is more rewarding than another night of the same, slightly less-ugly pussy.
Convenience. Many alphas won’t make the minimal effort required to meet hot chicks in the wild savannahs of their cities. The pigmalion intern you see every day who will drop to her knees instantly to suck you off can be, from a cost-benefit calculation, the better deal of the moment.
Pure laziness. Some men think it’s undignified, degrading, or less than manly (ha!) to actively chase women. They prefer to have the ugly pussy fall in their laps. This rationalization by lazy men is known as “sour grapes”. Unfortunately for them, it’s actually more degrading to bang an ugly woman than it is to pursue hotter women, even when that pursuit leads to rejection. There is honor in the chase.
Insecurity. A powerful man with deep-seated psychological issues who likes to be in control may opt for the ugly mistress he can easily dominate. A hotter mistress would require more tact and manipulative ministrations to keep in line, a tall order which could send him into a self-hating spiral of spite. Some men don’t like a challenge; they prefer a supplicative sex slave. These are the same kinds of men who solicit hookers. Also see: laziness.
Hidden lack of self-confidence. He’s alpha on the outside, beta on the inside.
Paper alpha. There are men who are alpha with other men, but graceless, befuddled pussies with women. It’s not many, but they do exist.
Youth is its own quality. A man quickly grows bored of sex with an old wife. An ugly 22 year old will suddenly start to look a lot more appealing than even sex with a “beautiful for her age” older wife.
Experimentation. Many unattractive girls will do things in bed that a wife or a better looking woman would never do. If a girl is willing to accept A2M and post gym workout teabagging, she will bump up the queue.
Odd fetishes. There are guys who like to fuck sheep. Rare outliers are part of the wonderful tapestry of humanity.
Some of you will suggest that maybe the ugly mistress has a sparkling personality, and Phillips was drawn to that. No. When a man is an alpha, women all around him, including hot ones, will suddenly have sparkling personalities. Bitch shields drop as fast as panties with the right man. Compatibility and sparkling personalities can be easily spoofed when the proper incentives are in place.
None of what I listed above should provide succor to weak, lazy men who wish to dumpster dive and enjoy their buddies’ approval at the same time. Steve Phillips forever sullied his good name by hooking up with this beast. If you’re going to take a mistress, be sure to take one who brings honor to the title.
I was at a small-ish film fest party for a guy who directed a couple of short documentaries. Crowd size: ~80-100 peeps, skewed toward women, most of whom were cute artsy scenesters who liked to wear woolen caps and scarves indoors. Because, you know, it might snow.
Three girls, all 7s, approached me and my friend to ask if we were “part of the creative scene”.
Clearly, a significant subculture of the residents are starving for the company of unconventional people who aren’t yuppie whores. And so, I give them that. I aim to please.
After a few minutes of light chit chat about my latest blockbuster mega-grossing film, I felt the energy of the set wane. They were slipping away. Girls are born with a self-entitlement region of the brain that causes them to assume all men were put on the earth to continually entertain them. This region is connected to the pussy through a single major nerve called the tingleginaceptor. When the pussy deteriorates through age, so does the entitlement region of the female brain. This is why many older women are so engaging in conversation; they have to be.
A player adept at seducing women knows to flip this entitlement script and demand entertainment from the women in his company. Game is the tool that helps with the script-flipping. But this time I ran no game. Instead, I let the chit chat dissipate, smiled warmly, and told them to enjoy the show.
I could’ve made fun of one of the girl’s scarves (“That scarf is all wrong on you”). I could’ve negged the hottest girl (“You look like the girl in the movie who got dumped by the guy. Are you her? Well, chin up”). I could’ve kinoed, isolated, made out. But I did none of these things. Why?
Because in certain specific contexts, I believe game can backfire. This was one of those times. A small, insular indie scene such as at a film screening, filled with people who likely are friends, or at least acquaintances, with everyone else in the room, and who have certain social codes that they follow and are only understood by themselves (e.g. don’t be a douchebag) are more apt to react suspiciously to game run on them by a relative outsider. (I do hang in the indie scene, but not this particular one.)
My spidey sense was telling me that had I negged one of the girls in the three set, it would have confused her. And not in a good way. Tightknit groups of people tend to want to feel newcomers out, to see if they’re cool, i.e. socially savvy. A neg right out of the gate might have tingled ginas, but it also ran the risk of emphasizing my outsider status. It’s best to demonstrate your in-group cred first before hitting them up with the thermonuclear love bomb of game. With very provincial groups, this getting-to-know-you process can sometimes require attendance at three or more events where you’ll see the same girls and they’ll have an opportunity to become comfortable with you. Blogger happy hours used to work this way.
There is a trade-off to every decision. The girl who interested me may not ever again go to one of these events. Or she may have been sufficiently bored by the non-game “normal” conversation between us to write me off as a future contender. If I had properly gamed her, I had a chance to initiate the short road to intimacy. But gaming her also posed the risk of stamping me persona non grata within the scene, possibly polluting my chances with other girls who knew my primary target peripherally.
Pickup is about experience. After enough time and practice, you’ll get a feel for these kinds of social riddles. But all in all, I prefer this rule of thumb —
Take me to the club where the boobs all hang
Give me old poontang that’s what I bang yeah
Hey take me to the club where the MILFs are queen
And from what I’ve seen that cooch is free
-Gonna use no game
-No need to mack
-Gonna get me some old maid
-Got a cougar on my back
Take me to the club where the ass hang down
Gonna grab that round – (yeah yeah yeah!)
Take me to the room where the young’s all old
And the old’s all bold take me back to her shack
-She don’t take no prisoners
-Gonna give me the business
-Got a cougar on my back
-It’s a cougar attack
[righteous drum solo]
Reader “Silver Fox” included a link in the comments to this New York Beta Times graphic showing that over the past 30 years more American men are marrying older women than themselves.
Naturally, the perpetual lie machine known as the mass media will play up a stat like this as proof that cougars are coming into their own, and strong men “secure in their masculinity” are beginning to “appreciate the older woman” and everything she has to offer, including her “higher sex drive”, “experience” and “full blossoming of her mature womanhood”.
As usual, they would be wrong. I will explain.
If we liken the typical cougar to a 1975 Toyota Corolla…
…then we can see that, if we were in a rush to get to the hospital and had no car at our disposal except this one, the Corolla with 250,000 miles on it would serve in a pinch to take us from point A to point B. Sure, it wouldn’t be the most fun ride, or the quickest ride, or the ride with the best handling (the torn vinyl on the heavily used bucket seats symbolize deep cleavage wrinkles), but it would do the job when we had a motor vehicle dry spell. Hell, tooling around in the Corolla for a few days might even be funny as an ironic hipsterly statement embracing the working class.
But goddamn if you’d be caught alive driving this POS on a daily basis, picking up your friends with it or tossing the keys to the valet to have it parked when you pull up to Bar Pilar. No man with car options would choose a 1975 Toyota Corolla as his daily commuter.
Analogously, you might entertain the notion of riding a cougar for a night if you’ve been suffering a six month pussy dry spell. You might even rationalize your decision to bang the cougar as a sort of statement against the patriarchy, or a mighty enlightened blow for 10th wave feminism. If your friends saw you leave the bar with the cougar, your face-saving embarrassment would compel you to sing the false praises of older women and how much they love sex and how well they suck dick.
But in the glaring, pore revealing light of morning, you’d turn over, take one look at your cougar conquest snoring fitfully next to you, and make for the exits like Road Runner. You would then feel so shitty about your dumpster diving that self-doubt would cripple your game for months. You’d retreat to the pallid glow of Creampie porn.
The NYBTimes graphic showing more men marrying older women should be viewed in light of my Corolla analogy. Men aren’t marrying older broads because they mysteriously and suddenly find them hotter than younger women; they’re marrying them out of necessity BECAUSE IT’S GOTTEN HARDER FOR THE AVERAGE BETA MALE TO MARRY THE YOUNGER WOMEN HE PREFERS.
What you are seeing in that graphic is a massive, paradigmatic shift in the sexual market. As the economic empowerment, entitlement complexes, and slut celebration of American women has reached epic proportions, they are living it up in their late teens and 20s with the alphas and settling down in their 30s and 40s with younger, desperate, easily controlled betas who serve as sub-par alpha substitutes when the alphas no longer desire them. The betas, for their part, would prefer to date and marry women younger than themselves, but they are being priced out of the younger woman market, and for many men a wet flabby hole is better than no hole.
The alphas, meanwhile, know it’s in their interest to use a woman during her prime and jettison her before marriage legally and financially binds him to an old jalopy. When an alpha does marry, he makes sure to marry a younger woman (preferably 10 years or more younger) so that he enjoys the ripeness of her sexuality for as long as possible. There are other benefits to older man-younger woman pairings — when he’s 50, and his younger wife is 35, she will seem relatively more attractive to him than she would to a 35 year old man. He will be more loving and attentive toward her than he would be to an “age appropriate” 50 year old wife.
The graphic above is a stark visual of just how betatized American men have become. They are so bereft of game and economic leverage over women that older wives now seem like an acceptable deal to them. They need to be schooled in the fine art of the ugly truths. First, I’d helpfully remind them that marrying a woman is a raw deal on its own, because all women are rapidly depreciating assets after age 25 or so who can take you for half your worth for no other reason than that they sport a vagina. Then I’d point out that marrying an *older* woman is like buying at full retail price in 2009 dollars a 1975 Toyota Corolla; she’s already past her physical peak, and he’d be lucky to get ten more miles out of her once he pedals her off the lot. It would be pissing money, and opportunities for better vehicles, away. It’s such an affront to nature when a younger man with the world before him marries an older woman that the Catholic Church should qualify it as a mortal sin.
When you date a girl for longer than two months the odds become better than even that she will erupt into spontaneous waterworks for no discernible reason. All girls do this, even the stable normal ones. In fact, you should be concerned that you are dating a stone hearted bitch if she doesn’t inexplicably cry on occasion. If women crying makes you break out into sweaty hives you should probably limit yourself to dating lawyers. They never cry; they just subsume their womanly instincts into raging competitiveness and piston-like screwing. Thankfully for the state of femininity, their breed is dying out.
The last time I was confronted with a woman’s tears I had just finished banging her in a satisfying position — doggy. (The most spiritually nourishing sex positions are those which are closest to the primitive positions practiced by the animal kingdom.) She hopped off the bed, went to the bathroom, exited the bathroom 20 seconds later, and then stood in the middle of the room, wrapped in a bath towel, as tears started to fall.
Most betas when confronted with such a spectacle will turn the finger of blame inward and wonder if it was something they did. A beta will tenderly, cautiously, approach the girl and touch her shoulder while asking if anything is wrong, did he do something that bothered her? Naturally, as my readers are well aware by now, this will paradoxically fill her with resentment for the beta. Even though his dick was only moments earlier inside her womb, she will become agitated by his presence for reasons even she can’t fathom, and her disgust will grow as she pushes his arm off and insists that nothing is wrong.
The experienced man, on the other hand, has seen all this before. Through trial and error, or through honed intuition, he has learned how to deal with these emotional pressure releases that plague women. He knows that sometimes a powerful rogering will rattle a woman’s soul so deeply that tears are shaken loose. He will let the sob show play itself out, knowing that she will come through it on the other side a happier woman.
When she began crying, vulnerable in the middle of the room clutching her bath towel, I looked at her intently for a few seconds, walked up, gave her a strong hug and a cheek kiss, wiped one tear with my thumb, and then let go to pour a couple of drinks for the both of us. I didn’t ask what was wrong, I didn’t ask if there was something I could do, I didn’t ask how I could make it better. I didn’t even ask if she wanted a drink. I just put the drink in her hand. Everything was done in silence. I grabbed a magazine and read it on her couch while she took a shower.
She was emotionally cold for about a half hour after that, then as we were lying in bed later falling asleep, she rolled over and nuzzled her head in the nook where my arm meets my chest. She was smiling.
Here are the rules for dealing with a spontaneously crying woman:
Don’t worry about why she is crying. It doesn’t matter if it was something you did, or if it had nothing to do with you, your reaction should be the same either way.
That reaction is warm, nonverbal reassurance. Don’t say a word. Odds are you will say something to worsen her erratic emotional state.
If you suspect that the cause of her tears is something you did, you should let her express those reasons on her own time. Don’t try and pry the reason from her.
Give her a glass of water or wine while she is crying. If she refuses the drink, don’t loiter questioningly. Simply put her drink down on the counter and go about enjoying your drink.
For the love of god, DON’T PLEAD WITH HER TO COMMUNICATE HER FEELINGS. This goes against everything that every women’s mag and self-help relationship book says, but the truth is that there’s nothing a woman despises more than a mealy-mouthed sensitive beta playing new age psychotherapist.
I have found that after a good cry a woman will often feel closer to you than ever. She will give her sex lovingly soon after her tears have dried. For this reason I recommend provoking your girl to cry as it will open up new and exciting possibilities in bed. You’ll want to incite her tears in such a way, of course, that you maintain plausible deniability. One way to do this is to get out of bed after sex to watch some porn on the computer.
For those of you in the dark, the most evil and discriminatory American statute of the past ten years is the International Marriage Broker Regulation Act of 2005 (IMBRA), signed into law in January 2006 by one of the country’s worst Presidents ever, George W. Bush:
[IMBRA] is a United States federal statute that requires background checks for all marriage visa sponsors and limits serial visa applications. IMBRA also requires background checks before speech or other forms of communication are permitted between American citizens and foreign nationals.
The IMBRA was a pure man-hating power play by feminists and their betaboy abettors. The statute was ostensibly inspired by a couple of mass media sensationalized cases involving American men murdering their foreign brides, but the truth is that the cases and the leftie fembot media coverage of them were nothing but convenient emotoprops for ramming an unjustifiable, anti-free speech and anti-free association misandrist law down the stupidified gullets of a politically lazy American public.
FACT:
There are very few studies comparing domestic violence rates between foreign-born wives and American wives. Any study on domestic violence among immigrant women that does not control for the race and immigrant status of the husband/boyfriend offender is worthless.
FACT:
Foreign brides will often make false claims of domestic violence because under the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) there is a provision that states a victim of DV can divorce her husband and get a green card.
FACT:
American men who marry foreign women have a lower divorce rate than the nation as a whole.
The IMBRA has nothing to do with sparing immigrant brides the indignity of suffering domestic violence and everything to do with making it more difficult for American men to find, meet, date, fuck and, in some cases, marry beautiful feminine foreign women. Police state fascist background checks are no more justifiable for an American man seeking a foreign bride than they are for an American man seeking an American bride, and they are especially egregious when used against men exercising their free speech to have a simple fucking conversation with a foreign woman.
American women are deathly afraid of losing market leverage to foreign competition.
That’s it. Plain as day. And American women are right to fear boatloads of hot East European women flooding American shores, for deep down in the pits of their hellbound souls American women know they are a self-absorbed, egotistic, entitled, unfeminine, fatass lot. So they devise superficially plausible laws designed to solidify their stranglehold on power.
With the help of their mincing, ass-slurping, toolboy allies in Congress who also benefit from the status quo, the femcunts are succeeding at their goal of ensuring a sexual market that artificially raises their pussy value and maximizes their ability to play hypergamous empress while minimizing the options available to men and thereby forcing them to heed by rules inimical to their interests.
Here is a list of the small thinkers and anti-First Amendment shitheads who sponsored the IMBRA and snuck it into the reauthorization of the VAWA in the middle of the night, without any serious debate:
IMBRA was reintroduced in September 2005 by Sen. Sam Brownback (R-KS), Sen. Maria Cantwell (D-WA), Rep. Frank Wolf (R-VA), and Rep. Rick Larsen (D-WA)). IMBRA was incorporated into the Violence Against Women Act reauthorization in 2005, and was passed by both houses of Congress in December 2005.
Feel free to email them about the wrongness of their law for its chilling effect on the beautiful Judeo-Christian love between an American man and a foreign woman.
Repeal the IMBRA now. Like most men who aren’t deceiving themselves, when I’m older and still desiring young, slender, lovely female company I want the option of connecting, free of state intrusion, with overseas babes for much cross cultural love. If American cunts and their betaboy bitches are going to stand in my way of doing that, then I’ll leave this once-great, rapidly crap-ifying country and take my taxpayer lootbag with me.
And while we’re at it, repeal the VAWA as well. After all, is violence against women inherently more immoral than violence against men? If so, then permit me to make the claim that political representation for men is inherently more moral than political representation for women. If not, then the VAWA is an unjust law. Finish it off.
Esteemed members of the Chateau, we have our first four-way Beta of the Month Battle. These “men”, and I use the term loosely, are doozies.
First, the winner of the August 2009 BOTM, by the biggest margin yet recorded for BOTM, was wealthy WASP (white anglo-saxon pud) caricature Topper, who graciously inquired of the European aristocrat boning his wife Tinsley to kindly cease violating her so he could work out his marital problems with the ho he loves.
Topper, old sport, the beta is strong in you. If you had done what I said and motorboated a stripper at Scores you’d have walked away from all this with your dignity intact.
September 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by reader collegeboy. It’s a video submission featuring a beta, a bitch, a ring, and a slap. Intrigued? Watch the vid!
If you can’t see this youtube video, you can catch it at this link as well.
On the face of it, it’s just a simple proposal. Proposals themselves aren’t prima facie evidence of betaness, although they are leading indicators. So what pushes this publicly humiliated man into BOTM territory? Let us count the ways.
He proposed in front of a large public audience. Proposing should be regarded as a moment of surrender — of temporary enfeeblement — for a man. It should be done, quickly and stoically, in private. It should not be executed in front of thousands for the world to join you in your shame.
He proposed at a sporting event, a house of manly repute. It’s not only dorky to propose at sport games, but it is beta to sully such a sanctum with the pedestalization of pussy.
He sorta got down on one knee. For krissakes guys, if you’re gonna propose, DO NOT under any circumstance drop to one knee. It’s romantic in the movies when a vampire does it; in real life you are emasculating yourself. Subcommunicated body language matters.
In what was probably his biggest transgression of the alpha code, he couldn’t stop stroking her shoulder like she was a cat being petted. He was panicked she might say no, and shoulder stroking to build false comfort seemed to him, I’m sure, his only available option. Is there anything more repulsive than a man trying to manufacture closeness with an uncooperative woman through forced physical displays of tender affection? It’s on par with literally licking off the bird shit that landed on your girlfriend’s six inch heeled boots, or shitting on a plate and then smearing the turd all over your face in a ritualistic sacrifice to the gods to make your ex-girlfriend love you again.
After he got slapped, it looked like he cried. I would’ve shoved a hot dog in the bitch’s piehole.
******
September 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by longtime reader dave from hawaii. Before I write anything about this candidate, you need to go to his website and poke around. Be sure to click on the “Read the Blog” button at the bottom. Bring a barf bag.
You may wonder if a radical, facially hirsute feminist who hasn’t seen dick since her stepdad woke her up in the middle of the night is responsible for this website and the book ‘The Problem with Women… is Men’ that the website hawks. After all, there are pictures of pigs all over the place, and pithy quotes such as the following:
Cheating is a choice.
Women who don’t speak their minds… die.
Why porn is teaching your man bad habits in bed.
I wish I could tell you that a man-hating dyke wrote this. But the author is a man named Charles J. Orlando who has written for such ostensibly male-oriented mags like Men’s Health. Woofa. Is it a joke? Does this flapjack sacked simulacra of a man really believe what he writes, or is he playing an advanced seduction strategy of sneaky fucker feminist ego assuaging and alpha male undermining? You be the judge. Whatever his motives, there’s no denying he’s tainted himself with the mark of the beta.
******
September 2009 BOTM Candidate #3 was submitted by reader chris. It’s a guy named Marc (note the fruity substitute of “c” for “k”) who wrote an article posted at the fembot website that rhymes with “facial pissing” titled “My experience with a prostitute – a feminist perspective“.
First, any man who uncoercedly calls himself a feminist has announced his resignation from the order of manhood. I don’t care if you’ve spent 1,000 tours in Iraq and scalped terrorists for shits and giggles, you lop of your nuts when you sign onto the feminist agenda. Please turn yourself into soylent beta. You aren’t moral, you aren’t enlightened, you aren’t open-minded. You’re just a laughable tool.
So what sets this guy apart from the battalions of betas who solicit hookers to unceremoniously spurt their tepid loads? Well, one, he spent an hour of his valuable time chatting up a woman and bringing her to his room not knowing she was a whore, and then feeling bad about wasting *her time*. And, two, after he found out she was a hooker, he paid her… TO TALK TO HIM.
Having already wasted an hour of her time, with her assuming I knew she was an escort (a term she says she prefers), I made a deal: while I was most certainly sexually attracted to her, my values wouldn’t allow me to actually pay to have sex with her. I would, however, pay for her time to listen to her story and learn something from a group of people I’ve spent to much learning about, yet never had never actually sat down and spoken with.
So there we sat, in my hotel room, and over Jack Daniels, talked about her life, choices and perspectives.
Your values are useless self-flagellating detritus, dude. No Being of Infinite Light hovering just above the cloud cover is giving you heavenly credits for denying yourself sex with a whore. Fuck when you can, because it is good.
You may think paying a whore to chew off your ear with her sad sack tales of woe would be the height of beta, but wait, there’s more.
At the end of our conversation, I gave her a hug and asked permission to write about her. She agreed and we exchanged contact information, so that when my vacation is over, I can do a more in depth interview and write about her.
My god below, there’s another David Alexander roaming the earth.
So what was the valuable life lesson Marc learned from this experience?
In the end, the sex work debate is immaterial because unless we take care of other problems and challenges – violence against women, healthcare for all people, and providing young women and men with the access to education they need, we are failing to provide women with the variety of choices they deserve in enhancing their own lives, and as a result, we have no rights to make a stand on the sex work industry, other than supporting them with the choices they make.
By the way, I am currently in Orlando for my last week of vacation. If there are awesome feminists in the UCF/Orlando area, I’d love to be shown around or have a drink. Let me know!
He won’t get any bites. Read the comments. Even the fembots think this guy is Too Beta To Nail.
******
September 2009 BOTM Candidate #4 was submitted by reader entrepoon (great handle). It’s the touching story of the husband of a woman who falls in love with the serial killer Richard Ramirez, the infamously alpha “Night Stalker”. Does hubby demand she stop visiting the killer at his prison? Ah, if he did that he wouldn’t be up for BOTM.
Some of them write to him or visit him, including a 30-year-old woman from Washington. The woman, who did not want to be identified by The Chronicle, said most relatives don’t know about her relationship with Ramirez, although her disapproving husband does.
She said she started writing to the Night Stalker – a habit that sometimes exceeded 20 letters a week and frequent visits – because she was fascinated with his case.
20 letters a week and frequent visitations, some of them likely conjugal. Her “disapproving” husband knows about her “relationship” with Ramirez. Aaaaand, he does… nothing? He just allows it to go on and on? Does a beta shit in his pants?
For laughs, here’s another quote from the very typical killer-loving woman:
“He is good looking and I loved his big hands,” she said of Ramirez. “The thrill of danger of going up to a state penitentiary made it all worth it because to me it was like a dream come true to face one of the world’s most feared men.
“Like my mom used to say, you can love someone but you don’t have to like them,” she says.
We’ve got a DefCunt 1 gina tingle alert. The second quote is a perfect distillation of the animal female soul. A slight re-wording for clarity: “You can love someone especially if you don’t like them.” The news is out — chicks love unlikeable assholes with big, flesh ripping hands.
Take-home lesson: If your wife is consorting with a serial killer, get your finances in order, get a lawyer, compile evidence, and kick the filthy bitch to the curb. Leave your kicking foot hanging in mid-air for a second for dramatic flair. That’s the kind of thing sweet memories are made of.
