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Archive for the ‘Alpha’ Category

Maricon’s literal old lady is a leading indicator that he’s a beta male (or beta gay) puppet of Globohomo, Inc. I would say that 64 year old Brigitte hit the Wall, but that’s superfluous; she experienced terminal velocity impact 25 years ago. The consummate insider Emmanuel Maricon has been riding a beat up mule since the day they met, when he was 15 and she was 39 (that’s 24 years of banging out dusty grandma muff…I can’t think of a worse exile from indulging normal male desire).

If Maricon wins the French Presidency, as now seems likely, France will have sealed its doom. You don’t shackle your nation’s fate to a squirrelly, low T, globalist lickspittle during times of crisis and expect anything good to come of it.

On the topic of wives as leading indicators of their husbands’ betatude or alphaness:

The Washington Post-Op tuts tuts about the Trump-Melania age difference (while lauding the Maricons’ age difference) because Bezos’s personal blog is staffed by mincing beta phagggots, bitter bitches, and hateful frozenites. Nothing bugs the Betacunt Establishment more than an alpha male exercising his sexual entitlement and availing himself of the hot younger women who are his natural, adoring constituency.

And of course nothing delights these same sexual market losers like a malleable betaboy-slash-closet case globohomoist taking up with a fat, ugly, or old woman and providing a sliver of hope for lonely feminists.

FYI, Maricon’s wife is fair game. Any ruling class cipher who wants to flood the West with indigents and orcs has fully earned the gloved shiv treatment.

FYI, part deux: 4channers sleuthed up information revealing that Maricon lied about tax evasion.

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Shitlord Of The Month

Baby Dexter:

Story.

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Praise Kek, the God Emperor has not betrayed his principles.

(but we here at the chateau will help keep him honest.)

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Here’s a simple social experiment necessitating few input variables other than a public venue and a street hustler to determine if you, or other men you can observe, exude alphaness or betatude.

Those carnival barkers working for non-profits like Greenpeaceout or Abortion, Yay! are useful proxies of a man’s SMV. Try this: the next time you pass by one or more of these millennial hippies holding clipboards and pamphlets near subway entrances, bus stops, or along busy sidewalks, take note of their reaction to you.

Do they accost you to pitch their dreck? You exude betatude.

Do they let you walk by unbothered? You exude alphaness.

Pretty cut and dry, if I must say. And if the NGO urchins begging for donations let you pass unmolested with a look of apprehension and even fear in their eyes, your alphaness may be off the charts. If, on the other hand, they rush right into your face and press their case for an uncomfortably long time as you stutter and stammer to get away, your betatude is bad enough to require a PUA’s intervention.

In short, look like a badboy who doesn’t suffer bullshit gladly, and you are likely an alpha who enjoys plenty of female attention. Look like a niceguy who takes shit from everyone, and you are likely a beta balls-deep in the GoFap Zone.

If you want to gauge your progress from invisible beta herb to irresistible alpha chad, keep track of the reactions you get from volunteer streetside beggars. You want to unlock the achievement level in which all those shitlib cause du jour curs are retreating from your arrival like the fucking Red Sea parting before Moses.

***

Prof. Woland writes,

I was once approached by a SPLC fundraiser while getting out of my car at whole foods (where else?). He asked me if I knew who they were and tried to rope me into some guilt trip social justice tripe. I stopped and thought for a second then answered back that they were an anti-white organization. His face contorted like he had stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He was shocked. When I came out of the store 5 minutes later there was not a trace of him.

Beautiful. People think that these scumsucking anti-White leftoid organizations like the $PLC are so fully converged with the Weltanshauung that they are nigh impregnable to attack from the righteous, but the reality is that they are powerful because they’ve never experienced REAL PUSHBACK. The anti-White Left has been so protected and coddled by the media hate machine that they have no idea there are people out there who KNOW THE SCORE about them. So when they get hit with an accusation of anti-White bigotry, they fold like cheap lawn chairs. Because they know it’s true.

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The Daily Stormer, a major maul-right tributary coming close to perfecting that balance between sincere shitposting and humorous ironic detachment, has a hot bake on Natalie Portman’s ugly sister and her Cosmo column imploring Reptile-American women to dump men who aren’t enthralled to be sharing snatch space with a vibrator.

When you do decide to let him in on the fact that you own a vibrator that you would also like to use in bed together, there are two possible reactions: He’s either overcome with joy that your sex life is about to get even hotter (and wants to start immediately), or he’s, well, weird about it. He might say it feels “a little unnatural,” or ask if his penis and sex skills aren’t enough. And if he does, he’s in trouble.

Because if a man is anti-vibrators, you should absolutely, without question, dump him.

Yeaaah, this is dumpsthatneverhappen.txt. I saw your photo, Julia Pugachevsky. The pug part is right. Don’t flatter yourself. If you managed to snag an aryan shivsa with something on the ball there’s no way in hell you’re dumping him. Especially not for something as trivial as refusing to fuck you if you have a purple saguaro pressed against your benumbed clit. And lo and behold, like magic!, her goyboy borefriend looks like he came prefitted with a choke collar.

There’s a whole genre of femmefic tumblrrhea written by Fake Hotties — fat sows, fugs, and striver plain janes — that amounts to egregious wishful projection that the authoress is an independent, empowered, orgasm-demanding riotgrrl HB9 who came here to chew gum and fuck two dicks at once, and she’s just about out of gum. As fiction, it’s so transparently bad that it boomerangs back on the girlwriter. As Whoreschach Test, it’s a perfect mirror of the girlwriter’s bitter heart, revealing a lying phonyfuck cunt who either has never held a man for longer than the time it takes him to get his whiskey dick operational, or is stuck with a mangina cucklet who reminds her by his irritating omnipresence of her low SMV.

Girls who proudly flaunt their vibrators are best avoided as investment properties. If she can’t be bothered to put up at least of facade of modesty, she doesn’t respect your desire and needs as a man. (Hint: most men prefer to save their exclusivity for chaste women.) This goes double for chicks who insist that men tolerate the additional company of an artificial penis during lovemaking. If your girl is that desperate for sexual relief while fucking you that she needs the assistance of a vibrator, she’s either a world-beating slut with a carnal appetite that will guarantee her straying, or you’re not doing anything for her. Either way, this kind of girl should never be promoted from occasional cum receptacle.

Seguing to the title of this post, the final word (in my estimable opinion) on the topic of eatin’ pussy was written off-handedly in this archived gem of Chateau consilience.

Eating a girl out anytime during the first few weeks of dating is beta. When you eat a girl out, you telegraph your incredible horniness for her. Men normally do not want to go down on women and bury their mouths in that fetid, humid mess unless they find her so overwhelmingly hot that they can’t help themselves. Women instinctively know this, so they correctly gauge that a man who goes down on them on the first date must feel he’s with one of the best he’s ever had. This, in turn, will sour a woman’s attraction for a man, since no woman in the history of the universe has ever felt raging lust for a man she believed lower than herself in value.

Cunnilingus later in the relationship is absolved from this rule, because you have already demonstrated your manly ability to use her strictly for the piledriving hole she is.

I’m not anti-eatin’ pussy, but men should be aware of the risks involved (both disease and psychological feedback arousal-damping risks). Very broadly, alpha men don’t eat pussy. Beta men do. And if a man is eatin’ pussy for any reason other than his own pleasure — say, because he feels obligated to help deliver his woman the elusive O which his dick and jerkboy je ne sais cocq can’t summon — then odds are good that he is an appeasing beta male who must endure tongue cramping and oral abscesses to sufficiently please his woman. And if that’s his station in the relationship, his tongue ain’t gonna save him from her inevitably checking out.

There are exceptions to the eatin’ pussy rule. When an alpha male is so overcome with animal lust for his HB9+ that he’s compelled by inner forces to dive downtown and sniff the intoxicating aroma of springtime snapper, then we can say that he’s not beta-tizing himself by the act. Still, it’s smart poon-swooning policy to refrain from chowin’ on the downy before spending a few months crustin’ the cumcatch basin.

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If you can’t handle getting rejected ten times successively by ten different girls, you aren’t ready for the Game.

It happened to me, once. Over three weeks, I tried and failed to close ten girls. Tough sledding, to be sure. But I stayed outside my head, and never allowed it to get to me (beyond a post-rough patch recollection of the numbers of girls involved while telling the tale to friends).

No womanizer who’s worth his colloquial designation would fold after ten successive rejections. Maybe he’d muse on his streak of bad luck, but he’d never question his desirability to women. That’s the kind of knee-jerk emotional spasm reserved for blubbery beta males riven with self-doubt after ONE rejection.

You’ll know you’ve achieved Rod Emperor status when failed pickups leave no more impression on your psyche than failed lottery tickets.

After that three-week twat trough, the fourth week shone its labial light upon yours unruly: three numbers, two makings of the love.

He persisted, and she submitted.

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