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Archive for the ‘Attention Whore of the Month’ Category

Female hypergamy isn’t equally voracious in all women, but all women are hypergamous to an extent. Absent social controls (aka a dominant and benevolently sexist patriarchy), women will revert to their primitive form: willing and eager concubines to an alpha male’s harem as the beta males are recruited for frontline fodder and emotional tampons.

Our Twatterer above is @missmayn:

Not too shabby for a broad touched by the mystery meat brush. Would bang……and bolt. She’s right to emphasize her fuckability, because with her attitude and thousand cock stare*, her value as relationship material is bargain bint.

*Her right eye is half-closed from an irritating wayward cumshot.

Of course, her LTR worthiness hardly matters in the hypergamous feminist dystopia she wants for her and her bastard progeny; as long as beta males are platonically squeezed dry for their civilization-sustaining efforts, women can afford to fuck around and have Beta Daddy State pick up the tab for their fatherless sprog. Welcome to Africa-lite, soon to be Africa-maximum when those beta males figure out the scam and decide to opt out of their fleecing. Then Miss Never A Mayn Squeeze can deal with the “best men” beating her like an untrained puppy and segregating her in the grass hut that is now her home because women don’t build things, maintain things, or lead anything.

Poolside looking better yet, gentlemen?

***

Update

Here’s a photobooth picture of Miss Mayn with her bf:

Now what does her bf’s soy-soaked gaping betaphag mughole remind me of…..oh yeah: the nümale grimace aka Moneyshot Face.

This leetle detail explains everything. Miss Mayn is transferring her animal disgust for her soyboy onto every beta male who crossed her cum-eyed path. She has him, when what she really tingles for is…..him:

The date stamp on that booth photo is a year ago. Taking bets on whether they’re still together or how much longer they’ll last if they are still in unpolarized union.

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A great comment by SebastianX1/9 over at Sailer’s blog, musing about the Me Too, Please sex panic and its end game,

You are watching the real-time abolition of romantic love and courtship, to be replaced with mediated social media. Unmediated human interaction is being fazed out. They mean to abolish physical reality and the possibility of talking in person. Flirtation, romance, banter, charm, poise, casual human interaction – all of these things have been diminished.

I have a lot more to say on this subject, but for now take a moment to think about the path to anhedonic hell our culture is determined to travel, and why it has come to be at this point of history that love is under attack from the very forces which claim the mantle of love.

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Democrat Mayor of New Brighton, MN, the tubby post-menopausal schoolmarmish Val Johnson, is emblematic of the shitliberal establishment in predominantly White regions of the country. Here she is caught on video having an emotional breakdown ranting about the phantasm of “White privilege” (via):

Female brain gone insane.

This is your political party on estrogen, hot flashes, and dying ovaries. The feminization of the Democreeps means more crazy cat ladies virtue signaling like lunatics about all the browns and blacks they “look after” while haranguing White men about their privilege and misogyny. The mass influx of bitter hags and wrecked sluts into politics has been a disaster for the West, no doubt about it.

What’s more pathetic than this cunt’s psychotic break in the video, if that’s possible, is the collective reaction of the four UGH WHITE MALES sitting there taking hot splooges of this broad’s insanity to their faces. Not one of these “””men””” had the balls to tell this shrike to shut the hell up? You know they were all thinking it. At least, you hope they were thinking it; maybe shitlib White men are so utterly emasculated that this feels like normal to them. They would feel adrift without some rancid cunt shrieking like a banshee about how evil and stupid and entitled they are.

Anti-White feminism is a civilization-wide shit test, and men are failing it, badly. What the country needs more than ever is one man with brass ones to jab a chadfinger in one of these cunt’s porky mugs and tell her off. “There’s no such thing as White privilege you stupid old shrew, and if you keep it up I’m gonna throw you out of a helicopter!”

The Emascunations of the West are feeding the delusions of our worst people, and so naturally we are getting more shitty people behaving even shittier than ever running things into the ground. When the eunuchs guard the cunts, civ death is close at hand. Alexis de Tocqueville warned that America would turn into a country of masculine women and weak men, and that’s exactly what happened. The crazy cat ladies, homos, and ball-less wonders are at the helm, steering the ship of state straight into the litter box.

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There’s this bar/nightclub that has two floors, the second floor extending about 2/3rds of the way out from the back of the venue, so that those on the first floor near the front of the club can look up and see people on the second floor. (it’s great for boning up (heh) on your upskirting skills.) An iron railing about waist high protects dancers and drunkards from falling over the edge into the crowd below, though I can’t fathom how there haven’t been topplings that I know of, given the nature of drunkards to fall over just about anything that isn’t a brick wall.

The club gradually morphed from a Chad-White bro-scene to a Dindu savannah, but it never completely de-gentrified (bixnoodified?). A given Saturday night could be 50/50 White/black. Many of the blacks were hardcore ghettolanders bused in from duskier parts of town, so the 50/50 ratio felt more like 10/90 if you were a wypipo. One street creature carries the menace of one thousand of Shaun King’s threatening tweets.

The night would quickly humidify with the influx of MUH DIKKING and jungle musk, and White Privilege at that time never felt more remote. But it was still fun to stay despite the risk of a massive house riot because of what would eventually and inevitably transpire on that exposed second floor. The nubian ladies would line up along the edge, two-handedly grab the railing, bend over and jut their steatopygian buttocks out as far as possible, rhythmically swaying and bouncing and jiggling their leopard skin tights-clad, dimpled posteriors with a ferocity that would evoke a post-monsoon reproductive dash for ass among Africa’s red-butted fauna.

Then the real show began. The brothers in their knee-high sweatpants would lope into the buoyant backsides of these Nail Rail sisters, making a big show of judging the asses for quality — some nodding their heads and licking their lips in vigorous approval, other stroking their chins in phony discernment — before channeling Al Frankenstien on Viagra and pressing their tighty-whitey-strained boners into the gluteal abyss of not one, but two, three, or ten event horizon booty cracks.

The Bump n Grind commenced, howls and hoots and screeches that startled birds and sent them flying out of the canopy would echo off the walls of the club. Spilled drinks, sweat, spit, and possibly semen would rain down on the first floor denizens who were staring upward mouths agape in unbelieving laughter. After a short while, the tribal “music” having sufficiently worked the participants into a copulatory frenzy, the fertility dance would move to stage three. Already ten to fifteen sassy girls were displaying along the Nailing Railing, and the woefully underprivileged and eternally victimized gentlemen of color would begin the musical chair part of the mating ritual, swapping girls between each other, slapping asses with an air of perfunctory ownership as they entered and exited ass cubbies.

Usually the buckiest of the daggering brothers would hog (heh) the preponderance of booty, overstaying his time with each ass, choosing the finest ass (as he saw it) from among a murderer’s row of gargantuan globularity, and grabbing two asses at once, one glued to his pelvic region, the other tickled into a spastic froth by his outstretched hand. It was at this time that the scent of sudden mayhem was strongest, and the possibility of a violent resolution bristled through capillaries and engulfed the room, electrifying the senses.

This is when the smarter Whites leave, (the smartest Whites never arrive), but for one time the crowd remained in full as a climactic scene unfolded that stunned the gallery before a great laughter ensued. At the mating dance’s peak excitation, a tall scrawny nerdy White man with “I’m a shitlib Virtue Signaler” practically tattooed on his fivehead stepped confidently into the tush pit, smiling goofily, full of wonder and joy at his chance to bond with the natives, and bounced heavily at the knee near an open black behind, waiting for a cue from one of his hued heroes to enter the Dark Incontinent without a safari guide. The Flummoxed Flava took one long incredulous look at this Supreme Dork, promptly cackled in unison, slapped his back, and pushed him into the booty dead center at the rail.

Below, the crowd erupted in cheers. Gangly and spindly, our brave sinfiltrator jerked his body like a broken marionette to the smooth gyrations of his amour, nearly disappearing into the sea of butt blubber. Slipping on the wet floor, he almost dove headfirst over her back and the railing, but steadied himself by planting his paw in the thiccness of her shoulder padding, and it was at this moment that his other hand swiped right….toward her giant tit mashed into the iron bar. He leered at the crowd as he gave it a lusty squeeze, at which the girl turned to look back at him, stood up, shook her head in that OH NO YOU DINT way, and slapped his face. He rocked backwards from the force of it, and the gathered brothers released gales of knee-slapping, tongue-wagging laughter as they resumed their spots in the tar pits.

There is no moral to this story except don’t go looking for love in the bush.

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It’s Happening!

More of this and mud runners will eventually learn the lesson: Burn the coal, White men withhold.

PS “I own a color TV” hahahaaaa 10/10 ZFGs.

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Never marry an attention whore. Fuck and chuck her, sure, but don’t betroth her.

Exhibit A, courtesy of reader Lord Mooch,

Hey Heartiste-My goodness, you will love reading this little paragraph below. Paige Spiranac is a mediocre golfer who’s amassed nevertheless an audience of over 1 million thirsty betas who salivate at the thought of squeezing her frontal flesh beanbags.

Nice schwing.

She’s about to get married and this is what she had to say about her fiance. This dude is in a WHOLE lot of trouble:

“She played hard-to-get for months, but they finally met up when Spiranac was in Carlsbad, Calif., getting her clubs tuned up at Callaway. Tinoco looks like Mark Wahlberg, down to the bulging biceps, but what really impressed Spiranac were his old-fashioned manners. “So he was the first guy who’s ever gotten me flowers and opened up doors for me,” she says. “He took me on a real date, and it was such a refreshing change from Netflix and chill. He’s just a really nice, respectful guy with a good heart. After so many bad relationships I finally met a good one.”

Attention whore basically admits she has a history of riding the cock carousel and putting out for men who never took her on a “real date”, is relieved to finally meet a “really nice, respectful guy”….I predict divorce proceedings commence in under two years time.

Is it EVER a good idea to wife up an instagram thot who unconvincingly pastes on the coy, chaste look of purity while highlighting her cleavage, purposely, in thousands of pics to lusty beta fappers who dream of licking her sweaty golfshoe toes? Rhetorical.

What was it PA wrote about the three kinds of women?

Some of the White men had dusky girlfriends too. What’s the fucking point, gentlemen? It’s not worth it unless it’s yours. Admittedly though, there is a personal bias in my question; I accept that men have the freedom to forge their own destiny, even if it leads to their death. Women, not so — a woman is born with three choices: to be a wife, a nun, or a prostitute. The flaw of modernity is the fact that they try to be all three, to farcical effect.

Paige Spiranac is neither wife nor nun material. She is, however, a prostitute in all but technicality. And you don’t marry a prostitute. Have fun with her, but never wife her up. The thot may have a heart of gold, but her pussy is paved with sloot intentions.

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You only had to listen.

You listened!

The psychocunt man-hating dusty queef queen we narrowly avoided propelling into a position of absolute power where her corruption and hatred could go unchecked:

Truth in advertising. Hey Hillary, don’t you know our children are watching? HAHAHAHAHA cunt.

It’s time for thecunt to go on another of her wildwoman walks in the woods and spare us the displeasure of her return.

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