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Archive for the ‘Attention Whore of the Month’ Category

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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This syphilis-steeped ex-shiksa is so fucked in the head I almost…ALMOST…. feel bad for the very public humiliations she’s visiting upon herself. Her inevitable downfall into social pariah and cat lady madness is worth at least two buckets of popcorn. I hope she takes all her old-ass Trump-hating spinster fans down with her into the abyss of mental illness.

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Menstrual red was an appropriate color to celebrate international shrewism. So glad I missed the festivities. Call me when there’s an International Men’s 364 Days to proportionately honor the contributions men have made to the advancement of human civilization.

But I’m in a magnanimous mood. Here are a couple women who truly deserve all the symbolic accolades weird bitter feminists and disappointed betadads of daughters would like unquestioningly lavished on the zero achievement pussyhat crowd.

Based Barr has more manly integrity than her putative prole-cousin Michael Moore.

IWD related:

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A few quick thoughts on the recent media frenzy that erupted after the nominal leader of the alt-right allowed himself to be photographed at a bar in DC dramatically thrusting up a seig heil with a Jewish friend and a female compatriot, Tila Tequila, an Asian reality TV star.

(I won’t link the photo. You can do a Startpage search and find it easily.)

First, remind yourselves that if no edgelord alt-rightist was available to mischaracterize in service to the anti-White Narrative, the leftoid media would invent one out of a moderate alt-rightist, (or even a gullible dope like Jeb). So whatever you think about Richard Spencer’s cheeky antics, know that a less trollish Spencer would not mean the sudden efflorescence of a fairer leftoid media hatemachine.

Second, the media assault was pre-planned with the sole purpose of cornering Trump into, once again, “disavowing” an alt-righter. Trump disavowed, but as usual did so in that way which makes it hard to miss he was subtly mocking the character assassination rituals of shitlib media. The end game is the same for the dying legacy media:

Alt-Right: *assaults public square with realtalk*
Trump: *disavows*
Media: *preens*
Alt-Right: *continues realtalk assault*
Media: BTFO

The American public is inured to the media anti-White shell game by now. A couple of grinning doofuses Roman saluting with an Asian girl? It won’t ping any normal American as a threat…or even a story worth reporting on. Meanwhile, the fashy photo op opens the Overton Window so wide the media is left blind-sided to the erosion of their narrative.

Although given to immature public attention whoring, Spencer isn’t a schmo. He’s a bright guy and his website, Radix Journal, has better writing and better ideas than anything that National Cuckview has put out in the last ten years. Spencer can intro the American public to ideas that legacy media conceals. So this pile-on by the media just might backfire in the long run.

Spencer is not the enemy. The media is the enemy. As hbr nrx twatted, “Reminder: Tim Wise is far more extreme than Richard Spencer, but Tim Wise gets paid large sums of money to give speeches at universities.”

Having softened Spencer’s public persona and decriminalized his nazi-larper signaling with just as much flattery as I can muster before feeling a bit nauseous, I hasten to add that the stunt he pulled did no favors to the Realtalk Revolution he wishes to lead into the limelight.

Semi-ironic meme war is most effective online, and when the media is complacent to the memetic threat. The Meme Wars are not as effective in real life when the media converges for a kill. Multiple tributaries of memetic warfare knock media libs off their game. Focusing the slippery White Nationalist memes onto one live person — in this case, Spencer — plays to the media’s strength.

The best response to the media’s smear and caricature tactic is to diffuse alt-right power to many sources and have self-disciplined leaders. By self-disciplined, I mean controlling the urge to upload dank visual memes into real life actualization. Prankster hijinks hitched to a leader occlude seriousness. One silly photo can cause a movement to be stillborn when the media maintains ironclad control over perception, which they still do when single photos capturing a moment in time are the standard by which the media sustains its White dispossession narrative.

The uniting theme of the alt-right is rejection of race & sex equalism. I like to think Chateau Heartiste was among the first online repositories of dissident speech to smash the Equalist Megalith. However, CH is in the shadows, so media management is not as much a concern for our ‘umble retreat in the dank wood as it should be for public figures like Spencer. As long as the guiding principles of the alt-right rebellion stay true to the fundamental premise of intrinsic race and sex differences, it can withstand the bad optics of a few drunk-happy thought leaders mischievously mugging for the camera.

That said, bad optics aren’t always blessings in disguise. There is a risk that poor message discipline and sloppy public relations will discredit the alt-right before it has a chance to get out of the Twatter ghetto.

A free piece of advice for the burgeoning alt-right revolutionaries who are now grappling with standards of entry:

Publicly defend, privately cull.

No enemies to the Right is excellent public policy, but a bad way to manage private affairs. The Left is currently destroying itself by forgetting the second half of my advice and allowing the degenerates and misfits to run the ship aground. It’s time to discourage the alt-right from doing the same.

***

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, this post should not be read as a call for Spencer to apologize or backpedal. Good lord n butter, that would energize his media tormentors a thousand times more than they are already. If we’ve learned anything at this blog and from the past year’s events, it’s that one should NEVER apologize to the rabid Left, even if what one has done is bad form. (Spencer did nothing wrong except violate style rules.)

A way for Spencer to turn this bad press around and come out looking better is suggested by commenter Lovekraft:

The next time Spencer speaks in public, he should be wearing a Malcolm X t-shirt with his hand raised high giving the Black Power salute.

When media ask him why he’s wearing it, he looks them in the eye and asks them if they’re now ready for a real discussion.

(which won’t happen because the narrative is still locked, but the ‘get down to business’ approach with the media could shift them into Trump territory).

While the Nazi-Black Panher comparison isn’t perfect, it will “reset” the optics and put the leftoid hivemind media on the defensive. It’s a finger in the eye of the media, pointing up their hypocrisy in how they cover White vs black tribal salutes.

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