Of Manjaws And Infidelity: ¡SCIENCE, Yo!

Manjawed women are avoided by men because men don’t like women who look like men. CH has written about this topic a number of times, so the news won’t surprise regular readers.

Too much femme T
there goes my chubby

Evolution has seen fit to incorporate this distaste for masculinized women into the male limbic landscape as a hedge against female infidelity and getting cuckolded. It turns out the manjaw (and associated manchin) in women is linked with an increased “sexual unrestrictedness”, which in laybro’s language means manjawed chicks are more likely to step out on you.

It is therefore natural and normal and most importantly SELF-INTERESTED for men to prefer the romantic company of slender, young, attractive, feminine, womanjawed women.

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In related SCIENCE, YO! news:

• The more household chores a husband does, the more likely the marriage is to end in divorce. (Also an ugly truth CH has covered in the past.)
• It helps (a lot) to be a female criminal defendant. “After controlling for the arrest offense, criminal history, and other prior characteristics, “men receive 63% longer sentences on average than women do,” and “[w]omen are…twice as likely to avoid incarceration if convicted.” This gender gap is about six times as large as the racial disparity that Prof. Starr found in another recent paper.” Now some of this sex disparity (like the race disparity) is probably a result of female criminals exhibiting less depravity than male criminals in the commission of legally equivalent crimes. But a bigger reason for the disparity goes to something much deeper in the human psyche: the Fundamental Premise, which explains that female coddling is a natural psychological instinct among both men and women that exists because (most) women are more reproductively valuable than are (most) men.

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Younger, Hotter, Tighter: Not Emmanuel Maricon’s Wife

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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Another White Woman Spreads For Islam

News clippings about shitlib/antifa White women suffering the all-too-predictable consequences of taking their anti-White ideology seriously are an almost weekly occurrence. The latest is a howler, if you’re into schadenfreude so delicious the aftertaste lingers for weeks.

Antifa Chick Goes to Turkey With Muslim Loverboy, Gets Raped and Beaten

Lacy MacAuley is a well known radical left-wing Antifa organizer in Washington D.C. She was featured in Project Veritas’ undercover videos which exposed the #DisruptJ20 plot to violently disrupt President Trump’s inauguration.

Just like every other lunatic leftist, Lacy fell in love with Islam and became obsessed with helping Syrian ‘refugees’, wholeheartedly believing that Islam is the religion of peace. MacAuley details her experience dating a Turkish Muslim man, describing the hell and fear she lived in because he controlled every move she made, beat and raped her.

You should go to the link and read about the Rapefugee Enrichment Lacy MacAuley received in her own words (she lovingly detailed her international romance on her blog, natch). A few revealing excerpts:

The first two weeks were quite the love story. I observed that he was drinking heavily, and called him an “alky,” but it was just a joke at first.

Recall CH Maxim #[X]: A woman will hold a beta male endlessly accountable for the slightest infractions while promptly forgiving an alpha male the worst transgressions.

Then came our first fight. I had wanted to interview a local woman for an article on Syrian refugees. He did not approve. He knew the woman and did not like her, so he strictly forbade me from speaking with her. After I questioned his rationale, he yelled and stormed out of the room to go smoke a cigarette. I just stood in the middle of the room not knowing what to do. Of course, as a Western woman, no one had ever forbidden me from speaking with anyone else. It was a strange feeling: Don’t I have a mouth to speak? Why can I not use it as I wish?

There was another strange feeling in her vagina: SPLOOGE. You think I’m kidding? Nope. Read on. She stayed with the inbred sandwog for more than two months of sex (nonconsensual, she claims, though this post-cock rationalization is likely subject to alternative interpretation), after experiencing numerous episodes of his charming vibrancy. #LoveWins!

I honestly think that one of the reasons that I have been silent about this for two months has been that I did not want to feed into the narrative of Muslim men being aggressive. I didn’t want to fuel hatred or racism. But silence breeds complicity, and am now telling this story in order to heal.

“I didn’t want to feed the narrative of anti-Muslim hatred or racism, so I covered up a story of a hateful, abusive Muslim man feeding the narrative.”

Are empowered feminist shitlib women sick in the head, or are social pressures and dysfunction in the West simply permitting the omnipresent female id, including its worst instincts, to break out of its cage and roam freely? Perhaps feminist cunts with a pathologically enlarged empathy gland for foreign scum are more susceptible to indulging their primitive sexual compulsions when societal guardrails are removed?

Or maybe these shitlib chicks are unattractive and lonely and ignored by the alpha White men who are in vanishing supply among their shitlib social set.

Are they just garden variety attention whores?

This is Lacy MacAuley:

Manjaw. Manlips. Thousand cock stare. A bad combo for the continuation of Western Civ. This woman is a walking biohazard sign warning that you’ll have to check your sanity and illusion of paternity certainty at the door if you get involved with her.

How many women are like Lacy, in full-throated assault against their own culture and White men as they scuttle to shitholes to sexually adopt gutter filth pets as vanity projects to affirm their twisted libshit morality and soothe their undernourished maternal instinct? A thousand? A million? Tens of millions?

Canary in a coal burner. The Lacys of the West are a wide-open omen of social collapse coming to an endocrine-disrupted globalized outpost near you.

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PS On the subject of international hedonism, was G Manifesto at the Fyre Festival?

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Fake Lesbians Vs Real Lesbians

I know, you can easily tell Fake Dykes from Real Dykes by looking at them; the latter are usually fat blobs in overalls, the former septum-pierced coeds in short skirts. But there’s another giveaway: romantic canoodling.

Fake Furburglars giggle a lot while their hands reach between thighs and under shirts for the grabbing of the fleshly delights. They kiss a lot on the ears and neck (the lips seem to be a no-go zone) and get off doing it in public for the benefit of onlookers. They know it’s an experimental phase and they’re gonna live it up.

Real Rugmunchers don’t do any of that. They don’t make a public spectacle of themselves, their hands stay holstered (or wrapped in tender handholding), and they spend a lot of time sharing their concerns about the quality and direction of their relationship. You could mistake them for really close asexual friends if you were eavesdropping.

In short, real lesbians are mannish in almost every way except romantically, in which domain they are more like hetero women — yappity yap with not much snatchity snatch.

Likewise, gay homosexual men are womanish in almost every way except romantically, in which domain they are more like hetero men — jackity jack with not much yappity yap.

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Sexbot Revolution Update

The revolution will be atomized.

Here’s Le Chateau back in 2007 writing on sexbots and the existential threat they pose to the sexual market, and hence to civilization.

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Stinky Pussy Girl

Recently, I had a weird run-in with an ex-fling. First, some background: We had met years ago in a different city while simultaneously exiting a dingy caliph-themed cocktail bar bobbing with the greasy-haired heads of a swarm of swarths; I had then asked her if she was racing out as fast as I was to avoid the douchiness inside. In the time it took her to laugh, I soaked up her package: tall, lean, enticingly angular facial aesthetics, pert tits, ivory skin, ebony hair. The hunt was on.

Two hours later, I had escorted her to one of my public pleasure palaces (a shadowed sofa tucked in the recesses of a hookah bar swirling with mood-smoke) where we made out in between sensually blowing smoke rings. (Gentlemen, you should coax a woman to blow smoke rings whenever possible, because her form will give you a good idea of what she’ll look like when she’s gazing up at you during a blowjob.)

Cutting to the end-of-chase: She went back to my place with me. I unzipped her knee-high boots and stripped her woolly skirt off and caressed her inner thigh with a free hand (the other stuffing a ball gag in her mouth….I keed! or do I?). Gradually, my hand hopped her panty border and day-labored in the fields of her life-giving lips. I listened intently for the liquid smacking of vajlube peeling from vajflesh, and redirected my glistening hand to her freed left breast….whereupon an odor most foul drifted from drenched digitalis to my nose, triggering an olfaction reaction inescapably pronounced. I retched a little.

But the boner reflex is inversely proportional to the disgust reflex; a man with a rager will shawshank through a snapper sewer to bust outta priapism.

So I bore on. And bored on. Or that was the plan, until in the act of ripping off the last tattered shred of her industrial-grade panties my face swooped a little too near her crotch swamp, and the sting of fetid juices actually made my eyes water. Did she notice my fully throttled necksnap to the back? I figured she must have, but she made no indication thereof.

Hyenas are known to marinade their scavenged rotmeat in stagnant pools of sun-ripened toxic water; the matriarchal beasts prefer their sustenance falling off the bone in gangrenous ribbons, much like our current crop of Western women prefer the composition of their nations. But man is not clit-dicked hyena. Notwithstanding my insistent boner to the contrary, my frontal lobe — or perhaps the hindiest part of my hindbrain — overrode my crotchal zone and in a burst of creativity spurred by sensory stinkulation and desperation, I stopped my attack cold and summoned a semi-quasi-pseudo-rationale for why she must politely leave and oh yes I would certainly call her soon and we’ll get together again the next time we will make it count it’s just that I care for your opinion of me and your feelings and I’m a romantic that way trust me you’ll love that I’m not like all the other men…..

Ad fuckin nauseam, she quietly left, a cloud of worry and suspended disappointment encroaching on her pretty face as I closed the door behind her and set upon my bed sheets with a fury, dousing them in Oxyclean and paint thinner. Mid-winter, windows wide open! AHHHHHHH WINTER-CHAN CLEANSE THIS HOME!

So tragic, such a waste of an adorable face, but whaddaya gonna do? Stinky pussy is the deal killer. The boner imploder. The Darwinian dental dam. Unless the girl is a hard 10 and the man is a hard-up 10, a subatomic stink down below will wither any hard-on.

Fast-forward to the near-present: New, far away town, new day. I’m in a store. A woman in black enters behind me. She has orange-red hair and a youthful glow despite her almost translucent skin. Fishnet fuckme stockings carve the contours of her long legs. A fleeting familiarity sparks my mind. I look a bit longer at her; she notices, and reacts with the expected mix of consternation and curiosity. Could this be the same Stinky Pussy Girl from years ago, unbelievably standing right next to me a thousand miles from where we first primed our directives?

It couldn’t be. The hair, and the clear skin. If it was her, she was wearing a wig or had a pro coloring job, and she hadn’t aged a minute since our rendezvous…. our, if you’ll pardon the pun, kerfluffle. Our whiff of a tryst, a long-faded memory, suddenly wrenched to consciousness, as freshly manured as if it had occurred the day before down the block.

I shook off the thought. Then she walked toward the exit. That walk, endearingly clumsy and lopey….I couldn’t possibly forget that walk, no woman I have known walked like her. It was her.

None of this happened all that quickly; I had time to run her down and tell her I knew her from long ago, and possibly (probably!) try for another stab at her stankflaps. But as powerfully as the memory of her face and body and weird walk flooded my corticalleys, so too did her pussy stink. That smell memory — smellory — punched my gut as hard as any pungently hectoring specter could.

So I watched her walk off, dissipating into a street crowd. There you have it, ladies: an incredibly coincidental re-meeting, an opening for love created by divine intervention some would say, and the mere memory of stinky pussy shut the possibilities off a second time as strongly as they were shut off the first time when the stink was fragrantly real and aromatically macroaggressive.

On the way home, all I could wonder was what her kids, if she were to have any, would telegonically or frictionally acquire on their way out of her ill-fumed womb; if for instance the poor sprogs would squirt out in a pigpen-like shroud of green gas that followed them everywhere.

Virgins are prized by men all over the world. It’s a universal desire, so evolution must have a good reason for men to prefer untrammeled twat. Paternity certainty is one given reason; men can be confident the kid is theirs if the hymen blood of their women stains their dicks. But now I think it’s something more conspicuous; whether caused by accumulating cock notches or poor hygiene, a stinky pussy is a warning to men that there’s something off with the talking vessel incubating the spicy vaginey. A tangy clam is nature’s red flag that disease or immune system failure lurks labially and threatens the fitness of any posterity that you might deposit in her belly.

Some of you may ask, “CH, why didn’t you just let her give you a hummer?”

Dear deluded friends of the Chateau, pussy stank is the warmest of air; it’ll rise, right up to my face. I wouldn’t want to deflate in the woman’s mouth and have to bear the guilt of possibly driving her to suicide.

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The Prime Sex Difference: Penmanship?

There are myriad sex differences — physical, emotional, mental, temperamental, and psychological — that anyone of sane mind unblemished by equalist propaganda can observe permeating every aspect of daily life in which men and women interact. But maybe the most pervasive, immutable, and encompassing sex difference is…penmanship. Johnny Redux writes,

I always have found one very fascinating difference between males and females, which can only be explained by brain behavior – pretty much 90% of the time, you can tell the difference between male and female handwriting. That shows how the brain actually behaves and interprets things, when pen is put to paper. It covers all educational levels, and all professions. I am not concerned with primate writing, so I can only speak on what I have seen of my race.

So true, and the Chateau covered this topic a while ago in this post. Cursive summary: the more biologically and irretrievably feminine the woman (according to digit ratio and personality assessment), the more feminine the handwriting. The God of Biomechanics is a prankster who likes to mock our cherished moral aspirations with the flick of a pen.

So if you’re dating a girl who still owns a pen and writes her d’s and p’s with bloated, pregnant relish and tops her i’s with hearts, wife that bitch up.

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