My Time Inside The Housing Bubble

A few years ago I briefly toyed with the idea of getting a second job on the side for some quick and easy supplemental bling. Acting on a tip from a friend, I walked into the office of a mortgage broker in northern Virginia to begin my second life as an intermediary taking advantage of information bottlenecks and client ignorance.

The president mob boss of the small company was a short Vietnamese man with manic energy, a giant gold watch, and a quick tongue. I mentioned my referral and, after sizing me up, he told me there would be an all-hands meeting in a half hour and I was invited to sit in and see if this business appealed to me.

I scanned the office. Lots of empy cubicles with flickering monitors full of excel spreadsheets being operated by invisible employees. Along the wall were closed door offices with nameplates designating various positions – VP this, VP that, CFO (!), Executive manager. Really? I popped my head into one office and another South Asian greeted me. We bantered a bit then he showed me his trophies and certificates for excellence in mortgage brokering. A huge photo of him sitting in his Ferrari hung prominently behind his desk. He noticed me checking it out and said it took him only three years to build his client list to reach the point he could buy that beauty — all it required was a solid work ethic. He was wearing a Rolex.

Just prior to the meeting a tall white guy with a frat boy striped shirt approached me and stuck out his hand. I asked him what he thought of the business. He told me what it was like getting loans for marginal clients and how to deal with Countrywide. He said he was 27 years old and was planning on making 2 million for himself by the time he hit 30. Business was so good he had no doubt his goal would be reached. He talked of a luxurious retirement by age 40.

We all sat down in a semi-circle in a large conference room. The only white guys were me and Mr. Early Retirement. There were four women, three East Asians and one white chick who looked Italian by background. The rest of the group was a polyglot of East Asian, Vietnamese or Thai, Hispanic and indeterminate ethnicity men. The two Vietnamese/Thai guys wore the sharpest suits of the bunch. Crisp like new dollar bills.

The high energy Vietnamese don entered and began a free form discussion of life in the commission based mortgage broker business. Acronyms and jargon were flying — MTAs, COFI loans, COSI arms, A-paper, Alt-A, subprime (this was before the housing bubble burst, so the word subprime didn’t trigger instant suspicion at the time), DUs, Full Doc, SIVA, SISA, No Ratio (later learned this meant no stated income), No Doc, PITI, origination fee (fancy word for screwing the client with a skim off the top), PMI, DTI, NVAR, and on and on.

Then the Vietdon looked carefully around the room, eyeballing each one of us.

“This is good, very good.” He was smiling and nodding his head. “The way it works here is simple. Trust. You earn the client’s trust and your business takes off. They trust you, they sign on the dotted line. So, for instance…” He pointed at the Asian women. “These ladies are assigned to female clients. Asian women in particular. They will trust them.”

The Asian girls snickered and one uncrossed and crossed her legs. I watched her crotch as she did this.

The Vietdon continued. “And my boys over there…” The Hispanic guys laughed. “They get the Hispanic clients. This is the way it works in this business. Now let’s be real. Most of our Hispanic clients aren’t high rollers. They’re struggling, making ends meet. They got families. They need houses to put those families in. They work hard. To get them to sign on the dotted line…” (He loved that expression.) “…you’ve got to put their minds at ease that you’re looking out for them. They trust someone who looks like them, you know?”

More nods of agreement from the Jose contingent.

“Then we’ve got our white guys.” At saying this, the Vietdon smiled broadly. “You guys, you go out in the field with a casual button down, one button at the top undone, nice shoes, real tall all-American look, and people with money trust you. I get some white clients… not too many because, you know, we mostly deal with the underserviced community…” (The group chuckled.) “…and these white clients feel comfortable dealing with a white agent. It is what it is, right? No morality tales here, we just do what brings in the business. I think we can all agree on that.” Heads nodded in unison. “It’s a little different for our Asian clients. They want to see their agents dressed in shiny pressed suits at all times. Isn’t that right, Phung!” Laughter from everyone.

“This is a good time to be in the brokerage business. The money is there. Work hard, make your calls, show up at the houses for that extra attention people love, and you can see a nice little profit for yourself.” With that, the Vietdon ended the meeting.

I showed up at the office for three more weeks, then decided it reminded me too much of cold calling old people over dinner to sell investment advice. Something about the whole operation felt sleezy, like an Amway scheme. I didn’t think the odds of me scoring easy money on the side were that great, at least not with this firm, so I abandoned the mission.

Two years later, the housing bubble burst spectacularly. Today, I wonder why all those really smart guys back then propping up the mortgage brokerage business on phantom assumptions couldn’t see the sleeziness in what they were doing like I could after only a half hour inside the business. Or maybe they did and didn’t care. And I wonder if Mr. Early Retirement achieved his goal.

Despite the unsavory nature of the brokerage business, I have respect for the Vietdon. He knew the score and didn’t shy away from it. He told it like it is. He probably violated every anti-discrimination law on the books, but he made money while the making was good.

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“The Office” Finds Game

If you watched last Thursday’s episode of The Office, you saw Andy use some basic concepts from Game to advise Kevin how to handle a woman he likes. Watch from 3:40 onward.

Naturally, the show follows the usual PC fembot script and ridicules beta Andy for giving horrible advice to omega Kevin, while lesser alpha Jim mocks Andy’s good faith effort with that oh-so-smarmily sly and knowing irony that has become the hallmark of SWPL humor.

Although I’m sure the writers didn’t intend it, Andy is a great example of what happens when an aggressive beta gets his first exposure to game; he doesn’t fully grasp the underlying concepts which leads him to bastardize the tactics. His advice to Kevin to give “backhanded compliments” to the omega woman Kevin wants to date sounds exactly like the caricature of negs that haters of game repeat ad nauseum. Andy’s neg is an insult, not an ambiguous compliment.

Why can’t Hollywood portray Game and the pickup mentality fairly and magnanimously and without going gooey romantic beta and snide alpha in penance for broaching the subject? The answer is simple. It is a great threat to the established order if the vast lumpenbeta of men learn how to seduce women without having to first toil for years as properly submissive company men chained in servility to the corporate machine, or without having to bow and scrape before their feminist and alpha elite masters who would like nothing less than that they continue playing by the rules they themselves so flagrantly violate. And anti-Game serves the interests of natural alpha males quite well as mockery bait with which they can keep the aspiring betas in line and the pool of available alphas small.

Competition may be a wonderful thing in the abstract, but on the individual level it is an enemy to be snuffed out.

By the way, anyone else notice how rapidly Pam is aging? So sad.

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Scanning The Headlines Chateau Style

Newsflash! You can’t trust a woman’s opinion of other women’s looks. (Hi Chic.)

Everyone loves a pretty face – except those women who might see it as a threat. With eyes on the competition, women of childbearing age rate other attractive women consistently lower than women who have entered menopause, according to a new study.

“It’s almost as if they’re putting down other attractive women,” says Benedict Jones, a psychologist at Aberdeen University, UK, who led the study of 97 middle-aged women.

This explains why so many chicks blab on and on about how “womanly”, “handsome”, “confident” or “sexy” older women look. They are downplaying the real competition — pretty young thangs.

***

Appletini goggles.

Even when sober women who drink more are less able to detect male facial asymmetry. So crooked-faced guys should look for female regular drinkers.

Researchers found that women who drink even moderately develop a reduced ability to rate attractiveness in male faces, even when they are sober.

Those who drank were less able to detect male facial symmetry, a marker of attractiveness and good genes which is thought to play an important role in the choice of a partner.

Even 5 drinks per month diminished ability to score facial symmetry. Researcher Kirsten Oinonen at Lakehead University in Thunderbay Ontario expects that women whose minds are altered in this way will find less attractive guys more attractive when their decreased attractiveness is caused by facial asymmetry.

If you’re searching for a wife or husband, stop drinking. Or don’t stop drinking for the rest of your life.

***

Badboys, crime, popularity: Natural born ladykillers.

Genes prompt rabble-rouser behavior. But they also foster popularity, according to Alexandra Burt, a Michigan State University behavioral geneticist who released a “groundbreaking study” that suggests good news for bad boys.

Men who had a gene associated with “rule-breaking behavior” were rated most popular by a group of previously unacquainted peers, she found.

[…]

In August, the University of North Carolina also revealed a link between three particular genes and “a life of crime” after following 1,100 teenage boys over a six-year period, clearly establishing a link between the presence of those genes and aggressive behavior.

Such research has had a darker side. The idea that “bad genes” held dangerous sway over some people prompted the Supreme Court in 1927 to rule in favor of the forced sterilization of criminals and mental patients. The court reversed the decision in 1942 as unconstitutional.

These days, researchers suggest that a touch of bad behavior gives men a boost in popularity and with their sexual relationships. Narcissism, impulsiveness and deceit – the “dark triad” – play a definitive role in wooing, according to separate research conducted by both Mexico State University and Bradley University in 2008.

In a way, Game is a system for mimicking the behaviors of men who possess the “badboy genes”. Readers often wonder if alpha is inborn then how much can learning Game accomplish? A lot. If you don’t have a natural musical talent, you can train for a couple years and still wow girls with a few choice tunes on your Fender Strat. You may not go from 4s to 10s, but you’ll go from 4s to 7s. And for most betas, that is like winning the pussy lottery.

***

Section 8 strikes back.

ANTIOCH, Calif. (AP) – As more and more black renters began moving into this mostly white San Francisco Bay Area suburb a few years ago, neighbors started complaining about loud parties, mean pit bulls, blaring car radios, prostitution, drug dealing and muggings of schoolchildren.

In 2006, as the influx reached its peak, the police department formed a special crime-fighting unit to deal with the complaints, and authorities began cracking down on tenants in federally subsidized housing.

[…]

An increasing number of poor families receiving federal rental assistance have been moving here in recent years, partly because of the housing crisis.

A growing number of landlords were seeking a guaranteed source of revenue in a city hard-hit by foreclosures. They began offering their Antioch homes to low-income tenants in the HUD Section 8 housing program, which pays about two-thirds of every tenant’s rent.

If you are seeking an apartment in DC, here is a handy map I found which will aid you in avoiding blocks that are close to Section 8 housing.

Joseph Villarreal, the housing authority chief, said the problems in Antioch mirror tensions seen nationally when poor renters move into neighborhoods they can afford only with government help.

“One of the goals of the programs is to de-concentrate poverty,” Villarreal said. “There are just some people who don’t want to spend public money that way.”

No shit. Because another way of saying “de-concentrate poverty” is “spread the crime”. Villarreal is one of those leftwing social engineering dickbags I will laugh at when he’s hanging from a lamppost after the glorious revolution against the elitist-driven Campaign of Lies has begun.

***

Slut Pride.

You’ll recall Harvard junior Lena Chen as one of our official compulsive oversharers. She’s a sex blogger whose ex leaked naked pictures of her once. Now, in addition to the sex blog, she’s got a more personal blog intended to correct the fact that Chen is “famous on the internet for all the wrong things.” This makes it the perfect venue for pictures of… well, I’ll just say it: of Chen right after getting “a facial.”

When a culture’s sexual strategy shifts to African-style short term hookups and soft polygamy, proud public displays of sluttiness by women become more commonplace. I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader why this is so.

***

Best Comment Ever in a story about professional b-ball player Marko Jaric marrying Victoria’s Secret model Adriana Lima. (link provided by G Manifesto)

Really??????? He must have a Chocolate penis that ejaculates cash!

And bon bons for balls.

***

Extending the decades of carefree casual sex.

Researchers believe boosting the amount of a naturally forming enzyme in the body could prevent cells dying and so lead to extended, healthier, lifespans.

As I’ve said before, aging should be treated like the cruel horrible disease it is. “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be” is such a ridiculous ego-saving baldfaced lie. It’s the equivalent of saying “Go ahead and get fat, I’ll still love you.”

***

Some people think this is just splendid.

For more than two centuries, it has been a wannabe among the great world capitals. But now, Washington is finally ready for its close-up.

No longer a jumped-up Canberra or, worse, Sacramento, it seems about to emerge as Pyongyang on the Potomac, the undisputed center of national power and influence. As a new president takes over the White House, the United States’ capacity for centralization has arguably never been greater. But it’s neither Barack Obama’s charm nor his intentions that are driving the centrifugal process that’s concentrating authority in the capital city. It’s the unprecedented collapse of rival centers of power.

This is most obvious in economic affairs, an area in which the nation’s great regions have previously enjoyed significant autonomy. But already the dukes of Wall Street and Detroit have submitted their papers to Washington for vassalage. Soon many other industries, from high-tech to agriculture and energy, will become subject to a Kremlin full of special czars. Even the most haughty boyar may have to genuflect to official orthodoxy on everything from social equity to sanctioned science.

At the same time, the notion of decentralized political power — the linchpin of federalism — is unraveling. Today, once proudly independent — even defiant — states, counties and cities sit on the verge of insolvency. New York and California, two megastates, face record deficits. From California to the Carolinas, local potentates with no power to print their own money will be forced to kiss Washington’s ring.

It is decidedly un-American to submit to such a strong, central federal government. It’s been the goal of our Ivy League gentry for the past 50 years to move America away from the American model and towards a socialist European model, finally culminating in a Banana Republic model. Good times!

Americans may still possess what the 19th-century historian Frederick Jackson Turner described as “an antipathy to control,” but lately, they seem willing to submit themselves to an unprecedented dose of it. A financial collapse driven by unrestrained private excess — falling, ironically, on the supposedly anti-Washington Republicans’ watch — seems to have transformed federal government cooking into the new comfort food.

A terrible enervation has infected the souls of Americans. We are surrendering our essence. We are betraying our own principles.

This lowly status stemmed, to some extent, from what the historian James Sterling Young has defined as the “anti-power” ethos of early Americans. The revolutionary generation and its successors loathed the confluence of power and wealth that defined 19th-century London or Paris. A muddy outpost in the woods seemed more appropriate to republican ideals.

We are importing tens of millions of the peasant class from culturally and genetically antagonistic countries who do not possess a natural instinct towards American-style individualism and distrust of government. Our historical “anti-power” ethos is rapidly being replaced in a great demographic tsunami by a “daddy government” ethos. Way to go, guys!

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“My Girlfriend Is On A Billboard”

I strolled along the crowded streets of the city with Damian and his brother. Girls were everywhere. New York City is day game Mecca; you can acquire one target, talk to her, maybe get her number, and immediately seize upon a new target as soon as you have parted ways. Don’t expect privacy, though. If you can’t approach and chat up a girl on the sidewalk in the company of hundreds of pedestrians, don’t bother gaming in NYC. New York really is like a giant outdoor improv class, with audience, backdrop, and scores of cute female protagonists.

It’s also a city of contrasts. You will see the most beautiful and the ugliest women here. Both capture your gawk-worthy attention. When they stand side by side at intersections waiting for lights to change, the chasm separating their genetic luck of the draw becomes unbridgeably wide. I made a mental note to hate anyone who would oppose preimplantation embryonic screening.

The other thing I noticed: Even on the older women (25+) the asses were firm and round. My eyes didn’t suffer too many flat or droopy asses. Clearly, women are working harder on their glutes, elevating this body part to centerpiece status. We rechristened New York the “City of Ass”. The city so nice two cheeks suffice. All this glute toning is not consequence free — their boobs were less than stellar. Cleavage was nowhere to be found, and in fact many of the hottest chicks sported anthills for tits.

D’s brother is dating a model. She told us captivating stories about her model friends. Well, her stories were captivating once I let my imagination fill in the details. One of her girlfriends is on a billboard. This prompted a deep, philosophical manly discussion.

ME: Does it get any better than “My girlfriend is on a billboard?”

D: It’s a show stopper.

ME: You go to a party and people ask you about your girlfriend. “Oh, she’s a lawyer.” Boring. “She’s a doctor.” Impressive, but not feeling it. “She’s on a billboard.” Oh yeah, now we’re cooking with gas. Every guy who hears that is going to imagine the hottest girl and get jealous.

D: It’s right up there with “My angel is a centerfold”.

D launched into an impromptu street dance.

D’s BRO: Pay attention, you’re missing it.

My peripheral vision caught a fleeting glimpse of a drop dead gorgeous raven-haired beauty. It’s amazing how eagle-eyed I get when a hot babe is in the vicinity. I’m sure my eyesight bumps up to 20/15.

A cabbie almost ran over our feet. D lumbered after it, exchanging colorful insults with the Indian driver who was sticking two middle fingers out the window, leaving the steering wheel unattended. It’s pointless, of course, but I suppose the yelling helps relieve the tension of nearly getting run over. D’s brother’s cellphone rang — the ringtone was the drum intro to “When the Levee Breaks”.

D’s BRO: John Bonham was a better drummer than Neil Peart. He could play any style. Peart [he antagonistically pronounced it Peeeeee-eeeeaaart] couldn’t play jazz or blues. His time signatures were limited.

D: [aroused with indignation] What are you talking about? Peart was FAR superior to Bonham. Bonham played cheesy 4/4 rock riffs. What talent does that take?

D’s BRO: Dude, Peart couldn’t hang with Buddy Rich. Remember that? He was on stage with these great drummers and he fucked up the rhythm. He has no feel. Bonham has demonstrated he can play outside his range.

D: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Peart was technically better. He played a bigger kit and made the most of it. Electronic drums and the blocks and double bass. He has to spin around! Bonham played that stupid kindergarten kit, two toms and a snare. What is that garbage? One bass drum is child’s play.

D’s BRO: Way to kill your own point, doucheass! Bonham punched out solid rhythms on a limited kit. He didn’t have the crutch of hundreds of drums and cowbells to make up for the lack of skills. You can’t get around that Peart sucks outside his comfort zone.

Punctuating his argument, D’s brother began air drumming “When the Levee Breaks”, pointing his imaginary drumstick in D’s face on the downbeat. D answered the taunt by airdrumming the solo from “Tom Sawyer”. No one on the street bothered to notice.

We stopped by a corner eatery. D ordered the $10 chocolate cake. It was the size of a miniature hockey puck. D growled when he saw the tiny dessert and the waitress looked embarrassed. “I love New York and I hate New York.” Nods of agreement.

D’s brother is an actor and a bartender. Later that night we went to his bar on the Upper East Side while he worked his shift. After a day on the streets, and a night in a bar watching the girls parade in, we concluded that New York’s girls blow SF’s girls out of the water. This was based on a scientific survey.

D’s brother mentioned a Polish girl might come in and flirt with him. She had been in his bar before and conveyed interest in him. He told us this because he suggested we hit on any girlfriends she might drag in with her. We weren’t there more than a half hour when an absolute babe of magnificent proportions and stunning natural beauty walked in the door with five other girls. She was cornsilk blonde and around 22 years old — at the peak of ripeness. She sidled right up to the bar and talked with D’s brother, dripping with a heavy Polish accent. He was indifferent, even to the point of ignoring her and walking in the opposite direction when she was in the middle of telling him something. He wasn’t doing this on purpose; he was pretty happy with his girlfriend. Naturally, his supreme aloofness only drove the Polish girl crazy with lust. Her flirting became aggressive, desperate. I vowed to get a part time job bartending.

Meanwhile, D and I took the full measure of which targets were within striking distance. To his right were two girls, one cute and one chunky. The cute one began stripping off her coat and suit jacket like a cabaret dancer. She pulled at her blouse, making “phew” noises. When a girl wants you to open her she makes it obvious by her proximity and her histrionics.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You practicing your stripper moves?”

“What makes you say that!!?” Ugh, grating New York accent. Their one blemish.

“Well, maybe it was the way you threw your coat into your friend’s face.” I looked over at the fat friend and smiled. The cute one laughed and grabbed D by the arm.

“Your buddy just called me a stripper!”

D chuckled. “I’m up for that.”

Cute chick: “You know what else will get you *up*? Tiger balm!” She looked over at fattie and they giggled.

D furrowed his brow. “Tiger balm? What? What the fuck is that?”

Cute chick: “You don’t know what Tiger balm is??!!! Oh, you’re missing out!”

Fattie: “It’s like Ben-gay. Except for… you know.”

I couldn’t believe these chicks weren’t drunk. What was their excuse? “D, it’s a lotion you can put on your junk and her junk and it heats up. It makes the banging hotter.” The girls giggled louder.

“Right, got it.” D looked disgusted. He has a thing against girls who speak crudely. His theory is that girls who talk like sailors have banged a lot of cock and are burned out from all the pump and dumping. The crudity is like a self-defense mechanism to reclaim some control over men.

D paired off with the cute chick. She seemed into him, and my eyes were resting elsewhere. Like a professional wingman, I occupied the fattie. The four of us had been talking for ten minutes when I felt the urge to break off from the group. I can only humor a fat chick for so long before my patience wears thin. The fattie was exceedingly pleasant (aren’t they all?) but if there’s no physical attraction it just feels like minutes of my precious life are draining away, better spent on slender women.

I shifted 180 degrees and opened two women sitting at the bar. They were flirting with D’s brother as he poured them appletinis. I re-vowed my previous vow to take up a job bartending. The girl nearest me was clearly drunk. Not buzzed; drunk. I hate this. Buzzed girls are great to game, drunk girls are less than useless. They can’t follow a sentence halfway through, all they know how to do is shit test, and they inspire the protective instincts of whatever sober girlfriends they happen to have brought with them. Some of them even piss themselves. They’re dead weight. If you manage to get one home and fuck her, she might pass out in the middle of sex. The only thing they are good for is injecting excitement and a fun vibe into a stalled out conversation. Use them strategically.

“Lemme guess. You guys are sisters.” They did look alike.

Drunk girl addressed me first. “OH MY GOD, how did you know that!!! Yes, we aaaarrree!” A shockwave of rancid breath hit me in the face. She smelled like she had vomited earlier in the night. “Guess our age, now!”

I don’t like when women who look old enough (late 20s) to be easily offended if you guess in the wrong direction by more than a year ask me to guess their age. It’s a landmine. So I never make a serious attempt.

“Lesseee… you’re 52?”

“Whaaaat?? Nooo!!!”

“Ok, one more try… 21!”

“Aww, you’re so cute! Does my sister look older or younger than me?”

Christ, an entire family psychodrama was about to play out. I realized if I didn’t lead the convo I could wind up being the catalyst for whatever issues these two wanted to work out.

“You know what, I’m horrible at this. But I can tell you that your sister looks like the responsible one.” I smiled at the sober sister. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You’re the chaperone?”

Drunk girl interrupted with another blast of puke breath. “She’s younger than me! I have to look out for her.” She went to high-five her sister and missed, her open palm jabbing the air ineffectually. “Why don’t you entertain us?” She was touching her chest.

“You’re enough entertainment for all of us.” I turned my back. I had lost all interest in pursuing the set any further. With D tied up and D’s bro busy working the bar, I had nobody to act as a wedge between the sisters. The sober sister was already looking concerned for her drunk sister. Tactically, it was hopeless. If they had both been sober, I could have done something with that.

At closing time (4AM), there were eight women and me and D. Does this ever happen in SF bars? I can’t recall. If you have the energy to go out five nights a week, I can guarantee that no matter how bad your game, after six months in NYC you WILL get laid. There are just too many women in too small an area for you to fail at that goal. You’d have to be a hermit or a leper to remain involuntarily celibate in New York for more than a year.

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Justice Is Served

Hope and change is in the air (hat tip: commenter Butters):

An adulterous Spanish woman has been ordered to pay €200,000 in “moral damages” for the suffering caused to her husband by her illicit affair.

The woman, who had three children by her lover, pretended for years that they were fathered by her husband, according to reports.

God bless the Spanish. While the Anglosphere countries are grabbing their ankles for their feminist and kleptocratic Overcunts and incomprehensibly, malignantly going down the path of forcing cuckolded beta husbands to continue footing the bills for the non-biological children of their whore wives’ adulterous copulations, the Mediterranean-style cultures — AKA the Jealousy Belt — are taking the exact opposite tack and squarely putting the blame and the punishment where it rests — on the cheating wife.

Of course, some women will cry “What about the kids?!”. Too bad. She should have thought of them before fucking around. Any harrowing consequences that befall the children are no longer the cuckolded husband’s moral crisis.

DNA tests showed that three of their four children had been fathered by the other man, the Times reports. The husband then took his wife to court, demanding compensation.

The court in Valencia, southeastern Spain, ordered her to pay €100,000 for the suffering she caused him. She fought the ruling, but the Supreme Court has upheld it, and doubled the damages to €200,000.

God bless DNA paternity testing. Besides the Pill, has any technological innovation in the last 40 years leveled the playing field as radically as paternity testing? Widespread use will have cultural — *and* genetic — changes we can only begin to fathom now. The last 10,000 years may have been a whirlwind of human evolution, but that will seem like slow going compared to the hurricane of human change I foresee arriving in the next 500 hundred years. When our distant descendants gather in their gleaming labs to pry apart the recent course of human history and evolution, they will all agree on one thing: The observers of our time severely underestimated the Tunguska-level impact that the pill, condom, abortion, and female economic empowerment would have on the very foundations of the human species.

And can you imagine an American judge having the sack to do what that Spanish judge did, and doubling the damages because the bitch showed no remorse in fighting the initial ruling? I can’t, which is too bad. It would be a step in the right direction to restoring America’s greatness. This story is so delicious it needs a Hollywoodization:

WHORE: But, your Honor, I did nothing wrong! My husband never paid attention to me. What choice did I have but to find love elsewhere? I am a good mother, I deserve respect!

JUDGE: Bitch, sit your whore ass down. You fuck around like a filthy slut, have three kids by another man, and then foist them on your bamboozled husband who works his ass off supporting you and the family, and you expect to be coddled like a small child by this court? Make it $200 grand!

WHORE: But…

JUDGE: $300 grand! Keep going, tramp…

The wife was judged to have “acted negligently in the conception of her children”, and the concealment of the truth “only added to the pain caused to the husband” who should be compensated correctly.

No shit. I guess it takes a Spaniard to demonstrate common sense.

In her defence, the woman told the court her extramarital activities had been “passionate and irregular” and blamed her husband for being cold, unfaithful and disinterested in the children.

Ha haa! I hadn’t even read this part when I wrote my short play above. Good to see there are still some people who understand the amoral nature of women.

The court ruled her claims were not credible.

Justice… is served.

I’m beginning to see a welcome trend. While I don’t expect women — solipsistic creatures of child-like, morally underdeveloped minds — to ever lead the righteous in advocating for fairness and justice of the sort meted out by the Spanish courts, I do expect them to step in line and follow the strong men who will fight for these basic rights and for real justice, not Oprahfied, Lifetime channel justice. This will happen when men grow balls and stop kow-towing in fear to the lesbian bulldyke mafia who runs the womens studies cuntdustrial complex, because women by nature are followers, and where the pack goes, so go they. Women self-govern by a simple (simplistic) motto: “It’s all in the numbers.” Once a tipping popularity point is reached, women will abandon their old principles for the new principles with a speed that will prove the shallowness and expediency with which they hold their beliefs.

What’s interesting to me, and not surprising given the clearness of my vision regarding human nature, is that this reinvigoration of basic gender justice is happening in the machismo cultures like Spain and Brazil. Perhaps those cultures’ experiences with the animalistic and passionate boiling sexual impulses of men and women, and the jealousies engendered, gives them a better grasp of the stakes at play. Perhaps in the Anglo-founded countries, where monogamy and beta cooperation have been the norm for hundreds of years (up until recently), this understanding of the volatile and untamed nature of women’s sexuality is missing, or weak, and thus there is less inborn defense against falling under the spell of the siren call of postmodern, feminist claptrap.

But that is now changing. It’s just too bad we have allowed our culture to regress to such depths that the emergence of this change was necessary.

If men would follow my sage advice, they could avoid all this bullshit and still have plenty of sex and love from women:

Don’t get married.

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Obama’s Women, Part 2

Here’s this link to a New York Beta Times story about SWPL perimenopausal women having dreams of Barack Obama — psychosexual fantasies and stalkerish glorifications of the Obama family. The NYBTimes has been churning out some truly vomitus copy as of late, but for sheer sickening nausea this story may very well spew the farthest.

One woman wrote that when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, she “lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.”

When, generations from now, our Islamic and Mexican overlords have gathered to discuss the exact moment the American empire fell to pieces and reverted to a pre-civilizational Mad Max tribal wasteland, someone will point to this quote in the ancient tablets of the New York Times, and heads will nod in agreement.

I’ve already written about Obama’s women, and the sexual mores of girls who voted for him, so there aren’t many new lessons to glean from this article that haven’t been discussed before. This story has made the rounds, and been roundly ridiculed by many other bloggers. If there were any remaining doubts that giving women the right to vote has been an unmitigated disaster for America, this article should dispel them. Most women, especially single SWPLers and undersexed hausfraus bitter about being married to quisling betas, are simply unserious creatures who will let their emotions guide them to vote away the political and social arrangements that created the modern yenta-fied culture that affords them the luxury of voting like vapid teenage girls. If history is any guide, and if fortune should shine upon the United States before the point of no return is reached, a cooperative, horizontally structured patriarchy will reemerge and supplant the suicidally insane matricentric sick culture and stateless citizen of the world globopuppeteer elites playing “let’s you and him fight” currently running the show. I think it will happen soon, perhaps within five years. It may be violent as the authoritarian sanctimonious Boomer pricks and Gen X lackeys are overthrown.

The other day a friend of mine confided that in the weeks leading up to the election, the Obamas’ apparent joy as a couple had made her just miserable. Their marriage looked so much happier than hers. Their life seemed so perfect. “I was at a place where I was tempted daily to throttle my husband,” she said. “This coincided with Michelle saying the most beautiful things about Barack. Each time I heard her speak about him I got tears in my eyes — because I felt so far away from that kind of bliss in my own life and perhaps even more, because I was so moved by her expressions of devotion to him.”

BOTY candidate right here. Imagine being this bitch’s husband and reading this quote from your wife in the paper. I bet she showed him the article, proudly pointing out where she was quoted publicly humiliating him. “Here, honey, check this out. I’m in the New York Times!” The poor, wretched beta would probably work double time to win his wife’s approval, when he should be doing just the opposite — kicking her cottage cheese ass to the curb.

Relatedly, I was talking to a typical urban slut machine and she asked who I voted for. I said I didn’t vote. She reeled back, shocked. “You didn’t VOTE?!?” “Nope,” I repeated. “Voting is a useless exercise.” She leaned over to her girlfriend and spoke in her ear. They made OMG faces. Both of them looked at me suspiciously, frowning. Their reaction was as if I had told them that I killed a pregnant woman and dumped the body in the Potomac. The Obama Age scales of moral opprobium are completely out of whack. She returned. “What are you registered as?” “Independent.” “Independent? Hmm.” Girls know that when a man says Independent he means “Non-Democrat”.

I got the bang and marked her number in my phone as a “Tier 2” number.

***

In other news, I nearly interrupted a mugging in progress. I was literally five feet away walking down an alley that serves as a makeshift parking lot when an early 20s black dude, thugged out to the max, stuck a gun in the gut of a 50ish well-dressed white man (soft target) walking in my direction, and barked at him “You know what to do”. The middle-aged guy yelped when he apprehended what was happening. I broke out into a half-run and turned a corner off the alley about a hundred feet from the scene. Since this was a city hood on a weekend night, I expected to see a cop car nearby I could flag down. No such luck. No cops anywhere to be found. Did they take the night off? Way to be available, guys. What are we paying you for, again?

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to locate a cop and dialed 911. As I’m standing on the street in the middle of the nightlife crowd giving the description to the lady on the phone, the mugger casually strolls right by me on the sidewalk. He’s walking with a buddy. He’s got bills in his hand that he’s flipping through, and his buddy is cackling with glee. I relayed this information.

I never saw cops arrive. No doubt the guy got away scot free. The US is heading for a meltdown if criminals feel they can act with such impunity and fearlessness that they can blithely walk away from the scene unconcerned about being caught. I wondered who the victim voted for.

As a friend of mine said, “After a certain amount of time living in the city, you either settle down or move to a new city.” He’s right. It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. A move is on the horizon.

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Technology That Will Make You A Beta

Google is introducing software for cell phones that allows people, through a complicated system of rope and pulleys, to track each other.

“What Google Latitude does is allow you to share that location with friends and family members, and likewise be able to see friends and family members’ locations,” Steve Lee, product manager for Google Latitude, told CNET. “For example, a girlfriend could use it to see if her boyfriend has arrived at a restaurant and, if not, how far away he is.”

Google claims your privacy is protected because the service requires people to sign up for it. Right. If you are a man who would willingly sign up for a service that allows your girlfriend to follow your every movement, please go to the nearest woodchipper and surrender your testicles for mulch. They are no longer being used by you. And if you need this service to track your girlfriend because you’re insecure about her faithfulness, you deserve to see her little red GPS dot blink over the local biker bar at 2AM.

There’s a reason I use dogpile.com. Google is a totalitarian unAmerican left wing behemoth with delusions of Soviet grandeur. I hope it fails.

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