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Archive for the ‘Escape’ Category

Thousand cock stare. She went cross-eyed from all the shofars pushing her face in.

Let’s hope her threat is a promise. Dodged a shameful garbage hour hookup there. This is what winning feels like.

PS You don’t even have to ask.

PPS a comment by greinaurora that puts the kippah on a pike:

When the [special people] accept that the almighty gave them their chance at redemption and they went with “kill dat sucka”, felt no remorse about it, and rewrote their ancient religion to revolve around hating christians…

… when they really come to terms with the fact that they’re NOT the chosen people…

…they go atheist.

Because narcissists would rather God not exist than stop being the literal center of the universe.

Israeli Jews love President Trump, and I’ve read that they aren’t too keen on the idea of mass migration of American Jews into their homeland. Makes you think.

PPPS A poem, by Hugh Jenniks,

There once was a yenta named Vershbow,
Who hated Justice Brett Kavanaugh.

She said “I won’t fuck”
& She said “I won’t suck”

And everyone just laughed at the stank ho.

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All across the developed world, people are having less sex.

Calhoun’s mouse experiment is everywhere if you have the eyes to see.

I can supply some reasons explaining the decline in sex frequency among modrens:

1. diversity (it causes cocooning)
2. obesity (it causes loss of desire)
3. population density (it causes mental health problems)
4. soyboys (self-explanatory)
5. video games
6. porn
7. female porn (teevee)
8. pathological narcissism metastasized by social media use

That last one is crucial to understanding the problem behind the Breaching of the Sexes: the study notes that men and women are spending more time on “looking good” and less time putting those good looks to use in the bedroom. A pathological narcissist wouldn’t want to risk his or her image by actually sleeping with someone who would find out what they look like the morning after, or discover how skilled they are as lovers. The Social Media Narcissist recoils from intimacy because it demands a pence of vulnerability to be true, real, and valuable. It’s safer for the maintenance of her image if she struts and poses on her world stage, full of snark and gogrrlies, signifying nothing, than to risk it all by stepping out from behind the ‘shopped selfie to place her painstakingly animated Marvel Comics heart at the mercy of another.

As someone noted on that Twatter thread, sexual frequency isn’t the same as sexual distribution.

Why can’t you address the elephant in the room. 20% of the men are sleeping with 80 % of the women. Most men 18-34 get infrequent or no sex at all. The dating market is cruel as any free market.

Sex frequency may be down, but female hypergamy is up up up, and more intense than ever.

The Breaching of the Sexes will soon give way to the Bifurcation of the Sexed And Sexless, and finally to the Bounty of the Sexbots.

Unless Generation Zyklon re-embraces a benevolent patriarchy, this story has only one ending: Hard Times Ahead.

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“Hate speech” is not a thing, Constitutionally speaking.

There is no First Amendment exception for “hate speech,” and the government can’t specially target racist or religiously bigoted speech — but some Connecticut prosecutors seem not to know that.

Eugene Volokh, Reason.com,  August 6, 2018

Spot on. And relatedly, neither is “hate crime” a real thing. If you murder someone with malice aforethought, that’s the hate crime. It doesn’t matter what was going through your head to justify your action. The homicide is evidence of the hate.

So why aren’t more defense attorneys attacking the fallacious and inherently anti-1A “hate speech” premise? VDare:

At one point in his piece Volokh asks why defense attorneys aren’t kicking up more of a fuss, and I have a thought.

As with, say, many defenses that would be available for firearms offenses, your average criminal defense attorney is a flaming liberal who abhors guns in any event and thinks nobody should have them. So, in defending a client with gun charges, the creative muse doesn’t pay a visit.

Maybe the same lack of inspiration affects them when their client is facing a “racial incitement” charge in Connecticut.

There are a lot of sclerotic institutions in America that need a mass culling of lunatic shitlibs within their ranks.

This subject is eminently important. The whole malicious rhetorical foundation of “hate speech” needs to be discredited. It was a concept invented by YKW and their shitlib suckup lackeys with the eventual goal of silencing their critics, as we can see happening today.

Tragically, the goyium have underestimated the lethality of a foe with a mean verbal IQ higher than any other group in the world. The tide is only now starting to turn against the Word Corruptors, and their hysterical lashing out in response has been all too predictable.

When they are crying out indignantly is the best time to INCREASE THE VOLTAGE.

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Shitlibs more strongly identify along ideological axes. This is why, for instance, they can’t tolerate the company of those with differing world views. (White libchicks are the absolute worst at tolerating those with opposing political views.)

And, although I don’t have confirmatory data at hand, I suspect shitlibs are more likely to wander and become itinerants, always looking for a shiny new city to infest. Personality studies have found that shitlibs tend to be more novelty-seeking, or to put it less charitably they tend to have higher disgust thresholds. This desire for novelty and filth probably contributes to the shitlib “born to run away” compulsion. They just can’t handle too much niceness (read: Whiteness), order, and comfortable functionality. They need to feel distressed. They crave chaos in their lives.

How do I know this? Well, I have been surrounded by shitlibs. I’ve swum in the deepest waters of their subterranean cultures, taking what I wanted from them while leaving behind that which repulsed me. I know them pretty well, tbh, how they tick and what emotional keys are tickled in their hamsterchords.

I bring this up on the heels of the recent exposure of Stephanie Wilkinson, the proprietoress of the Commie Shrew, excuse me, the Red Hen, who hounded Sarah Sanders out of her restaurant and followed her like a psycho down the street screaming libanities at her, as a shitlib vagabond.

The rootlessness of shitlibs is intimately connected to their ideological fence-guarding in a positively reinforcing feedback loop. The shitlib leaves for a strange new locale, loses touch with everyone before her, and finds new friends at work, bar crawls, or expediently through shared housing.

Each move in the shitlib’s life brings more severing of social connections and greater stress finding and stringing together replacement social connections. (Family connections are surrendered for good.) There’s very little organic or authentic thread tying together the nomadic shitlib with her new sets of friends…no common upbringing, no schooling experiences, no history or unique local culture, and most importantly no shared memories which is the most powerful bonding agent.

Into this toxic atomization the one binding agent strong enough to overcome the disintegration of traditional social and family bonds is ideology. A fevered, frantic, hysterical attachment to ideology becomes the substitute for natural bonds, and the shitlib leans on ideological identification — in herself and in those who would be unwittingly auditioning for inclusion in her social circle — to screen for friends who will meet the lowest standard in friendship: someone who won’t irritate her with an opposing viewpoint.

This is why shitlib friendships (and similarly, romantic relationships) in the big blue cities are typically superficial, transient, and transactional: the only common ground is hatred of [X] and how one votes. When ideology is the foundation of friendship, those mystic unspoken bonds of reassuring familiarity get twisted into a grotesque facsimile of affinity, one based on an overweening insistence of ideological compatibility and purity. With nothing else to connect them to each other, the shitlib relies on ideology to shoulder the burden of standing in for the missing authenticity.

And ideology can work, for a while, as a values substitute and proxy for relationship complementarity, to create and maintain relationships (which is why city chicks will stress “shared values” and “Trump voters swipe left” when pole shopping), but woe to the friend who steps out of line one day and utters a deplorable bit of crimethink through the bottom of a cocktail glass. When ideology is the glue, a trivial difference of opinion on a point of order can feel like a gross betrayal.

The problem is a long-run one. Besides the lapses into crimethink, shitlib relationships dissolve easily and perfunctorily with work relocations and life stage changes that demand more social involvement and commitments than simply ideological conformism. The shitlib is bothered by these demands because they throw into stark relief the inauthentic nature of her friendships.

What is evident to the meanly keen observer is that shitlib friendships start to take on the veneer of artifice, fraying at the edges and duct-taped by snark and late nite talk show references. The very fact that shitlibs strive so hard for social authenticity prevents them from ever realizing their goal. They are their own worst frenemies. It’s a variation on the old “if you have try to be cool, you aren’t” aphorism.

De-urbanization and a revitalization of towns and smaller-sized cities geographically dispersed more equitably throughout the country will go a ways to helping shitlibs form real, lasting friendships that can survive the occasional disagreement with a Colbert monologue.

Related:

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i loved that he was so powerful i was nothing.
-O

From anonymous, who misses the mark by equating psychological submission with sex.

one of the pretty little lies of the pua “community”, perhaps the PRETTIEST little lie is that when a woman had sex with a man that she has “submitted”. or that when she falls in love with a man that she has “submitted”. the whole point of birth control, of the state-wielded women’s “rights” bludgeon, is so that women can enjoy sex and power without submitting. she can even birth children without “submitting” via an epidural and C-section.

in every way white women are collectively trying to avoid submitting, unless of course they are forced to. but what happens when society has pretty much banned/demonized all of those traditional ways where women were subjected to submission? game is supposed to be an antidote for ALL THAT. pfffft.

fasteddie said it well above. game is simply a temporary, stop-gap measure. an adaptation to slow, but not remotely stop, the hemorrhaging.

Women have an innate desire to submit…to a worthy man. AKA a dominant man. That’s the catch. Weak men, by constitution or State fiat, aren’t worthy men, and under their tutelage or even in the foulness of their impotent presence it’s of course expected and natural that women would defy submitting to those men. And in fact that women would begin to fight their own feminine instincts to avoid an accidental commingling with a weak man or a weak nation.

And by submission, I mean the hunger that comes from the deep-seated hindbrain place where women frolic in the summery haze of their primeval fantasies. Sex alone is not submission, though with the right man it can be for a woman. The submission I’m talking about is what Pauline Reage described had stricken her book’s heroine: a submission of the soul. It’s the submission of a love felt so profoundly for a powerful man that it never needs summoning, excuse, or rationalization; it is omnipresent and unassailable, proof not only of the man’s worth but of the woman’s worth to him as well.

Women won’t announce this desire, or even consciously recognize it, because evolution has seen fit to conceal women’s truest desires from men, and from women themselves!, to avoid the problem of spoofers and to better assess male mate worthiness (“does he understand intuitively what i really want? then he must be loved by many women and thus worthy of my love”).

If you give women the tools — for instance, via anti-discrimination State mandates to “resolve” discrepancies in outcome and preference between the sexes, or via cultural innovations like the Pill which sabotage the bonding mechanism — to avoid their natural inclination to submission, you get a lot more unhappy women. And that is precisely what the happiness data show since the inception of modren feminism.

When social degeneration forces weaken the native men, their women flee in protest and claim the false god of gogrrl empowerment as their new idol. In their agitated and spiteful escape from their submission-craving femininity, women become increasingly unhappy and unhinged and have no mental template left to help them understand why or to navigate the sexual market shoals. They make things worse for themselves by assuming more aggressive androgyny, man-hating, and anti-femininity are the answer, but the alternative — relaxing into their feminine submission with a strong man ensconced within a State apparatus that celebrates and encourages his strength — is unavailable. Therefore, the idea and the instinctual urge of submission repulses women, makes them ashamed, because they would have to submit to what they view as weak men left adrift by a post-op M2F State hostile to efforts to restrengthen men.

Women in this condition fight endlessly against their nature because on a primal level they’re fighting against pollution by anemic seed. The fight will eventually consume women, but unless strong men backed by a concordant State awaken that latent submissive energy in women these women will never stop availing themselves of products, ideologies, sophistries, technologies, and carousels that serve the purpose of building bigger walls between themselves and the mass of spineless beta males who have forgotten how to excite and inspire women.

Game is one open path to showing men the way to exciting and inspiring women once again.

In the meantime, the poz pendulum continues its arc into Unipolar Ugliness, guaranteeing its return descent will be wicked, swift, and lethal to those who defied the gravitational pull of the sexes into their biomechanically preordained roles.

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…this happens:

Too funny. This is how the alpha jerkboy treats the abortion-loving girl: with extreme disdain. It’s called standards, and beta males could benefit from having them.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule. The jerkboy who on threat of abandonment has persuaded his girl to abort their oopsie baby would be wise to accompany her to the clinic to be sure she follows through on her end of the deal.

Otherwise, treating a girl like the piece of meat she treats her womb is all around good policy for changing feminist hearts and minds.

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Entertaining field report from Capogambino about his night almost stealing a sexhibitionist from her borefriend.

I’m at the local pub on a Friday, and a guy walks in with two girls dressed for the club scene. One girl is a bit chubby and totally forgettable. The other, his girlfriend, is a solid 9, full slut uniform, hair, makeup, tight stretch black dress barely covering her ass. At several times during the night, as she’s walking around the bar or dancing, her dress rides up, revealing a juicy crescent of ripe cheek for a few moments before she pulls it back down. All the guys in the bar are staring at her, waiting for the next wardrobe malfunction.
At one point, the group I’m with is sitting at the table next to theirs, and I overhear her say, “I can get any guy in this bar to buy me a drink.” Her boyfriend and the other chic are doubting her, so she calls over to our table, “I need a drink, who wants to get me one?” The guys at my table are staring at her, not sure how to react, the girls looking like they want to set her on fire and feed her ashes to dogs. I chime in first, “Depends. What are you drinking?”
“Ginger snap.”
“Aw, a foofy drink. We should do shots. I’m thinking tequila.”
She looks surprised, and mildly intrigued.
“No, I want a ginger snap.” She’s testing me.
We go back a forth a bit but she won’t come off the ginger snap, so I turn back to my table and start chatting.
I glance over and her friends are looking at her like “ha-ha told you so”, and she’s looking disappointed. She sees me looking over, so she tries again. “So you’re not gonna buy me a drink?”
I stand up, walk over, stand close to her looking down, take her by the hand, and say, “Let’s go to the bar and pick something out.”
Her eyes light up like she’s been hit by lighting. She gets up, takes me arm-in-arm, pulling me close so my arm is pressed against the side of her tit, and we start walking to the bar.
I’m thinking I don’t really want to get into a fight with her boyfriend and get kicked out of my favorite pub, so I pull away a little. She looks me in the eye with a mischievous twinkle, pulls me back in, and starts rubbing my arm against the side of her tit.
At this point I’m wondering whether this girl has any boundaries, and thinking mischievously myself about how to test them. We get to the bar and she still has my arm locked against her tit. As we’re waiting for the bartender, we banter back and forth about what drink I’m getting her, with me teasing her about her wimpy girly drinks. I pull my arm free and move it to her lower back and stroke it slowly. She turns to me, presses her tits into me and puts her hand on my chest. At this point I’m in the bubble and completely forgetting about the boyfriend. I imagine he must have been seething back at the table watching our little scene.
I think maybe my stroking gets her dress to misbehaving again, and she reaches down and starts pulling it back into place, commenting about how she keeps flashing everyone. I snicker and tell her she’s got a great ass, and that all the guys in the bar have been staring at it all night. I give a couple gentle tugs on the back of her dress and say, “Why don’t you give ‘em all a show?” She gives me a naughty girl look, and says, “Go for it.” I pull slowly on the back of her dress. I can feel it coming up, but I have no idea how much, because I’m eye locked with her, and she’s staring back with a look like she wants me to throw her across the bar and ravage. Then she giggles and says, “Not that far,” and starts pulling her dress back down. That’s when the forgotten boyfriend shows up.
He pushes us apart, turns to me and yells “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!”
Part of my brain is telling me to get ready for a fight and start thinking about how to calm him down, but I can’t help just laughing. Then the girl shouts, “Leave us alone!” She starts trying to claw her way past him to get back to me. He turns to her, pushes her back, and yells, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!”
“Go away! He’s buying me a drink!” They’re in a little wrestling match as she’s still trying to wriggle around him and he’s holding her back.
I figure this is my chance to exit stage left before things get ugly, so I retreat to the bathroom. I take a piss, then I’m washing my hands as he storms in. “Dude, that was so uncool!” I back up, ready for a fight. I look at him for a moment and decide he’s not gonna fight over it. So I do a weak mea culpa, calm him down, and he leaves.
When I get back to the table a WK friend of mine hits me with “That was just so wrong, you shouldn’t have done that.”
So I say “She asked me to.” I tell the story of what we said at the bar, and we all have a good laugh about it. I can feel the stares of the two of them boring into me. When I glance over, I see them looking at me, him with daggers, her with tingles. They pay their bill and leave, so no chance to seal the deal.

Mate guarding when the whore is out of the barn is never a good look; it’s bound to push the girl even further away. The boyfriend in this tale of ho should dump her post haste because she’s gonna cheat on him soon if she isn’t already.

This girl is a particularly noxious genus of exhibitionist, the “let’s you and him fight” variety who uses the public display of her dripping sexuality as a red cape for any alpha males nearby who could conceivably challenge her boyfriend’s ownership of her and provide her with the ferocious tingles that only two men fighting for her glans can coax.

Similarly, her exhibitionism could have been motivated by relationship trouble (her bf ignoring her, for example) and she was keen to enlist Mr. Stranger Danger to ignite her boyfriend’s jealously so that he’d appreciate her again. Either way, the recruited interloper is playing with fire; he gets the bf’s fury or the slut’s retconned rejection.

Copagambino had some ZFG fun and played his hand well, but in the end an exhibitionist got the drama she needed and Copa narrowly avoided the drama he didn’t need.

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