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Archive for the ‘Feminist Idiocy’ Category

(((Martofel)))

Male feminists are creeps. It would be laughingly hypocritical if it weren’t so predictable. Many of them are sexually confused. A disproportionate number are ((())). All are low T.

At least this particular specimen of male feminist found the balls to fire all the deranged bitter cunts asking for his resignation after they discovered a Faceborg post in which he admitted to being a pervy creep (according to the male feminist definition of pervy creep).

“We’ve all either faced this firsthand, seen it, heard a firsthand account of it, or are guilty of it ourselves,” Martofel wrote in the the post. “I’m someone who’s guilty of it. I’ve grinded up on women on buses and at concerts without their consent. I’ve made out with ‘the drunk chick’ at a party because it was easier. I’ve put a woman’s hand on my dick while she was sleeping.”

Why are creepy male feminists so often guilty of the very perverted sexual harassment that they posture against? There’s the “a good offense is the best defense” theory. It could be psychological projection (accuse others of the perversions you indulge). Or it’s a political calculation: socially approved opinions can shield a creep from the discovery process.

My take is more fundamental: Male feminists are lsmv. They look weird, have revolting personalities, or both. They have never gotten the cute girl-next-door, and they seethe with resentment. They can’t compete head-on with Gentile Chads, so they resort to male feminism as a sneaky fucker strategy in the hopes of ingratiating themselves with bluehaired freaks and tatted skanks who might one day make the mistake of throwing the male feminist a pity fuck. When the male feminist doesn’t even get that consolation prize, he’s one step from lifelong incel, and this fear and rage drives him to acts of perversion to claim some measure of sexual respite from and control over the very women he martyrs as victims of patriarchal oppression.

The Western sexual market has never been more broken than it is now.

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This isn’t freshly trod ground for regular Chateau readers, but it bears repeating for the joy of triggering any wayward feminist cunts and their betasoy lackeys who stumble into this outpost of sexy chauvinism: SCIENCE continues amassing a trove of evidence vindicating the real world observation that women get hot n bothered for fun-lovin’ sexist men.

Yes, AWALT. Even feminists uncontrollably splooge for misogynist pigs.

Quite simply, women can’t trust male feminists to come through like men if times get tough. This basic mistrust of the masculinity of male feminists is toxic to female arousal.

Soyboys who cloyingly parrot feminist vagitudes and profess an abiding belief in the equality, sameness, and interchangeability of the sexes leave women emotionally cold, if not intellectually underwhelmed. And in the business of romance, the hindbrain owns the forebrain.

This is why careerist shrikes have such a hard time finding a man. They too want a man who will “provide and protect”, but their economic, occupational, and social success means that a vanishingly small pool of men can fit their bill. So they go alone to their cat graves, bitter and spiteful and leaning in to the lonesome last, tragicomic victims of their own hypergamy that evolved in an environment and sexual market in which women didn’t waste years of prime fertility pursuing the corner office.

You don’t have to beat women over the head with proclamations of their inferiority to bed them, but it helps to implicitly remind them of their vulnerabilities and dependencies through your unapologetic actions and self-entitled words. The ZFG jerkboy hypnotizes women because everything he does and says is the tacit antithesis of male feminism.

***

Cracker adds,

yeah, the fact that [male feminists] CAN actually get a feminist girl this way is the saddest part

they end up getting the crap girl and she makes his life a living hell from then after

Right, there are two ways a man can “get” a girl: expediently (she settles for him b/c she’s ugly or damaged and he’s in her orbit) or passionately (she swoons for him b/c his masculine energy is irresistible).

Men who “get” feminists expediently suffer for their laziness and cowardice. The bitter spiteful femcunt will unload every bubbling resentment she harbors onto one of these unlucky males, who will wind up in a minefield relationship spending most of the time dodging her incoherent rage and appeasing her increasingly lunatic demands, all for a once-every-six-months perfunctory ball-dribbling into the shallow end of her dry hole.

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Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.

At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.

Oh, she has a family…

A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.

…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.

In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.

Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.

Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life

“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.

I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.

Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,

For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.

and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.

Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.

I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”

The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.

I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.

But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.

I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.

Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.

(Boy, did I make up for that later.)

What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s

The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”

Dating red flags.

At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.

Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.

I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.

Just the hilltop?

When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.

What a headcase.

Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.

Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.

It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”

Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!

I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.

I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.

Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.

Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”

The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.

(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,

What talent does she have?
*spreads legs*
Oh yeah.

I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.

Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?

In my writing,

which sucks, btw.

I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.

She writes like she’s 14 years old.

I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.

Common denominator: all the men are exes.

He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.

Humbleshagging.

In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.

“No, I don’t do double penetration.”

[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”

Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.

Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.

But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.

Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!

Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.

If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.

Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.

Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.

These days I work as a change activist,

poopywork.

mounting summits

I bet.

for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.

How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?

I dated a woman for a while

Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity

But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,

…she says as if it was her choice.

although it was all I talked about in my 20s.

There was more conversational material to work with back then.

That’s pretty one-dimensional.

Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.

Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.

A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.

Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.

Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)

The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.

She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?

If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.

Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”

Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.

EatPraySlut

I was also celibate during my time there.

I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?

Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?

Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was

She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!

— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.

It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.

It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.

Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.

Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.

It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.

Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.

If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.

I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.

Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.

Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.

Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?

This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.

“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.

Blame Carrie?

Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.

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Fapple has decided to be the arbiter of which news their users should read. The company is calling their initiative the “Sanitization Curation”, in tribute to the tech-media alliance’s commitment to not just telling lies, but omitting truths.

Apple’s Vice President of Product Marketing Susan Prescott…

I could stop right there and you would have everything you needed to know about this news story. Runaway credentialism, empowered cat lady, tech company…Heritage America and the principles established and held dear by White men are about to be subverted (yet again). To hammer home the impression, here’s a face shot of Susan Prescott:

Prigiognomy is real.

And now the rest of the story,

Apple’s Vice President of Product Marketing Susan Prescott made an alarming announcement that Apple would be selecting the top news stories that appear in Apple News during the company’s Worldwide Developers Conference on Monday.

According to Prescott, Apple News’ editorial team will be selecting the top news stories of the day for millions of potential readers.

Number of Trump voters on Fapple News’ editorial team: 0

Prescott did not say what the criteria would be for Apple News to consider a source “trusted,” but conservatives will find this announcement particularly alarming.

Last year, Apple announced that it hired to head Apple News Lauren Kern, who previously served as executive editor for the liberal New York Magazine.

Apple’s hiring of Kern raised questions about the Cupertino-based company’s impartiality when it comes to news.

This is what happens when you put women in positions of power: the economy and culture get overrun with hall monitors.

CEO of Fapple, Tim Cook, is a person of bugger, which is essentially the same as Fapple being run by a woman.

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Williamk offers a compelling explanation of the motivating psychology of once-attractive girls who self-mutilate in the name of feminism:

Because they dont want beta orbiters, or random hookups, they want alpha commitment. That’s out of reach for even some genuinely pretty girls, the supply of alpha guys is low.

So they say “well I don’t want that anyway” and chop away their appeal to prove they totally don’t want an alpha commitment. That way it’s “her choice”, and she can stave off enough cognitive dissonance to keep from offing her self.

Pretty much every one of these cases starts with alpha widowhood.

The sour grapes fable is about the fox who can’t pluck delicious grapes hanging out of reach, so the fox pretends that it never really wanted those grapes (“they’re probably sour anyhow”). It’s related to Pointy Elbow Syndrome which afflicts internet dwelling omega males. What Williamk (and myself, in various posts) is saying is that women who have taken up the banner of feminism and uglified themselves are like the fox in the fable, insisting those out-of-reach alpha males are probably losers and misogynists anyhow, and she never really wanted their love and commitment.

Where these feminists differ from the fox is in their willingness to self-abase and self-disfigure in order to convince themselves of their ego assuaging lie. The most effective lies start with self-deception. The fox merely stated his insincere disapproval of the juicy grapes before moving on to nibble on an edible within reach; feminists underscore their insincere disapproval of masculine alpha males by mutilating themselves in body, mind, and/or spirit, and then tacitly declaring that the lack of attention from a dwindling pool of sexy men is how they wanted it. See: Amanjaw Marcuntte, or any “mainstream” feminist mouthpiece.

Which is another way of saying, “How convenient!”.

Understanding this psychology of women who straddle the upper-lower and middle tiers of female SMV, we can predict that Feminist Idiocy will only get worse with the increase in gloryhole faced soyboys. Apropos, vfm#7634 writes,

“the supply of alpha guys is low.”

Women, being the reactive sex, turn femcunt as a reaction to men becoming soybois.

If there were more alphas, you’d think that the average beta would be worse off. Not true. More alphas mean many more attractive women around.

More soyboys => relatively fewer alphas => more bitter romantic losers among women who will find ego saving solace in the embrace of man-hating and femininity-discarding feminism. Every generation deserves the sexes it gets, and if men are weak suckup betasoys, then their women will be haranguing embittered fat feminist harpies. And the feedback loop travels in both directions: the more unfeminine bluehaired fat feminists, the more low T men there are who will abandon the masculine virtues and escape to vidja, pron, and David Fatrellian male feminist toady signaling.

When soyboys abound, plain janes get resentful. Spiteful. In this condition, these tingle-denied middling SMV women on the cusp of cuteness are liable to self-destruct in one final F YOU SOYS to the un-men in their midst. Only charismatic, dominant, entitled, masculine men (including strong fathers) have a hope of walking these women back from the pussyhat brink, but those men are MIA or busy courting hotter, more feminine women.

Piling on, HoneyBear adds,

A similar formulation… they [SMV-destroying feminists] are the female equivalent of MGTOW.

Many girls are probably as disgusted as redpilled men are about the desecration of the postmodern mating market. Their hearts want a prince for life. The self-mutilation is them recoiling in horror from the Jewish slaughterhouse of souls.

They don’t understand the cause and nature of the problem, so they fall prey to diabolical lies; they direct their hate at the wrong target, and lash out in the wrong way.

Aghast at the nature of the beast, men blame women and women blame men. There used to be a system that caged the beast, but somebody unchained it intentionally.

The Id Monster is loosed.

One tried and true method for women to follow if they want to improve their chance to land a winner man willing and eager to commit to them is to avoid accumulating too many cock notches (really, any number greater than one is a red flag), to resist mudsharking, and to give of themselves heart and vagina at a young prime fertility age to a worthy man.

This may mean cutting back on the number of years devoted to mimosa brunches, college degrees, and cat selfies, but it’s a small price to pay for lifelong happiness. You’d think.

I’ve written that the goal of feminism is

…to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.

This goal serves a purpose, and it dovetails with the feminism-as-sour-grapes-rationalization argument, considering that female romantic losers (and mediocre women with a bigger hill to climb to capture a masculine man’s eye) would benefit from rearranging the world so that their every whim, preference, and desire are encouraged and celebrated, while men’s every whim, preference, and desire are circumscribed and shamed. This won’t get those women the alphas they want, but it will provide social cover for their bruised egos.

Similarly, feminism is an equalizing ideology; feminists (though they may not know it) cling to their mistaken beliefs because the point of the ideology isn’t truth, it’s to level the female playing field:

According to Benenson, a common way women deal with the threat represented by a remarkably powerful or beautiful woman is by insisting on standards of equality, uniformity, and sharing for all the women in the group and making these attributes the normative requirements of proper femininity. […]

From early childhood onwards, girls compete using strategies that minimize the risk of retaliation and reduce the strength of other girls. Girls’ competitive strategies include avoiding direct interference with another girl’s goals, disguising competition, competing overtly only from a position of high status in the community, enforcing equality within the female community and socially excluding other girls.

***

So feminists’ promotion of anti slut-shaming and anti fat-shaming and anti ugly-shaming and anti single-mother-shaming etc, is really just an execution of women’s intra-sexual competitive strategies. It’s the bottom third of women versus the top two thirds. Or perhaps it’s the bottom quarter, as if I remember correctly only 20-25% of women identify as feminist.

With knowledge such as this, you can easily reframe any leftist/feminist argument about a war on women as instead a war by the bottom loser women against the top successful women.

It’s the SU’s (Sluts & Uglies) versus the HB’s.

The Sour Grapes and Intrasexual Egalitarianism theories of feminism may at first glance seem unrelated or even contradicting, but it makes sense when you realize the latter theory’s feminist equalizing push for uniformity in standards of female behavior and SMV that evades and eschews judgment (implicitly denying that men have, or should have, standards in female sexual and relationship worth) is a complement to the former theory’s function as cognitive dissonance relief for marginal chicks who lose out in a liberated sexual market. The former — Sour Grapes — is the backup hugbox for their egos when the latter — Female SMV Uniformity — fails sufficiently to convince the HSMV hot babes to relinquish their advantages or to convince society to celebrate every feminist bout of insanity as womanhood perfected.

As society fills up with more soyboys and turns away from enabling the side show circus act known as cunt’th wave feminism (thanks in part to the very special lessons this outpost of love lovingly administers), we can expect to see more borderline chicks, with juuuuust enough latent SMV to help them fantasize they have a shot to land an alpha male, embracing the uglification protocol of Sour Grapes Feminism.

A rapidly disintegrating and unregulated, atomized sexual market that becomes more primal by the day will drive many more disillusioned women on the losing side of the romantic life ledger into self-mutilation, and likewise beta men into self-castration.

In this reading, relations between the sexes have to get much worse before they get better. The Bluehair Apocuntlypse is the necessary nadir of the battle of the sexes, when fraternizing is limited to the few remaining slender feminine women and dominant, charming men, and the rest are mutually repulsed low T soyboys and tatted hair-chopped feminist scolds. That’s rock bottom, and when the West hits it our shared worldview will experience a massive paradigm shift back to accepting and elevating the wisdom of the ancients, when the sexes knew their roles, their weaknesses, and their strengths, and joyfully reveled in their inspiriting sexual polarity…

…instead of denying their polarity to stew angrily and spitefully in an androgynous passionless soulless slop of equalist anhedonia.

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What happens when a once-desirable woman hits all three extinction event Walls — the Wasting Wall, The Wailing Wall, and the Wymyn Wall — at once?

She might look like what’s become of Rose McGowan (NSF male libidos):

Jay in DC comments,

[Rose McGowan] is officially “quitting” acting to become an activist. LOLWHAT? You haven’t been relevant or acted since the late 90s. Dafuq outta here…

[McGowan] with her lawyercunts from the firm Ballcutters, LLC.:

Fugg that pic is frightening. It embodies everything wrong with American women: the manjawed stridency, the lawyercuntery, the man-hating, the phony empowerment bravado, the total annihilation of the last remaining traces of femininity…

If the future is that kind of female, then the future after that future will be this kind of man:

The traditional age-appropriate Wall — the Wasting Wall — hits all women, turning Ladyhawks into Viragovultures with merciless efficiency. But when a woman additionally smashes into the Wailing Wall and the Wymyn Wall at the same moment in her life and with the same impact velocity, as Rose McGowan did under the tutelages of Father Time, Weinstein, and Feminism Prime…..

the carnage is awful to behold.

Look away, for there is nothing to see here but the soul ashes of a woman who stared too long into the abyss.

Reminder: This was Rose McGowan before The Three Walls exacted their tribute from her:

so sad.

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A reflective, honest White lady. Truly a rare find in the wild. (h/t mendo via Daily Stormer)

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