Lookism

The marching malcontents have identified a new injustice they seek to rectify: Lookism.

The galloping injustice of “lookism” has not escaped psychologists, economists, sociologists, and legal scholars. Stanford law professor Deborah L. Rhode’s 2010 book, “The Beauty Bias,” lamented “the injustice of appearance in life and law,” while University of Texas, Austin economist Daniel Hamermesh’s 2011 “Beauty Pays,” recently out in paperback, traced the concrete benefits of attractiveness, including a $230,000 lifetime earnings advantage over the unattractive. […]

Tentatively, experts are beginning to float possible solutions. Some have proposed legal remedies including designating unattractive people as a protected class, creating affirmative action programs for the homely, or compensating disfigured but otherwise healthy people in personal-injury courts. Others have suggested using technology to help fight the bias, through methods like blind interviews that take attraction out of job selection. There’s promising evidence from psychology that good old-fashioned consciousness-raising has a role to play, too.

None of these approaches will be a panacea, and to some aesthetes among us, even trying to counter the bias may sound ridiculous. But the reason to seek fairness for the less glamorous isn’t just social or charitable. Our preference for beautiful people makes us poor judges of qualities that have nothing to do with physical appearance—it means that when we select employees, teachers, protégés, borrowers, and even friends, we may not really be making the best choice. It’s an embarrassing and stubborn truth—and the question is now whether, having established it, social researchers can find a way to help us level the playing field.

Harrison Bergeron, please pick up the courtesy phone.

I have an oh so innocent question for the S-M-R-T SMART leftoid equalists pushing this latest load of reality transmogrification: If, as feminists and their consanguineous misfits (hi, fat acceptors!) are constantly telling everyone, beauty is subjective, socially conditioned, and in the eye of the beholder, how is it possible to make laws that punish beautiful people? If there is no innate biologically-based beauty standard (hi, Naomi Wolf!) that is fairly universally agreed upon in practice (if not in stated principle), then there is no way to know who is ugly and who is beautiful. That job applicant you think looks like a toad could just as well look like a goddess to another interviewer. After all, “you are a big, beautiful woman”. 😆 😆

Maybe the equalists want to gum up the machinery of civilization so badly because they harbor a self-annihilating death wish absent any strong authoritarian figure to dispense the discipline they sorely need? It’s as good an explanation as any. Leftoids are like emo Jesse on a meth bender acting out a “stop me before I hurt myself” tard tragedy.

Try to imagine a world where “lookism” laws were rigorously enforced. Will there be a “Caliper General” of the United States who runs the department assigned to measuring people’s faces for closeness to the golden ratio? Who will be qualified to serve as “Beauty Judge” if beauty is a matter of personal opinion, as liberals and fatties and liberal fatties have been swearing for generations? I can tell you if I were a hot babe I wouldn’t want a jury of jackal-faced feminists sitting in judgment of my pretty face. That’s enough psychotically bitter, self-loathing baggage projected onto me to make me persona non grata at any company afraid of attracting attention from malicious government operatives tasked with creating a better, fairer world.

The opportunity for gaming a lookism system created by liberals chin-deep in their self-contradictions is tremendous. Picture a handsome dude at a job interview or admissions office with a cadre of paid witnesses at his side to testify to his ugliness. “Ma’am, the dude is an ugly mofo. Just look at that jaunty cowlick. Have you seen a more repulsive deformity?”, “I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. And I know from hunkiness!”, “Ugh, I need a vomit bag. Go ahead. Measure my pupil dilation if you don’t believe me.”

Or maybe an ugly woman will be sitting in an EEOC anti-discrimination government office, and she has brought a penile plethysmograph and a male subject to make her case that his limp member proves she is the ugliest of them all, and she deserves recompense for suffering a lifetime under the cold gaze of looks privilege. Or maybe hot chicks start showing up to job interviews wearing potato sacks. (Won’t help. They’ll still look better than well-dressed fugs.) What will happen when master system gamers bring hard data to the table showing that beauty and smarts and charisma correlate, and thus there’s good reason why people naturally favor the beautiful? Or when the obvious logical connection is made that people shouldn’t be punished for an advantage in life they had no control over receiving? (hi, IQ denialists!)

You can see where this will lead: a mountain of lawsuits claiming reverse discrimination based on a misleading, subjective experience of beauty; an anti-anti-lookism argument, however tactically disingenuous, to which liberals who created the anti-lookism laws will have no counter, without transparently betraying their very own cherished beliefs and principles. Never underestimate the scope of the infinite logic traps into which equalists are capable of boxing themselves. You have entered… The Dissonance Zone.

The only way an anti-lookism legal apparatus could conceivably “work” — that is, operate long enough to generate substantial revenues for interested lawyerly middlemen —  without instantly imploding from internal contradictions is if liberals admit that beauty is objective and thus measurable with precision instruments. Without that cave on one of the liberal core tenets — without that craven loss of leftoid face — an anti-lookism bureaucracy won’t last any longer than the first lawsuit filed by an aggrieved hottie which claims beauty is a personal experience that can vary depending on the person observing it. The platitudes and pretty lies that so entrance liberals will ring like a symphony in the Courtroom of Playing Field Leveling, deafening liberals with their own dulcet ear poison. Oh, the irony, it is delicious.

Even were liberals to happily and expediently kick out a major pillar girding their ideology and proclaim in the interest of wallet-fattening litigiousness that beauty is not in the eye of the beholder but is an objective fact of biology and cosmic law, there would still be no way for “anti-lookism” laws to survive their intrinsic parodical nature. For as soon as liberals admit that beauty has a factual, objective basis they will be forced, by circumstance or by subversion, to also admit that other unequal distributions of favorable human traits have a sound, objective biological basis… and then the whole goddamn house of equalist cards comes crashing down in the ensuing rush for biological inequality reparations and anti-discrimination compensation. And once that path is taken, illimitable chaos must follow in its wake. The body politic will be bled dry, or it will seize a rationale for eugenics.

Coerced eugenics, if you think about it, is the logical end game of equalism.

I predict that the advocate of lookism laws in that article is a beautiful woman who feels guilty for catching breaks in life, and wants to atone for her sins. To satisfy my curiosity, I found her photo to see if I’m right.

Curses! Foiled again!

Equalists, I’ll make this very simple for you: Life is unfair. Deal with it.

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Mainstream Feminist Outlets Try To Bury Their Association With Hugo Schwyzer

Hugo Schwyzer, buffoon. Hugo Schwyzer, hypocrite. Hugo Schwyzer, self-proclaimed male feminist leader. Hugo Schwyzer, lover of porn stars, seducer of younger coeds, defiler of the matrimonial vow, potential giver of the herpes simplex Types 1 and 2, self-pegging fap-exposing murder-suicide contemplating part-time homosexing beacon of hope to dumbass feminists and their suck-up allies.

Now we can add one more honorific to Schwyzer’s curriculum vitae: Disgraced, womanly pity whore.

And who, besides Schwyzer himself, helped bring Schwyzer to the depths of the most public of public humiliations? Who was the first to mock his phoniness, ridicule his idiotic male feminist musings, turn him over on the spit for the world to poke with pointed sticks, implicate his supporters and advocates for hitching their fortunes to his ass-kissing self-aggrandizing lies?

Who, indeed.

Schwyster knows all this, too, which makes him a phonyfuck of the highest caliber. The guy spent his early years as a professor cashing in his higher status for the pleasure of fucking his 18-21 year old students. Maybe he is wracked with guilt, and his current ultrafeminist stance is his form of atonement. Or maybe (and more likely, in my view) his hypocritical feminist sycophancy is a ruse to get in the panties of the deluded naifs who take his classes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The difference between me and a lickspittle errand boy like Schwyster is that I don’t go around claiming there’s something psychologically wrong with men for desiring the hot bods and feminine charms of young women. I don’t blame a guy like Schwyster for wanting to stick his dick in his peak fertility students, nor do I stroke feminist egos to earn PC brownie points and page views.

If you want to know who got under Hugo’s skin the most, you need only see which of his tormenters goes missing by name from his meltdown Twitter feed and from his confessionals to less sadistic bloggers than CH.

The reason Hugo doesn’t want to credit the source of his everlasting torment is because CH stuck the shiv in his mottled hide hard and deep, and it’s the twist that still pains him. Unlike many more charitable judgers of Hugo Schwyzer, I feel no pity toward him, nor any incipient feeling of charity. He is a liar, a phonyfuck, a charlatan, and a male attention whore with flapping labia where his mouth should be. He is an enabler of the worst of society, a useful tool conveying the rotten propaganda of assorted losers and misfits and degenerates, singing their off-key tune while he happily cashed in his exploitative scheming for the very nubile rewards his mass of followers tune in to hear him rail against. He is utterly repellent, a lizard in human clothing. I hope that he slices lengthwise, and should he do so, I will dance a happy snoopy dance the likes of which the dark side of the internet has never seen.

But there is a bigger story here than Hugo’s personal twilight, and that is the quickness with which mainstream, widely read feminist media outlets are attempting to bury and conveniently forget their association with Schwyzer. Hugo was, for a long time, a well-regarded paid contributor to such popular feminist and feminism-favoring organs as Jezebel, BlogHer, xojane, The Atlantic, and The Good Men Project. As Chuck noted,

But a few outlets like The Good Men Project, Jezebel, and The Atlantic took a chance on the history and gender studies professor from Pasadena City College who established himself as a male pop feminist by kissing the right asses and having sex with the right people.  Those outlets have avoided addressing their relationship with Hugo.  Jezebel’s editor Jessica Coen wrote a slippery post which was clearly about her former writer, but she wasn’t willing to actually mention Hugo by name. The post was evasive, and many commenters at the site called Coen out for it since Jezebel generally has a confrontational style.  I pitched my conversations with Hugo to The Atlantic as a tale of how two adversaries had spoken about his troubles.  Maybe my low Klout score kept the editor there from accepting the pitch.  And I didn’t go to The Good Men Project with a piece because they’re boring.  Regardless, all of those outlets saw the same person before them that me and many other critics of feminism saw, but they hosted Hugo for years.  Behold the power of telling people what they want to hear.

Funny how that works. You tell an ego-parched fug feminist what she wants to hear, and she opens her legs to your cock and her internet real estate to your cockamamie drivel, believing… oh, so very believing!… .that the male feminist lunacy dripping like honey into her ear palate was the Word of Goddess Herself. Hugo had a niche, and his sneaky fucker strategy netted him the adulation and the blowjobs he craved. Such a niche is not without its merits, but do keep in mind that being a community college professor to dimwits, however lowly in the academia hierarchy, is the lube that greases the coed skids. Playing the male feminist for fun and profit is not likely to work for the man who doesn’t have that hypergamously-grooved prof podium from which to tingle the tangles of thick-bushed queer gender studies acolytes. I don’t fault Hugo for pursuing this snatch-accumulating strategy. But I do shit in his lying face, and I do shit again in the faces of those who took his lies for truth.

So this is a glorious time to be an anti-male feminist. The wails and the rending of pit-stained t-shirts of the manboobs and the scalzied and the Dumb Hams of the world are the dulcet melodies of soaring symphonies, punctuated by the thunderous cymbal crash of lies being smashed. Ahhh, indeed.

But Hugo is an impenetrable pathological narcissist. No amount of soul shivving, however poison-tipped or torturously twisted to tickle vitals, will bring him the event horizon pain he so richly deserves. A shell entity who lives and breathes publicity, bad or good, will only welcome the psy knife that surgically pries his id. No, Hugo will only feel pain, real pain, when something else, something much more threatening to his ego survival, is presented to him. And that something else is Ostracism Total.

The targets of tender CH ministrations, then, are Hugo’s benefactors as much as Hugo himself. Jizzebel, The Atlantic, Good Men Project… you were duped, but only because you wanted to be duped. You wanted to believe in equalist, man-hating lies that caressed your stunted, shriveled, gimpy souls. You bent over and received the tepid diseased injection of a broken freak who knew how to locate and lick your ascended testes. Losers of a feather…

Jizzebel et al., you are served notice. I have you and your lackeys in my sights, and your filth that spews from the fountain of filth which is your whole stillborn existence is the effluvium I will shove back down your throats until you choke on it and recede from public discourse to clear the shit from your veins. The days when you can hire gutter liars like Hugo Schwyzer, and wallow in his fetid stink free of consequence, are over. Your only hope is to drive the Schwyzerian rats from your manicured harridan shelters, so that your circle diddles may continue under the radar of stone cold soul shivvers like yours truly with an eye and a scalpel for finding and dissecting egoistic neediness.

Then, when you — Jizzebel and the rest of the twisted sisters — have cast Hugo and his fellow castrati to the icy wastelands, will the real howls of pain fill the air to the delight of CH guardians of truth and beauty. For nothing will torment the likes of Hugo Schwyzer more profoundly than the torment of solitude.

Hugo, I know you’re reading this. If my words will bring any goodness and light to this world, your days as a lying sack of shit media token shilling for other lying sacks of shit are over. No one will call you, not even your former feminist allies. No one will publish you. No one will admire cross-eyed your throbbing intellect. No one will talk of you. No one will even think of you. When that day comes, and the barrel of the pistol is nestled in your mouth, lazing metallically on your tongue as your thinning, middle-aged lips glide over the shaft like long-ago unshaven feminist coed lovers used to do to your anti-feminist, patriarchal boner, no one, not even your family, will give a shit.

And that will be the lonely solitary pain from which you can’t escape or repurpose to your craven desires. In that moment, that sweet final moment of true and real reflection just before self-deliverance, you will think of my words, and my reminder that you had a choice to turn yourself against the mountain of lies you willingly embraced as your totem and your fate and your salvation. Sweet dreams, eternal darkness.

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Another Chick And The Wall

Over at Jizzebel, internet archipelago of misfit romantic rejects, a woman breaks the ogress omertá and bares her shiv-scarred soul for the world to leer at with morbid fascination. In a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark, ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood.

You will realize that getting older is not only NOT as terrible as you thought, but that it actually it confers untold advantages you couldn’t have even imagined when you were busy running around doing cartwheels staying up all night wearing miniskirts.

Ugly truth time: Old age is a horror show. The mind fogs, the body rots, the sex organs wither, the energy level plummets. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to avoid really shitty decay accelerants like heart disease or cancer. What about these facts of the toll of aging is not terrible? Old people have remarked to me that the only upside to their loss of youth was a growing sense of serenity, aka calm resignation to a total lack of power to do anything about one’s wretched deterioration. Here’s an easy question for platitude pusher Tracy Moore that will highlight the bankruptcy of her feminist feels: How many 80 year old women would instantly and painlessly shave 60 years of aging off their bodies with a snap of the finger if they could? My bet: A lot. About the same number as the number of parents-to-be who would instantly and painlessly cure a gay germ infection that was discovered in mommy’s fetus. (The following ‘heh’ directed at Andrew “Rawmuscleglutes” Sullivan:

Heh.)

Moore continues her psyche triage by quoting an advice seeker from an “Ask Polly” column:

“And so, the prospect of losing [my looks]—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread. I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop [the aging process]. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over. I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears.”

The fear of old people is real, because, of course, they aren’t a separate species, but a mirror of our future gnarly selves. This woman is expressing a real fear based on a real understanding about how the world, and the mating market, work, even if her worry borders on obsessively unhealthy. The correct advice to give her is not to impugn her character or chide her for her lack of faith in feminist boilerplate credentialism, but to tell her to stop worrying so much about something she has no control over and to get out and enjoy her boner-inspiring, beta-manipulating youth n beauty while she has it, because it is good. And then perhaps to recognize that, yes, the day will come, sooner rather than later, that her looks will be gone, and she should prepare for this eventuality by limiting her time on the cock carousel and extracting commitment from a worthy man before her carriage turns into a fatass pumpkin. A few tips about age-slowing eating and lifestyle habits wouldn’t hurt, either.

Tracy Moore, as is the wont of members of her subterranean sisterhood, imparts a distinctly uninspired take that vibrates with barely-concealed acknowledgement of biomechanical reality:

Obviously, we could make a lot of assumptions about where this advice-seeker has gone wrong — namely by being too caught up in her own appearance and the joy it brings her and others. But we would do better to remind ourselves of the double-edged sword beauty brings to those who posses it: great rewards, an often over-reliance on its door-opening magical powers to the exclusion of cultivating the self, an expiration date, being taken less seriously, etc.

An “expiration date”! A term so closely aligned with Chateau Heartiste that suspicions are aroused Moore is a secret reader.

Nevertheless, Moore’s laundry list of youthnbeauty downsides are feelgood pablum: There is not only no laboratory evidence that beautiful women don’t “cultivate the self” or that they are “taken less seriously”, there is hardly any real world evidence of these nostrums either. If anything, beautiful women are taken *too* seriously, and get a leg up in just about every aspect of life by obsequious men… until they hit the wall. And since beauty and IQ correlate, there is a better than random chance that a beautiful girl will be a more interesting personality than will be an ugly girl.

Sometimes the Thing You Notice About Aging Is Oddly Comforting

Even when these moments come — I can’t get drunk like I used to; What’s that popping sound in my hip every time I stand up? Must use more moisturizer — rather than feel bad, I actually feel good, good that I am alive and this age and still totally healthy, in spite of how much I wasted my youth, or rather, got wasted while young. Think about it: Your body says fuck you to gravity most days of its existence. Pretty amazing.

It’s only “oddly” comforting because Moore understands, past the confines of her well-manicured ego, that aging is not a comfort show at all. Yes, pretty amazing. You keep telling yourself that Tracy, because those wasted years not finding a beta husband to tenderly stroke your anvil mandible while you still had a semblance of sexual marketability are never coming back. May as well ease the pain with a stirring morning motivational that exults in your achievement of breathing air for another day.

Yes, There’s Regret, But Not Like You Think

Once I remember talking with a friend when we were in our late 20s, and she remarked casually that she wished she’d worn more cute clothes/risqué stuff when she was younger and had a “better body,” and I agreed reflexively, like, yeah, of course, who doesn’t. But then I realized that in order to have done that, I would have had to have been a completely different person. I have never really been the type of person to dress provocatively at any age.

Just like a feminist to wish she had been sluttier when she was younger. Hey Try-Hard, I got news for ya… younger women can wear a friggin potato sack and still look more bangable than a 40 year old in a cocktail dress.

What crazy person would trade that [life experience] for a slightly higher set of boobs?

False choice fallacy. But this is feminist-land, where logical fallacies are coin of the realm.

And if you so happen now be the sort of person who wants to wear a miniskirt, wear a fucking miniskirt and shut the fuck up about it!

This is not recommended for cougars and fatties, or does Moore believe that women should be exempt from feeling bad about any visual appraisals that aren’t sufficiently and simultaneously respectful and lascivious?

The Thing You Really Notice is How Little You Care

Sorry, I know it’s a bumper sticker at this point, but the hands-down, best motherfucking juice that comes from being older is how much better you know yourself, and what’s more, you like this person you’ve gotten to know, even when you accept her worst flaws. This is more liberating than all the fresh-faced ignorant bliss in the world.

You know what else would qualify as “liberating”? Admitting to yourself that you look shittier now than you did ten years ago. And then adjusting your man-sights accordingly.

Trying to appreciate where you are right now is the big triumph of life.

Feminism: The new tard olympics.

Knowing that wherever you are right now is where you are, and looking for the best thing in that, with an eye on how to keep it going toward wherever you want to be, is the point.

Has a sentence more devoid of substance and more burdened with vapid nonsense ever been written by a woman? It reads like a post-modern architectural shoebox of stacking “right now is where is right is now is point is where” clauses.

Your Looks Never Actually Bail

If so, where do they go? In the crawl space at your last apartment? Is there a dumpster in the sky where all the young, beautiful faces go, like some weirder, more mutant version of the movie Face Off? Duh, you always look like you! Because you are you! And you are an evolving thing, a thing that ages!

So Tracy, is the fact that this concluding paragraph of yours contradicts just about every stated and implied premise you made earlier in your article fill you with shame in your chosen career? Jes askin’.

So if you are young and terrified and reading this right now, I say, please, enjoy the shit out of what you’ve got, and spend the rest of your time building an exquisite bridge to the next phase of your life, so that you can enjoy the shit out of that, too. That is the secret to sheer magnetism, no matter how old you are.

Actually, men will be a lot less tolerant of your “sheer magnetism” when you’re old and ugly. But your fat feminist snarky BFFs will continue to lap up your runny shit, so there’s that.

Why else can we not stop drooling over Helen Mirren?

Newsflash: No one is drooling over Helen Mirren but deluded feminists fearing a crash impact with the wall, and their suck-up orbiter manboobs who secretly want to prematurely dribble a tepid spurt of their feeb seed all over your jungle bush.

PS: The following is *not* a valid example of an older woman having sexual market options:

PPS: One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.

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Playing Mind Games With Feminists

Reader “A G” gleefully proposes a psychological torture mechanism to send feminists writhing in paroxysms of hamster-rending pain.

How to destroy a Cathedral feminist’s brain with two simple questions:

1. Doesn’t it suck that racist white people, any time they see a black person walking the streets late at night, automatically fear that person because they think black people are more likely to be thugs?  Obvious manifestation of white privilege.

2. Doesn’t it suck that sexist women, any time they see a man walking the streets late at night, automatically fear that person because they think men are more likely to be rapists?  Obvious manifestation of female privilege.

Inspired by a facebook friend who literally wrote a post stating that white privilege is the reason white people often fear black people.

Masterful bait and switch. They’ll never see it coming.

On a more general note, AG illustrates one attack strategy that is effective against whiny, sophistic leftoids making appeals to empty emotion. The leftoid, as a species within which the feminist is a subspecie, has more of her ego invested in her ideology. It is her religion. This is why when leftoids and non-leftoids get in political arguments, it’s typically the non-leftoid making diplomatic half-apologies and concessions. The non-leftoid does not feel as strong an ego attachment to his ideology, because he assesses his value more broadly. The result of this personality difference is an arena of leftoids constantly on the attack, getting their way like children throwing tantrums under the weary authority of amiable parents.

A mocking shiv jab will hurt the leftoid feminist, but it will also cause her to retreat into a shell of platitudinal self-protection, and to ensconce herself in the group hug of trite-minded allies. Better is to flatter the feminist’s self-conception, and when her guard is down to rain a shivstorm of hell upon her vulnerable id. You can stab all day at the hardened ego, but a single killing blow to the id laid bare will send even the most obnoxious femcunts like Amanjaw Marcuntte slinking to dark bedrooms in silent shame and consideration of alternative life paths.

To defeat the leftoid, use their power against them. Shiv on, shiv off.

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The Bottom Of America Found

After searching desolate psychological topography for years, a team of Chateau adventurers believe they have found the very bottom of America.

Discrimination against fat strippers? Wow, just wow. I don’t even. I stopped reading at…

The inevitable logic of misfit liberals’ exaggerated sensitivity to harm and faaaaaiiiirness is that anything that hurts someone’s feelings somewhere, justified or not, and as long as that someone who hurts isn’t the ur-oppressor white male, will come to be seen as discrimination requiring legal correctives. And so we find ourselves wading through the rectal effluvium of America confronting smelly wildebeasts like the thing above LOUDLY and PROUDLY proclaiming that fat strippers who earn less money, or who don’t get sufficient stage time from their (blind) club managers, are being discriminated against by the patriarchy, or by men, or by whatever boogeyman term of fart happens to have lodged itself in their donut-drenched and -holed brains.

Never once will it occur to these rotund retards that fat strippers earn less because men don’t like to look at fatsos, and especially not at naked fatsos. If it does occur to them, they tax themselves mentally trying to locate and broadcast implausible alternatives to explain away their wretched public reception that absolves them of any personal responsibility for their loser lives.

This is what happens when the parasites, dweebs, cranks, monsters, degenerates and headcases get ahold of the narrative. They push and push until farcical “anti-discrimination” policies that not too long ago would have seemed unimaginable to sane people become the law of the land. Case in point: It’s now illegal to refuse to grant job interviews to ex-cons.

Progressivism isn’t about progress; it’s about progressive rationalization of increasingly stupid ideas. The whirlpool of useless human debris multiplies on the one end while CIA-funded orc-world psychopaths multiply and invade on the other. No wonder normal people who still trust their common sense and their powers of observation feel as if a dark force is gripping them by the throat.

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An Alpha Daddy’s Letter To His Little Girl (About Her Future Husband)

Dear Cutie-Pie (I call you this pet name because I subconsciously know how important your cuteness will eventually be to your future reproductive and marital success),

Recently, your mother and I were searching for an answer on the government spy agency known as Google. Halfway through entering the question, GovGoog returned a list of the most popular searches in the world. Minutes later, my tax return was flagged for auditing. Perched at the top of the search list was “How to keep him interested.”

It amused me. I scanned several of the countless articles about how to be sexy and sexual, when to bring him a beer versus a sandwich, and the ways to make him feel smart and superior.

And I got a knowing look.

Little One, it is, has always been, and always will be your job to “keep him interested.” Just at it will be your future husband’s job to keep you interested. Everyone knows this is true, despite loser mafia protestations to the contrary, and that’s why this search result, the culmination of millions of user search entries, is the first one returned.

Little One, your only task is to know deeply in your soul — in that unshakeable place that isn’t indoctrinated into feminism and resentment and mass media bromides — that you are judged for your worth. (If you can remember that everyone else is judged for their worth also, the battle of your happiness in life will be mostly won. But that is a letter for another day.)

If you can assess your worth in this way, you will be attractive in the most important sense of the word: you will work hard to stay fit and sexy and feminine and attract a boy who is both capable of self-assured masculinity and who wants to spend his one life not secretly despising you for giving up on him and disrespecting his normal, natural desires as a man.

Little One, I want to tell you about the man who doesn’t need to be kept interested, because he knows you’ve given up trying to be interesting:

I don’t care if he puts his elbows on the dinner table — because it’s worse when he puts his eyes on the way your nose scrunches like a walrus sniffing rotten fish in the air when you smile, and starts to hate you. And then can’t stop hating you.

I don’t care if he can’t play a bit of golf with me — because his short game suffers when he’s pissed off his children are ingrates trained by your passive-aggressive style of parenting to despise him and he’s not quite sure one of them is his. Sadly, his daughter is taking after you lengthwise and widthwise and you’re doing nothing to stop it because GRRLPOWER and PATRIARCHY.

I don’t care if he doesn’t follow his wallet — because the money just goes to buy you bon bons and cheesy poofs.

I don’t care if he is strong — because if he were strong he might trade you in for a woman who’s still interested in maintaining an hourglass figure and a sweet heart.

I couldn’t care less how he votes — because the sitting White House occupant is not the one who has to wake up every morning and see your flabby carcass rolling over to refuel with a strategically placed bowl of chips on the nightstand first thing in the morning.

I don’t care about the color of his skin — because your shelf butt is so stupendously grotesque my objections will only fall on deaf ears when you discover your own men don’t want to paint a canvas of your lives with brushstrokes of patience, and sacrifice, and vulnerability, and tenderness.

I don’t care if he was raised in this religion or that religion or militant Islam — as long as he was raised to value the sacred and to know every moment of life, and every moment of life with you, is deeply sacred assuming you wear the hijab and cover your bloated porcine face.

In the end, Little One, if you stumble across a man like that and he and I have nothing else in common, we will have the most important thing in common:

Your physical and temperamental attractiveness.

Because in the end, Little One, the things you should have to do to “keep him interested” are to be sexually experimental, fall within a 17 to 23 BMI and a 0.65 to 0.75 WHR, and treat him like the king he truly, deeply wants to be for you in your lives together.

Only then will you and he be happy and loving and patient and vulnerable and tender with each other.

Your eternally interested man (no creepy incest),

Daddy

***

This post is, of course, dedicated to my daughter, my Cutie-Pie. But I also want to dedicate it beyond her.

I wrote it for my wife, who has courageously held on to her slender figure and has always held me accountable to being that kind of “man” that women love — i.e., a man who doesn’t apologize for his desire.

I wrote it for every grown woman I have met inside and outside of my therapy office — the women who have never known this voice of a Strong Father.

And I wrote it for the generation of boys-becoming-manboobs who need to be reminded of what is really important — my little girl finding a loving, lifelong, alpha male companion who demands the best of her is dependent upon at least one of you figuring this out. I’m praying for you. No, seriously, I’m praying. Don’t let me down. I don’t want little manbooblets jerking off into furry costumes or little cuntlets blowing my savings on useless grad school Gay Studies degrees and bowing out at age 38 with an apartment full of cats and a womb drier than Death Valley (apropos).

***

This article has been featured on Huffington Post. CH is going mainstream!

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The Feminist Utopia Defined

A feminist utopia is a million beta males under the heel of an alpha male state, toiling for the pleasure of fat women.

You scoff, “Surely you exaggerate, CH!”

GLPiggy has a post about men paying through the nose for Obamacare, while women enjoy luxurious savings.

A simple resource theft and redistribution from men to women. A theft, because the women exchange no sex for the reward of the men’s resources, which is the natural system of male-female barter that feminists and equalists wish to subvert and reconstitute for the benefit of women alone.

Exaggeration?

Look around you, what do you see? Obese women everywhere. Fat acceptance. Beta males assembly lined through the family court soul chipper while alpha male thugs sire and skedaddle. Feminist quackery infecting every organ of propaganda, learning, and bureaucracy. Agitation for increased wealth transfer from men to women. Rationalization of the gravest female sins, censure of the most insignificant male peccadilloes. Glorification of unfettered female sexuality, disparagement of the faintest show of male sexuality.

This is the world you’re inheriting. A world where all civilizing constraints on female sexuality are released, all restrictions that can be imposed on male sexuality are realized, all monies that can be inventoried and transferred from men to single moms are confiscated.

A world inching closer, day by day, to a feminist utopia.

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