What A World Ruled By Feminists Would Look Like

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Ego-assuaging sanitization.

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Hookup Men Vs “For-Real” Men

Ah, the knee-slapping never ends when two feminist spinsters on a fast track to wall collision gab about their dating exploits and using men for either fun or profit. Naturally, their window for “using” men in any fashion is rapidly closing in lockstep with the degree of their drooping flesh, so any gchats that conspire bewteen these pitiful specimens often provide hours of voyeuristic entertainment watching what amounts to this:

Is anyone else down for a good, old-fashioned soul flaying? I know I am!

Chatting About Hookups and “For-Real” Dates with Sex Writer Tracy Clark-Flory

By Amanjaw Marcuntte

After reading Tracy Clark-Flory’s Salon piece from Saturday extolling the glories of traditional courtship, I knew I had to talk with her in more depth.

Clark-Flory’s (never trust a woman with a hyphenated name) swan song to her sexy and vital youth is basically an admission against interest that her high flying, alpha cock carouseling 20s are over and now that her sexual market options are dwindling she has to settle for boring dates with beta herbs who promise they will stick around like office fixtures instead of bolt while she’s coming off a multiple orgasm. Naturally, she hamsters this as a paean to the glories of “traditional courtship”. What’s the scientific term for this cognitive function? Oh yeah… making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Tracy, who has been writing about sex and relationships for years, often in defense of the casual hookup, expressed a more nuanced view of the entire situation,

“nuanced” = deluded.

explaining how her increased interest in taking-it-slow, more formalized dating

“increased interest” = panic.

doesn’t, in any way, mean that she thinks that a past of more casual hooking up was the wrong choice.

The odds of divorce for a woman go way up the more partners with whom she has premaritally casually hooked up. Clark-Flory needs to think with more clarity.

Her take really cuts to the heart of what so many pro-sex feminist commentators have been trying to say for years about dating and sex, so I grabbed her on Gchat yesterday to talk more about it.

What follows is a beautiful digital mutual clit diddling wherein two mangy cougars assert they can have their cake and eat it too.

Amanda: I really liked your piece on going on a for-real date.

Tracy: This was literally my first for-real date ever.

What a catch! You know men — or should I say, desirable men with options — just love throwing tons of money and time and sexless dates at has-beens who spent their prime pussy years hooking up for free with men who agreed with them that dates were an unnecessary nuisance.

Tracy: Well, I should be clear: I’ve online dated. I’ve gone on dates. But most often they’re presented super casually. Like, hey, “Let’s hang out.” This was the first time someone clearly said to me: I want to take you out on a date, and here is the plan. Typically, whether it’s with “hang out” dates or hookups, it’s very low-investment—emotionally, financially, you name it.

A man will invest only as much as is required to get in a woman’s pants. Clark was obviously a pump and dump stock in her 20s who’s now trading for pennies but acting like a tech IPO. You know who invests in loser companies? Suckers.

Tracy: Right. I think it’s great that people can get to know each other casually. Grab a burrito and a beer! Make out at the bar! But it’s also nice to not feel totally stuck with diminished romantic expectations—as in, I can’t expect more than a taqueria “hangout” arranged last-minute via text message.

You should have thought of the danger of diminished romantic expectations while you still had the goods to entice worthy buyers. PS Having a history of being a big fat slut is not exactly an advertisement that you’re marriage material.

Amanda: That’s something I’ve noticed that a lot of friends complain about since I’ve moved to NYC: They think a lot of guys are just a little too eager to keep it casual. Which makes me wonder if it’s just that now that I’m in my 30s, my friends are developing higher expectations, or if it’s a geographic thing, where men in Texas, where I used to live, were more serious from the get-go?

No, it’s just that now that your female friends are in their 30s, and looking even more like fuzzy Chinese Crested versions of Samantha, they’re desperate to get hitched before the god of biomechanics cruelly escorts them to spinsterland, where cats compete with noodly beta males for their attention and the men they really want peer around them like they’re annoying houseplants obstructing the view of hotter younger tighter women.

Although it is a refreshing change of pace to see cathedral mascot Amanjaw give redneck Texas men a shout out for their chivalric wooing. I guess SWPL manboobs are finally grinding on her? (Double entendre intended.)

Tracy: I think both are probably very real factors! For me, at least, “hookups” have been a great way of getting to know myself, getting to know other people and getting to know what I want, romantically and sexually.

Hilariously self-serving cliché. How many penises does she have to straddle to get to know herself? Does the penis imbue some sort of special “consciousness raising” enlightenment once it has parted the labia? Should high school guidance counselors tell graduating girls to hop on a cock for career advice? I bet Clark has no trouble, being a member in good standing of the feminist cooperative, explaining to her acolytes that women require penetration by erect penises to discover the strong goddess inside them.

Now, personally, I think that a good rogering does help clear a woman’s head, but I’m not sure feminists would be happy to hear that from me.

But as I’ve gotten older—how I hate that phrase—I’ve wanted a broader spectrum of romantic scripts. And that’s when the hookup/low-commitment default became frustrating.

“broader spectrum” = loosened standards. “romantic scripts” = hiding her slutty compulsions. “hookup/low-commitment default” = couldn’t get a high value guy to stick around. “frustrating” = pumped and dumped.

Amanda: I think that’s what I really liked—your high regard for diversity.

Gabba gabba hey.

It’s not that hookups are bad, you said, but that they seem mandatory.

When all you have is a lack of options, the world looks like a mandate.

Why do you think it got to that point?

Gee, I dunno… age, attitude, obliviousness?

Tracy: I can at least speak to my own experience: I think I gravitated toward casual hookups during a time when I wasn’t quite ready for more serious commitment. I needed some time to play and experiment.

It’s all fun and games until no one wants to play with you anymore.

I think many people feel that way in their 20s.

There’s a reason why, historically, women were encouraged to get married before they hit 30. People used to be wise to the fact that women can easily forget how little time is on their side.

Amanda: That’s something that really was brought home in Hanna Rosin’s Atlantic piece about hooking up. She spoke to researchers that said that women were driving the culture as much as men, in no small part because, frankly, boyfriends can get in the way of other goals like getting your career underway.

Higamous hogamous
man is polygamous
hogamous higamous
woman is oblivious.

Amanda: A lot of people still buy the line that it’s something that men impose on women, that men are taking advantage of women’s, uh, “easiness”.

Well, men won’t exactly look a gift whore in the mouth.

That always bothered me, because there was never really a clear line for me between how quickly you slept with someone and whether or not it turned into wuv.

Here’s a clear line for ya: The hotter you are, the more quickly it will turn into wuv for the man, the other party involved in the interaction.

Amanda: Your point was really satisfying,

“Thank you, I needed that.”
– Ego

which is that what we really need is the ability to diversify: hook up if we want, go slow if we want, just do a bunch of different stuff depending on where we’re at.

Feminists, and women more generally, hate the idea of judgment and of consequences for their actions. They want to slut it up, take it slow, hook up, hang out, drag it out, do the woo, and try a bunch of different stuff without the judgment of men or other women cramping their uteri, and without worrying about the consequences which might ensue as a result of their panoply of choices. This is what is known in the literature as a fantasyland: a wonderful place in the puffy white clouds where human nature doesn’t exist and actions don’t cause reactions, except those reactions that the feminist dearly desires, which desire is subject to change at any given moment depending on the feminist’s whim.

But reality, so ugly in its clunking machinery, has a different plan for such utopian fruitcakes. Women *will* gossip unfavorably about sluts because those sluts represent a mating threat to their interests. Men *will* push for sex faster, and avoid commitment more studiously, with women they perceive as slutty. Sluts really *do* have tells that experienced men can clue in on. Cockteasers really *do* risk losing alpha males if they drag out the waiting period for sex too long. Aging, unfeminine spinsters with hairy chins and cheese grater attitudes really *will* have to settle for less desirable men than they could have gotten when they were younger, better looking and more docile. And hamsters really *will* spin their wheels more feverishly the higher the pile of delusional self-medicating lies grows.

I think that sort of thing causes a lot of men anxiety, though. I’ve noticed a lot of men in online spaces clamoring for a script.

Nah, that’s just you noticing that men are noticing your stupidity.

Tracy: Yes! There’s anxiety now about falling back on the more traditional dating script (which is not an entirely bad thing, mind you).

Can you blame these men? I’d be anxious too, if I had to traditionally (i.e., sexlessly) date a woman I knew gave it away for free in the past. And maybe present.

I think it feels too desperate, too eager to many young men. And, of course, intimacy and vulnerability have always been absolutely terrifying.

Why do feminists assert nonsense that intimacy is terrifying to men? Answer: it’s a female-friendly response that explains in elaborate mental calligraphy why they can’t keep a man around for more than a few ruttings, conveniently sidestepping the role that their physical unattractiveness might play.

Men are terrified of large, charging predators, like bears or lions or drunk fat chicks. They are not terrified of showering your overworked vagina with their warm seed. Get some perspective, will ya?

Amanda: Did you go on a second date with flowers guy who wanted to do nothing more but make out on the first date? Do you mind my asking? (I’ve been in a relationship for over six years now, so other people’s stories are my entertainment.)

The parameters of her… relationship… must be unique. Try to imagine the epic manboob who would have to settle for Amanjaw for six years, and then try to picture how long a normal man, such as yourself, would be willing to listen to her insane yapping.

Tracy: Actually, we’ve gone on something like five dates in a little over a week!

Lessee… guy wants to do nothing but make out on the first date. Clark dismisses his rapist effrontery by going on five more dates with him in the span of a single week. The femborg will be disappointed to hear this.

Tracy: Yes! It’s incredibly refreshing. And a large part of it is that I’m ready for that for the first time in my life, you know?

We know, Tracy, we know. You’re ready… because you have to be ready. That door won’t stay open forever.

It’s not like I’ve been yearning for that this whole time and have only now found a guy willing to give it to me.

Funny how you suddenly yearn for the self-abdicating loving lovingness of a desperate beta willing to lap your weirdo feminist shit when your expiration date is coming into focus.

Amanda: LOL yeah, that strikes me as an incredibly critical point.

Strike while the ego is exposed.

But that really leads to the question I know a bunch of men are asking themselves, which is how do you know what script a woman is interested in?

You misspelled “how do you know what script a hot woman is interested in?”

How do you know if you should keep it light or show up with flowers and a request that you take it slow?

False dichotomy. A man can keep it heavy and fast, too. In fact, that’s the best way to get a woman into bed, if you’re needing a script that has a high success rate.

Worst script: Pre-sex flowers. Never do that, at least not with women who still have more than a few eggs left in the chamber.

Tracy: Well, see, I think timing is so much of it. It really isn’t something that can be faked.

Oh rilly? I’m pretty sure in the history of the world there were more than a few men who successfully faked long-term romantic intentions to get speedy sex.

You can only do what you’re ready to do.

Bromide pie to the face.

If you want to bring a woman flowers, do it.

Hey, you can do anything you want, but that doesn’t mean it’s an advantageous course of action.

If you want to have casual flings, do that.

What if Clark’s flower guy decides during week number two he wants a casual fling?

Eventually you’ll find a lady who wants the same thing.

A lady now! How polite of you, madam. Will a Furry who likes to masturbate into soft bunny costume velour eventually find a lady who wants the same thing? What about a Bronie? A street flasher? A serial killer?

Oops, scratch that last one.

Amanda: That’s something I think gets lost in the overflow of dating advice out there, which is that it really is something you can figure out for yourself.

Then why the hell are you flapping your gums? And more relevantly, why the hell do media outlets continue giving shell entities like yourself a publishing platform? Mysteries of the universe.

Allow me to cut a serrated swath through this post-gender, social constructivist swamp muck. Amanjaw Marcuntte and her ilk absolutely hate men in the abstract and loathe unrestricted male desire. They work tirelessly for a world, however ultimately fruitless the endeavor, where female sexuality is free to roam wild and unjudgeable and male sexuality is straitjacketed, regulated, restricted, demonized, ridiculed and made obedient through law or eunuch alliance to female, particularly feminist, caprice. This is modern, critical theory feminism in a desiccated ovum. It’s a farce, but the bigger joke is that media organs happily provide advocates of this farce a forum to dazzle their awomen choruses.

Her’s a little slice of truth… just a little mind you, enough to qualify as hope and change but not so much to entice pointing and sputtering… for the Slate and Salon crowds and the Clark-Flory-Hamster-Hi-I’m-A-Useless-Self-Gratifying-Hyphen contingent:

There is no difference between hookup men and “for-real” men. The men you skanky, aging broads want “for real” are the hookup men who weren’t interested in the same thing you wanted back when you had more to offer. So you dropped your standards and unilaterally declared the more pliable men willing to play by your newly-discovered “traditional cougar courtship” rules the “for-real” men you claim you always desired.

That hatetalk is drawn from real world observation. Mine, and the collected wisdom of millions of men like me. Now, if you don’t like common sense derived from real world observation, then you can always turn to science, which has a funny habit of frequently confirming what we can all see with our lying eyes, and of debunking cherished feminist narratives.

“Under the hormonal influence of ovulation, women delude themselves into thinking that the sexy bad boys will become devoted partners and better dads,” Durante said. “When looking at the sexy cad through ovulation goggles, Mr. Wrong looked exactly like Mr. Right.” […]

“When asked about what kind of father the sexy bad boy would make if he were to have children with another woman, women were quick to point out the bad boy’s shortcomings,” said Durante. “But when it came to their own child, ovulating women believed that the charismatic and adventurous cad would be a great father to their kids.”

“While this psychological distortion could be setting some women up to choose partners who are better suited to be short-term mates, missing a mating opportunity with a sexy cad might be too costly for some women to pass up,” said Durante. “After all, you never know if he could be the ‘one.’”

If you didn’t get that, what it means is that women want their alpha hookups to turn into “for-real” men, but, unlike Clark’s assertion that she’s the one making the choice in which men she considers “for-real” dates, it’s actually the men (coupled with her desperation fueled by her rapidly closing attractiveness window) who are indirectly deciding for her which of them she’ll have to settle with in happily “for-realness” after.

Yes, the hookup jerks chicks love are also the jerks chicks wish would stop dicking around and CHOO CHOO CHOOSE them.

If you are a man, the lesson is obvious:

Do you want to live free as a hookup man with the option to convert to a “for-real” man, or live knowing you’re the backup plan as a “for-real” man with no option to convert to a hookup man?

I think I know which man most men would prefer to emulate. But don’t tell it to Clark-Flory. She might ask you out on five straight dates in the same week after your tongue has been down her throat wooing the shit out of her.

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Comment Of The Week: One-Way Judgment

Hugh G. Rection correctly notes:

Women basically want a monopoly on judgement. She can judge reject men as she chooses, but men are not free to reject/judge her or her choices, ever.

This is eau de feminism. The very essence of the grievance whore industry. The animating lifeblood of the degenerate freak mafia and crass SWPL status whores.

Freedom to judge for me, but not for thee.

And as if right on cue, here’s an indignant fat anchorwoman (meme alert!) spending four minutes of televised air time complaining about being bullied for her big beautiful womanliness by a viewer who wrote her a rather innocuous letter lightly chastising her for not trying to lose weight. (“There’re no bones in the ass, lady!”) Spot the irony: she judges the letter writer for being a “bully” while she herself should remain exempt from all judgment. I’ve got real news for ya, lady. You are a bad role model for young girls. Fatness is a character defect, and your inability to lose weight after years of television exposure is a stretch mark on your soul.

(I do like how the femcunt foot soldierettes tried to “out” the letter writer and discovered he is a muscular athletic bicyclist. Immediately they were robbed of hours of joyous but totally irrelevant ego assuaging snark.)

Runner-up comment winner award goes to Matt Parrott:

Before civilization added multiple layers of complexity, there were essentially two super-categories of humans:

Environmentally Selected Humans: These are populations which survived in low population deserts, rainforests, tundra, remote islands, and such. For them, the greatest obstacles to mating were freezing to death, dying of thirst, being eaten by a tiger, or whatever. They had relatively high testosterone levels, robust skeletal structures, and long penises. Why our common ancestor had a long penis is an important question which I’m going to set aside for now.

Sexually Selected Humans: These are populations which survived in the fertile temperate habitats, especially the major river valleys and deltas. For them, the greatest obstacles to mating were other males, increasingly intelligent and vicious males hellbent on killing you and taking your wife, mom, sisters, and daughters for themselves.

The human brain isn’t large enough to decipher differential calculus and program Facebook apps because that’s environmentally adaptive. It’s not. It’s environmentally maladaptive…a massive calorie sink, a nightmare for child delivery, and a huge vulnerability in terms of instincts becoming secondary to whichever abstractions are dumped into it.

It’s our anthropocentric vanity that lulls us into seeing environmental selection for intelligence as natural…despite common sense and the record clearly demonstrating otherwise. The only (and I do mean only) reason human intelligence exists as it does is as an instrument of male territorial aggression. The human male brain is designed by and for war. And human females have massive brains for the same reason human males have nipples.

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about penises. I’m merely sketching up the background hypothesis so that the answer makes sense.

Male territorial aggression in the most fertile (and therefore populous) regions was ubiquitous before the transition to sedentary civilization, resulting in a chronic gender imbalance. While polygyny ensured that all fertile females would be mated with, neoteny and attractiveness determined whether a female would manage to mate with the most powerful (intelligent and therefore militarily successful) males.

The acute selection for neoteny and feminine attractiveness selects against testosterone and other “manliness factors”, including, incidentally and accidentally, male penis size. It’s one of those gender selection trade-offs, like how women who are busty have brothers with bitch tits.

1. The greater the percentage of temperate zone ancestry, the smaller the penis.

2. The more recent the temperate zone ancestry, the smaller the penis.

The final wrinkle with this is that Caucasians have rather recently stumbled across a series of adaptations which serve as misleading indicators of neoteny: white skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. This changed the equation, easing the selective pressure on the “master switch” of testosterone which was evolution’s only option for making Asian females more attractive. White females could retain the lantern jaws, broad shoulders, and other less feminine features because they had cheat codes which made them appear more feminized than they actually are.

The comment section on this renegade outpost of the internet may be more like a lunchroom food fight than a roundtable of erudite punditry, but one thing you can say about CH commenters is their willingness to tackle tough, impolite subjects with truly open minds. You won’t find gems like this one illuminating the pages of the Washington Trope or the NewYorkBetaTImes. Or National Review.

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Don’t Split The Housework If You Want The Love To Last

We here at Chateau Heartiste have been pretty uniform in our assertion that relationships and marriages are more loving, and more sexually fulfilling, when men and women abide their ancient biological roles. Happiness comes from respecting the god of biomechanics. Unhappiness from denying him.

In a study sure to make feminists apoplectic, it was discovered that couples who share household chores are more likely to divorce.

Divorce rates are far higher among “modern” couples who share the housework than in those where the woman does the lion’s share of the chores, a Norwegian study has found.

In what appears to be a slap in the face for gender equality, the report found the divorce rate among couples who shared housework equally was around 50 per cent higher than among those where the woman did most of the work.

“What we’ve seen is that sharing equal responsibility for work in the home doesn’t necessarily contribute to contentment,” said Thomas Hansen, co-author of the study entitled “Equality in the Home”. [ed: readers of this blog will not be surprised by these results.]

The lack of correlation between equality at home and quality of life was surprising, the researcher said.

“One would think that break-ups would occur more often in families with less equality at home, but our statistics show the opposite,” he said.

The figures clearly show that “the more a man does in the home, the higher the divorce rate,” he went on.

File under: Don’t listen to what women say, watch what they do.

Women have been claiming for God knows how long that they want a man who will do his share of the housework, but when he does, their vaginas dry up like the Sahara. You see, equality of the sexes is a myth. Women don’t *really* want equal husbands. What women want are strong husbands who don’t act like women, which means, in practice, not puttering around the house dusting, mopping, vacuuming, cooking, or doing the laundry. A strong, masculine man is too busy — and too proud — to do shit like that. He has a mission in life outside the home, and women love that about him, even when they claim otherwise.

The reasons, Mr Hansen said, lay only partially with the chores themselves.

“Maybe it’s sometimes seen as a good thing to have very clear roles with lots of clarity … where one person is not stepping on the other’s toes,” he suggested.

“There could be less quarrels, since you can easily get into squabbles if both have the same roles and one has the feeling that the other is not pulling his or her own weight.”

The sex’s division of labor evolved for a reason: it’s most compatible with the feminine and masculine sexual polarity. There are some pursuits and some kinds of work that are simply feminine in nature, and woe be the man who willingly takes up the woman’s work in an effort to appease her; he may as well grow a vagina, for that is how she will perceive his sexual attractiveness.

But when it comes to housework, women in Norway still account for most of it in seven out of 10 couples. The study emphasised women who did most of the chores did so of their own volition and were found to be as “happy” those in “modern” couples.

So much for the patriarchal power structure.

Dr Frank Furedi, Sociology professor at the University of Canterbury, said the study made sense as chore sharing took place more among couples from middle class professional backgrounds, where divorce rates are known to be high.

“These people are extremely sensitive to making sure everything is formal, laid out and contractual. That does make for a fairly fraught relationship,” he told the Daily Telegraph.

Middle class status striving: does a marriage bad!

“The more you organise your relationship, the more you work out diaries and schedules, the more it becomes a business relationship than an intimate, loving spontaneous one.”

Ain’t that the truth. Like CH has been trumpeting for years, spontaneity, unpredictability and a little bit of aloof frisson make Joe and Jane a happy couple. Pro-tip: Steer clear of ballcutting battle axes with honey-do lists.

“In a good relationship people simply don’t know who does what and don’t particularly care.”

America, fuck yeah! Just keep seducing your lover, and who does the “chores” becomes a non-issue.

The researchers expected to find that where men shouldered more of the burden, women’s happiness levels were higher. In fact they found that it was the men who were happier while their wives and girlfriends appeared to be largely unmoved.

Call this the Manboob-Schwyzer Syndrome. Guys do housework because they think it is the way to appease feminist shrikes, and then feel happy about contributing, while women get more depressed as their attraction for an apron-wearing kitchen bitch plummets.

Since women’s happiness largely dictates whether a marriage will last or dissolve, equality-minded husbands ought to be aware that their good deeds are going punished in the souls of their wives. You want to kill the sexual vibe in your wife? Start splitting the housework. She’ll never look at you as a sexy stud again. You want to keep the love strong? Let her clean the house. You’ll be in the garage tinkering on your motorcycle.

I really hope the harpies at Jizzebel read this and shake violently from surprise orgasm.

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Dimensions Of A Perfect Woman

Courtesy of reader Mike, here’s a page from a late 19th Century booklet named “Woman’s Own Book of Toilet Secrets”. The page describes the “dimensions of a perfect woman.”

I’d woo that.*

Here’s what it says, for those with Magoo eyes:

The dimensions of a perfect woman are: Five feet 5 inches in height, weight 128 pounds. Arms extended should measure from tip of middle finger to tip of middle finger just 5 feet 5 inches (the height). The length of her hand should be a tenth of that, her foot a seventh, the diameter of her chest a fifth. From her thighs to the ground she should measure just the same as from her thighs to the top of her head. The knee should come exactly midway between the thigh and the heel. The distance from the elbow to the middle finger should be the same as from the elbow to middle of the chest. From the top of the head to the chin should be just the length of the foot, and the same distance between the chin and the arm-pits. A woman of this height should measure 24 inches around the waist, 34 about the bust, if measured under the arms, and 43 if measured over them. The upper arm should measure 13 inches; the wrist 6 inches. The calf of the leg should measure 14½ inches; the thigh 25; the ankle 8.

FYI, her perfect dimensions are BMI 21.3 and waist-hip ratio (estimating based on chest measurement) 0.70 on the dot.

Sounds like the perfect woman of the early 21st Century, too. And she’s facially pretty, as well.

Now where else have I come across these ideal female measurements? Oh yeah.

Chateau Heartiste: reacquainting the world with turn of the (last) century truths.

Contrary to the delusional claims of feminists and their fellow travelers in the degenerate freak mafia, there has never been a time in history when women weren’t physically objectified, by either women themselves or by men. Objectification of the female form is the manifest nature of sexual selection. Shaking a fist at it and whining for it to change on feminist blogs is akin to forming an advocacy group for the reversal of the earth’s orbit. Except for some minor fluctuations at the margins, these timeless truths of human sexual preference are unchanging. Wailing for the ghost of Rubens won’t spare the resentful, rump-faced rejects from the unalterable truth that a fatopia, or a lawyercunttopia, or a manjawtopia, or a bigfatbeardedfeministtopia has never existed in modern human history, and likely hasn’t long before that. Fat, ugly, unfeminine, and/or older women were never in demand and never considered desirable by men or women with skin in the game.

The feminist, of course, will move the goalposts until her ego is sufficiently assuaged. When the evidence all around her belies her bromides, she will rhetorically assert:

Men liked plumper women in the past!

Nope. Playboy centerfolds in the 1950s fell within the ideal 17-23 BMI range and the 0.65-0.75 waist-hip ratios, just as Playboy centerfolds of today do. (Dec 1953 Playmate of the Month Marilyn Monroe had a 19.6 BMI; Nov 2009 Playmate of the Month Kelley Thompson has a BMI 18.6.)

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the distant past!

Nope. Pamphlets from the 19th Century depict desirable women having the same measurements as desirable women of today.

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the ancient past!

Nope. Fat “mother goddess” icons were not viewed as sex objects. And Rubens’ contemporaries painted slender babes, adding weight (heh) to the notion that Rubens was a fat fetishist outlier.

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the prehistoric past!

Nope. Figurines thousands of years old have been found of thin, young women with hourglass shapes wearing miniskirts.

Ok, then! Fuck you, misogynist pig!

Mmm, I taste your hot, bitter tears laden with saturated fats.

Beauty is objective. Beauty is measurable. Beauty abides universal standards. Beauty is an ironclad cosmic law that can’t be wished into irrelevance. Beauty is the golden ratio that holds illimitable dominion over all. Beauty

is

not

in

the

eye

of

the

beholder.

It is an inherent trait of the beheld. And it is immune to societal reengineering campaigns to reconstitute it for the benefit of those lacking its blessings.

Feminists and equalists, YOU LOSE. GOOD DAY, LOSER. YOU GET

NOTHING…

but eternal torment and anguish until your last breath escapes the prison of your ugliness and lies.

*I can already see the female readers rushing to the mirror with tape measure in hand, to find out how close they conform to perfection. It’s ok, ladies. Your reaction is normal and healthy and reflects a subconscious understanding and acceptance of reality that will redound to your personal advantage. Don’t let some whiny, bloviating porky pig convince you otherwise.

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The Unequal Housework Fallacy

Hanna Rosin (man, this broad gets around on the back of stealing my ideas) has a couple of cute, girly charts in this article, showing that breadwinner women still do most of the housework. This is supposed to be evidence confirming feminist beliefs that men are slackers and women are “trying to do it all”.

Another load of rancid menstrual flow. The reason women do more housework is because women can’t tolerate messy homes as well as men can. Women want and require cleaner homes than do men. If you want something more than another person wants that thing, you will put more effort into getting it. And if you aren’t a whiny baby about it, like feminists apparently are, you’ll take responsibility for your more stringent demands and do it yourself. You won’t bitch and moan about people who aren’t doing the work for a goal you think is necessary and reasonable, but they don’t think is necessary or reasonable.

Men simply find the hours and hours of housework that women demand to be an unreasonable waste of time and energy. They have better things to do. And you don’t hear men complaining that women aren’t putting in the extra time and work to do the things men find worthwhile, like, say, detailing the car. If breadwinner wives aren’t happy with this arrangement, there’s a simple solution: learn to be happy with a slightly less than spotless home. Or hire a Mexican.

Ya know, back in the day, before insanity became the law of the land, this used to be called “division of labor”. Scary words to feminist shrikes, but that’s to be expected when anything close to the truth about sex differences accosts them.

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“What Does It Matter To You?”

“What does it matter to you?” is a common refrain of indignation you’ll often hear from equalists and their phylum. It’s part of the remedial school of philosophical thought that says if a personal action is not directly hurting anyone else, then no moral opprobrium can apply to it. So typically if you get into a debate with a feminist or manboob, it will go like this:

You: Feminist action or behavior [X] is stupid, counterproductive, and rife with externalities.

Equalist felching champ: It’s not hurting anyone, so what does it matter to you?

For a prime example of the genre, here’s a comment by aneroidocean (so pretentious) complaining about the post on mannish female Olympians:

So what is a woman [to do] that wasn’t blessed with wider hips and narrower shoulders? Die quietly?

Gotta love the reductio ad absurdum. A classic leftie feint. You could parry by employing simple logic — “pointing out the fact of masculinized female athletes is not the same as arguing for the prohibition of women in sports” — or you could rightfully conclude that simple logic would zoom right over the heads of such emotional crybabies and choose the mockery route instead:

“No, they should die screaming in agony forced to listen to your pussy whining.”

What does it matter if she competes in the Olympics?

Wuss, there it is. “What does it matter to you?!??????? Somebody call the whaaaambulance! A feeling has been hurt!”

The issue being raised was never about how much it personally mattered to me, or affected my own life. That’s the problem with you unthinking liberals — you always want to reframe an argument you find distasteful, or you find yourself on the losing end of, into a personal matter, a position from which it’s easier for you to morally strut and preen and preach fire and brimstone from your tawdry little masturbatoriums.

The morality, or lack thereof, of manned-up women competing in the Olympics is not the point of the Olympic female athlete post. No one’s rights are abridged if some manly swole she-beast hoists 400 lbs above her head, nor is any moral law du jour violated. The point here is to remind the losers and equalists and assorted anti-realists that there is nothing inherently empowering about female sports participation unless one defines empowerment as “becoming more man-like”. It is also to address, honestly and truthfully, the obvious fact that a lot of female athletes are just quasi-men, in appearance, musculature and temperament. Therefore, the encouragement of women by the media industrial complex into elite sports mostly rests on a foundation of denying women their feminine essence. A nation that wasn’t fucked in the head with an overload of kumbaya horseshit would not shy away from this bald truth of the reality of sex differences, and would realign its cultural incentives so that a proper balance was restored, reflecting innate biological reality, until sports programs and funding return to what they once were: mostly geared toward men. At the very least, the feminist propagandizing of female sports empowerment has to end, and hand-wringing over “equal representation” needs to become a shameful relic from this ugly, god-willing bygone era.

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