Archive for the ‘Funny/Lolblogs’ Category

Sometimes I don’t need to wield the shiv. The shiv wields itself.

“A deep tone of voice appeals to conservative voters. More generally, conservative voters seem to have a preference for politicians who look physically strong and masculine, while liberal voters prefer those who have less dominant features and seem more accommodating, perhaps even slightly feminine,” said Laustsen.

Since universal suffrage was passed into law, women voters have pushed America toward the extreme far Left. Now we have a biological underpinning that helps explain why. The liberal, social safety net, open borders preferences of women align with the political preferences of effeminate men (like John Scalzi, Alex Pareene, and Ezra Klein). The effeminate men never had much of a political voice until they were able to hitch the behemoth female voting bloc to their cause. And now we have gay marriage, mudsharking on prime time TV, and slut walks featuring half-naked fat chicks.

Laustsen and Petersen’s research proceeds from the observations that in order to understand the behavior of modern humans, you need to look into the evolutionary history that has shaped the psychology producing this behavior. In prehistoric times when the ancestors of modern humans were roaming the East-African savannah in small groups, it made sense to support the strongest members of the tribe when confronted with danger. Psychological mechanisms which 30,000 years ago saved our ancestors from being devoured by saber-toothed tigers and other fierce animals continue to be at work today, explaining, among other things, why people vote as they do along the left-right continuum.

“There are evolutionarily important reasons for the structure of our psychology. Our ancestors had to make a decision about which leader to follow, and it was crucial for their survival and reproduction that they picked the right one. As a species we are pre-programmed to think in a certain way about who we would like to be in charge. This affects choices that we make even today,” said Petersen.

Antibiotics and two oceans have enabled the rise of the American Leftoid.

Is this knowledge useful for the politicians? For example, would it be helpful for conservative politicians to tone down their dominant, masculine personality traits in hopes of snatching voters further to the left who tend to find less dominant features more attractive?

“Democrats are often seen as empathic, compassionate types. Republicans, by contrast, are often considered as strong leaders with a moral compass. This kind of subjective views may have real importance in cases where a Republican candidate is seen as more empathic than his Democratic opponent and trespasses into his territory. Perhaps he can gain some votes there,” he said.

If Trump can successfully merge themes of closed borders, White dispossession, and oligarch wage gutting, while connecting with the White working class Democrats and Independents, he will walk into the White (again) House.

In related news, effete, rich liberal Democrats are the only group that wants hordes of Muslims streaming across the nation’s borders, and eventually across their rectal borders.

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Reader Fernando P recounts a funny story about a game tactic he tried on a girl.

I think I read in here a response to the famous female question “so what do you do for a living” being “I’m a drug dealer”. I tried it.

I quit my job, finally made up my mind regarding what I want in life. Decided I’d come visit my brother in Ukraine. I’ve been here for three months.

I’ve been seeing two girls, 20-21, I’m 25. I’m coming back to my country in a week, so I decided I’d do a little experiment.

In the middle of our deep conversations I told them I had something to tell them. That I had not been honest with them, etc. “What, Fernando, what?”.

“I’m a drug trafficker”

Given my nationality, looks and thanks to my brother’s apartment and car, they bought it. They were in shock. When things calmed down and after my surveying, one of them told me “you’re crazy, but perhaps I’m crazy too, I want you” or the likes.

Female rationalization hamster spotted in the wild.

The other said nothing but when I told her she could leave, I wasn’t going after her, she said no, she stayed too.

Aloof Alpha Attitude spotted in the wild.

It’s crazy, really crazy what girls will do if they like a man. Fear the day when your daughter meets a real drug trafficker with tight game.

Sadly I have to go back, but I’ll come back and marry one of these porcelain skin beautiful daughters of bitches.

A major psychological obstacle that hinders beta males from achieving more success in the dating market is their quasi-religious conviction that girls must be wooed by the ostentatious burnishing of one’s career credentials or they will run to the next man with a better job history. The typical beta male can’t comprehend how a ZFG, cavalier confession that one is a drug trafficker could in any way light a fire in women’s loins, let alone not send them running for the exits.

This explains why it’s a more civilized culture in which fathers regulate their daughters’ dating options. (Cf., moving to a nice White suburb in order to influence the quality of her social peers.)

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There’s no better way to start your week than getting down into the slop with squealing pigs, but in the porcine annals of oinkery this magnificent squeal must rank as one of the most try-hard, butthurt boar bleats ever to disgrace a social media trough. The title alone could convince the judges to give her straight 10s for porkingsthatneverhappened.txt.

I’m Fat And I Have Sex With Hot Strangers

Mic drop. Or should I say, meatloaf drop.

I could just post her photo and stop there, nothing else needing to be said.

If bed frames could cry.

This human-pig hybrid’s shrieking id is a sight to behold. She must have the fattest rationalization hamster in the known universe. (Obligingly, CH crowns her the Hamster of the Month winner.)

First, she tries to lull the reader into complacent acceptance of her wild claims to come by throwing out a morsel, or twenty, of preemptive candor.

I am fat — not curvy, fat. I have a fat stomach and I jiggle when I walk.

“jiggle” = flesh tsunami. Now I’m not saying she’s fat, but when she wades into the ocean Indonesians head for high ground.

Society tells me that this is a radical notion.

Did we sleep in class during all those years of stentorian Chateau inculcation? Society tells you nothing, moocow. It’s the God of Biomechanics who deems your lard disgusting to the vast majority of people. Even to fellow fatties!

It’s not. There are more girls like me out there. We just aren’t given space to be visible.

How much space do you need? The Great Plains?

I feel like I was put on this earth to be colorful and take up space

So were landfills.

and I am not ashamed.

Keep telling yourself.. and everyone else.. that.

We are told by the media that we need to live in shame, stop eating seventeen cheeseburgers,

That’s an oddly precise number.

We are told to wear something “more flattering” and “not to show so much skin” and “put your boobs away Melissa, you are scaring the children.”


Oh, I’m sorry, I would have cleavage even if I wore a turtleneck and I’m sick of trying to hide it.

Fat pigs love to assert a phony pride in their tits. But sacs of amorphous blubber don’t an attractive bust make. That’s not cleavage, Miss Piggy, that’s a sandworm lair.

My own father told me when I was 10 years old that no man would ever want to hold my hand unless I lost weight and stopped biting my fingernails.

Father of the Year. Not kidding. She only had to listen…

LOL@dad, they want to do so much more than hold hands now.

F YOU DAD, giving blowjobs in the dark to drunk losers is where I’m at now!

I am fat and I have casual sex with strangers, attractive strangers even.

That “even” is such a deadweight giveaway. Translation: once, a long time ago when she wasn’t yet fully fattened for the slaughter, she scissored with a lesbian who actually made the effort to trim her bush and shoo the parrots and monkeys out.

It was an impromptu mini vacation before I move to Portland to go back to school for my art degree, start a boudoir photography business and live amongst other body-positive, sex-positive women like myself and the beautiful beards that love us.

Who can tell parody from reality anymore?

I started swiping right on men and women on Tinder as I waited to deplane at LAX.

“Deplane, boss, deplane!” “No, that’s not a plane, Tattoo, it’s a fattie.”

I follow Amber Rose on Instagram and I find it infuriating watching other women tear each other down for what they choose to do with their own bodies.

The shunning of disfigured mental disease vectors is required.

I also find equally disturbing the entitlement some men demonstrate when a woman chooses to display any amount of skin or overt sexuality in their presence.

Men’s attractiveness standards are required. (Overt female sexuality is only offensive to men when it emerges like a reverse fat caterpillar from a size XXXXXXL chrysalis (a hard-shelled fupa).)

To me, being called a slut isn’t degrading.

The extra 200 pounds set her degradation bar high.

I see it as empowering and symbolic of me taking ownership over what I choose to do with MY body.

Stuff it full of cheap carbs until her days are an endless bloat parade of joint pain, labored breathing, smegma farming, and romantic failure.

My fat beautiful curvy soft body.

Ya know, slender women have curvy, soft bodies, too. So you don’t have that going for you, fatty.

Much to my surprise, people in LA utilize Tinder’s “Super Like” option like nobody’s business, making my quest for adventure that much easier.

Like pizza delivery.

Before I got to my first hotel I was talking to six or seven very attractive strangers.

“very attractive strangers”. The porky pig’s try-hard protestation is so transparent. Reality: these very attractive strangers looked like extras from the Star Wars cantina scene.

I have found that most men who want casual sex aren’t creeps or rapists.

Fat woman standards are very flexible, unlike their joints.

They just want to feel pleasure and make a connection however brief, just like me.

“however brief” :lol: :lol:

Sex doesn’t have to be a big deal. Sex doesn’t need to equal love for it to be mind blowing.

The grapes, they are sour.

It can also be about mutual pleasure and the way two or more bodies fit and complement each other.

with the help of a crowbar.

I have a pretty strict vetting process for picking up men and I have never had any problems.

“Zero alternative dating options? Check.”

I have pictures on my Tinder profile that are quite suggestive.

of a rhino birth.

If a man can have a normal conversation with me without getting gross and demanding, I give him the green-light and we keep chatting for a bit until we agree to meet up.

Men, you don’t need game to pick up fatties. You can talk about the weather with her, if you want. What are you waiting for? (“a hindbrain transmutation”) oh, right.

I find it’s easy to pick up on the entitlement factor, and that is a major red flag.

Total loser goes out with uglyfat, has the gall to think this means she’ll put out for parking meter change.

Just because a woman is showing skin doesn’t mean you have the right to expect sex from her.

That’s not why the losers who go out with you expect sex. (hint: it’s the lsmv corpulence)

Sometimes we meet for coffee, sometimes we go on an actual date, sometimes I go to their house and we are having sex within 15 minutes and sometimes they come to my hotel room at 2am and we bond over Louis C.K. and then laugh a lot and start going at it and it feels like old friends.

I.e., she has given up on the dream of love and marriage.

This bed won’t stay empty for long.

The chicken wing bones will see to that.

I had my own multi-city-state Slut Walk in a different city every night, with my mom staying in a hotel room right across the hall.

Ever notice the typical Slut Walker is the kind of woman least likely to have the opportunity to slut it up with men? Something else to notice: mothers of grossly obese daughters are so despondent for their child’s romantic future that any display of sexuality, however skanky and soul-crushing, fills them with pride.

Oddly enough, two of my hookups visit Portland rather frequently. Round two has been discussed and I am sure will happen at some point in the future.

The triumph of hope over pump and dump.

Each guy was attractive in his own way

All of the men I have ever talked to have been nothing but complimentary about my body.

Fatties will believe anything.

I have never had anyone see me in person and walk away or stand me up.

They spotted her on the approach and darted into an alley for a quick, unnoticed escape.

I am currently the biggest I have ever been and at the same time I feel the sexiest and most present in my body that I have ever felt in my life.

What a coincidence.

I am no longer afraid of my desires or being naked in front of others.

I own my sexuality and my choices.

So do slender women, and they don’t have to lie about feeling sexy.

I have a certain number of sexy individuals to thank for that.

And those individuals are Channing Tatum, Brad Pitt, and Barack Obama.

And no, I’m not telling you my number.

(it’s large and in charge)

Well, fuckin phew, that was a hot mess.

The purpose of posts like this one, besides the slaking of very special hedonistic and aesthetic urges, is to brutally shame these shoggoths off the internet forever. Their fat pride is poison, their phony self-esteem is propaganda, and their feminist platitudes are comfort to fellow misfits providing rhetorical rationalizations to avoid taking any steps to genuinely improving themselves.

Shaming uglyfats into oblivion is not just fun, it’s a righteous moral imperative.

Whenever you read some fatty going on about how much men love her “””curves”””, and all the “””great sex””” she’s having with “””hot studs”””, you’ll know she’s lying to protect her ego from the Day of Mirrors. There are no hot studs in her bed. She is not having any sex, let alone great sex. And she will never know love in the way that a slender woman will know love.

This is the message fat chicks should be receiving, loud and clear and continually, if truth and beauty are your scene. Anything deviating from this cruel to be kind message of realtalk will only increase and amplify the ugliness, of body and mind and soul, in the world.

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CH’s resident shambassador from Daily Kos, The Spirit Within, is not a Trump fan.

FYI Last week McClatchey/Marist polls re: general election show the Democrat nominee beating the Republican nominee in every conceivable permutation of candidates…

…except one. Carson v Sanders. And the margin was only 2.

Trump is not the savior. In the projections, he lost the general to Sanders by 12 and to Clinton by 15. As his lack of expertise is revealed and as he makes more endless goofy speeches — he’s veering closer to Castro/Chavez/Camacho banana republic style politics — that gap will widen.

Keep pushing that charlatan on your readership, Heartiste. I’m sure you have your perverse reasons.

I’ll save your comment in the data bank for later retrieval, TSW, because I want to enjoy your meltdown squeals when the Trumpening heralds a new age and your words come back to bite you.

Confession: I have a soft spot for The Shitlib Within. Yes, he’s disingenuous and a shitlib (but I repeat myself), and he deploys just about every hackneyed, evasive leftoid rhetorical device in the Alinsky rules for race creationists when cornered by realtalk macroaggressions, but he/she/eskimo has a hokey earnestness which wrests a morsel of mercy from the dark lord. Plus, how can you not root a little bit for a guy who throws himself to the CH wolves here with such oblivious disregard for his dignity?

PS The McClatchy-Marist poll is the most liberal-biased of the polls that have attempted a hypothetical general election match-up. Most polls show a much closer race between Hillary/Sanders and Trump.

PPS I aggravated a nagging injury, which means I won’t be able to lift as hard for a stint, which means my T levels will dip below one million liters, which means I will start writing about the pompitous of love, the hidden beauty waiting to be discovered under gnarly vagina folds, fat acceptance, flavortown, the possibility of good lighting turning around Amanda Marcotte’s dating life, and the endearing hokey earnestness of The Sophist Within for a while. Hope you all can handle this whimsical ride on the feminine side.

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Obama’s Psychology

CH neither endorses nor rejects this thesis by reader anon2 (but there’s probably something to it):

Everything about Obama’s psychology can be summarized thus :

His father married a white chick and then left. His father had a number of other kids and was ‘alpha’, at least relative to other shitlib manginas his mother knew.

He was unloved by his white mother (she later mudsharked with an Indonesian) and felt abandoned by her.

When he came to the US, white chicks didn’t want him. That bugs him to this day, especially since his father who was jet black still got a white chick, but mulatto Obama with an American accent, at a top University, could not get a white chick.

A predatory, ugly black giantess saw that this introverted, whipped boy could be bullied into marrying her. She proceeded with this coercion and while Barack caved, he resented this his entire life.

Now that he is POTUS, he could certainly get white chicks (status trumps all), but years with Michelle have killed his penis, and it has fully atrophied after having been away from female beauty for so long. Note that being married to the giantess is worse than being a porn-watching single incel.

Hence, his inability to get white chicks = hatred of white people = desire to obliterate white civilization to the best of his ability.

That is all there is to Barack Hussein Obama.

My suspicion is that the half-breed princess is a down low m00-lah-toe. Dirty little secret: there’s a higher percentage of homosexuals among blacks than any other race. (I’ve read but cannot confirm that eskimos also have an unusually high percentage of snowmosexuals in their tribe.)

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Commenter Aspiring Asshole stumbles onto a mellow-harshing truth:

So here I am, early 50’s, lifelong beta, chained to a bloated slob. Will probably take care of here to the end but would like to snag a bit of life before it’s too far gone. Discovered ‘game’ within this last year and have been soaking up as much as possible, mostly here at CH, damn this place is rich!

Most new people think my wife is my mother, creates much discomfort, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I’m in good shape, I lift, and I look pretty young. I can catch the attention, but where to go with it is where I’m lost. Just had another interaction at the grocery and couldn’t come up with a damn thing to say, so I’m asking for examples of how to play this latest incident out.

Mid 30’s 7 in shorts bouncing around with a 8-10 year old kid in the dept. store, catch her checking me once. I get my stuff and go to the nearby grocery. I see her in the grocery and end up behind her in line. No ring, banters around with the cashier about which kind of apple she bought and was it better than the one the kid bought. She then made a comment about the noisy conveyor and that something must be done. She had a playful manner about her and she looked back at me a couple times seeking some interaction I believe, and I couldn’t come up with anything.

Would be interested in hearing some ideas, maybe get my brain working in the right direction for next time.

A good measure of the manly life well-lived is whether your wife looks more like she could be your mother or your daughter. If you routinely date, and/or are married to, women who could age-wise pass for your daughter (or at least your younger sister), you’re doing something right. If people mistake your gf/wife for your mother, my friend your game is weak.

Regarding A.A.’s game-related question about a chatty cutie in a grocery store check-out line, so many pickup avenues were open that it’s hard to say any one would be better than another. Just off the top of my head, if I were there I would have made a comment about her apple choice, chiding her for her inferior apple variety, and suggesting some other expensive breed “if it’s not too hoity-toity” for her. Mild teasing, a bit o’ disqualification, and then a rebuke accusing her of “breaking the conveyor” for attention. Or maybe I would’ve told her she looks more like a banana gal, if I was feeling especially saucy.

But, really, any response would’ve beaten saying nothing. Even something lame. Too many men get wrapped up in their heads trying to think of witty replies to girls, and the result is a try-hard mess of confusion passing for banter, or tongue-tied silence. Wit is great to call upon in a pinch, but if you aren’t naturally witty the next best thing is saying whatever shit comes to mind. The important thing is not the words, but the attitude with which you speak them.

If you’re honestly stuck for ideas, just repeat what a girl says back to her, reworded slightly for a human effect. For instance, you’ve overheard a woman talking to the cashier about the type of apple she bought, and how it compares to her kid’s apple? Say, “You wondering if you bought the right apple?”, and stop there. Nine times out of ten she’ll reply in a manner that will open the conversation and supply you with “banter bait” that you can use to push more energy into the interaction. Men tend to underestimate how easy women will make it for them if the men give it the college try. Once a man has proven his boldness in action by breaking through the invisible wall of silence and self-doubt, women will happily cooperate to ensure that a fledgling flirtation is given a chance to breathe.

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We’re all familiar with the thousand-cock stare — the glazed, unfocused, hollow eyes of a broken slut in the grips of a delirium from having taken a few too many rides on the cock carousel.

There’s a male analogue to the thousand-cock stare:

This is the thousand-cuck stare, the tormented look of a man in the friendzone trying desperately to hide his pain from the world. His suffering is exquisite; always within sniffing distance of prime poosy but who may as well be twelve parsecs from ever reaching vaghalla. He is cucked by: a jerk boyfriend, a mandingo lover, his own futility, the cosmic overlord. Another man has what he wants, but the poor bastard doesn’t even have the dignity or good sense to stop being a party to his humiliation. Instead of admitting failure, he’ll pretend as if his blue balls are a badge of honor and his sexless circumstance is his free choice.

But his eyes will belie the massive backlog of sperm in his aching testes. If you see a man with the thousand-cuck stare, be on guard. There’s no telling when he might snap, like John Boehner remembering his mudsharking daughter and what his grandkids will look like.

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