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Archive for the ‘Game’ Category

I post this gif clip with the knowledge that there’s a strong possibility it was staged. (h/t IHTG for passing it along) But, assuming for the sake of Game proficiency inculcation that it’s an authentic capture of a moment in time when an alpha move goes wrong, it’s a decent learning tool to educate aspiring womanizers in the fine art of saving face.

Explain how, if you were in an identical scenario, you would recover from this unexpected flirtation backfire.

This is serviceable Game, (until the busted finale). The “beta provider lure and alpha jokester takeaway” is a staple of fun&sexy flirty pickup. But, ya know, sometimes the actress goes off-script. When that happens, you’ve got to adjust on the fly. Alpha males are good at adjusting on the fly. Beta males aren’t; they mostly react with butthurt stupefaction when girls throw them a blue ball.

Expert level recovery from a failed prank on a girl usually takes one of two forms:

  • A naughty, ZFG chuckle (you win even when not winning, because you amuse yourself so much)
  • A deadpan “I was expecting that” expression

In this instance, it would have been a good recovery (fit for Jumbotron viewing by the general public) if this guy had grinned post-slap, shrugged his shoulders, and then slowly moved the juicy morsel to his mouth, making exaggerated contortions of delight as if he was fully enjoying the deliciousness of his snack. Even funnier if he then looks at the girl and says, “So good”.

Briefly, what NOT to do when your alpha move goes wrong:

  • Act insulted
  • Cry
  • Ask why she was such a bitch
  • Try the same prank again, harder and clumsier
  • Sulk, brood, or retreat into a betaboy wound-licking bubble of silence
  • Chastise her, “You will not slap your way to the Presidency”

If you react in any of those ways, it can be fairly said you “Jebbed” yourself. A good, old-fashioned Jebbing will deep-six your chances with a girl faster than a John Scalzied nip slip.

So, stay calm and carry on as if nothing disturbed your inner jerkboy peace. Because it didn’t. A slap from a girl who was “in a mood”? Please. That’s practically foreplay.

ps yeah i know there are wiseguys in the studio audience who will say “rule 1: don’t be a nowag”, but this asian dude appears to be decently put-together, and the girl might be his girlfriend. plus, she’s cute, so he’s doing something right.

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Post-Surgery Game

Post-Surgery Game (PSG) is of a kind with Drunk Game, but riskier as well as potentially more rewarding (if for no other reason than that outpatient quasi-sober sex is generally more erotic than 2AM fully-drunk sex).

Without revealing too many identifying details of the where, how, and why, I had a surgery which required general anesthesia. It was for a non-life threatening issue, and the problem was handily resolved. The Heartistian angle here is what happened in that magical moment between unconsciousness and bland lucidity.

As I confidently strode, or rather, gracelessly loped, out of the bonewhite-walled abattoir, my psyche swirled with the elation of renewed life. I felt good, better than usual, and largely this was a mood lifted by the lingering effects of the anesthesia. My footing was still a little unsure and my brain foggy as I stepped outside under glaring sunlight (released without a promise that a citizen soldier would retrieve me; apparently the doc thought I was able-bodied enough to journey unassisted).

The drugs had another side effect besides general loopiness; they asymmetrically sapped me of my strength, creating the impression of a frankenstein in better control of some extremities than of others.

Naturally, in this condition I just had to talk to a random cutie. It is required. So I did. I grinned, lopsidedly. She cocked her head like a puzzled dog. “Hi.” “Hi?” She may have been scared by my odd sway, thinking I was under the influence of bath salts.

“I just had surgery.” That was my line, and I don’t regret it.

“Oh, ok. That’s not good.”

“Nope. But I’m so happy it’s over I had to share my joy with someone.”

She smiles. Phew!, I think, that could’ve gone either way.

“I hope you feel better.”

The polite indifference of a gentle blowoff? Nah, if I thought every noncommittal thing a girl said to me was a blowoff, I’d be a beta with a bad case of incel.

“I hope so too. Hey, one question…”

“What?”

Tingle-coaxing pause.

“Want to join me for a glass of milk this evening?”

“Uhh, milk?”

“I can’t drink. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re really milking this thing, aren’t you?”

“Funny!” I meant it. A sassy girl warms my heart.

We didn’t have a milk that evening, but I did see her a few days later for a non-dairy libation.

The “teachable moment” of this vagnette is the power of male confidence over female coyness. Even if that confidence is evoked by a post-surgery high. Whatever it takes. Boldness, whether free-form or induced by an anesthesia-hazed ZFG, can overcome a loping gait and twitchy muscle control. Post-Surgery Game is better than Drunk Game because your incapacitation is not quite so obvious, and you’re in better command of your wits.

(Later, the girl admitted she noticed I was “walking funny” and she thought about getting a hold of her pepper spray in her handbag. But she said she relaxed when I mentioned the milk thing. She also said that line was “stupid funny” but that’s the kind of deprecating stuff girls always say after-the-fact when they’re free to rationalize their sexual curiosity.)

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Moments Of Beta

A handsome couple – she: tall, easy on the eyes, he: older, shitlord face – walked by me and I overheard the following:

Her: “You’re always questioning what I do.”

Him: “No, I don’t do that…blah blah”

He trailed off, but I heard enough to know that this man was a paper alpha, hidden beta.

Simple little beta male tells like that say so much. He got defensive. He fell into her frame. He made excuses/apologized for his behavior, with a very predictable reactive wince.

There are so many ways this man could’ve replied that projected an aura of irresistible charisma. It’s not that hard to be the alpha male women love. All you have to do is THINK DIFFERENT. Get out of that obsequious mental space where all that matters is appeasing your woman and “making it all right”. For instance,

Her: “You’re always questioning what I do.”

Him: “YUP. Someone’s gotta run a tight ship in this relationship.”

Does the right phrasing elude you? Never mind! It’s your head space that you need a handle on. In my example, the man does NOT get defensive (if anything, he gets OFFENSIVE), he does NOT fall into the woman’s frame (he makes his own frame), and he does NOT make excuses or walk back his impertinence (he instead implies she’s to blame for her complaints).

When you have the right head space, the right words will flow like a river. As will the poosy tingles.

***

themanofmystery2 asks,

CH, how do you feel about the disdainful “are you fucking kidding me?” glance with no words followed by a conversation started with someone else? Alpha for not falling into frame and making her feel inferior to your power, or beta for letting her get away with her snippy bullshit?

You mean the man responds this way, right? (It wasn’t entirely clear.) Anyhow, this is nasty shit. I’ve seen girls do this sort of thing and it’s such a bitch move. Imo, if for use by a man, this is over the top for all but the most demanding scenarios (i.e., your dignity as a man is on the line). It also carries the whiff of butthurtness/spite/snottiness, which is why it’s more common to see women doing it. (das misogyniss!)

If a woman is snippy with you, remember the clarion call of the alpha male: amused mastery. If she’s snippy with you ALL THE TIME, then you’ve got bigger issues than a nimble tongue can solve. Such a woman was lost to love long before her current imbroglio with you.

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It’s Sweeps Week at Le Chateau. Grab your paleo-friendly tree nuts and smugly recline at your standing entertainment center for a delirious week of the most politically incorrect, shitlib-triggering lulz!

Reader Scanman has a new non sequitur text game routine that involves Taylor Swift and Nazi memes.

Met typical blue city lawyer cunt a few weeks ago at party and got her number. She texted me out of the blue last Thurs. while I was out drinking with a buddy. Solely for my own amusement, I responded with nothing but Taylor Swift nazi memes (pictures of Taylor Swift with Hitler quotes attributed to her etc.). Nothing else. Not a single word of actual response from me, just Taylor Swift pics saying shit like “Gas the kikes, race war now. — Taylor Swift. Truly non sequitur, borderline psycho shit.

Got confusion, then a string of (faux) sanctimony. 80% I ignored, 20% I responded with nothing but more Taylor. Then silence then a “you’re so bad” 20 min later. You know you’re in when you get a “you’re terrible” or “you’re such an asshole” etc. Had sex with her two days later. Probably won’t repeat but ZFG is the closest thing a mortal man can come to actually casting spells.

In the sexual market of the manlet paying for hugs and snuggles, the inscrutable, ZFG jerkboy is king.

How do you know when a girl is grappling with strange and exciting undercurrents of desire for your badboy charms?

It all starts with the confusion,

how is this guy not like the mediocre masses of betas who buzz in the background of my princess life like whitenoise?

then comes the faux sanctimony,

“are you really sending me nazi taylor swift quotes??”

followed by the tepid expression of disapproval tinged with lustful wonder,

“you’re such an asshole” *punches shoulder*

and finally the consummation of her percolating hindbrain desire with her rationalization hamster

“i’m free all week for drinks” *scratches out tuesday date with earnest beta bux placeholder that was planned three months in advance*

Charismatic, ZFG Jerkboy Game the closest thing to casting spells over women?

You bet.

About as magical an enchantment as the vision of a 19-year-old hottie with a 20 BMI and a perfect 0.7 waist-hip ratio.

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I have a pickup field experiment for you guys. (The M2F transitioning Shitlib Within posing as a 6’2″ Nordic Ubermensch may want to sit this one out).

Buy yourselves one of these hats. On a weekend stroll around town, proudly wear the hat. Smirk like you’re the shit. Because you are.

Strike up chitty chatties with the foxy fauna, just as you would on any day when your scrote swells with the urgency of the hunt.

I predict one of three reactions will occur.

  1. You’ll get a lot of remotely targeted snarls. No worries, you expect it. Keep smirking like the world is under your thumb.
  2. Girls will approach you first to ask if you are “for real” or some variant thereof. Keep smirking, but now add some flirting.
  3. Girls will assume your hat is an alpha jerkboy challenge to their feminine authority (what reader whorefinder calls “the princess syndrome”) and will respond as any self-entitled hottie would to a man challenging the integrity of their comfort bubbles: with hungry lustful eyes and shit tests presaging a near future of bedroom bliss.

Report back to the Chateau with your results. The best field dispatches will get featured on the blog in an honor roll post. A winner will be selected (based on some combination of humor, skill, ballsiness, and F close potential or actualization).

BONUS POINTS to any man who picks up a black girl or squatina girl during this experiment. DOUBLE BONUS POINTS if the girl is a feminist Eskimo.

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It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy.

George Orwell, 1984

Ol’ George was spot on with this observation. It’s [the current year] and you can’t toss a cat on a college campus without hitting an SJW hugbox humidified with the triggered tears of a bulbosity of bitterbitches.

Related, PA adds historical context to an anecdote recalled by social scientist Jonathan Haidt:

the auditorium full of high school girls doing the finger snapping routine at him. […] Haidt says it is (was) very disconcerting, worse than disconcerting actually – upsetting and a little scary even. Threatening.

The teenage girl’s simple minded absolutism and devotion to the master.

Accounts of Mao’s and Pol Pot’s atrocities consistently paint teenage female cadres as the most terrifying among the henchmen.

Women in their prime beautility (beauty + fertility), which coincides with the ages from 15 to 25 or thereabouts, are the most eager to submit to the reigning tyranny. CH writes a lot about the romantic desire of women, especially young women with a full load of eggs in their moist wicker baskets, to submit to a powerful alpha male. A lot of Game concepts proceed from this first principle governing the instinctive mating behavior of women.

But Le Chateau is more than a dating guide, and hopefully readers are beginning to see how Game and Seduction tie in with Culture and Society. The internal combustion forces that drive women to happily submit to intoxicating powerful men are the same forces that equally drive women to submit to the tyrannical Leftoid Orthodoxy, and to profess their undying love for the orthodoxy. (Even to make excuses for the orthodoxy, just as they do for their jerk boyfriends, when someone points out that maybe they’d be better off in the long-run with a different master.)

The only way to win White women back from their loyalty to antiracism tyranny is to present them with the allure of an even stronger, sexier tyranny. Mock antiracism without apology or backpedaling and you provide women a glimpse of your ZFG alpha rebel bona fides. Offer in the place of antiracism orthodoxy another, better, orthodoxy that speaks more clearly to the White woman’s future and, importantly, exhibits more conspicuously the greater good of your sexually irresistible self-entitlement.

Shitlibs and cucks will tremble and rage, while you, Master of Your Amused Domain, Knight of the Order of State Control, Wielder of the Shiv of Unified Purpose and Divided Vaj Flaps, reap the dual rewards of a rich sex life and a reborn nation once again administered for the benefit of your posterity.

Game can, indeed, save the White homelands.

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There are three abiding truths about chicks and their attraction for jerks.

  • Women have always had, and will always have, a big place in their hearts for charismatic jerkboys.

  • The romantic allure of charismatic jerkboys is stronger than the romantic allure of dependable niceguys, in nearly all circumstances.
  • There are environmental conditions that can repress or amplify women’s innate love for jerks.

In this post I make the case that we are living in a Golden Age for Charismatic Jerkboys.

Note: I did not say we are living in a Golden Age “of” charismatic jerkboys. Rather, the age is ripe for jerks, should they assert themselves, to exploit the presently configured sexual market to their hedonistic benefit.

It’s not a surprise that, among those nethers-deep in the American dating scene, there is a shared opinion that jerks do especially well with women. It’s neither a coincidence that this opinion has disseminated through the dank and vile with the same gusto that the overarching culture alternately chest thumps and whimpers its way toward a new norm of masculinized women and feminized men.

All one need do is peruse the SJW oeuvre on the usual striver media outlets for accumulating evidence of an epidemic of low T faggotry sweeping through Millennial manlets. Men, White men mostly, have become cringing, feminist boilerplate reciting, race cucked suck-ups to every group making a claim against their impudent White male privilege.

Opposing this gathering effeminacy are the women, who seem hellbent to secure the blessings of frat bro licentiousness to themselves and their twerking posteriors. No one seriously argues that megaphony feminists aren’t mostly a collection of ugly manjaws with masculine behavioral profiles. But there remained hope that screeching feminist stridency was a niche market, leaving the wider society unscathed.

That hope may be premature, if vagnettes like this one recounted by Jonathan Haidt, the popularizer of the five moral senses that distinguish shitlibs from normals, are indicative of scenes across the fruitless plains.

Mean girls and cowed boys. A sure recipe for sexlessness and false rape accusations, leavened with romantic entreaties for pre-kiss consent forms and Title IX Damegeld.

This is the manginarrific milieu the amused jerkboy find himself navigating. And if he is perceptive, he’ll know this means his time is now.

How so? Think about the CH maxim that the best way to understand women is first to accept the disconnect between their words and actions. When leaned-in careerist tankgrrls shriek against slut shaming, the patriarchy, and phalloaggressions, as sycophantic eunuchs scrape and bow before the clitdick juggernaut, these women are really projecting a mournful need for the ministrations of the very type of men they hold up as exemplars of chauvinist misogyny.

The weakness and effeminacy of the males around them is the very triggering (or one such triggering) that impels women to lash out at men in the aggregate; and, as is the wont of the supremely rationalizing sex, to lash out specifically at a fantasy simulacrum of the exciting, dangerous, sexually irresistible badboy who is regrettably missing from their alpha-parched lives.

The charismatic jerkboy will stand out as a sexual savior from among this melange of mewling manboobs. His product, so rare and valuable in a sexual market saturated with softies, will be sought after with a vengeance by economically self-sufficient and urban heat island-anonymized women intoxicated to apoonplexy from the merest whiff of unapologetic, sexually entitled alpha maleness.

We are currently living in an environment that is amplifying women’s desire for jerks. What was once a latent female lust, controllable with the proper societal and peer inputs, for the ZFG jerk has exploded into a delirious hunger that no social control, even if it was available and willing to be deployed, could possibly dampen now.

Women HATE HATE HATE weak men, with the same passionate revulsion that men HATE HATE HATE uglyfat women. Of course, few women have the cognitive awareness or discipline, or the sadistic stones, to come right out and say they hate male weakness, so they engage in a little of the ol’ ultratransference of their negative feelings onto socially approved targets of hate, i.e., sexy patriarchal jerkboys.

So every time there’s a public showing where beta manlets once again perform down to feminist lapdog expectations, the howl of women for the heads of wished-for patriarchs on spikes intensifies. And, every time an amused jerkboy steps into this chaos to plunder the down under, he walks away from the scene of his 50 shades of crime glowingly reviewed by those very same shrews. In fact, his pleasure vessels might send him a post-cortical thank you note for his efforts to restore their faith in mankind.

Lesson for aspiring jerkboys: Stop paying attention to what women say, and start giving them what they truly, deeply, want. Your journey begins on your feet, instead of at hers.

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