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Archive for the ‘Girls’ Category

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Sounds reasonable. Now, compare and contrast with this 2015 “guide” to brainwashing re-educating your daughters to be cock carousel-hopping urban careerist manjaws with the femininity of a toad.

Beginning at a very young age, kids notice differences between girls and boys that can develop into narrow understandings of gender. Cultivate family practices that widen kids’ sense of gender roles and alert them to bias.

Yes, nothing quite like making a kid miserable and confused and man-hating and turning her against her healthy, natural psychology to serve as a guinea pig for your twisted feminist sociological experiments.

Leftoid feminists = anti-human wreckers of souls.

I spot a contradiction in leftoid poopytalk. What about those boys who “feel like girls on the inside”? Your typical child-corrupting leftoid would encourage a boy like that to go the full transgender, because “that’s who he is”. Similarly, boys (and girls) who think boys are better natural leaders should be encouraged in their beliefs as well, because “that’s who they are”.

Eh, why bother? Nothing will get through to these malevolent cunts, besides this:

Swing High Sweet Lariat

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Tell the studio audience the things that come to mind when you look at this photo.

Examine your feelings. Is a story starting to form in your head?

Ok.

Take some time to digest your thoughts.

.

.

.

.

.

Now look at this photo.

Ok, have you looked closely?

Great.

Has the story in your head changed in any way? If it has, how so? Take us through your thoughts in the comments section.

I’d imagine for many of you, an official news report is hardly needed. You know, instinctively, the terrible reality behind these photos, even if you don’t know the dreary police blotter details. You know, too, that the horror is multifaceted, and goes deeper than the official allegations.

And you’d be right.

Reader Johnny Redux explains,

I believe myself to be a pretty tough guy, but this story, which points out a lot of what you fellows talk about, almost brought me to tears. I (unfortunately) came across this story in a foreign (UK) paper, even though it occurred in Florida. I looked at local media coverage, but few had more than just a couple photos, obviously bowing to PC.

If it was reported here already, I do NOT apologize for bringing it before you again, as this story must be read, and the message spread. Here is the tale of a white woman (25) who had at least two children with a white man. Both children are beautiful white blond/blue specimens. So, for whatever reason, the white woman splits from her white husband (probably because, as a Beta male, he finally succumbed to the fact that you cannot train a whore not to be a whore, despite the Pretty Woman, White Knight fantasies), and gets involved with a black man who does not work, has raped his former gf (probably more), has a long list of violent criminal offenses (those are just the once that he got caught for, that is), and was left the WATCH the two children – the boy just a toddler, and the girl a mere 5-year-old, while she worked at a strip club! Now, did you get that? This stripper left her two small blond/blue children with an unemployed black man who was a violent, drug-addicted rapist.

And so, the boy has now disappeared, and the police say the negro male is lying about someone stealing him out of the car while he went back inside to DO COCAINE before picking up the white trash female.

Where to start (as I want to SCREAM)?
* Did he just kill the blue-eyed devil, or sell him to some pedophile for some easy drug money?
* Get rid of the boy, as no need for him, but keep the girl for sex and future income (prostitute) potential (like her mom)?
* How many times has the blond girl been sexually abused by this negro while left alone with him for hours at a time? Hope the doctors examine her.
* Where is the real father? I would rather kill the mother and go to jail, so that the children go to the grandparents or foster care – where at least they would have had a chance at a decent life.
* Where are the motherly instincts of the woman? Besides all of the obvious arguments regarding her stupid decision to get involved with any black man, let alone a POS like this one, where is her natural protective instincts for her young?

As to the last point, above, I liken this behavior to animals in a zoo, that give birth in unnatural environments and have no parenting skills, sometimes outright killing their young. That sums up this female, and this putrid society that we now live in.

Crisis and observation.

Crisis:
A dumbfuck, or impossibly self-deluded, attractive white mother and wife, dumps her betaboy white husband, for reasons we can all pretty much suss out in the second photo: He was a supplicating niceguy who bored his wife into anhedonic divergence, and she was a high maintenance drama queen with poor impulse control and a mind polluted by a steady diet of anti-white, pozzed cultural sewage. In her EatPrayCockCarousel stage, she shacks up with a buck nigra with a mile-long rap sheet and, one day, to no one’s surprise except her own, the seething envy and race hatred constantly percolating in her mandingo reaches a culmination in the disappearance, and likely death, of her precious 2-year-old son at his hands.

Observation:
Now we watch you. If you’re a black person, let’s be honest, you don’t feel much. It’s understandable, if repugnant to more empathetic souls; you are what you are and violence against white children doesn’t rouse your emotions beyond obligatory SMH disappointment. Tribal blood is thicker than interracial empathy.

If you’re a white shitlib, you screech about demagoguery and execute evasive maneuvers that move the topic to white privilege or police misconduct. You feel something resembling anger and indignation, and even nascent, healthy hatred for the black perp and white cunt, but your predilection for abstraction and moral status whoring and your deadly fear of concrete reality and its emotional resonance transforms you into a sophism robot tasked with the prime directive of ego protection. You are the anti-human leftoid borg at war with your own primal feelings.

If you’re a white cuckservative, you twitch, and wait for your betters to signal the approved response. What do you do? Character is destiny. You say this is a tragedy… (note that word “tragedy”, stripping any and all agency from the evil)… and your heart is with the family of the lost boy, and then you hope and pray… oh do you pray hard to your Glory Hole God!… that nobody brings up the malevolent race aspect of the sordid crime.

If you’re a carver of ids, you suggest, first, and with utmost politeness, that the dindu meet the firing squad and the mother be stripped naked in the public square and paraded in shame as a lesson for the others. Then, you draw back, and present the bigger picture… a most ugly scene of a world where Diversity™ has won the day and the shrinking space for whites has them scrambling in confusion like Calhoun’s rats, and strange, incredible things begin to manifest, like mothers abandoning their children to loping demons and normal, if unexciting, husbands jettisoned by bored housewives with a psychoskank itch for a hellscape of vibrant pain, torment, and tingles. And a mudshark monocle.

Crisis and observation.

What next?

Greg supplies a fitting coda,

Your pain is shared, my friend… foremost by the Most High God.

All accounts will be settled… until then, prepare, have faith, and harden your heart.

Hope and change. Some are not so sanguine. Rot and ruin can have impressive staying power. The collapse may be fated.

When truth recedes
remember this
it won’t be found
until #HateWins.

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Remember the CH post about walking like an alpha male? For shits and remotely activated tingles, I decided to try out the MAXIMUM ALPHA MALE MODE walking style in a beautiful baby zoo near you.

I walked about town like a guy who absorbed a piece of gorilla DNA in a telepod, similar to Jeff Goldblum’s unfortunate mix-n-match in The Fly. I strutted and swaggered. Not quite as comically as this buffoon:

…but getting close.

Result: After an hour or so performing the “here are my steely balls, ladies, feast your eyes” gait, I can conclusively say that a lot… no, a WHOLE LOT… of women tossed me lascivious stares. Not “what is this weird guy doing?” looks; real hardcore “i want… i need… to get to know this man” stares.

Ok, there were a couple of “who’s the weirdo?” looks, but most were definitely in the “checking him out” camp.

I want… I need… to report that I felt foolish walking like I had an anvil in my crotch that I had to swing my legs around, but sadly, with heavy heart, I felt no such discomfort. What I did feel instead was confidence boosted major.

To this day, and after so many years of confirmatory experience, it still astounds me how autonomically women are magnetized by a man exhibiting alpha male characteristics. It’s almost… robotic.

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Thumping, throbbing, pulsing… a sinuous dolphinoid stroke through crisscrossing waves of briny, grinding flesh, arrive at destination: a ramshackle tropic-themed auxiliary bar. I wave, regally, in the vicinity of the bartendress, to order a stiff one. To my left, propped lordotically on a stool, a slim blonde in slimmer dress squeezes a lime wedge into her love potion. She thinks (incorrectly) a stray sour squirt hit me; I feign injury.

Blondie: “Oh, I’m sorry about that!”

Left hand up to left eye, I execute a grimace with great gusto. “Aagh! My eye! It burns.”

She gawks for a beat, I spread two fingers slowly apart, revealing the abstractly-afflicted eye, peering at her with my miraculously and expediently cured vision through the finger gap, smiling with same orb a reprieve from a personal injury lawsuit. I leave the scene, pressed in equal measure by physiological necessity and the advantages of calculated absence. Her friend, almost as attractive, says “bye” loudly as I set off.

The right inflection can flip a “bye” into a “why not stay for a longer ‘hi'”?

Re-trace my dolphin migration, arrive at bathroom to discharge the blowhole. Too many pissers. The walls bulge, Matrix-like, with the teem of testosterone. Zipping and careful to avoid slipping in the slosh of urine accumulating on the floor, I contort my return way through the crowd to the bathroom exit, as a crescendo of primate chest beatings alerts my early warning detection system. A stygian mutant standing in the doorway prognathously bellows, “That’s rude, man. That kinda rude can get a man killed”, at a retreating Topper pretending to ignore the taunt. He repeats his threat in staccato bursts of gumfire three or four (thousand) times, a menacing series of war cries intended to evoke the fear of an inevitable eruption of normalcy into sudden, violent, pitched battle. I raise my arms into a preparatory garrison as I snake around the rapidly intensifying black hole of gravitational incivility.

Escape velocity achieved. One hundred paces between chaos and rapture. Back at dryland Bar Tiki, the blonde, still seated, still smoldering, shifts to make room for my adjacent insertion. I accost her.

“You know I’m practically blind in my right eye now.”

“You mean, your left eye?”

“Oh, yeah, my left eye. Blind as a bat. At least your right side looks good. I hope your left side makes the grade.”

Her face energizes for gratifying combat. She sparkles, I toggle. Everything is gonna be alright.

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Women serve as an exceptionally accurate barometer for the measure of a man’s attractiveness and social standing. The hotter, sweeter, and more feminine a man’s girlfriend or wife, the likelier it is that man is charismatic, beloved, high status, and possessing those traits and achievements which other men admire and set women on fire.

Reader james1 draws a parallel between this truism and current events, in a comment reprinted from a Steve Sailer thread.

From steve sailor comment #27:

I know love can be a fickle thing, but I am sorry, I just can’t have much respect for Jeb over his choice of a wife. The guy was a wealthy man from a prominent family, not some nouveau riche slob. He went to the finest prep school in the nation. Yet according to his mom, Columba was the first gal he dated. From her bio it appears she might even have been an illegal. Yet Jeb fell hook, line and sinker for her. I wonder if it was the extreme differences in their social positions which allowed him the confidence to think him worthy of her? If so he probably couldn’t deal with any woman in his same social level or even a few levels beneath. No, it took an illegal woman for Jeb to feel comfortable.

I’d like to see Heartiste delve into this one.

Columba is powerful evidence of ¡Yeb! Bush’s intrinsic beta maleness. She is homely and culturally antagonistic to the once-majority anglo-germanic country Jeb presumes to lead. Yes, it’s true, given Jeb’s social status and great wealth he could have done a lot better. A LOT. But he settled for a squat inca who can’t even speak English and looks like a rock troll from the movie Frozen. And she was illegal. I absolutely believe Jeb feels like a worthless beta male in his soul and has horrible inner game, and this is why he only felt comfortable dating an illegal alien housemaid who made him seem like a DOMINANT JERKBOY GOD in comparison.

Do you trust a man who has horrible taste in women, and a lack of confidence in his ability to get and keep better women he truly desires? Do you trust a man who, in his choice of woman, lies to himself every second of every day he must gaze upon her apparition?

Do you want a low self-esteem, dumpster diving beta male with zero confidence in his appeal to English-speaking white American women leading your nation back to greatness?

Or an alpha male who, for all his flaws, has proven he knows how to get the job done when it matters?

No further shivving, yerhonner.

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Chicks with six pack abs: A problem that is, thankfully, for now, small enough to tuck away for use as a hypothetical. But maybe not for long. It seems our world is careening toward an androgynous, sexually unimorphic hell, populated with femininity-crushing fatties or muscular femmes carving their bodies up to high-T specs.

Reader mac speaks for the vast majority of men,

i agree about the abs. don’t like a big beer gut on a girl of course but i’ve never been into visible abs on a woman either. i don’t understand why young guys these days all want their women to be ripped like men.

They don’t. They just say that for PR.

not feminine at all and ugh is right.

Rippling six packs on women are almost as nauseating as distended rolls of pork fat. Both obscure in their own ways the nascent feminine form struggling to emerge and soak up the sun of horny male attention. A perfect female stomach is flat, soft, and subtly terraformed as if to guide the adventurer to the furrow below it.

So while obesity is the epidemic destroying the natural beauty of America’s women, there is an opposite trend, much smaller but almost as destructive, toward hardened, fibrous, X-Fit borgs anchored atop a fulcrum of narrowed boyhips, tromping city streets in flats and trainers, shoulder checking personal space invaders, all the while denying the truth of their essential female nature.

The answer to obesity isn’t the masculinization of the female form.

Softness and slenderness, these are the gravitational forces of purest femininity.

Serena Williams would weep, but she lost touch with that part of her femaleness a long time ago.

Hope Solo wouldn’t weep; she’d just crush your nads in her clenched fist like they were walnuts.

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Another sign that we are living in the r-selected age of a rising cad/tramp society (and a declining dad/damsel society) is the perception among women that having a low marital market value (LMMV) won’t hurt their long-term romantic prospects or rebound to their eventual unhappiness.

Reader duderino writes,

I broke it off with a fuck buddy a while back and she posted this popular meme, directed at me.
“I’m not the girl you’re going to marry, but I’ll be the one you’ll be thinking about 20 years from now when you’re having polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline”

Try-Hard Level 99: Unlocked.

It’s weird to live in a time when girls brag about not being wife material. To me this (and the weird new pop songs) is a defense mechanism. Girls are giving it up without even a realistic chance of commitment now, and this was their post rationalization they had any power in the situation. In the time society tells them they are supposed to be empowered, most of them are feeling cheap and used.

That’s why women have to keep telling themselves they are expensive and factory fresh. The more reality harshes their mellow, the bigger the toke they have to take off the anti-reality blunt.

She wasn’t anything special, for the record.

Duly noted, and duly unsurprised. (You will hardly ever hear exquisitely beautiful and exceptionally self-possessed women trash talk in this manner. IM THE TOWN HO YOU’LL BE JERKING OFF TO IN TWENTY YEARS is the pained oinking of mediocre m’ladies and bitterbitch spinsters.)

A lot of this is sour grapes. A girl who has a shitty personality and little in the way of looks to compensate will find it psychologically comforting to pretend to herself and others that she never wanted those juicy wedding day grapes hanging just out of her reach. The best thing to do with girls like this is set phasers to “ignore”. The butthurt attention whore fears social isolation more than anything. If you want to twist the cosmic shiv a little before departing her presence, answer her womanly rant with a curt “gay”.

Donning the CH sociological omniscience cap for a moment, the turn by women away from selling themselves as worthy marital properties (and a concomitant turn by men away from selling themselves as dutiful provider betas) is a totally expected emergent sexual market phenomenon when marriage rates are down, age of first marriage is up, fertility is down, the Pill is up, and women can generally get by economically supporting themselves and their bastard spawn through SJW enforcer jobs or government largesse (itself redistributed from the efforts of reviled white beta males).

The devil is in the details. It’s the little things like this — woman crowing about their low MMV — which escape datanauts and statisticians combing through coarse sociological signposts for theories about where we are and where we’re all heading. In time, the little details of societal collapse add up to an epic story of shit, and an ending no one can confuse for fiction.

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