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Archive for the ‘Girls’ Category

Here’s this link to a New York Beta Times story about SWPL perimenopausal women having dreams of Barack Obama — psychosexual fantasies and stalkerish glorifications of the Obama family. The NYBTimes has been churning out some truly vomitus copy as of late, but for sheer sickening nausea this story may very well spew the farthest.

One woman wrote that when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, she “lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.”

When, generations from now, our Islamic and Mexican overlords have gathered to discuss the exact moment the American empire fell to pieces and reverted to a pre-civilizational Mad Max tribal wasteland, someone will point to this quote in the ancient tablets of the New York Times, and heads will nod in agreement.

I’ve already written about Obama’s women, and the sexual mores of girls who voted for him, so there aren’t many new lessons to glean from this article that haven’t been discussed before. This story has made the rounds, and been roundly ridiculed by many other bloggers. If there were any remaining doubts that giving women the right to vote has been an unmitigated disaster for America, this article should dispel them. Most women, especially single SWPLers and undersexed hausfraus bitter about being married to quisling betas, are simply unserious creatures who will let their emotions guide them to vote away the political and social arrangements that created the modern yenta-fied culture that affords them the luxury of voting like vapid teenage girls. If history is any guide, and if fortune should shine upon the United States before the point of no return is reached, a cooperative, horizontally structured patriarchy will reemerge and supplant the suicidally insane matricentric sick culture and stateless citizen of the world globopuppeteer elites playing “let’s you and him fight” currently running the show. I think it will happen soon, perhaps within five years. It may be violent as the authoritarian sanctimonious Boomer pricks and Gen X lackeys are overthrown.

The other day a friend of mine confided that in the weeks leading up to the election, the Obamas’ apparent joy as a couple had made her just miserable. Their marriage looked so much happier than hers. Their life seemed so perfect. “I was at a place where I was tempted daily to throttle my husband,” she said. “This coincided with Michelle saying the most beautiful things about Barack. Each time I heard her speak about him I got tears in my eyes — because I felt so far away from that kind of bliss in my own life and perhaps even more, because I was so moved by her expressions of devotion to him.”

BOTY candidate right here. Imagine being this bitch’s husband and reading this quote from your wife in the paper. I bet she showed him the article, proudly pointing out where she was quoted publicly humiliating him. “Here, honey, check this out. I’m in the New York Times!” The poor, wretched beta would probably work double time to win his wife’s approval, when he should be doing just the opposite — kicking her cottage cheese ass to the curb.

Relatedly, I was talking to a typical urban slut machine and she asked who I voted for. I said I didn’t vote. She reeled back, shocked. “You didn’t VOTE?!?” “Nope,” I repeated. “Voting is a useless exercise.” She leaned over to her girlfriend and spoke in her ear. They made OMG faces. Both of them looked at me suspiciously, frowning. Their reaction was as if I had told them that I killed a pregnant woman and dumped the body in the Potomac. The Obama Age scales of moral opprobium are completely out of whack. She returned. “What are you registered as?” “Independent.” “Independent? Hmm.” Girls know that when a man says Independent he means “Non-Democrat”.

I got the bang and marked her number in my phone as a “Tier 2” number.

***

In other news, I nearly interrupted a mugging in progress. I was literally five feet away walking down an alley that serves as a makeshift parking lot when an early 20s black dude, thugged out to the max, stuck a gun in the gut of a 50ish well-dressed white man (soft target) walking in my direction, and barked at him “You know what to do”. The middle-aged guy yelped when he apprehended what was happening. I broke out into a half-run and turned a corner off the alley about a hundred feet from the scene. Since this was a city hood on a weekend night, I expected to see a cop car nearby I could flag down. No such luck. No cops anywhere to be found. Did they take the night off? Way to be available, guys. What are we paying you for, again?

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to locate a cop and dialed 911. As I’m standing on the street in the middle of the nightlife crowd giving the description to the lady on the phone, the mugger casually strolls right by me on the sidewalk. He’s walking with a buddy. He’s got bills in his hand that he’s flipping through, and his buddy is cackling with glee. I relayed this information.

I never saw cops arrive. No doubt the guy got away scot free. The US is heading for a meltdown if criminals feel they can act with such impunity and fearlessness that they can blithely walk away from the scene unconcerned about being caught. I wondered who the victim voted for.

As a friend of mine said, “After a certain amount of time living in the city, you either settle down or move to a new city.” He’s right. It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. A move is on the horizon.

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Craigslist is coughing up some gems lately.

Reasons I Like My Cats More Than Any Man I Have Dated in the DC Area – 23 (For Anti-Cat Man)


Reply to: XXX
Date: 2009-01-27, 10:00AM EST

Dedicated to the old, cat-hating man…I’ve provided a list of reasons that my two kitties are better than any of the men I’ve gotten involved with in the DC area.

• My cats have never taken me on a date to the 7/11.
• My cats have never pretended to be the love of my life, then disappeared into thin air without even the courtesy of a post-it note explanation.
• My cats have never lied about being Navy SEALs. Not once. Actually, my cats don’t lie AT ALL.
• My cats are ALWAYS in the mood to cuddle.
• Cleaning up after them is much easier than cleaning up after a man.
• My cats have never drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s then tried to break my arms.
• My cats have never lied to me about being married to try to get me into bed.
• They’re not afraid to show their love and affection, which is unconditional.
• My cats are VERY intelligent.
• They aren’t obsessed with Asian women.
• They would NEVER intentionally hurt me.
• They clean themselves daily.
• They aren’t insecure.
• They’re very low-maintenance.
• They have never betrayed me.
• They like ALL different kinds of people…blonds, brunettes, redheads. Because they’re not fixated on narrow, exclusive sets of physical attributes.

So when faced with the decision of whiny man versus loyal cats, I’ll go with the cats any day…

******

She sounds like one of my exes. Always bitching. Her standards are way too high. What’s wrong with 7-11? With the right attitude and cocky smirk a guy can turn a microwaved burrito into a cherished romantic memory for the girl.

How much you want to bet she completely forgave him and had a squirting orgasm that night after he tried to break her arms in a drunken stupor? Women… their tales of woe fall on deaf alpha ears.

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30 And Still Flaky

The number of women in DC who are in their late 20s to early 30s and still flaking as if they were hot college coeds has reached critical mass. When I call a 29 year old woman’s number to set up a date, the last thing I expect to encounter is flaking or playing hard-to-get. It’s such a massive turn-off that I demote a deluded woman like that immediately. If I get her into bed, I fuck her a few times, hard and angry, just enough to get her addicted to my manloaf, and never call again. Ladies past their peak, here’s some helpful advice from a representative of the Ministry of Stone Cold Truth: If you are a woman over the age of 27, do not fool yourself that you possess the market leverage to:

  1. not answer the phone by the third ring or deliberately let a man’s call go to voicemail.
  2. not return a phone call within an hour.
  3. cancel a date later than five hours before the scheduled meeting time.
  4. flake in any manner whatsoever.

Because you don’t have that power anymore over men who matter. Guys like me are less forgiving of gameplaying from women who no longer have the grade A goods to get away with it, so your best bet is sincerity, straightforwardness and good faith. Annoyingly capricious female behavior is the prerogative of girls in their prime. You, over-27 woman, must adjust accordingly. That means either putting aside the notion that you can flake without consequence, or dropping your standards and dating needy betas who will gladly lap up your shit and beg for more.

In my life, I’ve noticed a change for the worse. More women, and older women, are acting flaky. Such a cultural deterioration can only happen for one reason — massive, all-encompassing betatization. The sack-shriveling epoch is at its watershed. So-called “men” have abdicated their duty to punish women for their flaky behavior. The verdict is in: The entitlement complex of American women is out of control. It is time to put an end to it. Because I am a humble humanitarian of stupendously magnanimous good will, I present my five point battleplan for bringing the egos of American women back into line:

  1. Be a cad. When a hot girl passes by, casually mention out loud in the company of your date/GF that the girl is beautiful. Do this a couple times and she will wonder “Does he think I’m as cute as her? Will he leave me for someone like her?” Then, step it up a notch. Add unpredictability to your ego-taming strategy. For every hot chick whose beauty you announce, wait for an ugly girl to walk by and mention how hot she is. This will fuck with your girl’s head like nothing else. Now she’ll wonder “Wow, if he thinks that toad is hot, what does that say about me? What *does* he like??”
  2. Cancel dates. This is an amazingly effective technique for shifting the balance of power in the man’s favor for the simple reason that so few men do it. What could squash cancerous female ego growth faster, and imbue you with the alluring underworld glow of alpha devilry, than bugging out on a first date? Don’t give a reason. Just say something came up, and you’ll call her later. Leave a heavy air of mystery hanging between you two. Relish the thought of her tossing and turning in bed at night wondering if you found a woman with bigger boobs. After all, what is seduction in essence but the co-opting of a woman’s tools of the trade to use against her? Bonus: Cancelling dates is a huge power rush.
  3. Extol the virtues of European women. Be subtle, of course, but be sure your message, true or not, is taken to heart. When talking about your travels, mention how the Europeans “just do things differently over there. Dating is not the chore it so often seems it is here. It’s so refreshing the way European men and women naturally gravitate to one another. No head games at all. To European women, romance is playful and fun.” Then mention how your business takes you to Europe frequently.
  4. Assume the flake. When you meet an American Coastal City girl for the first time, and you are about to number close or otherwise set up a date, prevent any future flakiness by shaming her to behave the way you want. Say: “If you’re gonna be one of those flaky girls, tell me now so I can delete your number. Nobody likes those types.” Naturally, your challenge will have done its job and she will defend her honor. You’ve established boundaries of acceptable behavior that she’ll be less inclined to violate.
  5. Don’t answer her calls. When you see her number light up on your caller ID, let it go to voicemail. Wait five minutes, then call back. Act nonchalant. She will wonder why you didn’t pick up right away. It’s a small detail that helps reframe the interaction to one where she is chasing you.

Godspeed, you nascent alphas, you smashers of overblown American women egos. The pendulum swings back now.

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I remember this girl I dated when I first moved to DC. She was one of those types that had trouble keeping female friends but collected male orbiters like stinger-less bee drones to honey. Perhaps she incited the jealousy of other women with her brazen sexuality, or perhaps she tried to make friends with women out of her social league. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t care, even though I had to put up with listening to her woeful stories of victimology.

I’ve learned many mythbusting realities about women over the years of loving them, but one of the most disappointing lessons I’ve learned is how threadbare, shallow and tenuous are their friendships with female peers. For all the jabbering they do amongst themselves, the bonds that hold girl friends together are a surprisingly superficial amalgam of Machiavellian maneuvering, parched politesse, feigned sympathy, self-absorbed clucking, and fickle loyalty. It’s as if female friendships exist only to serve the banal purpose of group cohesion and social climbing, in stark contrast with male friendships that can strengthen unencumbered by ulterior motives and which often require nothing more than the tacit assumption of “I’ve got your back”.

One time I took this girl to a party where female friends of mine would be in attendance. (About 1/3 of my friends are women, and 2/3s men. After 5pm, that ratio reverses.) She noticed one of the girls was flirty around me. I agreed that she probably was nursing a long-held #1 crush. Out of earshot, my date then proceeded to call this girl fat, and grabbed my hand to walk with me in front of the girl, ostensibly to provoke seething jealousy. I didn’t appreciate it. This was evidence that my date was a woman of poor character.

Some months later we broke up, and through intermediaries I learned that she had become good friends with the chubby girl she formerly ripped to pieces with a gleam in her eye. I wondered if she knew of her new friend’s less than complimentary opinion of her, or if it was all bitchiness under the bridge.

Gossip is a natural property of human nature and something in which almost everyone, men and women, indulge (though women to a far greater extent than men). It is probably an evolutionary outgrowth of human status hierarchies, and so isn’t going anywhere soon. For that reason, I’m generally bemused if I hear that friends are gossiping about me. It’s all part of doing business as a DNA carrying replicant. Nothing much to get worked up over. But there is a line crossed where gossip becomes corrupted and twisted by resentment and ill will; when it becomes less a feature of human social dynamics than a bug. The caustic whisperings and barely concealed snarls behind phoneyfemme smiles and exaggerated “Hiiiiiiii!!!”s that hit six different musical notes hide a dark, bitter soul. Invariably, it is women who are the shameless practitioners of this viciously psychological ego-feeding art. Occasionally, the poisoned opinions get out there in the ether like slimy tentacles, afflicting every social circle conversation with a brute manipulative face-saving veneer. But most of the time, the vaj vector of dirty gossip is skilled enough to keep her real feelings under wraps.

Not every girl is like this. I have dated girls, bless their hearts of gold, who had nothing but kind words to say about their girl friends behind closed doors. In fact, one of the key indicators that the girl you are dating is girlfriend material worthy of your non-penis time and attention is what she thinks of her friends when she has the opportunity to unload on them. Listen to what she says about her friends when it’s just you and her. This will give you tremendous insight into how she will treat you over the long haul.

To those girls who possess a depth of untarnished loyalty for their friends — in the middle of the night with the shades drawn and no one but the company of your conscience, you know who you are — don’t think for a minute that we men don’t notice your good character. You are a rare catch. Most women have no need for the virtue that makes you stand out…

Integrity.

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Psycho Stalker

Psycho stalker
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
run run run run run run run away
oh oh oh

When you experience the love of many women you are bound to have an unfortunate run-in with a stalker. The formula goes like this:

Number of girls in your lovemaking career + Disparity between your higher value and the girl’s lower value = Odds of wild-eyed stalker ruining your carefully cultivated lifestyle.

Based on my experiences and the stories I hear from friends, you can expect one potential stalker for every 10 women you bed. If you’ve bedded 100 women without incident, the odds of the 101st woman being a stalker are still 10%, but in the bigger picture you are really playing with fire. Your luck will run out. Even worse, if your value is more than 2 points higher than hers, the risk of initiating her stalker module sequence doubles and the degree of psycho behavior intensifies as the market value differential increases.

Example:

1,000 girls banged + 5 point average difference in value = 99.99% chance you had at least one bunny boiling stalker in your life.

Glenn Close’s character was 5 points lower than Michael Douglas’ character, so the result was no surprise to any man who understands how the market works. What were the writers thinking? Glenn Close is a horseface.

To be sure, there are other factors that influence any one girl’s chances of having a psychotic episode on your ass after being dumped. If she came from a broken home, that will boost the odds considerably. Past or present drug addiction is a leading indicator of latent stalker issues. Flakes are especially prone to transmogrifying into crazy stalkers; the airheaded dippiness that annoys the crap out of you when you are trying to get your notch with her is the same mental imbalance that causes her to thrive on the manufactured drama of an emotionally explosive breakup.

Here are some warning signs to watch for:

  • Did she come onto you? Major red flag. Desperate, exceedingly horny girls don’t take kindly to being dumped. If a girl says “I have a bet with my friend that I’m going to take a man home tonight”, and then she publicly assaults your mouth with her tongue, you had better have an extrication plan ready after you’ve banged it out.
  • She’s a different race than you. “Exotic” girls are more likely to freak out on you after a dumping. My guess is that girls who date outside their race are the type of outliers who engage in all sorts of crazy behavior.
  • She’s a former fatty. If you’ve been pumped and dumped your whole life, you’re really not going to like it when you get dumped as a thin girl. She’ll think to herself “I look great now! Why am I still being treated like a one night stand?” On the other hand, many former fatties are so inured to getting dumped that one more doesn’t much faze them.
  • She’s a virgin. Be gentle with these rare birds. They are a dying breed.
  • She’s under 25. The more hardened and cynical a woman is, the less likely she will go insane after a breakup. Young girls are flooded with bonding emotions that older women simply don’t possess anymore.
  • She orgasms easily and vaginally, multiple times. If the girl cums effortlessly during intercourse, your cock will be like a drug to her. Withdrawal is a bitch.
  • She’s making plans for the next date before you’ve finished shooting your load across her back. These are the types of girls who spend more waking hours living in fantasyland than in reality.

What to do if you have a stalker:

  • Number one rule: CUT OFF ALL CONTACT. Ignore her calls, texts, emails, etc. If you see her on the street, walk on by as if you don’t recognize her. The most innocent backsliding on your part will only encourage her to continue stalking. You don’t want to give her even the slimmest shred of hope. In 90% of stalker cases, total radio silence usually does the trick in two to three weeks.
  • Lay down the hammer of hurt. If ignoring her doesn’t work, and she’s stepped up her stalking to sitting on your stoop waiting for you to return from work, you’ll have to get medieval on her. “You dumb fucking psycho cunt, I despise you, I hate you, your pussy is gross, you disgust me beyond words, I want you gone now and if I ever see you near me again I will notify your family and friends what a raving lunatic you are” should put an end to it.
  • But if it doesn’t, you’ll need to escalate to defcunt level 3: Actually DO notify her friends and family. She needs an intervention, and public shaming is your best ally.
  • In case you’re worried she might do something drastic: Threaten to call the cops. Some girls are so fucking crazy they’ll come at you with a weapon, or they’ll enlist the services of some big meathead they know and make up a story about how you hit her in a bar, and you’ll come home one day to this guy hiding in a bush with a bat in hand. If you think she is capable of doing that, you may want to consider calling the cops for real. It sounds kind of pussy-ish to deal with an obsessed girl by slapping a restraining order on her, but it’s more pussy-ish to explain to your future wife that you’re infertile because a girl kicked you in the nads.
  • Trump card: Move out of the country.

I remember this time I banged it out with a chick who, in hindsight, met five of the bullet points I listed above. I made the mistake of replying innocuously to one of her many texts she sent throughout the following week. Two weeks later, on a Saturday night at 1AM, my doorbell buzzed. I jumped because my doorbell sounds like a cow being zapped with 10,000 volts. (If I could locate the wiring, I would disconnect it.) I could hear her outside, shuffling around and mewling for me to come to the door. I turned off the bright hallway light, locked the bolt lock and chain lock on my door, and peeked through the blinds for half a second. Her eyes were spinning. Luckily, I didn’t have a girl with me in my place at that moment, so I didn’t have to worry about explaining the situation. I went back to watching my movie, hoping she would go away. Ten minutes passed. Silence. Phew, she left. Relief.

At 2AM, the doorbell crashed against my eardrums again. Fuck the bitch is back! She must have rung all the doorbells in a spastic panic because my adjacent neighbor answered the door. I overheard their conversation. “Is [moi] in? … I don’t know, you want to check? … Yes, could I? I have these snacks for him.” He let her into the building and she knocked on my door. My heart raced. “I don’t think he’s in … Ok, let me just try once more … Ok, suit yourself, but people are trying to sleep.” Knock knock knock! I turned off the TV, computer, and all the lights and sat in the quiet dark, wondering if I should confront her or call the cops. No worse time to start a battle with a psycho chick than at 2AM. I imagined how a confrontation would go. She would cry and scream and maybe accuse me of rape as my neighbors gathered at their stoops to watch the drama unfold. No, I decided against it. She was unstable enough to cause a major scene, and if I could escape without being identified as “that guy” who has weird stalker chicks coming to his home in the dead of night, I would. So I played possum. I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin, dreaming of happier times.

Twenty minutes later (although it felt like a year) she left. I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, to a bag of snacks sitting outside my door and a text from her:

i’m so sorry i don’t know what got into me. i’m erasing your number. i’ll never contact you again. best of luck.

I did not reply to that text. I noted with wry irony the “best of luck” face saving maneuver and then proceeded to show her text to all my friends later on. We scornfully laughed in that way guys laugh when we’ve dodged a bullet.

Update

Commenter PA wrote the following:

Half-seriously, how about this as the very last resort against a stalker chick, if leaving the country doesn’t work:

Tell her you are deeply in love with her, send her a new gushy Hallmark card every day, tell her that you see yourselves married, tell her that she’s special, call her at work about how she’s the most beautiful thing that ever walked into your life, and then break into sobs when you tell her that it’s been so long since you were touched when the two of you first made love…. and so on.

If nothing else, that oughta kill the stalker-love, no?

As I wrote in reply, this is the nuclear bomb of counterstalker tactics, and like with all weapons of mass destruction, you run a high risk of catching a lethal dose of fallout. *When* it works, it works perfectly. She will run to the hills. The problem is when it doesn’t work. If you’ve been an alpha for too long, you may have a hard time effectively simulating a lovesick beta. If it backfires, you are stuck with a stalker who is setting up a gift registry with Williams & Sonoma.

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The answer to yesterday’s post:

The “do me in the ass” conversation was first. If she had said she was married first, I may or may not have proceeded with the dirty bang, but I would have thought a little less lowly of her. A married woman disenchanted with her husband, who lets you know up front she is about to cheat on him with you, is lying to just one man, instead of two. She would have at least given me the opportunity to decide for myself whether to facilitate her whoring.

Commenter Welmer captured the spirit of the moment perfectly:

She told him she was married second. Some women like surprising men with that crap. It’s kind of a power trip.

I had the distinct impression at the time as she was telling me what a bad person I would think she is once she revealed the truth about herself that she was indubitably relishing the high drama. I did not get the feeling she truly felt very bad about her cheating, or that she actually cared if I thought she was a bad person. Instead, she was sticking it to her beta husband, as well as to me (though of course if fucking a girl in the ass is akin to being used, then use me bitch). She was enjoying a power trip.

She was Russian.

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Her: I have to tell you something.

Me: Oh man, here we go. What?

Her: It’s going to make me look bad. I’ll understand if you hate me after this.

Me: You’re a child molester?

Her: I’m married.

Me: [thinking about the last girl who forgot to mention she was married] Fucking great. Really?

Her: Yes, really. I’m a bad person.

*****************

Her: Would you like to do me in the ass?

Me: It’s funny how you ask so matter-of-factly. But, yeah, sure.

Her: Ow ow ow ow. Eeee.

*****************

Question for the studio audience: In what order did these two conversations happen?

This holiday season, we should all take time to remember that women

  • have little sense of justice.
  • perfected the art of amorality.
  • like to be choked.

Merry Christmas!

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