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Archive for the ‘Girls’ Category

The Joy Of Game

I don’t think it gets told often enough here at Le Chateau, but Game, when executed with flair and precision, can be quite a joy to experience, both for the giver of Game and the receiver of Game. Reader Lichtof supplies an anecdote which demonstrates this truism about the crimson arts.

Girl at work – she’s 25..I’m 37..she had a history of not getting her timesheet in on time. This week she did

9.27 Me : Timesheet- boooooooo! Hiss!!
9.29 Her: Are you unhappy that its already done?
9.37 Me: Yes – now I can’t bug you
9.39 Her: LOL – I’ll try to slack off next time
9.42 Me: I can only handle predictability
9.43 Her: Gotta keep you on your toes!
9.45 Me: And there’s no beer left (in staff kitchen)
9.45 Her: I drank it all. Dark times here at (firm’s name)
9.55 Me: Not into dark beer but (bar name) has a grolsch – we will go sometime – wait haven’t I been here before?

Within minutes she was by my desk and 2 hours later asked me to lunch.

I bet you smiled reading this. A skilled seduction has an almost harmonic lilt to the ear. Flirtation is the poetic transmogrification of primitive desires. Notice, too, how a man with tight game energizes a woman, and summons the best of her; namely, her playfulness. A woman who is fortunate to be the lust object of a man with a nimble tongue and mischievous squint is a woman eager to relinquish her resting bitch face to the full flowering of her feminine soul.

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Via reader StAugustine, who supplied a quote from Irvin Cobb as an answer to the Hivemind media propaganda blitz asserting that women are just as funny as men.

Seriously. From Irwin S. Cobb’s memoirs (1923), I’ve treasured this nugget:

“You may have noticed that in making this classification, I have used the masculine gender exclusively. I have done so advisedly and after due thought, because all the best authorities agree that it is not in the nature of a woman to take a joke, for better or for worse, the first time she meets it face to face. In the matter of being shown, the average woman, so far as humor is concerned, is so far out in Missouri that she’s practically in Kansas. She is up on the tallest peak of the Ozark Mountains, very skeptical, not to say skittish. She wants to hear a thing that’s funny several times and let it soak into her and mingle with her other ingredients; then after a suitable period of time she begins to care for it and forever after bears it a deep and lasting affection. At least, soothe authorities confirm.”

Cobb captured a particular feature of women very well: their conformist herd mentality influences almost everything they set about to understand, even the world of humor. But once woman has latched onto a novel observation (or narrative) she won’t easily relinquish it, until signaled by her peers that it’s ok to do so.

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Here’s a game tip for aspiring womanizers that more experienced swains probably already know:

The more a girl mentions her boyfriend — either by name or by label — during the course of a conversation originally unrelated to anything about her boyfriend, the likelier it is she is aroused by your presence and therefore compelled to grasp onto “verbal anchors” that remind her of her ties to her boyfriend so as to alleviate her swelling guilt and, in case things spin out of control, to back-rationalize any cheating she does as outside the realm of her personal responsibility.

I call this the “three boyfriend blurts” rule. I’ve found, unfailingly, that women who plug the word “boyfriend” three times or more into their conversations with me are invariably attracted to me and enjoying my company beyond the bounds of propriety. These are the tell-tale female cues that they are stricken by guilty tingles, and are feeling at once desirous, desirable, and ashamed.

Once I know this, I can construct the flow and direction of our conversation toward more seductive destinations.

Most men are put off when a girl mentions her boyfriend out of the blue and worse, over and over, but they should really consider it a seduction opportunity. When a girl wedges a discordant declaration of the existence of her boyfriend into her rambling train of thought multiple times, the odds of illicit romantic closure with a charming interloper rise commensurate to the number of boyfriend blurts. The multiple boyfriend blurts are less warnings to other men than they are signals to approach her from an angle, because “taken” girls spook easily, like horses.

There’s only one exception to this rule, and it’s a weak exception, hardly belying the general observation: Some girls — particularly high maintenance BPD drama queens — who have fallen for a new guy will declare it from the rooftops on the flimsiest pretexts. However, this stage of try-hard infatuation usually lasts for a few weeks, two months tops, and they are more pliable to a supple seduction than their protestations to the contrary would suggest.

Girls who truly love their boyfriends, who are low infidelity risks, and who are secure in the knowledge that their boyfriends love them back, will be noted for the *absence* of mentions they make of their boyfriends. Paradoxical at first consideration, it makes sense upon reflection… a committed woman in love feels no need to prop up her own sexual loyalty to her boyfriend nor feels much need to artificially inflate via verbal incantation the sexual loyalty of her boyfriend.

For this reason, it’s almost a welcome convenience to hear the anxious staccato blurts of a “””taken””” woman instead of the opaque discretion of a legitimately taken woman who feels little psychic tension to announce her disengagement from the dating market.

Best of all, of course, is to hear no reference to a boyfriend, but even that is no guarantee you wouldn’t play the unknowing part of the furtive rendezvous lover.

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Via: (zoom-able link)

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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