Archive for the ‘Hamster of the Month Contest’ Category

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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Feminists… they just can’t keep their stories straight. Here’s Emma Watson, quoted at two different times, contradicting herself with an assurance that makes one wonder if she has an evil twin.

The first quote, from this past Tuesday’s gender equality speech (guffaw), reads “If men don’t have to be aggressive in order to be accepted, women won’t feel compelled to be submissive.”

(Never mind that this assertion makes absolutely no sense if you think about it for longer than a second.)

The second attribution, from two years ago, reads “But now Emma Watson has said she doubts she will date a British man ever again – because they are too shy. […] Instead an American will come up to her straight away and suggest a date – a boldness she finds attractive.”

#HeForShe? More like #HeForHeadCases.

Feminism long ago abandoned any pretense to logic or internal consistency. It’s nothing but feels all day, every day, with an extra helping of feels. Watson’s rationalization hamster, like most rodents residing in the brains of her callow ilk, is 700% thigh and 800% glutes. A swole spinner on the wheel of ego-masturbation.

Not that more evidence was needed, but once more, from the top and with throat cleared:


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The Hamster of the Month winner is no contest. It’s the rodents who power the lizard brains of these two Visitors to earth.

The dropping I’m referring to steams in a huge pile right on the cover of their book:

The Alpha Woman Meets Her Match: How Today’s Strong Women can find Love and Happiness without Settling

Never before has such concentrated female hamster delusion been defecated so ignominiously on one spot. Count the spinning wheels and the false assumptions.

1. An alpha woman is designated by her careerist ambition, rather than by her beauty and youth.

zoom zoom!

2. Entitled spinster hags are strong women.

zoom zoom!

3. Men secretly love masculine, careerist, dominating women.

zoom zoom!

4. Ugly careerist hags can find love and happiness without settling for a boring loser with few options.

I'm forty and beautiful!

5. Men’s desire is irrelevant. As long as the strong woman wants love and happiness with an alpha male, she’ll get love and happiness with an alpha male.

animals-pictes-hams-cute-at-bar (1)

Maxim #105: Frequency and absurdity of female delusions about their romantic worth are directly proportional to real world evidence of their romantic worthlessness.


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Recall the Chateau Heartiste description of feminism:

The goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.

If you examine feminist ideas in detail, most of them amount to justifications for the above formulation. A feminist utopia is one in which women, particularly ugly women, have limitless options in the sexual and economic markets while men’s options are curtailed to the fullest extent possible. (Which would necessarily have to be the case, since a low value woman can’t have increased sexual options — i.e., amplified hypergamy — without negatively affecting the options of a man with similar SMV.)

Eager to prove the CH elucidation of their ultimate goals correct, feminists and their psychotherapist allies are now pushing to sanction female infidelity.

But recently, a handful of therapists have started to push the idea that affairs can rescue a marriage and to define exactly in what instances that might be true. “People shriek and cry when they are confronted with an affair,” Brown writes in her essay, “The Affair as a Catalyst for Change,” which appears in the book Infidelity“Almost never do they realize that it might be the best thing that ever happened to them.”

Last year’s annual conference of the American Family Therapy academy allowed a panel about affairs called “From Trauma to Transformation,” which was the first time that idea officially entered the lexicon, says Esther Perel, author of Mating in Captivity and a couples therapist who is writing her next book on affairs. It was public and professional acceptance for the idea that an “affair doesn’t necessarily end a marriage and can possibly make it stronger.”

Ignore the psychobabble. It’s smoke and mirrors meant to distract from what the real intention of this change in judgment signifies. What feminists are attempting to do here is nothing short of legitimize the biologically innate female imperative to fuck alpha males during ovulation and extract resources from beta males during infertile periods of the monthly cycle. CH predicted it: Feminists and various “health professionals” would agitate to normalize the “alpha fux, beta bux” female mating strategy. As society becomes ever more feminized and emasculated, expect to see more of these rancid ideas percolate in mainstream discussion, as the pro-female directive and anti-male directive reach their demonic apotheoses.

You might say, “Well, this means men can be unfaithful without consequence, too!” Oh, ye of precious naivete. Men won’t be let off the hook. The divorce industrial and family court complexes are rigged against the interests of men, and getting more rigged by the day. An army of leftoids fed on the swill of legalese will barely break a sweat holding the contradictory beliefs that women cheat for good reasons and men cheat because they’re oppressive patriarchs.

Eventually, with the help of dazzling sophistry, the law will be twisted to such a warped geometry that the people will come to accept injustice as fairness and lies as truth. And those who bitterly cling to old-fashioned notions of justice will be scorned as rubes and cast out of polite society, their reputations and livelihoods destroyed with the ease of smashing an insect.

The irony of this feminism-inspired dross is that a case can be made that male infidelity might very well enhance marital stability, over the long term. Men are naturally disposed to seek and enjoy mate variety, and men are better than women at maintaining multiple lovers without sacrificing love or duty for any one of them. This is because men, unlike women, can easily sever sex from emotional connection. A cheating husband who gets his sexual needs met will feel less resentment toward his frigid wife. A cheating wife, in contrast, will feel more resentment for her beta husband who will assume the role for her of the man “keeping her from happiness”. There’s a reason “eat, pray, love” is marketed to the fantasies of women.

This isn’t to suggest that excusing male infidelity is good for the institution of marriage and the sustenance of an advanced, high trust civilization. Only that, if we are to set down this road of rationalizing the benefits of infidelity, it makes a lot more sense to grant husbands the generous latitude to pursue extramarital pleasures than it does to grant wives that same freedom. The consequences of wifely betrayal are a lot worse. (“but… the kiiid is not my son. woo hoo hoo”)

Feminism is the sick, wheezing spawn of its parent ideology, equalism, the belief in a magical flying spaghetti monster that imbues all humans with equal ability and equal worth, interchangeable flesh cogs that can as easily master astrophysics as lawn care given the right dose of self-esteem boosting pablum.

Whatever the self-professed noble intentions of their advocates, these ideologies are as wicked and destructive as any genocidal revolutions that have come before them. This is why CH, a citadel firm, guarded by sentries of ancient woods, illuminating a path to enlightenment, will never cease in its mission to utterly crush evil, sick ideologies like feminism so totally that there is no space for even the ashes of its immolation to gather in a stiff wind. Feminism’s proponents will suffer endless ridicule should they choose to fight, or they will retreat from the public square to lick their wounds in the comfort of their silent seething thoughts. And, if the spoils of victory are rich indeed, some will self-deliver to release the pain.

In related shivving, here’s a video of Hanna Rosin’s family engaged in a mock trial about the superiority of girls to boys. On the next episode of “The Hanna Propaganda Hour”: My boy’s first sexual identity crisis!

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A dating website which helps women meet the sexy alpha prison inmates of their dreams is up and running, and the hamsters on display are, in a word, rabid!

Canadian Inmates Connect Inc. showcases numerous prisoners serving life sentences and helps the incarcerated find pen pals and, perhaps, much more.

The 16-month-old website, which promotes some 40 convict profiles, has even churned out a few lockup love stories.

The site’s founder says several prisoners have asked her to remove their bios because they have already found that special someone.

There are whole armies of beta males who spend months and even years in book clubs, at speed dating events, and in bars and happy hours hoping to meet that special someone but coming up empty every time, while convicted murderers sit in cells as ladies basically throw caution to the wind and hurl themselves at them.

Melissa, who does not want her family name published due to privacy and safety concerns, was inspired to start the website after seeing similar ones in the United States.

America, fuck yeah!

[Melissa:] “It doesn’t matter what they’ve done. It’s not for me to judge… I’m just a firm believer in redemption and rehabilitation… I believe everybody deserves a second chance.”

Nonjudgmentalism: the leading sickness of a sick society. Or: this is what happens when you let women have the run of the place.

The profiles are authored entirely by the convicts, which means nobody double-checks them for accuracy.

No worries. These are pre-approved alpha males, which means the women will suspend all disbelief.

In a disclaimer on the website, Canadian Inmates Connect states that it’s not responsible for any type of relationship developed through its pages.

And by “relationship”, they mean any love match which may go awry and lead to “accidental” auto-asphyxiation or headless torsos under floorboards.

“They’re taking the chance to write to these guys.”

Yet, for some mysterious reason, the increased risk and obstacles to FMAC (Find Meet Attract Close) alpha inmates don’t deter any of these women from their dates with destiny.

Since inmates don’t have Internet access in the clink, initial contact must be made via snail-mail to their respective penitentiary.

There will never be a Canadian Law-Abiding Beta Male Connect website. If you aren’t a challenge, the women are callous.

Julie Young, a single mother from Truro, N.S., credits the website for introducing her to a convicted bank robber she hopes to marry one day.

“I would marry him because I love him and I see him having a really good future now,” said Young, whose sweetheart, Steve Mehlenbacher, is serving his fourth federal sentence after a total of 16 bank-heist convictions.

We have our first hamster sighting.

“We get really deep and personal in our letters about our pasts and just stuff like that, so we’re able to open up to one another.

“I never was able to open up to anybody before him.”

When women say this, what the really mean is “I never *wanted* to open up to any of the boring beta herbs I knew before I met my supremo alpha king.”

Eventually, they plan to go to school together to become child-care workers.

Would you entrust your kids to these two? Stick a fork in the West, she’s done.

Young argues that it’s probably safer to get to know a convict than to meet someone at a bar or on standard dating websites.

The hamster has gone feral.

“I heard from a lot of people there’s a lot of weirdos on there,” she said, referring to one popular matchmaking website.

“You could talk to somebody on a dating site in the United States, and you could talk for like three years every day after work or something, and that person could be murdering a bunch of people and you don’t know because they’re just some everyday person, right?”

By comparison, Young says, an inmate cannot just show up at your house uninvited right after you meet them. And she believes they would be less likely to lie since you already know why they were sent to jail.

“You just do your research on them, or whatever, and you’ll be good,” she said.

Congratulations, Julie Young, you are the Chateau’s Hamster of the Month! Or, rather, your hamster is hamster of the month. You, Julie Young the person, are apparently just a fleshy vessel to nourish your hamster which squats in your skull in complete operational control of all your faculties.

Many of the notes, [alpha criminal thug] said, were from women hoping to see him at the prison for conjugal visits.

“I already had women who were willing to do that,” Mehlenbacher said.

“That’s not what I was looking for.

“I wanted to find a real relationship.”

A thousand betas wept in unison.

[Melissa, the owner of the inmate dating website] said her cousin has died since she started the website and the death occurred in a suspicious case that she said police believe might have been murder, though the investigation is still ongoing.

Melissa added that she’s been in contact with the potential suspect and even brought that person to the funeral home when nobody was around, so the person could say a final goodbye to her cousin. All of this was with her family’s blessing, she added.

“The person’s still a human being,” she said.

“I don’t think anything that happened that night was intentional.

“Would I allow this person to join the website? Absolutely.”

Is it possible that two giant, feral hamsters, zombified by a disease of platitude prions, are on the loose in one news story? Yes. Congratulations, Melissa, you are now our second winner of Hamster of the Month, a prize you share with the esteemed Julie above, sweet girl who knows those murderous alpha male prisoners that leave her snatch sopping are just angels on the cusp of redemption.

I would tell you to go read the full article for more triple-action *facepalm*ing goodness, but what’s the point? Anyone who isn’t a sputtering hater or a complete retard about the female of the human species knows the score by now. It’s just overkill. And overkill is the way the ladies like it. :wink:

In related sequiturs, it’s high time the ruling class ditched their equalism ideology and started offering inmates deals for early release on condition they get vasectomies. Similarly, women with a history of dating societal parasites should be offered cash for Norplant, and those who couldn’t thwart their spawnage in time should be escorted to the abortion clinic by limo, all expenses paid, plus a little extra. Say, two months’ worth of McDonalds coupons.

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In a mainstream media aka Cathedral loser-whistle article (h/t “garter snake”) about older women “””dating””” younger men, one of the interviewed aging beauties had this to say,

Felicia Brings was 31 and dating a 25-year-old man in the 1970s and so feared losing her job over it that she kept the relationship a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you were considered a pervert.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger men — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old — because she finds she connects with them better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her.

“When I was in my 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of my own generation,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Men: New Options for Love and Romance” (New Horizon Press). She noticed younger men, often raised by feminist women, were intrigued by and admiring of her success and experience, whereas older men seemed threatened and expected women to play traditional roles.

Language is supposed to convey meaning, but when a hamster has swallowed it, digested it, and shat it out, we are compelled to sift through the pellets to find the embedded fiber of meaning.

Translated from the Hamsterese, abridged version:

Women are like dog shit. The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.

Translated from the Hamsterese, full version:

Felicia Brings was 31 and banging a 25-year-old boring mediocrity in the 1970s and so feared losing her mind over it that she kept the twice yearly sex sessions a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you considered yourself a romantic failure.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger beta males of EatPrayLove ethnicity who are desperately horny and unable to command attention from non-morbidly obese women their own age — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old abject loser — because she finds she genitally connects with the paid gigolos better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her when younger, hotter, tighter women are available to them.

“When I was in my wall impact 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of every generation who had options,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Effete Manboobs: New Ways to Temporarily Sedate the Pain of Being Sexually Worthless to the Men You Really Want” (New Whorizon Press). She noticed younger closet cases, often raised by feminist women, were pretending to be intrigued by and admiring of her success and caustic careergrrl personality, whereas older men who weren’t piss-stained street bums seemed viscerally disgusted by the thought of sex with her flabby carcass and expected women to be minimally attractive to coax a semi.

Hamster status: nuked and raining tufts of blood spattered fur.

This has got to be a Hamster of the Month contender. The alacrity with which aging starlets resort to the “men who don’t want me are threatened by my career success and life experiences” shibboleth should be included in the DSM-IV as a diagnosable psychological disorder.

< Bizarro Obama > Let me be clear, feminist platitude pushers. < /bizarro obama > Men are “threatened” by the accumulated career success and loudly exhorted independence of aging sirens like they’re threatened by a mound of warm, steaming shit: they think it’s disgusting and don’t want to touch it or smell it, let alone stick their dicks in it.


I don’t doubt that there are aging divas getting their overworked holes mechanically serviced by dorky desperadoes bursting with the dull pain of years of unexpelled cum. Nor do I doubt that some of those aging Isn’t Girls manage the miracle of convincing a lonely, thoroughly gelded pudgeball with swaying bitch tits and the hormonal profile of a soybean to stick around for more than a few nights of lusterless dispassion.

But, like Mrs. Robinson’s escape from reality, their younger lovers plungers usually fly the coop as soon as a cute girl half the age of the younger men’s groundbreaking intercourse aging mentors bats a dewy eyelash at them. That’s why so many of these loud and empowered aging dames reel off a laundry list of younger “lovers”; apparently not a one of these sensitive and intrigued lovers was interested in putting a ring on it, or even hanging around beyond the proximity of the industrial-sized bottle of lube. And when you ask the aging maiden about her current relationship status, she’s always “gravitating” toward this or that great type of guy.

If this post wasn’t enough of an ego MOAB for you, allow me to bullet-point the relevant shivs:

1. Older women are not fucking younger men in any appreciable numbers, and certainly not anywhere near the numbers of older man-younger woman couples. The whole notion is a wishful concoction of the feminism-drenched fluff media industry.

2. Every rule has its exceedingly rare exceptions. Older woman-younger man arrangements do exist, however their existence is not proof of a noteworthy reality that can impact the otherwise normal functioning of the sexual market.

3. Within the small subset of older woman-younger man pairings, the romantic dynamic is mostly energized, such as it is, by the easy path to sex provided to the younger man who would otherwise have trouble getting laid. Very few older woman-younger man bedroom jaunts grow into committed relationships. Most end unceremoniously within a matter of months.

4. Within that tiny sub-subset of romantically committed older woman-younger man pairings, the younger man is typically a low value omega male who couldn’t get laid in a libertardian-run brothel with a fistful of bitcoins.

5. A non-trivial number of older woman-younger man sex romps are between aging fat women and younger black men who seem to possess, contrary to what is observed in most other races, a complete and utter lack of discriminating taste in short-term sexual partners. The women in these squalid arrangements resemble, in size, shape, color and texture, don’t forget texture, the great resource-aggregating herbivores of the African veldt.

6. The rare, outwardly loving and seemingly stable older woman-younger man couple that one might occasionally glimpse in SWPL enclaves are often the tired detritus of a relationship that began with passionate keenness when the man was, say, in his early 20s and the woman was in her late 20s, and in the fullness of time and familiarity managed to avoid rupture by sheer force of risk-averse beta male inertia.

Some of you wonder why I drop the hammer of candor on liars and deluded freaks with such Thorian dispatch. What’s the upside?

The upside is that a world with fewer reality-denying propagandists is a world that is capable of turning away from the elevation of ugly and toward the exaltation of beauty. That’s the kind of world I want to live in; a world easier on the eyes and happier in the heart.

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CH’s last Hamster of the Month was none other than punching bag connoisseur Rihanna, who hamsterly rationalized her way right back into the loving-hating arms of the artist who turned her face into soggy oatmeal. Now we’ve got a new contender in the ring, and this lady’s jacked hamster might just be the rodent to take down the reigning champ.

In a BBC News article about readers who supposedly *cho cho chose* celibacy, a 46-year-old woman opened the cage and let her little fella out for an aimless, zig zagging stroll. The trail of tiny poops it left behind smells the tale.

I am a pretty 46-year-old woman, single and I haven’t had sex in almost four years. When I was in my 20s and 30s I had enough sex to last three lifetimes. I rarely went a week without finding someone to shack up with. Then I got older and more picky and I found that most of the guys just weren’t worth the time or the energy. The whole thing got old. I never found anyone compatible with me and I certainly was never willing to compromise my personality and my priorities for a man, so there you have it. I’m actually happier because I don’t date anymore and I’m free to enjoy life with myself. I have a great relationship with myself and my life. Sex really isn’t all that. American Woman, Chicago, Illinois, US

zoom zoom!zoom zoom!zoom zoom!

Please have a gander at her face shot on the BBC website (fourth picture down). That chin, guy! Her hamster is crazed. Hopped up on laced pellets and Five Eras Energy. When one is dealing with a rabid female rationalization hamster in the wild, one must take caution when capturing and tagging the varmint. Once caught, the hamster can be squeezed until concentrated delusion juice is extracted, and then the juice mixed with the proper reagents to produce the distilled truthful equivalent of the rationalization. CH lab technicians have already done the dirty work for you, and the following is the woman’s honest and true feelings translated from her hamsterese:

I am a 48-year-old pale shadow of the unattractive manjaw I once was, involuntarily single and I haven’t had real sex besides the penetration of my mouth, anus, or vagina in a bathroom stall at the Early Bird Buffet in Pensacola FL in almost ten years. When I was in my 20s and 30s I had too many soul-crushing empty pump and dumps with meth heads and aspiring rappers to last twenty pointless lifetimes. I rarely went a week without finding some total loser to bitterly cling to. Then I got even older than old and pickier at a time of my life when I should have been dropping my standards, and it slowly dawned on me that all of the love em and leave me losers I happily spread for just weren’t going to stick around and put a ring on it. My whole body and energy level got old. I never found anyone willing to put up with my acid bath personality and cauliflower mug, and I certainly was too selfish and too delusional to budge in the direction of making myself more appealing to the increasingly beta men realistically available to me, so there you have it. I’m actually sadder because I don’t date anymore and I’m fated to suffer my terrible loneliness. I have a hallucinatory relationship with myself and the last leg of my life. Loveless celibacy really isn’t all that.  – American Woman, Team Edward, Fatopia, Comingapartville, US

*shudder* So painful to read. Take this truth serum away and lock it somewhere safe. Bring back the hamster! That cute fuzzball is a lot more fun to watch. Haha… look at him go… round and round the wheel. Aaaahhhh…. so much better. Hold the Xanax.

Some readers ask, “Why do you give so much shit to obviously deluded and tragic headcases? What harm is she doing to anyone but herself?”

Harm is a conveniently vague word that’s often used by those who don’t understand the concept of externalities. A functioning nation is comprised of broadly like-minded and temperamentally similar people. The collective character of those people determines the character of the nation. In the course of time and the tumult of events, a people’s character can shift to accommodate new incentives. A nation will, during these shifts, follow more or less a path of lies or a path of truth, as befits the psychological needs of her people and the monied interests of her ruling elite. When the willing embrace of lies predominate, the cohesiveness of the nation frays under the strain and her aesthetic bounty fritters from neglect. Inexorably, too slowly for the average person to sufficiently apprehend to refuse her servitude, the cacophony of lies begins to demand its tribute. And that tribute is a steep price, indeed. Paid sometimes in blood, but more often in the humiliating betrayal of good sense and in the surrender of self-assurance. A resignation of the spirit accompanies the disheartening assent to moral neutering.

In the gloomy twilight of receding greatness, what was once the lonely wail of the societal defective harshly but rightly estranged from the common good becomes the discordant battle hymn for a broken people bereft of purpose and vulnerable to experimentation with novel hierarchies of morality and aesthetics.

American Woman and her Rationalization Hamster is a propagator and a product of that novel hierarchy of twisted morality. Her self-medicating lies are an insatiable mind virus that won’t stop their multiplying at the contours of her body. The virus will leap into the ether, strengthened on the gruel of sophistry, into the unhappy, inviting, doubt-whipped minds of those teetering on the precipice of postmodern annihilation.

Her lies to herself become the lies that others tell themselves, until the cancer has culturally metastasized and there is no longer a way to distinguish the self-told lies from the lies meant to deceive converts.

If you believe that harmless little delusions are in fact the craggy building blocks of degeneracy total, then you grip your CH-issued shiv of sadism, press the tip against the beating breast of the poisoned id, whisper tenderly into the deformed monster’s ear to silently accept its necessary death, and drive the cruel cleansing metal of mockery to the hilt, until its black lifeblood has drained out. You hang the freak corpse from a lamppost as an example for the others. And then you remind yourself that you, like everyone else, is a depraved human, slave to his nature, who enjoys the suffering of losers and mind disease vectors.

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