Freelance Comment Of The Week: Chicks Dig Charlie Manson

Days of Broken Arrows provides a short history of Charles Manson, convicted murderer, cult leader, psychopath, and alpha male with a knack for harem building and marrying much younger women while in prison for life.

Manson:

Son of a prostitute.
No father.
Awful childhood.
Barely literate.
5’2″ tall.
Spent most of his youth in detention centers.
When he was finally released as an adult, he begged to stay inside, worrying he could not handle life on the outside.
With a few years he had harems of women.
Held orgies.
Orgies were so great that Beach Boy Dennis Wilson invited them to move in.
Dennis Wilson was a major Alpha Male rock star of the ’60s.
Manson then order his women to kill.
They were so devoted that they did.
His women were not ugly losers — some were former cheerleaders.

Say what you will about the guy, but he had an innate Alpha quality. Shame it was put to such bad use. Guys who whine they can’t get women should think about his life and how he managed to not only get women to sleep with him but basically make them servants to his will. He had some serious charisma.

I’m not surprised at the wife who is a fraction of his age. I’d be surprised if he didn’t have groupies.

He was even a talented songwriter. He placed a song on a Beach Boys album and penned this, which was later covered by Guns N’ Roses.

True love.

<dr seuss>

Yes, chicks dig jerks.
Some dig them a little
some dig them a lot.
Some chicks dig them
in the parking lot.
Some dig them white
some dig them black.
And some chicks even dig them
when they go on the attack.
Yes, chicks dig jerks
this much is true.
They dig jerks more
when they’re black and blue.
Chicks dig jerks
of all sizes and hues.
They dig charmers and badboys
and prisoners too!
Some chicks dig jerks
of the jerkiest sort.
They marry crazy killers
60 years older, and short.
Nice men and kind men
need not apply.
It’s dangerous folk
who catch a chick’s eye.
So when you see a puddle
and lay down your coat
just remember the chicks
backstage at death row.
Ol’ Charlie Manson
got himself married.
While you sit at home
and whack your tally.

</dr seuss>

On a related topic, F. Roger Devlin pondered the reason for the observable preference of women for jerks, in an article titled “The Question of Female Masochism“. A CH read of the week. The take-home punch:

I would suggest that female sadism might be expected to emerge in a society where men refuse to or are prevented from displaying dominance. A society-wide failure of men to take charge of women is likely to produce a great deal of conscious or unconscious sexual frustration in women which may express itself as sadism. […]

I do not know if frustrated masochistic instincts cause sadism in women—it is just my hunch. What I do feel confident in stating is that female masochism is a critically important subject which neither feminist denial nor the sanctimonious gallantry of Christian traditionalists should dissuade us from investigating.

You only had to listen… to yer loveable Heartiste.

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Why Men Shouldn’t Marry Women Over 30

Don’t marry a woman over 30. There are the obvious reasons…

– The over-30 woman has lower fertility. If you want to build a dynasty, your over-30 wife might stall out at 1.3 heirs.

– The over-30 woman has likely amassed an impressive knob count. When you marry a 30+ woman, you’re marrying her 30+ cockas. Hope you like getting phantom cucked! As magically prehensile as your penis may be, she’ll never look up to it in cross-eyed awe like she did with her first cock when she was younger, hotter, tighter, and inexperienced.

– The over-30 woman is bitter from a wasted prime spent on failed relationships she hoped would lead to marriage. Now that you’re marrying her, she should be grateful, but she’s not. You remain perplexed, as is the wont of your beta male class.

– The over-30 woman fell in love with her career and the alpha male bosses she answers to before she fell in love with you. Wrong order.

But all these reasons pale in importance to the fact that a man marrying an over-30 woman is investing everything he has in a rapidly depreciating pleasure provider that has already lost a lot of its aesthetic value.

As reader Trainspotter helpfully notes,

Zombie Shane: “But the fall-off [in a woman’s attractiveness] a few years later can be shockingly abrupt.”

It certainly can be. So many guys these days are marrying early 30’s women, and then, almost immediately – Bam! The wall. It’s over almost before it began. It comes on so fast these guys should qualify for some sort of PTSD related disability.

As I go through my week, I often see married couples walking about. At least nine times out of ten, the wife is so unattractive that there is no way I could possibly imagine doing her, and these are just women in their 30’s. In fact, it is impossible for me to imagine most of them as having ever been attractive enough to warrant male attention.

Perhaps the fault is mine, and my imagination impoverished. Where I saw only blight, sag and bloat, their male partners saw bounteous opportunity, vistas beyond compare.

Do these men have stomachs of iron, or something? What power of will do they possess that I lack, in order to service these mighty warpigs? Most assuredly, I could never do what they do. I lack the strength, to my great and eternal shame.

Col. Kurtz himself has nothing on such gods, strolling amongst mere mortals such as I. Give me ten divisions of men like that and…well, not exactly sure what I could do. Probably bump up porn sales a notch or so.

“It’s over almost before it began.” The shining shiv delivered. The message received in pierced heartmeat. Surprise expiration!

Marrying an over-30 woman is like buying a used car one mile short of its 120,000 mile servicing. Yeah, you’ll enjoy a few bumpy rides sitting in that steal, but it won’t be long before the tailpipe falls off somewhere on Route BigMistake and the heater blows ice queen air.

The over-30 woman can fix herself up enough to fool the prospective provider hubby for a short while, and once the line that is dotted is signed the ruse will be discarded. The short time horizon thinking and avoidance of easy prescience are the thermal exhaust ports of many a beta schlub too desperate for love to project the catalyst of their ardor a few years forward.

Marry her young and un-plunged. That’s the ticket (if you must punch it). This way, you get to enjoy five to ten more years of your wife’s prime nubility before her petals start floating to the ground. Ten years of almost famous sex in exchange for surrendering your natural male prerogative for poosy variety beats two years of reunion tour sex at the same exorbitant price.

There’s another, subtle, reason to refuse the wedded diss of marrying the over-30 woman. Now, naturally, if you marry an under-30 woman, the day will come, ostensibly, that she’ll be your over-30 wife. But you’ll have something that chagrined men who married women on the cusp of sagging cups don’t have: Years of very fond, very monopolized, very supple memories. If you maritally snag a 21-year-old minx and occupy her sugar walls for the next ten years, the spermatomically bonded cervix-splattered glue of all those splendid tumbles of passion accrue into something larger than the sum of your individuated speckles. All that young woman heat, heat which will never be replicated with the older version of your wife, captures into limbic amber a network of interlocked, superconductive emotions with the power to sustain lovingrapture a good ways past the poignantly brief era of peak wife ripeness, onward into the elevator muzak era of bland marital inertia (50 years, plus or minus).

You marry an over-30 woman and you’re left grasping at a grease truck menu of curdled, pear-shaped memories and wrinkled recollections for sustenance.

Don’t fall victim to marrying that Charlie Brown Christmas tree that drops its one bulb as soon as you carry it across the threshold. Find yourself a young healthy fir, chop it down, decorate it with your tinsel, and leave lots of unwrapped gifts under its voluptuous boughs. Just make sure there’s no room under there for anyone else’s gifts.

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Overconfidence Is The Heart Of Game: ❤Science❤ Edition

Yer ‘ginal aerator has not sifted through virgin forests of montes pubis without noticing a thing or two about the rhythmic ecological tickings of women. One of those tickings is the unmistakable sound of the cogwheel shift that occurs in women who have the good fortune to fall under the admiring gaze of an overconfident man.

“Over-” being the key prefix here.

As always, social science plays catch-up to the keen Heartiste eye.

A study from 2012 concluded that even when overconfidence produces subpar results, its charm still wins the day. We might expect someone with more confidence than ability to underperform when pressed. The study tested that expectation and found it more or less accurate – but also found that it really doesn’t matter. Overconfidence may not shine when objectively tested, but it has a knack for seducing people to such a degree that they ignore the results in favor of keeping the golden child on a pedestal.

Sounds suspiciously like women ignoring the red flags of relationship threat when they’re in love with jerkboys.

If you had to isolate why, it seems to come down to a matter of status—a commodity that overconfidence is expert at creating and nurturing. When managed well, the social status conferred by overconfidence has an aura just shy of magical, capable of keeping our attention diverted from measurable results.

Chicks dig men with social status, i.e., leaders of men and women. They dig that male character trait more than looks, money, or dependability.

That’s a jarringly paradoxical conclusion when you consider the average person’s gut reaction to “that overconfident jerk.”  How can we be both repulsed and seduced by the same thing? The question gets stranger in light of another study that showed how even rudeness gets a pass if its bearer’s overconfidence has alchemized sufficient status.

In one of the study’s experiments, participants watched a video of a man at a sidewalk café put his feet on another chair, tap cigarette ashes on the ground and rudely order a meal.  Participants rated the man as more likely to “get to make decisions” and able to “get people to listen to what he says” than participants who saw a video of the same man behaving politely. Through a few other experiments the same results prevailed – people tended to rate the rule breakers as more in control and powerful compared to people who toed the line.

Jerks are rule breakers. Rule breaking is perceived as high status. High male status is attractive to women.

And what’s the all-essential ingredient in believing oneself above the rules? Why yes, overconfidence, of course. (This may also help explain why rude sales associates outsell others at luxury stores.)

Fake it till you make it. And then, once you’ve made it, fake it even more.

Those studies circle the question of why we’re prone to falling for the chutzpah of overconfidence, but say little of why the overconfident are so good at pulling it off. The most recent study on the subject has an answer that’s not likely to lessen our irritation about this whole thing, but irritatingly makes decent sense.

It can be summarized like this: Belief sells, whether it’s true or not. In the case of overconfidence, the belief in one’s ability—however out of proportion to reality—generates its own infectious energy. Self-deception is a potent means of convincing the world to see things your way.

Inner game. You won’t succeed with women until you first internalize the belief that you CAN succeed with women. And are DESTINED to succeed with women. Another term for this is ABUNDANCE MENTALITY. When you start to believe that there’s a new woman around every corner excited to meet you, that no one woman has a monopoly on specialness, then WOMEN THEMSELVES will begin to believe that about you, too. It’s as if your self-enlarging belief system is carried aloft on an ether of sexy vibes that women can sniff out from the dispiriting miasma of beta male self-doubt that permeates their existence.

While we may not like that conclusion, it’s difficult to argue that it isn’t in evidence around us every day. People who don’t believe in themselves—whether that belief is well-grounded or not—aren’t likely to convince others to buy in.

A better description of the beta male mindset you would be hard-pressed to find.

What the latest study and elements of the others are telling us is that self-deception is an especially potent brand of status fertilizer. When packaged with personality, it makes others want to believe even when the results would counsel otherwise.

Game is applied charisma. Charisma is status + a charming personality. These characteristics will lift an ugly man to a desirable man in the hearts of women. A false belief in your allure as a womanizer will become a true belief in time, and you can thank women’s loving assistance for the evolution.

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Time For A False Rape Accuser Registry

The idea of a false rape accuser registry has been around for a while (most notably right here at Le Chateau), but lately it’s picked up momentum.

It’s time has come. More precisely, it’s time came ten years ago. We’re already playing catch-up.

False rape accusations put innocent men in jail where they are buttfucked by large black men. Feminists cheer this. Feminists are hateful cunts. It’s time to turn the tables on them and their manlet taint-lappers.

A publicly accessible list of women who have falsely accused men of rape they didn’t commit will go a long way towards shaming these succubi until they slice lengthwise. This will also serve as a lesson for the others.

Call it… David’s List. Would a diligent, energetic entrepreneur care to take up the challenge? Justice and righteousness will guide your path.

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The Flaw In Assortative Mating Theory

In a word: Credentialism.

Credentialism, as defined by CH, is a system where the signaling value of a credential exceeds the content value of the acquired knowledge implied by the credential.

Keep this definition in mind, because it will explain a lot about the shortcomings of assortative mating data.

Assortative mating is the theory that people pair up according to social class, which in modern America is nearly synonymous with educational class. Proponents of assortative mating theory speculate that a cognitive elite — and perhaps soon a racial elite — is evolving from the observed mate choices of the upper classes to marry solely among themselves. Sort of like an “educated class inbreeding”. The mechanism by which educated class inbreeding happens is through meeting one’s mate on college campus, or later at the office or within social circles, both of which tend to be segregated by smarts and its proxy, college degree.

The more generations that pass through the filter of selective breeding for credentials, the likelier that a distinct race of übermensch becomes a permanent piece of the American social scene. A Bindi-style caste system is not far behind.

The flaw in assortative mating theory lies in its major premise: That credentials are as accurate a gauge of smarts and knowledge and social class now as they were in the past.

There’s no doubt women have flooded academia, and now outnumber men on campus by a nontrivial margin.

The fact that the female representation in college has risen so dramatically in such a short time period tells us that genetics are not the driving factor. Women did not suddenly become smarter, nor did they become smarter than men, during their rise to higher ed prominence. No, what happened instead is one-parent families became unaffordable in The Disunited States of Diversity, and, more pertinently, the average college degree lost a lot of its value.

Crudely, women have flooded into college to earn shit degrees like Communications, English, Education, and Women’s Studies.

Liberal arts degrees are useless degrees, because everything you’d wind up doing in a cubicle job with such a degree can be learned in two weeks if you have half a brain. In fact, these degrees are worse than useless, because they saddle women with a mountain of debt that they must pay off by marrying in their dried-up 30s a no-game-having, scarcity-mentality, provider beta male.

The uselessness of humanities degrees to real world value creation is exacerbated by the diversity industrial memeplex, which has further eroded the college cachet by the necessity of dumbing down and grade inflating the degree programs that vibrant students swarm into on the largesse of creator class endowment money.

What you are staring at is the twisted face of credentialism, the college debt racket and status whore end game that proves nothing except that women can be gifted conformist suck-ups in the stampede to earn a parchment declaring them competent at arranging client meetings, thinking inside the box, and mingling with white collar men who satisfy their hypergamous desire.

Empty, status striving credentialism is the reason assortative mating theory is flawed. Men and women aren’t matching up by IQ or class; they’re matching up by credential. Except that, on average, the men’s degrees are actually worth the paper they’re printed on.

Assortative credentialism is the more precise term for the marriage trend that we observe took off after women stormed the campus citadel. Conflating runaway credentialism with IQ misses the fact that today’s paper pushing woman with a communications degree was yesterday’s equally competent secretary with a high school degree, and perhaps even yesteryear’s farmhand mother with sharp instincts for survival.

So there will be no genetic überwench class. This isn’t to say an evolved cognitive elite is impossible; rather, what appears to be happening is less IQ stratification than a perverse reiteration of the patented CH BOSSS (Boss-Secretary Sexual Strategy) sexual market mechanism to reduce wealth and class inequality. The high school grad secretary of yore has been replaced by the college grad secretary of today. And as long as she stays thin and pretty, she’ll catch the eye of that high status man, and GSS data will erroneously pick this up as mate sorting primarily based on college experience or IQ.

There’s another flawed premise bedeviling assortative mating theory: It’s not really assortative MATING as much as it is assortative MARRYING. Whatever marriage trends we see between degreed SWPL women marrying degreed SWPL men are happening later and later in life, late 20s to early 30s. But before then, during those prime female nubility late teens and 20s, marriage rates are low among the “inbred educated class”. However, women aren’t waiting fifteen years in stark celibacy before assortatively marrying. There’s plenty of Pill and rubberized reproduction-thwarted mating going on between ages 15 and 30. The mating is what really animates men, moreso than the marrying. And women *are* assortatively mating, if by assortative we mean women are choosing to fuck sexy alpha cads who aren’t interested in footing the living expenses bills for women with feminist studies expertise who delight at the prospect of earning a paycheck to throw back mimosa-fueled single lady brunches.

Like I’ve said, it’s no coincidence that charismatic jerkboy game rose to prominence at the same time female college attendance and credentialism skyrocketed.

UPDATE

Audacious Epigone adds his pence to the assortative marrying topic.

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Predict This Man’s Romantic Future

If all you had to go on was a couple’s photo together, could you predict the man’s romantic future? Exhibit Gay:

Men made aware of the sexual market undercurrent propelling each person through superficially detached life events woven into a unified whole by the prime directive could glance at this photo and know in an instant, based on nothing but body language cues, the fate of this happy couple.

There is, of course, the obvious. Mixed-race couples tend to fair poorer than same-race couples. And he looks forty years older than her.

But beyond those black and white monochromatic signatures, there are almost equally telling giveaways in his and her body postures that predict their marital fortune. He grasps her with fearful possessiveness. He leans into her like a human Pisa tower. Her smile is all show, no glow. Her dead eyes reveal her emotional distance. Worse, and most humorously, her head has craned away from his head at an angle that precisely mirrors his neck crick. She checked out of this lovely scene long before the camera flashed.

Can you predict his romantic future from this photo? Take a guess before reading further.

.

.

.

.

She willingly stayed married to him for 20 minutes after her green card cleared.

Beta males need to learn game and to hear non-nonsense talk about the differing nature of the sexes so that they can spot the clues early in a relationship or even during a first date that a woman isn’t as enamored of them as they are of her. This bracing acceptance of reality would save them time, energy, money, and heartache, and most crucially save them the accumulating bitterness that is inevitably projected onto future women who may be good for them.

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The Ephemeral Few

There is no male equivalent to the female “five minutes of alpha” heart trap. Men simply don’t experience the same intense urge as women to constantly compare and contrast present lovers to past or potential future lovers. The hypergamous instinct, while technically a property of both sexes, is most pronounced in women. To reiterate why: Women have 400 viable eggs, men have billions of sperm.

However, wistful remembrance of old lovers, less an exercise in regret than in appreciation, does lay claim to frontier outposts of men’s hearts. The swell of erotic nostalgia will vary from man to man, and reach crest heights directly proportional to a man’s breadth of bedroom experience. The more women a man has lain and loved (and labored under), the greater his predilection to cynically scour his past for discarded perfection.

But it’s not the prettiest women in his past that such a man might fondly recall. Instead, it’s those “first movers” who move his memory. There is something lustfully osmotic about the late teenaged man’s brain that when permeated by the heartsmoke of that first or second lover seals the memory hard in neural carbonite. The ethereal aura surrounding one’s first love only vibrates stronger with passing years and passing lovers, until the enfeebling effect of old age finally defeats its crepuscular magnetism.

On that subject, reader Trainspotter eulogizes,

No matter how many girls you date/bang, when all is said and done, only a few will matter. Maybe only one. Everyone else is background noise. In time, you’ll literally forget almost all of them, as they are utterly irrelevant to anything you care about in life. But there will be a few Great Ones (yes, I’m stealing that from A Bronx Tale). You never forget them. Those are the ones you miss. Those are the ones that haunt!

Talk to a guy who’s banged two hundred girls, and ask him which ones were really important to him. He’ll probably give three names. Maybe a couple more, maybe a couple less. I could give five names that matter to me, but two stand out the most. Everything else is mere clutter. What the hell was her name? Who cares!

And here’s the bad news: chronologically, his top names will probably be mostly concentrated in the first ten percent, maybe twenty percent, of those conquests.

Something to think about. We often make the most intense connections when we are too immature to appreciate them, and most cavalier at throwing them aside. There is a paradox in there, somewhere, and also, I think, a lesson.

The searing chemical reaction of first loves requires two reagents: The unformed mind, and youth. Familiarity with the opposite sex may breed facility with them, but it also breeds ennui if one is not careful to exercise refinement of taste with the accumulating lessons. From the teens to mid 20s, men’s minds are ripe for imprinting, and the imprinting will be especially powerful in men with little prior romantic experience.

The other reagent, and the one Trainspotter hinted at, is sheer feminine youth. As teenagers, we men don’t appreciate the unearthly beauty of our female cohorts. Truly, a woman will never be as breathtakingly captivating as she is between the ages of 15 and 25 (and this range is skewed toward the younger age). A woman can still be beautiful well into her 30s, but as exquisitely beautiful as she was at 17? No. (The only exception to this rule with any practical significance is the obese teenage woman who loses the weight and transforms into the slender 28 year old yoga queen.)

The male appreciation for precious female youth doesn’t pick up steam until later in life, when younger women become more distant and older women more his dating partner norm. We as a species are cursed to value the good things in life with the clearest mind only in hindsight and when bedeviled by the less good things.

Imprinting + female youth = transcendent memories of first loves.

But there are other women who stir men’s longings, and who could properly rate alongside that first love. These are the women a man has just left behind, the nearest ghostly competitors to the woman he is now dating. Recent conquests linger in men’s thoughts because of their freshness, and if they were (at times) true loves, there will invariably follow flashes of padded regard. Men must wrestle with divinely received compulsions for sexual variety, and given that acquiring new variety is harder than tumescing on the laurels of past variety, men tend to accommodate their compulsion with the easy insertion of nearly corporeal memories.

The first ten percent, and the final ten percent. And somewhere between those two may hover aloft an outstanding lover or two who, through fateful circumstance, diverged from your shared path. Every other woman is, at best, recalled to dendritic apparition with strenuous mental exertion and, at worst, utterly forgotten. And as the years pile higher, the forgotten loves grow in number, though you’ll know this only in the abstract. Pain yourself to hold onto your anthology of women — and they will always be your women so long as you once took them completely — against the rust of time.

I call these once and present lovers the ephemeral few. With you when you want them, gone when you don’t, never existing when you have left them for good.

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