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Gratitude

America is feverish with shamelessness. Teeming Trash World migrants are escorted here on a transnational, transubstantiating, blood red carpet, only to arrive and shamelessly agitate for handouts, hand-overs, and upper hands. Single moms shamelessly flaunt their “independence” and “empowerment” as their kids have to endure a parade of dickheads tromping through their living rooms. Sluts shamelessly crow about their accomplishment persuading desperate losers to dump a spastic fuck in them. Fatties shamelessly parade their blubber, and doubleplusshamelessly demand acceptance of their grotesqueness. SWPLs preach diversity while shamelessly doing all they can to insulate themselves from their ruddy religious icons. Government and corporate globalists shamelessly smash the concept of a nation for a fatter wallet. SJWs shamelessly slake their hatred for their enemies’ perceived sin of hatefulness. Male feminists shamelessly surrender the last vestige of their masculinity for a patronizing pat on the head from screeching witches.

Soon, women will turn the Walk of Shame into an exuberantly proud strut.

Worse, the American shamelessness fever burns in a Bonfire of the Butthurt. Enthusiastic abandonment of humility mixed with prickly sensitivity is 100% bad box office.

What this world needs is a little bit of gratitude. And that’s the reason for this post. A simple thank you to you, the readers, for visiting the Chateau and, more importantly, for taking the lessons to heart.

It goes unmentioned (until now) that CH receives emails almost daily from grateful readers who saw improvements in their lives, or in the lives of people who matter to them, after applying the lessons taught here. Propriety, and sometimes requested confidentiality, dissuades the Chateau from printing these emails.

Some of the emails are incredibly moving. Like the one from an American soldier who lost friends on the battlefield in a most horrific manner, but who found sustenance and fortitude in the CH writings to bear the pain of loss and carry on. The resulting improvement in his dating life was just icing on the cake. To think that this blog is read thousands of miles away by warriors as spiritual nourishment is quite humbling.

But the email that swelled the heart of CH the most was the testimonial from a father of a teenage son. He explained in eloquent detail his distress from watching his son grow unhappier and lonelier by the day, another numberless castaway of a hypercharged high school dating market. The father stumbled across this digital oasis searching for “help my son find a girlfriend” and, struck by the unglossed nature of the CH message of hope, passed along the Rude Word to his son. At first, his son dismissed him with an embarrassed flourish, which the father expected.

Then, something changed. A few months later, the father noticed his son smiled more, and gained a renewed interest in his hobbies. He was funnier, and fun-loving. The moping and slammed bedroom doors decreased in frequency. Not long after that, the son casually announced over dinner he had to leave the house for a couple hours to “meet his girlfriend”. Dad, a smart man, did not make a production out of it, but inside he was bursting with pride and joy.

As was CH.

The gratitude, therefore, is for the people behind these testimonials, because in the end if nothing comes of Chateau Heartiste but that one attentive father saved his son from loveless solitude, every word would have been worth it.

So thank you readers, and thank you to those who have made donations, big and small.

I leave you all with this:

Love ferociously what is worth loving, hate with equal passion what is worth hating, and know that in the happy flux between those two poles you can make chaos dance to your tune.

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Commenter dirkdiggly unzips in front of a mirror and ‘miringly unfurls this meaty tale of modern romance:

What fun it would be to make a “romcom” depicting a fiery romantic relationship as it actually plays out for the garden-variety CH apprentice…

Boy meets girl at a gathering of mutual friends.
Girl is objectively prettier than the guy, and clearly bored with her life and asteroid belts of hopeful orbiters, also present at the gathering.
Guy behaves outlandishly, or displays bold talent that sets him apart -no fucks given.
Guy negs girl, finishes her drink while she goes to the bathroom to gossip.
Numbers are exchanged. Guy writes hers on a napkin -loses napkin.
She calls after a few days of expectant waiting and overthink.
Guy “forgets” her name, but tells her that he remembers her hairstyle because it’s so common these days.
Girl asks guy on a date.
Sparks fly, fluids are exchanged.
Guy loudly poops immediately post-coitus, bathroom door open. Girl is fascinated.
Guy doesn’t call for a week. Smoke pours from girl’s ears due to hamster wheel tread stripping and transmission fire.
Guy texts “sup”. Girl swoons.
Casual sex ensues for six months. Guy avoids meeting her family.
Guy moves across country. Girl uproots entire life, quits job at Forever21, follows.
Girl arrives to find guy with new girlfriend…”babe I thought we had an understanding”
Credits roll to sounds of wailing/sobbing.

I’m drafting a script now, wonder which studio will jump on this “feel-good hit of the summer” first?

I’ll be setting up an indiegogo for those who feel compelled to donate.

This romantic scenario is far more common than the ones you see in typical rom-coms. But it would bomb at the box office, because women wouldn’t like it. Women don’t like depictions of love and romance that are too honest about the nature of their own sexuality. See, for example, Blue Valentine. Concealed ovulation should be your first clue that women are born masters at the art of self-deception.

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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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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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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.

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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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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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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