Marco Roboto

Marco Rubio is stupid. And maybe gay. He’s taking heat for his latest debate performance, where he repeated an obviously scripted line five times — “[president butt naked] knows exactly what he’s doing” — like a robot remotely controlled by GOPe puppet masters.

In honor of Marco Fruitio’s scratched record intellect, here is a remix of an old Styx song.

Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Mata ahoo Hima de
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Himitsu wo foam party

You’re wondering who I am
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
Pool boy or neocon
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
No borders are my plan
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
I am the donors’ man

I’ve got a secret, I’ve been hiding under my skin
My heart is foreign, my blood is Cuban
My brain is for rent, so if you see me
Acting dumbly, don’t be surprised

I’m just a toady who takes his orders
From Norman Braman
To keep me alive, my campaign alive
Soundbites all night to keep me alive

I’m not a robot without emotions
I’m not what you see
I’ve come to help you
With your problems, so pass amnesty
I’m not a hetero, I’m not a señor
Forget what you know

I’m just a cipher whose campaign circus
Went beyond his control
Beyond my control, we all need control
I need control, big donor control

I am the Davos man
(Secret, secret I’ve got a secret)
Who had a simple task
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
Mouthpiece for globalists
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
To shun nationalists

Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo, Domo
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Homo, Homo

Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto
Domo Arigato, Marco Roboto

Thank you very much, Marco Roboto
For handing over jobs to H-1B scammers
And thank you very much, Marco Roboto
For helping Mexicans
Crash in my backyard
Thank you, thank you, thank you
I want to thank you
Please, thank you, oh and Zuckerberg too

The problem’s plain to see
Too much corrupt elite
Pushing race blindness lies
Cuck lies, de-humanize

The time has come at last
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
To throw away this mask
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
Now everyone can see
(Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret)
My true identity

I’m Merkel, Facebook, Google, Soros

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The Shitlib Zone: Update

Do you recall a post from last July featuring a CH twist on the Golden Earring song “Twilight Zone”, parodied as “The Shitlib Zone“? Good news! A reader tantalizes us with an update:

Shitlibbin’ up the studio zone at long last! Powerful emission building… -HD

I just got a tingle up my leg!

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A Funny Little Thing About Barely Legal Babes

When mom and dad are out walking about with their teenage-early 20s daughter, something I’ve noticed a lot is the way the daughter will ostentatiously flirt with me (not a teenager), even to the edge of vulgar leering, right under the noses of her parents. Some of the sloppiest, most provocative eye fucking I’ve received has been from barely legal babes wedged in between parents while out for a stroll.

(This is a good time to head off at the pass the usual cunterie of disingenuous, slanderous feminist fugs and their white knight manlet lapdogs: “barely legal” refers to teenage or very young-looking early 20s women who have assumed the full suite of secondary sexual characteristics and who possess a womanly form of narrow waist, pert tits, and firm ass that would excite any psychologically healthy man with a functioning libido.)

Why this is I can only guess. Maybe teen girls in the brightest bloom of their ripening womanhood feel a devilish compulsion to test the boundaries of their feminine power over older men when that power is at its zenith but still, ostensibly, under the authority of their parents. Freud was a crackpot but some of his insights have merit, and a Freudian take on this would say that the teenage nymphet subconsciously desires to exert the same power over high status men that she perceives her mother exerts over her father. She is “feeling her oats”.

Anyhow, as a matter of course, if the girleen is stunning enough to suit my tastes, I won’t hesitate to volley back a daringly lascivious smirk, maybe to unsettle her from her perch of power paid for by her parents’ presence, and then, as an orbed forewarning, meet her dad’s eye with a balefully shaming squint. It is required.

PS:

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Dildoween

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The Wall In Song

Via reader Red Eleven, a 1996 outtake of bluesy female singer Eva Cassidy cooing the song “Tall Trees in Georgia”, a somber folk tune about The Wall.

Tall trees in Georgia,
They grow so high
They shade me so
And sadly walking
Through the thicket I go

The sweetest love I ever had
I left aside
Because I did not want
To be any man’s bride
But now I’m older
And married I would be
I found my sweetheart
But he would not marry me

When I was younger
The boys all came around
But now I’m older
And they’ve all settled down
Control your mind my girl
And give your heart to one
For if you love all men
You’ll be surely left with none

Tall trees in Georgia,
They grow so high
They shade me so
And sadly walking
Through the thicket I go

***

sniff. I’m all choked up like Boehner when his daughter first brought home her rasta boyfriend.

With rare exceptions, a song like “Tall Trees in Georgia”, about a woman’s precious few peak pulchritude years on this earth and the risks of riding the cock carousel, would not get recorded or promoted today.

Post-1990, female singers became strident, bitchy, and vengeful, rarely missing an opportunity to slip quasi-radfem and penis-resenting talking points in their lyrics. Before then, their songs’ themes were vulnerable, feminine, and filled with genuine affection for, and loving exasperation with, men.

Feminine women are unafraid to confront the realities of the sexual market. Their femininity and trust in the good of most men allows them the psychological room to be honest artists, telling it like it really is for women. Unfeminine women like we have today, full of sound and fury and marbled fat, are so enraged with their lot in life and with the men who, unsurprisingly, keep letting them down, that they have no psychological space left to explore themes and tell of experiences that might put them in an unflattering light. When you are a loser, or you feel like a loser, you struggle hard against admitting flaws in yourself and against inherent, immutable unfairness in “society” and in the human condition.

This, btw, is how you know the bravado of aggro sixth wave tankgrrls is a smelly crotch of shit. Bravado in women is especially off-putting, because everyone instinctively knows that this is a pose struck by bitter harpies who can’t afford even a tiny bit of introspection. When a feminist loser peers into the abyss, she gets sucked all the way down to the bottomless void.

So what happened around 1990? GenX and Millennials happened. That’s one thing. Another is that the dynamic of the sexual market changed. It turned coarser and sluttier (in proclamation if not in actual PIV) and more marriage-averse (age of first marriage for men and women has been steadily increasing for decades). CH has explored this theme many times in previous posts, but I’ll quickly summarize the working hypothesis:

When men are denied their deepest desire — sex and romance with a cute slender young woman — they become embittered and prone to dropping out.

When women are denied their deepest desire — romance and family with a strong, charming, admired man — they become embittered and prone to lashing out.

The sexual market we have today is one that, incredibly, manages to deny men and women both of their deepest desires. Men are deplored and effeminate, withdrawing to pron and Halo 19. Women are desperate and aggressively slutty, obese, and ill-mannered, withdrawing to tumblrrea and fifty shades of sadistic billionaire cock.

I expect this state of no affairs to reach a breaking point within the next five years, to be replaced by lucifer knows what, but probably something worse thanks to the added spice of open borders and the Randi Lee Harperization of American culture.

PS The stereotype is true: Southron women are earthier and more “real” than Northron women. The branches reaching skyward from Albion’s seed slung heavier in the South.

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How Will You Know When The Shiv Has Hit The Bone? (Plus: New Music! “The Shitlib Zone”)

The Scarlet C cuckservative label — Shiv of the Week winner — has really hit a bulls-eye, but what’s more interesting about the extended play body slam of weak whytes is what it illustrates about how semantic weapons work. There is Game in them thar hills, and CH prospectors find the shiniest nuggets.

Their protestations of indifference to the contrary notwithstanding, you know the cuckservative shiv has hit these mincing establishment pansies exemplified by the likes of Matt Lewis square in the deflated scrote. How do you know? I’ll tell you, boy. Look for two reactions.

1. The stuck pig squeals loudest.

Have you ever seen RINOs and their water carriers so incensed? The leftoid opposition toys with them daily and takes dumps in their gaped-mouthed faces, but nothing has riled them up like being called out for EXACTLY WHAT THEY ARE: puling suck-ups who’d sell their mother for one more pat on the head by a callow Ezra Klein.

2. Silent backpedaling.

Watch for cuckservatives to back off their inane, autonomic patter of prostration. If they do, that means the shiv cut deep and their lacerated subconscious bleeds into their conscious comfort zone. It’s a classic human urge when publicly shamed: denounce your shamers, insist on your dignity, but quietly pull back from the behavior that got you pegged (heh) as a poltroon.

In the coming election cycle, listen for ostensibly “””right wing””” candidates to gradually abandon their insipid leftoid-lite boilerplate. That “Shit Cuckservatives Say” page at the top of CH will serve as a reminder to them that the front lines are everywhere now. The pressure and incessant ridicule will keep them honest.

The Shitlib Zone

Somewhere in a hostile press room
There’s a cuck starting to realize
That sucking up has not worked out for him
It’s two A.M.

It’s two A.M. my honor’s gone
I’m sitting here waitin’ the stool still warm
Did you know that Lincoln was a Republican?

Yeah, my daughter’s burning coal, dindu in my bed
Bareback my nation, all community dead
Cannot realtalk, my whole life trained to be a toady

Help, I’m steppin’ into the shitlib zone
This is a bathhouse, feels like Lindsey’s home
My scrotum’s climbed up, under flabby gut
Where am I to go now that I’ve gone post-op?

Soon you will come to know
When the shiv has hit the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the shiv has hit the bone

I’m sticking to the Narrative, demographically doomed
Double crossed middle class gettin’ the screws
Can’t get no election, can’t get through
To Pablo’s crew

Well the cocktail parties ease his coward’s mind
He swears no child left behind!
When the third world comes
He knows damn well he’ll be retreating

And he says, “Help, I’m swishin’ into the shitlib zone
Place is a cookhouse, feels like Mexico
My nation’s been sold to Mark Fuckersperg
Where am I to go when the white vote’s submerged?”

Soon you will come to know
When the shiv has hit the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the shiv has hit the bone

When the shiv has hit the bone

{shredding break}

Help, I’m prancin’ into the shitlib zone
Place is a bathhouse, feels like anal fun
My dignity is gone, an eager tribute
Who’s gonna do the jobs that Americans won’t do?

Help, I’m cuckin’ into the shitlib zone
Place is a bathhouse, can’t stop being prone
My manhood’s been moved, under Jenner’s dress
How far am I to bend when they call me racist?

Soon you will come to know
When the shiv has hit the bone
Soon you will come to know
When CH has raped your soul

When the shiv has hit the bone, oo-ooga!
When the shiv has hit the bone
When the shiv has hit the bone, sha-lom!
When the shiv has hit the bone

wow wow wow wow just wow
wow wow just wowoooooowow

***

Are there any aspiring rock stars in the audience? Who wants to put this delectable revision to tape? You, sir? Glory awaits!

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Female Singers And The Sexual Market

Reader PA provided a springboard for a post when he mused about the male archetypes found in the lyrics of love songs by female singers.

Love songs by female artists about each of VoxDay’s [male SMV] ranks.

Alpha – Carly Simon “You’re so Vain.” He’s a legend and a lady killer who always takes what he wants, he never wants it for too long, and she will never forget him.

Beta – Whitney Houston “All the Man that I Need.” The title alone tells you that he is not larger than life. But her physical and emotional satisfaction is total.

Delta – Taylor Swift “You Belong with Me.” He’s literally the boy next door. An attractive girl plays him, but a plain girl wants him.

Gamma – That was a tough one. How many girls sing love songs to John Scalzi? Best I can think of is Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” A drab woman pleads for mercy to a seductress that wants to toy with her loser husband just because she can.

Omega – Concrete Blonde “Joey.” He is broke. He is drunk. He is laying in a pool of vomit. No, he is not Keith Richards.

Sigma – Heart “Magic Man.” Nobody can make heads or tails of the attraction; it’s like, WTF? But it’s like out of a dream.

Lambda – ?

I’ll assume a lambda is a gay. Have any female singers crooned about a gay man? Here’s one:

It was tough to dig up that video. For all the talk about women routinely falling for gay men unbeknownst, in reality most women have pretty good gaydars. At least the hardened urban slut cynics do.

One thing that’s interesting about female singers is that you can obliquely track changes in the sexual market by the themes of their songs. One big change has been the anhedonic increase in faux tankgrrl posturing by mainstream twat-rockers.

Women used to sing, authentically, about their vulnerability and heartbreak, often at the hands of callous badboys. Their songs reverberated with truth, because they sang with honest self-appraisal instead of posturing feminism. Even the “tough girls” of the past, like Pat Benatar, singing about daring a man to “hit me with your best shot” (i.e., game the living tingles outta her), aimed many of her punches at her own sternum.

Well you’re a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me

In the 90s, the GineVibe started to oscillate along an anti-human, pro-androgyne wavelength. The first fully-flowered feminist singers made man-hating propaganda a focal point of their songs. Many of these girlpower/girlvictimism songs were based on carefully constructed lies. (Tori Amos was never raped.)

Since then, the trend among female singers has been accelerating to more absurd and ridiculous phony Sandbergian “lean in” power postures. Today, we have the spectacle of fatties like Elle King (Deuce Bigalow’s daughter) singing about all the studs who can’t get enough of her doughgirl rolls and chase her around like puppy dogs.

Older, current female singers are in on the zeitgeist too. Sia boasts of her time on the party circuit and cock carousel as she hides her cracking face under a veil for live performances and calls it a symbolic blow against patriarchal oppression.

Even within female singers’ careers, there’s a trend away from honest self-assessment and feminine vulnerability toward chest-beating theatrics that would challenge the antics of the horniest male rocker. Taylor Swift morphed from a smitten, naive romantic to a fortified fembot “shaking it off”. Katy Perry roars, without a hint of irony. Miley Cyrus milks her femininity-disavowing sexual ambiguity for profit.

Female singers have started aping and co-opting the caricatured masculine themes of promiscuity, emotional distance (implied or revealed), and middle finger majesty, without any of the poetic discordance in feelings or slipped confessions of humility that male singers often drop into their songs.

It’s bizarro world with these aggrochicks, and it sells today. But why?

Maybe as a nation/country/world bazaar declines, its “””people””” need to cling evermore tightly to delusions about the sexes, about the races, about the classes, and about the tribes. And maybe that’s why we have the Elle Kings and neo-Taylor Swifts selling their fake-outs to millions of thirsty femme ears, to both transparently faux-bragging fatties and meekly acquiescing manlets alike.

Or, maybe the modern sexual market has become so alien to women — rife with jerkboys, betas, delayed marriage, childlessness, and Diversity-fueled social disconnection — that the only way they can comprehend it is to pretend to be like men, swinging their clitmores and hewing testicles for sport.

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