Hey! Little Girl Comb your hair, fix your makeup Soon he will open the door Don’t think because there’s a ring on your finger You needn’t try anymore
For wives should always be lovers too Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you I’m warning you…
Day after day There are girls at the office And men will always be men Don’t send him off with your hair still in curlers You may not see him again
For wives should always be lovers too Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you He’s almost here…
Hey! Little girl Better wear something pretty Something you’d wear to go to the city and Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music Time to get ready for love Time to get ready Time to get ready for love
Holding up a finger to the cultural winds carrying tingles aloft, a (probably) female reader writes,
Sia is a singer/song writer , ex–party girl with alcohol problems.
She wrote an interesting song, [Fair Game], which outline everything you have described at The Château.
I put in bold the interesting parts.
You terrify me Cause you’re a man- you’re not a boy
You’ve got some power And I can’t treat you like a toy
The road less…Traveled by a little girl
You disregard the mess
While I try to control the world
Don’t leave me
Stay here and frighten me
Don’t leave me
Come now enlighten me
Give me all you got
Give me your wallet and your watch Give me your first born
Give me the rainbow and the- So go on and challenge me Take the reigns and the seat
Watch me squirm baby But you are just what I need
And I’ve never played a fair game
I’ve always had the upper hand
But what good is intellect and nerve if I can’t respect any man
Yeah I want to play a fair game
Yeah I want to play a fair game
You terrify me
We’ve still not kissed
And yet I’ve cried
You got too close in
I pushed and pushed
Opened your bites
So I could run run
And then I did betray the dust
You saw those teeth marks
They weren’t all yours
You had been trusted to a history
That had not worked for me
Into a history from which I could not face So go on and shake me Shake until I give it up
When I am in doubt baby
I know that we could make some love
So go on challenge me
Take the reigns and the seat
Watch me squirm baby
But you’re just what I need
And I’ve never played a fair game
I’ve always had the upper hand
But what good is intellect and nerve if
I can’t respect any man
Yeah I want to play a fair game
Yeah I want to play a fair game
And I never played a fair game
I’ve always had the upper hand
But what good is intellect and nerve if
I can’t respect any man
Yeah I want to play a fair game
Yeah I want to play a fair game
I’ve always had the upper hand
But what good is intellect and nerve if
I can’t respect any man
I want to play a fair game
Oh, I want to play a fair game
I’ve always had the upper hand
What good is intellect and nerve if
I can’t respect any man
I want to play a fair game
Sia is a 39-year-old Australian singer who’s experiencing something of a career resurgence right now. Most of you would recognize her current hit song “Chandelier”. It’s catchy, visually arresting, and vaguely pedophilic.
Her gimmick of late has been wearing a veil covering her face from view during performances. She’s been quoted in interviews as saying the veil is a feminist protest against the objectification of blah blah trail of hamster pellets. A less charitable observer might say that 39yo Sia has suffered her first contact with the Wall and the veil is radical wrinkle-remover and career-extender.
But enough of that. Clearly, Sia loves her incorrigible badboys. Sia later, betaboys!
From the beginning, women have been singing the praises of badboys. What’s more interesting, from a sociological perspective, is any noteworthy change in frequency of badboy odes, and in how those female singers opt to stylize their lyrical meanderings. Are the musical paeans to the allure of badboys prideful boasts, seeming almost like taunts aimed at the crushed hearts of lame-o betas? Or are female singers disguising their love for badboys under layers of obfuscating wordplay?
Tuning my ear snare to the pop starlet zeitgeist, I do think barely-concealed confessions of cravings for badboys have been on the increase recently. The weird thing is that this badboy exaltation is occurring simultaneously with a muddled feminist empowerment pop culture fad (think Katy Perry singing “you’re gonna hear me roar”). It’s as if women singers can’t make up their minds whether they want to be mistresses of the universe or just bound and gagged mistresses of a ZeroFucksGiven jerkboy.
If there is a social trend toward women freely expressing their deepest desires for hounds and heartbreakers, this reinvigorated female lust on public display may owe itself to the context within which pop singers, and their fans, circulate. As CH explained, a society that is bottom heavy with mewling, supplicating beta males would push women into the aloof and indifferent arms of alpha jerks. And when the bottled-up pussy pressure becomes too much to bear, even Wall-impact cougars like Sia can’t help but throw their natural romantic constituency — older, defeated, weak beta males ready to settle down with any old slutty cow — under the bus.
Women’s love for challenging jerks never dies, it just wistfully succumbs to a slow awareness of SMV self-depreciation.
Reader PA linked to an old video featuring four famous French singers embodying four distinctive styles of womanhood. All four are fantasizing about hitting on the same man who’s leaning against the bar. PA comments,
This is a delight in its own right. It’s also a Game tool: ask a girl which style, of the four shown here, is hers.
(Stay tuned for 3:34. Assuming it’s not electronically altered, dude has the deepest frog voice I’ve ever heard.)
The video is fun, and yes it does contain material that would serve very well reconstituted as a game routine. Which is what I’ve done.
Naturally, in most situations you’re not going to pull up a Youtube video for a girl you just met so you can ask her with which femme fatale she most identifies, (although there’s nothing wrong with doing that if you can manage it).
Do you remember the archetypical femmes fatales? The classics? The Chateau archives have posts about them and their particular gaming needs.
Asking a woman which female archetype she thinks she is will light up her eyes and deepen her conversational commitment. (Most girls like to think of themselves as ingenues. Be wary of the girl who proudly proclaims herself an amazonian alpha. Also be ready to bounce her home for the NSA bang.)
In the video, the singers represent, respectively (and commenters are free to argue with my categorizations):
Singer #1: The shy girl-next-door with a secret raging passion.
Singer #2: The fun-loving free spirit with a naughty side.
Singer #3: The elegant romantic who can throw a dinner party as well as she can flirt.
Singer #4: The take-charge seductress who might walk out with your wallet in the morning.
(Timeout to note how crazy beautiful and feminine Frenchwomen can be. I’d even consider monogamy with that first singer, and it takes a lot to inspire me to that sacrifice. Tragically, the times, and our women, have changed.)
If the girl you’re hitting on can watch this video with you, simply asking her which type she relates to will get the comfort stage ball rolling. Without the video, you’ll have to keep the above four (or eight) femmes fatales stored in memory for retrieval as part of the Femme Fatale Game Routine.
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Women love to put men in boxes — you know, the frat bro, the nerd, the momma’s boy, the player — but there are types of women too. Femmes fatales. And men can tell a lot about a woman by her type. [pause for her curiosity to get the best of her. look away during this moment, so you don’t leave the impression that you’re anxiously anticipating her reply.]
LITTLE BO QUEEF: Really! So what type am I?
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: That depends. You see a man you like. You want to grab his attention. Do you look at him, then look away, blushing? Or do you bounce up to him and act flirty?
LITTLE BO QUEEF: Act flirty.
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: So you see yourself more as the free spirit than the shy girl-next-door. Ok, now if the choice is between being a free spirit, or sidling up in a sleek cocktail dress and remarking on his sense of style or whatever, which do you choose?
LITTLE BO QUEEF: Ooh, I like cocktail dresses. I’d do that.
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Ok, so you’re more of an elegant romantic than a free spirit. Now you have to choose between being an elegant romantic, or wearing a sexy dress with a plunging neckline and whispering racy innuendo in his ear. The take-charge seductress.
LITTLE BO QUEEF: That’s too much for me. I’ll stick with being the sophisticated romantic in a cocktail dress.
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Typical American woman. Great! Now I know what type you are. Ready?
LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yes!
DEVIL’S VANGUARD: The elegant romantic is passionate, but not crass. She’s no prude, she just likes a long build-up before going for the kill. She thinks herself sophisticated [ed: note that this is a challenge], and tries to dress stylishly [ed: another challenge]. She’s emotionally mature and has that natural sexiness which makes other women jealous, but not so jealous that they feel threatened. Men feel good about introducing you to business associates.
LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yay!
If words aren’t your thing, you can run an abbreviated version of the Femme Fatale Routine.
DEVIL’S REARGUARD: Shy girl-next-door, or naughty free spirit?
LITTLE HO’S SHEAF: Both!
DEVIL’S REARGUARD: That’ll do.
***
PS I understand that the “style” PA refers to may be the man’s style, but I think the routine works better as a pickup tool if you ask the girl about female-specific styles.
Dat body language. It’s like she caught a whiff of dog shit. Betaboy doesn’t know it yet, but she checked out of their one-way playdate relationship long ago.
The story is here, in all its lurid, coalburning detail. I’m warning you so prepare yourself as you see fit. No matter what you tell yourself or others, the deepest recesses of your hindbrain will twitch in revolt. If you’re white. If you’re black, your heart will swell with tribal pride.
A white hottie with a soulless gaze cheated on her beta “””boyfriend””” (see above). And by cheated, I mean she triple lindied into a Rwandan pre-machete spree pep rally and had her clam shucked and pried by a diorama of dark continent dick. Pics and video and insta-taunting tell the tale. Rumor has it the video and pics didn’t catch all the action, and the full measure of her character was assessed by twelve mugging mandingos tickling the back of her throat.
I do enjoy a descriptive id punch.
[NB: She’s leaning poolside. Looks like she’s a product of a happy middle (upper middle?) class suburb. Witness born for those who want to insist race-crossing sluts are all low class land whales.]
As repulsive as is her self-mockumentary, what her sackless beta shitlapper borefriend did next was (if it’s possible) even more repugnant.
He forgave her after being subjected, no less, to a barrage of very personal muh dikking.
A man shames not just himself, but his male ancestors and male descendants, the whole lineage in a straight line from past to present to future, when he defends the honor of a dishonorable slattern. He betrays his close kin and extended race. He surrenders his dignity. He prostrates himself for a pence of peripatetic pussy. He is the human equivalent of shit speckle on a public toilet seat. I could carve a better man out of a banana.
Now, if the “””boyfriend””” had just said (in so many words), “Hey, I had my (weirdly platonic) fun with this discount bin whore, and now I’m cutting her loose based on the available evidence of her unsuitability as a long-term mate”, all would be forgiven of him. Her… not so much. But that is stain for another day.
Naturally, given that the attention whoring has grown beyond her limited means of message discipline, the party favor skank has tried to play the “I wuz drugged” get-out-of-slut-shame card, but no one is buying it. As well they shouldn’t. Post-cock rationalizations always carry a whiff of desperate image consultancy.
Where was her father in all this? Has he self-delivered in the aftermath, or did he essentially self-deliver from raising his daughter long ago? There are 99 ways a father can fail his children, but this way is FATHER FAIL numero uno. You’d have to be less than human to not feel the burn of shame if you were this father. Will he show his face in public again? Or doesn’t he care? Is this escapist self-annihilation — by both white father and white daughter — the new growth of an invasive society species that chokes to memetic death the value of fathers and the forward-thinking modesty of daughters?
The less judgmental among you could argue she and her pitifully loyal white knight lapdog and absentee father are sick in the head and deserve compassion. Maybe. But I tend to another hypothesis: What we see happening around us is the symptom of a society that has relinquished all controls over female sexual prerogatives. Female sexuality, when left unattended and free to do as it pleases, often travels into very dark and depraved cul de sacs, and can circle there for generations, creating a vortex that sucks in all civilized life to a pathetic and predictable doom.
Worse, this removal of restrictions on female sexuality has been accompanied by a perverse reaction in the opposite direction to confound men about the true reproductive nature of women. We see rising lockstep with rank sluts a hapless loser beta peasant class who are so ignorant of the masculine behaviors and vibe women crave that they meander helplessly through a sexual market minefield, bouncing bettys bouncing them from one bloody heartache to another. Repeated romantic failure inculcates in the young beta male’s mind a hopelessness that circumscribes his options well beyond what a realistic appraisal of his SMV would demand.
And so what we have here is what you see with this particular beta male… a stockholm syndrome-type of pathological clinginess that feeds on a feared lifelong incelibacy and is conditioned by this fear to rush to the defense of manipulative psychocunts who play ping pong with his blue balls while joyously gobbling the knobs of hooting ferals who live and die on liberating instinct.
***
Flyover naifs claim that plenty of “good girls” can be found. I’ve no doubt. I have lain with many good girls, and have nothing but the fondest memories (of memories made and memories in motion). But that is a non sequitur. The question isn’t whether there are good girls left in America — there are — but whether their numbers as a percentage of the whole are retreating. We have only our life experiences, anecdotes, and coldly sterile data to consult for answers. (Which normally is enough for examination of routine human behavior, but never is when we put the microscope to the monstrous vitals of the lust-fueled id.)
On the life experience and anecdote metrics, these sordid self-debasements of the slut-proud social media class seem to be increasing in frequency and dramatic flourish. Each week brings a romantic ignominy to top the previous week’s sexhibitionism. Girls raging gleefully at the dying light of patriarchal civilization; men raging impotently at the dying loins of their once virile majesty. One simply can’t help but notice change is a-blowin’ in the wind. And personally, I have accrued enough boudoir time with enough high society ladies to know that there is hardly a one — no matter her class, education, intellect, or family background — who doesn’t have clattering skeletons in her walk-in closet, and fewer still who aren’t practiced in the art of camouflaging otherwise.
(And bless their ladylike hearts for feeling the need to attempt the camouflage to appease my masculine prerogative. Truly.)
Data-wise, the evidence is murkier. GSS self-report surveys hint at a sexual cocooning strangely at odds with the growing portfolio of Facebooked frolicking. If true, it perhaps suggests less a hidden chasteness than a bifurcation in the sexual market, split between evangelical virgins and blue city girls gone wild.
The current CDC data veer more toward affirming the anecdotal, but there too the pussy picture is unclear. Some sexually transmitted diseases are on the rise, but teen sex is down (while teen pregnancy is up *head scratch*). Age of first sexual intercourse is up, but rates of throat and anal cancers in younger women are up as well. “Technical virgins”.
(Do white girls slot a 12-dick coal train into the “technical virgin” category? Kind of like how fucking a dog doesn’t really steal a girl’s virginity? It might explain a lot.)
It is as if two worlds — one a last stand by a besieged former empire, the other a new world disorder where chaos reigns supreme — are in our day locked in a death struggle for preeminence. And here we are, living it in technicolor splendor.
It shouldn’t bear repeating, but every time one of these slutbombs explode in the Chateau gardens, there are invariably “players” who chastise Your Unholy Greatness for his perceived judgmentalism and self-defeating yearning for a better past filled with better women.
Yes, reports tell of a past America that was better. Not better in every way, but better in the ways that mattered. And yes, I will admit to some giddy despair over the dissolution of a nation that no longer lays claim to my heart. But I also won’t look a gift ho in the mouth. If a cute girl makes it easy for me and wants to screw after ten minutes of meeting her, I won’t stop her. I won’t conspicuously judge her, either, except by the bewilderment and pain I plant in her when I prematurely recuse myself from her girlfriend expectations a few weeks (or months, if SMV is 7+) later.
And that’s really the crux of the whorecrux. A girl who surrenders her every orifice to a pack of howlhounds live-streaming for a studio audience the slow flaying of her soul will become the woman no worthy man will think twice about marrying. Her humiliation, so abject and complete and perfunctorily recorded for posterity, (though for now she only feels it in fleeting sensations on the back of her neck late at night through the self-medicating haze delivered in warm liquid doses by her muscly rationalization hamster), will render her utterly unmarriageable to the vast majority of quality men with options. This stone cold reality will make her life incalculably harder, and wrest an incalculable torrent of tears from her mother and an incalculable tribute of emotional withdrawal from her father.
A merciful god would find some way to attenuate their torment. God helps those who help themselves. (If by chance some cleansing… salvation… were to befall the family, it would serve a valuable lesson for the others.)
A father’s shame, more profound, maybe, than his daughter’s. Because what is a father’s mission critical job as regards his daughter? It’s to preserve his daughter’s honor and see her off into the world the kind of woman a good man would want to take up. A failure to complete this job discredits him as a father like few other failures can.
This is the normal state of affairs, and shame and guilt have evolved to ensure that civilized fathers and daughters comport themselves in line with the prevailing social norms. But shame is dead in the West, and guilt is following soon in its brother’s wake. Social norms divide and redivide like a multicellular demon embryo, partitioning into separate and competing camps unsurprisingly in line with the diversity of seed that contributed to the demon’s corrupted cuckolded conception. Le Chateau stands a citadel against the alien revocation of these timeless forces of civilization, and for that we are despised by the wayward and wanton. More deserving enemies we could not pray for.
These horror stories always remind me of a fitting song.
I believe feminists have a point about the existence of institutional misogyny. It drenches every aspect of our culture, and shapes the minds of men, leading some of them to commit atrocious acts against women. For an example of this, read these lyrics of a popular hit song:
You must not know ’bout me, You must not know ’bout me; I could have another you in a minute And in fact she’ll be here in a minute. Don’t you ever for a second get to thinking you’re irreplaceable…
This is what institutional misogyny looks like. Men taking women for granted, thinking women are not humans deserving of respect, and worst of all, believing that women are interchangeable. This is the patriarchal power structure we must all fight against if we want a better world of empowered women and empowering deferential men.
There is much hand-wringing by the hypocrati over the below-replacement fertility rates of overeducated, urban leftoid, credentialist suck-up, status whoring SWPLs. However will civilization carry on if our progressive snarkmeisters disappear down the sinkhole of Darwinian finality?
Well, I’m here to tell you that Western civilization will carry on quite well, and certainly better than it has the past 60 years. For evidence of the source of my sureness, review this quote by Thomas Aquinas on the Catholic Church’s prohibition of cousin marriage aka inbreeding:
Afterwards, however, towards these latter times the prohibition [against cousin marriage] of the Church has been restricted to the fourth degree, because it became useless and dangerous to extend the prohibition to more remote degrees of consanguinity. Useless, because charity waxed cold in many hearts so that they had scarcely a greater bond of friendship with their more remote kindred than with strangers: and it was dangerous because through the prevalence of concupiscence and neglect men took no account of so numerous a kindred, and thus the prohibition of the more remote degrees became for many a snare leading to damnation.
Aquinas was a man who rightly perceived the dangers inherent in both too little and too much outbreeding. (Were we blessed with such wise men today!) Inbreeding encourages clan-based violence and decreases social trust, two consequences that are anathema to the development of modern civ. But too much outbreeding (EatPrayBang!) decreases charitable kin-feeling and incentivizes a decadent ennui that severs the citizen’s sense of obligation to his nation and co-ethnics.
Where is this thought leading? The native stock of the West is clearly suffering from a mental sickness caused by too much outbreeding. Universalism is the religion of liberal whites, and they cleave so strongly to this secular religion that they are happy, nay overjoyed!, to throw the borders open and bequeath their hard-won territory and culture to battalions of Third Worlders and other temperamentally distant aliens, who of course given large enough numbers will promptly, whether wittingly or consequentially, execute its destruction.
The liberal SWPLs’ universalist instinct is so deeply embedded that it’s become a danger to their own reproductive fitness. If it were just themselves they were (unproductively) screwing, that would be fine; unfortunately they’re screwing everyone who has to live under their administrative tyranny.
So it is with great sadistic glee that I put two and two together and conclude that the passing of the sweep of SWPL liberals into the prolapsed hole of history will prove, ultimately, a good thing for the reconstitution and continuation of Western civilization, and in particular of America. Whether through the act of some subconscious calculation, or environmental disincentive, or perhaps via a divinely directed cosmic rebalancing working magic on the impervious hindbrains of self-destructive fools, the children of universalist leftoids are fewer by the hour, and their complete demise closer by the day.
We should be welcoming this fitness adjustment for the ray of hope it delivers. Prosperity can turn on accidental fortune. Runaway universalism, it would appear, contains the seed of its doom, and in its death there will be rebirth. The gods of the copybook headings will have their laugh at last.
So pass out the condoms, fire up the abortion mills, parade the sluts, stream the cuck porn, shove those freebie Pills down the throats of SWPL princesses, and bask in your righteousness, knowing that your tribute in distasteful utilitarianism will pay handsome rewards to your posterity.
Truly, the SWPL is the cuckold of the world. Pronounce it “swipple”. Let it snap off the lips with pleasing hatefulness. It stands for “white person who gets a leetle chill down his neck when a black doctor is on the TV”. Remind the SWPL in your company that there is no moral obligation to uplift the world’s wretched refuse. If they balk, remind them again of their atheism.
SWPL is the cuckold of the world Yes he is…think about it SWPL is the cuckold of the world Think about it…do something about it
We make him sit in the corner and watch If he won’t be a cuck we say that he’s a bigot
If he’s real, we say he’s trying to be a racist While pulling his pud he pretends that he is above us
SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is If you don’t belive me take a look to the one you’re with SWPL is the slave of the slaves Ah yeah…better screem about it We make him pay and raise our children And then we leave him flat for being a cuckold beta male We tell him home is only a fantasy Then we complain that he’s too pale-skinned to be a man
SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is If you don’t belive me take a look at the manboob filth SWPL is the slave of the slaves Yeah (think about it)
We insult him everyday on TV And wonder why he has no guts or confidence When he’s young we kill his will to be free While telling him there’s no such thing as smarts we put him down for being so dumb
SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is If you don’t belive me take a look at John Scalzi’s tits SWPL is the slave of the slaves Yes he is…if you belive me, you better screem about it.
Repeat: We make him pull his pud and prance We make him trash his seed for laughs
We make him axe his
balls as penance We make him rend his soul in half
The infamous lawyercunt is an archetype first identified (and happily ridiculed) by CH artisans of the hairy oyster. But the lawyercunt has gotten a little long in the fang. It isn’t that she’s grown mellower with age, or that her occupation has started attracting a less lizardly class of humans. It’s just that times change, and new opportunities for leeching off productive society attract the attention of master class attention whores with a taste for gratuitous drama and lying through their teeth.
Enter the social media consultant, aka Twittercunt.
If anyone can usurp the lawyercunt in cuntishness, it’s the Twittercunt. I was reminded of the Twittercunt’s foul ascendence up the social status ladder of our declining American empire whilst perusing the musings of the Lead Sadist over at MPC (My Patriarchal Cocksmanship):
real talk all the social media consultants I have met, which is a few, have been amoral opportunistic scumbags
I’ve also seen a few partners of mine stung by them, where they’ll bring in a social media person who will then shmooze the client and steer all the business to him and his friends
really they make used car salesman seem like altruistic do-gooders
It’s funny because around the time of reading that I was retelling a salacious story to a friend about a past lover of extraordinary wantonness who transmogrified into the very thing we both assumed she was fated to become: A social media consultant. I’ve known in the French way five or six Twittercunts (all women), and all but one were sociopathic sluts, capable of lying to their mamas’ faces if it meant an extension of family credit to shack up with a bike messenger. (The one exception, ironically, happened to be one of the sweetest, kindest girls with whom I’ve had the pleasure to share pleasure. I do fondly recall her on occasion.) I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some of them amassed cock counts in the triple digits.
Not that I’m complaining. If you have game, a challenging demeanor, and an asshole attitude (to which she deeply relates), the social media cuntsultant is a sure thing, and down to submit to just about every degradation under a harvest moon. Just don’t expect her to make even empty gestures toward fidelity. She’ll fuck around on you, but as long as you go in knowing what she is, there’s poon gold to be mined until the bloom wears off the romance (three months, tops).
We now live in the age of high-tech, field tested, focus grouped, multimodal mastery over human perception, and the social media cuntsultant is its most psychopathically committed avatar. You think I’m exaggerating? Take a look at this list of occupations which attract the most psychopaths. Number 2 is Lawyer, and number 3 is Media (TV/Radio). If you add number 4 (Salesperson) to number 3, you birth the social media whore anti-christ.
Oh well. A declining nation gets the middlewoman, amoral, self-promoting parasites it deserves.
(Good rule of thumb: If your nation has a lot of engineers working to put a man on the moon, you live in a golden era. If your nation has a lot of hucksters spinning gold out of carts of dung, start thinking about early overseas retirement.)
So here’s to you, Twittercunt, ouster of argumentative lawyercunts. You’re just as untrustworthy, slutty and good to go as your sophistic sisters, but at least you don’t make a federal case out of every minor disagreement.
A song for the new kunt in town:
There’s talk in the bars it sounds so familiar, great expectations everybody’s watching you. Players you meet they all seem to know you, even your old friends treat you like the town screw.
Twittercunt maven, the new ho in town, everybody bangs you, so chug your Pill down.
You look in her eyes the crazy is on display, sex in the bathroom, here we go again. But after awhile you’re thinkin’ she’s gonna stray, it’s those restless muffs that always spread.
Twittercunt maven, the new ho in town. Will you catch VD from her sideways frown?
There’s so many cocks she went and holstered, but night after night you’re willing to bone her, no rubber, pray you recover.
There’s jive on Facebook it’s there to inflate her, doesn’t really matter which client she sucks. She’s LinkedIn and buzzed, creating nothing of value, they will never forget her ’til her boobs are hitting the floor.
Where you been lately? There’s a new ho in town. Everybody bangs her, don’t they, and she’s SEOed every penis around. Oh my my There’s a new ho in town Just another new slore in town
hooooo, hoooo Everybody’s banging out hooooo, hoooo the new ho in town, hooooo, hoooo Everywhere she’s walkin’ like hooooo, hoooo the town pound.
There’s a new ho in town, (and you’re gonna hear it) There’s a new ho in town, (you just wanna hit it) There’s a new ho in town, a social media clown, Her life’s a PR campaign. Everybody’s talking There’s a new ho in town Players start to working There’s a new ho in town… and she gets passed around… like her padded CV… people say she’s easy…
It would be great if the reader who performed The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold could do a rendition of There’s a New Kunt in Town. He has a good voice.
