“The Wreck Of The Beta Male Cuckold”, Performed

An inspired reader has put to song The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

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The Wreck Of The Beta Male Cuckold

The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold, sung to the tune of:

The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they called “Cuckold Freddie.”
The cuck, it is said, sits alone near the bed
when the thighs of his wife spread to darkies.
With a load of mandingo twenty inches more flaccid
than the Beta Male Cuckold at full chubby,
that goon man and true worked his bone black and blue
when his wife and her lover slapped uglies.

The cuck was the pride of the 4channer side
coming back from some brony convention.
As the big betas go, he was fatter than most
with manboobs and a belly in tension,
concluding some terms with his wife of 12 years
when they agreed to bring in an “acquaintance”.
And later that night when his wife’s gina danced,
could it be the lost tingle they’d been missin’?

The suck in her snatch made a tattle-tale sound
and a tremor broke over her vulva.
And ev’ry man knew, as Freddie did too
’twas the twitch of desire come on her.
The dusk came late and his wife couldn’t wait
for the big dicked intruder to come over.
When all three were there he called himself “Bear”
as his wife pressed her hand in his crotch bulge.

When sexytime came the sad cuck came to bed sayin’
“Fellas, I’d like to now join ya.”
But in his wife’s eyes he saw his demise,
And she snapped, “Go wait in the kitchen!”
The cuckold bemoaned he heard sex noise comin’ in
through the walls two rooms wide clear as ever.
And later that night as his wife screamed delight
came the wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

Does anyone know where a proud atheist goes
when his wife’s moans turn the minutes to hours?
The cisgenders say he’d have kept his wife tame
if he hadn’t leased her out like a street whore.
They might have split up or they might have hate fucked;
but at least Freddie’s shame would be no more.
But all Freddie hears through his hot beta tears
is, “put a gag in his mouth so he won’t direct”.

Cuckold suffering tolls, Hypergamy sings
in the rooms of Freddie’s Mountain Dew mansion.
Bear’s black mamba creams in his wife’s wet vajeen;
Her asshole and mouth are for Bear’s fun.
And farther below, Freddie’s marital ho
takes in what Bear’s privilege can send her,
And Freddie will know as all swinging alphas know
it’s two women-one man not the inverse.

In a musty old hovel in a basement he prayed,
in the “Beta Male Cuckolds’ Cathedral.”
The blade shimmered twice as he sliced quick lengthwise
for the dignity that Freddie surrendered.
The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they call “Cuckold Freddie.”
“A sperm puddle,” they said, “dripped from his wife’s cleft
and ’twas that ended Freddie’s life early!”

***

A tip o’ the fedora to these plucky gents for digging up the pastiche of true stories this song is based on.

The original:

ps yeah, i know this is closer to omega male territory, but poetic license demanded the use of beta.

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Cost-Free Gestures Of Romantic Reassurance

PA suggests that emailing this song to your girlfriend or wife is a simple gesture of well-timed beta reassurance that (uncorrupted, foreign) chicks dig… in small quantities.

It’s a fine song of loving lovitude. However, halfway through the listening experience my eyes drifted down to a random YouTube comment.

my dad played this song every time he picked me and my bro up for his court-ordered visit with us…actually ROD STEWART was the only thing both my dad and mom had in common. All they did was argue.

You are carried aloft on the whispers of a soulful love ballad, inspired to newfound hopefulness about the inherent goodness of the universe and the nature of woman, when you feel a tug and realize, once again, the dark tendrils of ugly reality are coiling around your ankles, dragging you back into the depths.

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Where Did The Arena Rock Bands Go?

Cheap Chalupas takes a breather from undermining the ethnic cohesion of his country of birth for a glorious experience of authentic face-stuffing to link to a Pitchfork story about the pittances that rock stars get paid today. In the comments, “lords of lies” responds with an interesting take on why there are so few bands today who have any staying power beyond one or two radio-ready songs.

the era of the long-lasting arena rock band with scores of top ten hits is over for four reasons:

1. the low-hanging fruit of novel guitar riffs has been picked clean. it’s just much harder now to compose more than one or two catchy tunes that don’t blatantly rip off songs from the past, autotune to the contrary notwithstanding. how many ways can the twelve-note scale be arranged? depressingly, there may be a limit. plus, the ready availability and replayability of forty year old rock songs means that current artists can’t plagiarize the past without getting called on it. this was perhaps not so much the case for past artists, who could safely crib from older songs that weren’t subject to so much radio or internet replaying.

2. the incentive structure has changed. a dude who pens one decent song can get on stage and score chicks for years, maybe even decades, based on that frantic bestowal of fame. internet play action and advanced marketing offer instant fame to the fly by night, one hit wonder musician. the pussy rewards for male artistry flow faster and stronger today than they did in the past, thanks partly to unshackled female hypergamy and partly to the betatization of the average american male. as a result, the self-perceived need to pump out multiple albums of high quality work has diminished.

3. easy living (c.f. porn, video games, endless plates of food stamps) has taken the edge off the urgency to create a compendium of works of spectacular art that can win over a large and dedicated audience of admirers and payers. men, in a word, are being medicated into comatose feminized stupor by dopaminergic distractions.

4. diversity is our lack of diversity. the advent of the diverse playground known as the internet has created so many ostensible musical niches appealing to everyone’s most personalized tastes that it has, paradoxically, made music *less* diverse, by funneling would-be artists into similar musical paths which maximize the odds their voices will be heard above the din. what point is experimentation and building an oeuvre for the long haul when your potential audience is so prefragmented and fickle? may also explain why music is getting louder today.

i’d add that there exists the possibility as well that people in the west are simply getting less creative in some genetic/physiological sense. perhaps it’s all those BPAs in our plastics and Pills in our water.

It’s a good question why the modern music industry produces so few “stadium rock” bands anymore. Prosperity likely has something to do with it. And the reasons given above are plausible, if not proven. You can make the case that someone like Justin Bieber (update: yesterday’s news) or Kesha is the 2012 equivalent of U2 or Led Zeppelin based on sales numbers and breadth of fame, but the comparison is rendered a mockery under any actual music-based standard. Platinum-selling country music stars and remixers rappers featuring X, Y and Z are about the closest present-day analogues to long-lasting power rock bands of the past.

This is not to say there is not good music being produced today. I like a lot of stuff that’s come out in recent years, mostly from fly by night, non-mainstream eclectic acts. But most of the stuff I like is by a multitude of bands that tend to disappear after one hit album (which usually contains no more than three righteous songs). Even looking at top 40 songs, the bands comprising that radio-ready list have little staying power. fun. has a couple of catchy tunes, but does anyone seriously think they’re going to pump out one stellar album after another, for years on end, like Zeppelin or The Beatles or even Nirvana did?

As for the main complaint that musicians don’t get paid enough from internet radio royalties, I have to agree with this:

cry me a river. hard to get worked up over the financial travails of quasi-rock stars. do people realize what motivates men to form bands and play on stage? they do it all for the nookie. the girls they get couldn’t give a rat’s ass how little they make from pandora plays. this is why there continues to be a steady stream of aspiring young men throwing caution and their bank accounts to the wind in hopes of becoming the next indie flavor of the month.

When the day comes that dudes stop picking up guitars and warbling beta ballads to score poosy is the day that I’ll entertain their griping about illegal downloading.

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The Most Alpha Song Ever

There were a lot of quality suggestions for alpha songs from readers in the comments to this post. Too many choices from too many different genres to properly choose a number one alpha song of all time. But any list of top ten alpha songs should include “Hey Mister” by Custom, and “Homecoming” by The Teenagers. Read the lyrics and you’ll understand why these two songs are Chateau-approved for your listening pleasure.

“Hey Mister”

Hey Mister I really like your daughter,
I’d like to eat her like ice cream
maybe dip her in chocolate

Hey Mister on your way over
in your Volvo, suit, and tie
We’ll be crawling in your bed soon
messing around, maybe getting high

It’s not what ya did,
It’s not what ya didn’t
God gave her a perfect body
and now I’m all up in it.

It’s not she’s a tramp.
It’s not she’s not pure.
She just likes getting her fuck on,
and it’s a good one of that I’m sure

Hey Mister I really like your daughter.
When I’m horny like thirsty
She’s a bottle of water.

Hey Mister how’d it get so bad
You raised her so well
and now she’s calling me dad
in the back seat naked of
a new Volkswagen
the perfect little gift for
high school graduation.

It’s not what ya did,
It’s not what ya didn’t
God gave her a perfect body
and now I’m all up in it.

[chorus]

I eat all the food in your fridge
Call my friends around the world
Rack up your long distance do
Breakstands neutral drops
Wreck all your cars
Drink all the booze in your
cheezy ass wet bar
Order stuff on your credit cards
Leave boogers in the skippy jar
Smoke your cigars
Answer the phone tell your
boss you moved to mars
When you call in late from
work tell your wife
You’re at the titty bars

[chorus]

I can’t lie I have to tell the truth
My commandments says I’m a total spoof
Your daughter’s a freak
Your daughter’s a pro
When i’m done with her
She’ll do one of your bros

I hope I’ll never have a daughter
I hope I’ll never have a daughter
I hope I’ll never have a daughter
I hope I’ll never have a daughter

This song hits a couple of important Chateau themes:

1. Chicks are at their hottest between 15 and 25.

2. Every father’s worst fear is having his hot teen daughter hook up with a player.

What man can’t sympathize with the singer’s lament in the final stanza?

******

“Homecoming”

[male] “last week, I flew to san diego to see my auntie.
on day one, I met her hot step-daughter.
she’s a cheerleader, she’s a virgin, and she’s really tan.
as she stepped out of her massive car,
I could only notice she was more than fuckable.
I think she was coming back from the game or something,
’cause she was holding those silly pom-poms
on day two, I fucked her, and it was wild.
she’s such a slut.”

[chorus]
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance
[male] it was dirty, a dream came true
just like I like it, she’s got nice tits
[female] it was perfect, a dream came true
just like a song by blink 182

[female] “ok, listen girls:
I met the hottest guy ever.
basically, as I was stepping out of my SUV,
I came face to face with my step-cousin or whatever, who cares?
anyway, he was wearing skinny jeans, had funky hair
and the cutest british accent ever.
straight away, I could tell he was rocker
from his sexy attitutde and the way he looked at me.
mmmmmm, he is totally awesome!
oh my god, I think i’m in love”

[chorus]
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance
[male] it was dirty, a dream came true
just like I like it, she’s got nice tits
[female] it was perfect, a dream came true
just like a song by blink 182
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance
[male] I fucked my american cunt
[female] I loved my english romance

[male] “it was so nice to meet you”
[female] “the pleasure was all mine, I do like you
come to cancun for spring break”
[male] “I’ll think about it, it could be great”
[female] “and don’t forget to send me a friend request!”
[male] “as if!”

Not only is this song funny (the alternating lines between the male and female singer satirizing the different ways men and women view hook ups is a highlight), but it even takes a few stabs at the consumption habits, entitlement complexes and general sluttiness of American princesses.

The readers who nominated Motorhead’s Lemmy and Kyuss/Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme as alpha rock n rollers par excellence are correct. I would also add GG Allin to that illustrious list. Defecating on stage and self-mutilation were just the tip of the iceberg with that fucked up badass. Even his planned funeral was alpha:

There were two wakes for GG, one was a traditional Irish wake and the other was his rock and roll wake, according to GG’s mother Arleta. At his funeral, Allin’s bloated, discolored corpse was dressed in his black leather jacket and trademark jock strap. He had a bottle of Jim Beam beside him in his casket, per his wishes (openly stated in his self-penned acoustic country ballad, “When I Die”). As part of his brother’s request, the mortician was instructed not to wash the corpse (which smelled strongly of feces), or apply any makeup. The funeral became a wild party. Friends posed with the corpse, placing drugs and whiskey into its mouth. As the funeral ended, his brother put a pair of headphones on Allin. The headphones were plugged into a portable cassette player, in which was loaded a copy of The Suicide Sessions.

GG Allin — NOT a beta provider. Or a beta die-er.

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Did Michael Jackson Commit Suicide?

Based on the sketchy evidence that has come in so far, I don’t think this possibility can automatically be ruled out. Will we discover from the autopsy that his body was flooded with a massive dose of the painkiller Demerol? If so, was the overdose intentional or accidental?

What we know: Michael Jackson was 50. For a guy who didn’t want to grow up, turning 50 must have been a hammer blow to his already fragile prepubescently regressed psyche. He was in debt. Did the stress of a new worldwide tour to get him back in the black (innuendo intended) push him to the ultimate despair? He was underweight. As people age, their metabolisms slow and they begin packing on the unsightly pounds. There are only two (natural) ways to stay adolescent-thin as you age: Exercise, or eat a lot less. Michael Jackson didn’t look very healthy. Most likely, he solved the problem of middle age spread by drastically cutting down the amount of food he put in his mouth. Prolonged (as opposed to intermittent) intense calorie restriction can play havoc with a person’s psychological state, not to mention his health. Michael Jackson wanted to be white. No sense pussy-footing around that, it was as obvious as the caucasian inspired reconstruction of his face and skin, and his (very) white-looking kids. Did his living with being black finally tumble over into self-immolation?

Most importantly, Michael Jackson was fucked in the head from his father’s mistreatment. The manboy was robbed of a childhood (imagine having to hear your brothers banging groupies at the age of 11 as you hide under the bedsheets sticking your fingers in your ears). Jackson was a genuinely asexualized, emotionally stunted, and fantasy-prone age-regressed headcase. Did he believe, or want to believe, that he was still an 11 year old boy? It’s possible Jackson really did see himself as a little kid and it felt natural and normal to him to have boys over for slumber parties. Whether his adult-sized id led him to rest his chemically bleached penis in those kids’ hands is an open question, but does the pedophilic sexual urge of an adult necessarily have to be mutually incompatible with psychological self-identification as a young boy?

If Jackson imagined he was a boy, he would have most feared getting old. For him, aging would have been an encroaching horror he was unable to grasp, let alone cope with in the way most humans cope with the slow decay of their bodies — through the liberal use of happy clappy platitudes and a healthy sense of self-delusion. If you wake up and see a creature in the mirror looking less and less like the boy you think you are, it could send you off the cliff edge. Especially when the real boys you like having over for pillow fight parties start becoming more creeped out by “the old man” who wants to play with them.

Add up all the above, and the speculation of suicide as the cause of Jackson’s death seems reasonable.

Thoughts on Farrah Fawcett:

Cancer sucks, but anal cancer is just humiliating. How does one get anal cancer? I can think of three ways. Random misfortune, eating too much red meat, or taking HPV-positive cocks in the ass. The mind wanders…

Thoughts on celebrity deaths in general:

I’ll never get the outpouring of grief by people who have never met their cultural heroes and don’t know them from Adam. I must be missing the gene for abject celeb worship. When Diana died, the maudlin displays of garment-rending anguish reaffirmed my deeply felt disgust for the mass of humanity. Fucking no-life losers.

When someone I love dies, it’s a big deal. When a pop singer dies, I couldn’t give less of a shit. Unless I’m writing a dastardly blog post insinuating everyone’s blessed icon offed himself.

Thoughts on Michael Jackson and Game:

When a get rejected, I moonwalk away from the girl.

I think Virgle Kent could do a funny retrospective on the Gloved One.

‘Beat It’ was my favorite MJ song. Eddie Van Halen composed the guitar riff for ‘Beat It’. Does it matter that Michael Jackson didn’t write any of his songs? As a music snob and hobbyist guitarist/drummer/clarinetist/pianist, I used to be of the opinion that “pop stars” who didn’t write a lick of music were unworthy of stardom, but that’s a limited view. MJ had a distinctive singing voice, he was a great dancer and popularized a lot of innovative dance moves, and he had charisma, however eccentric. His hit songs are catchy and he had a flair for showmanship. Composing music isn’t the only measure of talent.

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Best New Song Of 2009

McDonald’s stock is up 8.1% since 3/1/09.

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