Robert Cialdini And The Triumph Of Game

Robert Cialdini is an expert in psychological manipulation, i.e., goal-oriented communication. (Something we all do, more or less successfully, whether we are aware of our own machinations or not.) He wrote the seminal book Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion. What you may not know is that Cialdini was, in many respects, a founding father of Game. He is cited by many well-regarded pickup artists, and his ideas, like “social proof”, percolate throughout the game literature. Game has had, from its inception. some pretty solid scientific, theoretical, and experiential backing.

Something else you probably don’t know: Cialdini was tapped, along with other renowned behavioral scientists, by the 2008 Obama campaign to help propel Obama to the highest office in the land.

Two weeks before Election Day, Barack Obama’s campaign was mobilizing millions of supporters; it was a bit late to start rewriting get-out-the-vote (GOTV) scripts. “BUT, BUT, BUT,” deputy field director Mike Moffo wrote to Obama’s GOTV operatives nationwide, “What if I told you a world-famous team of genius scientists, psychologists and economists wrote down the best techniques for GOTV scripting?!?! Would you be interested in at least taking a look? Of course you would!!”

Moffo then passed along guidelines and a sample script from the Consortium of Behavioral Scientists, a secret advisory group of 29 of the nation’s leading behaviorists. The key guideline was a simple message: “A Record Turnout Is Expected.” That’s because studies by psychologist Robert Cialdini and other group members had found that the most powerful motivator for hotel guests to reuse towels, national-park visitors to stay on marked trails and citizens to vote is the suggestion that everyone is doing it. “People want to do what they think others will do,” says Cialdini, author of the best seller Influence. “The Obama campaign really got that.”

The existence of this behavioral dream team — which also included best-selling authors Dan Ariely of MIT (Predictably Irrational) and Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein of the University of Chicago (Nudge) as well as Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman of Princeton — has never been publicly disclosed, even though its members gave Obama white papers on messaging, fundraising and rumor control as well as voter mobilization. All their proposals — among them the famous online fundraising lotteries that gave small donors a chance to win face time with Obama — came with footnotes to peer-reviewed academic research. “It was amazing to have these bullet points telling us what to do and the science behind it,” Moffo tells TIME. “These guys really know what makes people tick.”

Cialdini’s theories about the nature of human psychology and his influence on the American elite are evidence of the triumph of Game. Game has infused every facet of the body politic, not just the sexual organs. As CH has said many times already, if you can game a woman into bed you can game a boss into handing you a raise or a nation’s voters into electing you President.

That is the awesomely dark power of Game. And dark it is, because what is essentially remote control of another person’s executive brain function is the kind of power that irresistibly pulls one to malevolent ends.

President Obama is still relying on behavioral science. But now his Administration is using it to try to transform the country. Because when you know what makes people tick, it’s a lot easier to help them change.

You can thank Game for our first two-term halfling SWPL President and the nationalization of 1/7th of the economy. Now, if Game can do that, imagine what it can do on bored girls at bars yearning for a little excitement in their lives.

Some have said the 21st Century will be the age of biology. I think what we are entering is the age of Orwellian mastery over human psychology. Scarily, the two might be related. The power to shape people’s opinions and emotions through mere word and expression, and guide them to actions they may not have taken otherwise, is reaching an apotheosis that could be magnified a thousandfold coupled with the power to alter people’s genetic architecture.

If your eyes are open, you don’t have to look far to see foreboding signs of this new age of the human aquarium rising into view. Unaccountable secret government agencies using the internet to “manipulate, deceive and destroy reputations”. Your webcam commandeered by shadowy operatives. Cameras on every street corner. Cathedralsourced slanderswarms of crimethinkers.

Cialdini’s name has been found in NSA documents. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man himself is working for them.

Doubters can snark about “PUAs” to their hearts’ content, but the arc of recent history is proving that PUAs were at the leading edge all along. Will people listen only when it’s too late?

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Parade Of Humiliations

Do whites living in the West have a right to bitch about anti-white hatred? You bet. As PA clarifies in a comment over at GLPiggy,

In order to function normally, to keep a good mood, one has to intentionally blind himself to the organizing principle of the very society he lives in: White genocide.

I’ll occasionally feel its sting in a comment by Elk, or blogger THRASYMACHUS, a gentle-souled, thoughtful writer who relays observations from the edge. I can’t get Kayla Peterson out of my thoughts. Or, every time there is an internet article about schools, you see the cherubic faces of black kids, like a scene form Ghana rather than America — except when Yahoo posts “America’s Worst Schools” — you get a photo of white kids.

Hate fills any human being who opens his eyes to the horror and the humiliation of whites. Emma West’s ordeal — on that train with the animals growling at her and her little son, and then under the British police state.

And to stay sane, one looks away because there is not a thing he can do about any of this.

What PA is framing is what CH calls the “parade of humiliations”. Like the tactics of totalitarian communism before it, anti-white ideology thrives in part by its inquisitors visiting upon the victims an endless succession of humiliations. It’s not enough to propagandize with lies; the subject must be coerced to suffer the lies in silence, to accede to the primacy of the lies, and even to intone the lies as if they were the truth. Economic and social terrorism break the heart and mind, but humiliation breaks the soul.

Let there be no mistaking what this parade of humiliations is: It is a war of hate, psychologically bloody if not yet physically bloody. The aggressors — the ruling elite and their useful Section Hate shock troops — despise whites, despise the concept of whiteness, and despise especially the idea that the territory and nation and culture from which they parasitically suck the lifeblood was created and sustained primarily by white men.

A parade of humiliations is a nefarious elite and a gullible bureaucratic class importing thousands of Somalis and dumping them in whitest Minnesota, where they multiply on the generosity of their host’s welfare largesse and then aggressively oust from power the very benefactors who opened doors to them.

A parade of humiliations is a disingenuous promise by condescending moralizers to fellow citizens that wildly foreign immigrant pawns will easily assimilate to local norms of conduct, and that any difficulty encountered during the assimilation process is proof that the natives have not been sufficiently welcoming and must be reeducated in the goodness of their displacers and the badness of their own self-consideration.

A parade of humiliations is a subhuman beast with an extensive criminal history free on probation by a sympathetic system, coldly gunning down a retiree in his home. The beast, shot through with demonic hatred, lied about needing assistance and exploited his prey’s naivete and magnanimous responsiveness. This incident in form and intent is a microcosm of the overarching assault on white America.

A parade of humiliations is the mass media studiously ignoring to the best of its plausible deniability the above stories of whites churned to bits by the anti-white death machine while trumpeting to the high heavens as vile hate crimes hoaxes targeted at whites.

A parade of humiliations is exiling from society any whites who dare notice their debasement.

Elite leftoid status whoring is all fun and games when nobody is the wiser and the costs are too diffuse to measure by endorsed economic formulae. But now the pain bites, and the parade of insults grates. The people on the sidewalks dumbly acquiescing to participation in their disparagement feel something they haven’t felt in a long time…

Rage.

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Extreme Disqualification Game

We sat in a window box of the cafe. Warming sunlight marched through and glittered off her black hair. As I spoke absent-mindedly about a girl I loved whom I recently lost, barely comprehending in my stream of consciousness that I was airing my inner thoughts, a sunshaft grazed her cheek and I saw that she was silently crying. Two soft tears traced slowly downward, framed within an expressionless face. The effect hit me hard, not because it was the first time I made a woman cry from sheer carelessness, but because her tears were so incongruent with her personality. She was an Ivy-educated business consultant, easily turning six figures, ambitious, sure of herself in ways she thought mattered, and to the undiscerning eye cold and opaque.

She was also pretty, but the timing of our fling threw her orbit away from mine. Pleasing enough, she regrettably didn’t press my buttons like my recent ex-girlfriend had. And so, when she earnestly pried for my truest feelings, she received in return the fate of suffering reckless confessions she didn’t want to hear. My emotions were raw, and I unloaded on her callously as she took my strafe on every flank. Not meaning to hurt her, I had, and every time we had sex since then, over the following weeks, it ended with her tucking her knees under her chin naked on the bed to quietly cry into the wrapped bubble of her body.

When my one-sided conversation with the cosmos had finished, and her tears had shocked me back to empathy and guilt, she choked out a tiny utterance that I’ll never forget. A simple, endearing question: “So you really liked this girl?” Imagine for a moment the excruciating hollowness of unreciprocated longing that the friendzoned beta male feels as he patiently abides his love’s encomiums to another man. Women can feel this way, too.

I crashed back into her presence. Now all I could think was making amends and, truthfully, a part of me wanted to preserve for a while longer the usefulness of her distractive adoration in my time of need.

“Yes.”

I surprised myself at the forthrightness of my answer. Quickly recalibrating, “…but I could see it coming, so maybe it’s all for the best.”

She coaxed a crooked smile, but I had sunk her. She knew in that bright cafe that we would never be more together than a pleasurable temporary escape. Already approaching thirty, the weight of it landed in the breadbasket of her soul.

These stories locked in time offer lessons for times yet to come. What I had unknowingly, accidentally, obliviously, and with quite sincere effort done to this woman was run an extreme version of Disqualification Game on her. That confessional about my recent ex, the sincerity with which I expressed my confusion and unresolved desire, the indifference to how it might be received by present company, sent my replacement lover into a tailspin. She felt stronger love for me at the same time she felt the sadness of our inevitable, arriving end. Thus, our sex life carried on while her tears flowed heavier with accumulating grief.

What was accidental can be made intentional for one’s personal advantage. “I’ll always have this thing for my ex” Extreme Disqualification Game can, if delivered without a hint of manipulative urgency (almost as an afterthought), greatly increase a woman’s attraction to you. She’ll see herself as the one who can make it better, or steal your heart away, if you’re careful to stop just short of killing her hope outright. You’ll be a challenge too irresistible to some women, especially women with options, and if you parcel your redirected romance into hamster-sized pellets that make her feel as if she’s slowly winning you over, you’ll have from her a love that can transcend all other arid considerations women tend to autonomically jot down on dating profiles or personal ads.

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Disappearing Act Game As A Tool To Attract Women

A common dramatic license in fictional thrillers is the sudden exit of the main character, usually a powerful man, from a scene of heightening intimacy with a woman. He gives no reason why he has to leave, but the viewer knows, or it is implied, that he leaves to rendezvous with his mysterious employer or otherwise shady characters to do business. This disappearing act, naturally, leaves the woman in a state of frustrated, and aroused, curiosity.

This trope taps ancient female longings for a heroic man with a sense of duty who must travel to faraway lands to fight an enemy, pursue a passion, or reach an enlightenment. A man who can tear himself away from a woman, from her trite domestic concerns, to “do what compels him”, becomes an exotic archetype to the woman. His desirability is stamped in the psyche of every woman from an early time in human evolution, when leaders of men gathered hunting parties and left the women and babes behind.

The modern seducer can capture the allure of the disappearing act for himself. Imagine you’re on a date with a woman who, you intuit, has one foot in and one foot out. She’s beautiful, and she’s unfailingly inscrutable. You try an arsenal of game tactics, but nothing sticks. To bag this trophy baby you’ll need a bigger tingle bomb. That’s when you reach for your phone, briefly scan the screen, make a phony excuse — “I have to meet with someone important” —  and be gone. Don’t loiter to parry her questions. If she presses, tell her you’ll call her tomorrow, and that you’re sorry you can’t divulge more, and you understand her frustration. Your exit must be fluid and definitive.

Beautiful women expect men to lavish them with attention, and to extend as long as possible the time spent with such women. They are right to expect this effortful courtship, since most men rarely break from the script. Therefore, the man who executes Disappearing Act Game immediately catapults himself into the frantic consciousness that characterizes a sexually fixated woman.

A few clarifications. Disappearing Act Game is dynamite, to be used sparingly, and only on those women with whom the seduction process has tediously stalled. If you’re at a woman’s place, and she’s smiling and tipping back a glass of wine, it would be stupid to suddenly leave when the probability of crack fracking is high. Too, it would be self-defeating to walk out on a date when she’s dropping nonverbal hints of her rising attraction. In pickup lingo, Disappearing Act Game is a nuclear version of the game tactic known as the takeaway; you’re leaving her not just for a few seconds, or even a few hours, but for a whole day, and under enticingly obscure circumstances.

I’ve used Disappearing Act Game ten or fifteen times in my life, if you want a handle on the proper frequency of deployment. It’s best used on very beautiful women who routinely date high status men, and with whom you’d seriously consider a long-term romance. Timing is important; disappearing after the first hello isn’t going to accrue much to your value. Maximum hamster impact is achieved after she’s gotten somewhat comfortable in your company, and a groundwork of intimacy has been built. She has to be a little bit invested in you to feel the loss of your quick exit.

You, for your part, must have a deep reserve of self-control to initiate the Leaving Protocol. Most men reading this post now don’t have it; you will think about leaving on a whim, you may even have at the ready an erotically charged excuse to leave, but her pretty face will keep you stuck in her orbit. To disappear with conviction, you have to be firmly committed to seeing your exit through the back door. Her eyes will look up at you, suddenly liquid with confusion and spiked interest, and it will test the last ounce of your will to sever your precious, if illusory, spatial bond to her. Stay the course. The only bond that matters in a woman’s heart is the one you caulk in her cock vault.

A final tip: What really helps gird your will to disappear like a phantom is having another girl in your dating rotation. Two in the kitty isn’t just a cad’s mission statement; it’s psychological leverage.

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He Who Loves Least Loves Most… ps and science!

Does this post title sound like a paradox? It is to virgin ears which have yet to hear the Rude Word of CH. But once again ♥science♥ waltzes onto the Chateau ballroom floor to plant a giant wet kiss on the stubbled cheek of your e’er ‘umble host and announce with stentorian resolve that “Aloof Indifference Game” is real and it works.

Erin Whitchurch and her colleagues conducted a study on 47 female undergraduates to find out. Each woman was told that several male students had viewed her Facebook profile and rated how much he’d like to get to know her.

One group was told that they would be seeing the four men who had given them the highest ratings (“liked-most” condition). Another group of women were told that they would be seeing the four men who had given them average ratings (“liked-average” condition. Finally, another group of women (“the uncertain condition”) were told that it is unknown how much the guy likes her. The women then viewed four fictitious Facebook profiles of attractive male college students.

After they viewed the profiles, they reported their mood and rated multiple aspects of their attraction to the male students (e.g., “someone I would hook up with“). The participants then rated their mood again, and also reported the extent to which thoughts about the men had “popped into their head” during the prior 15 minutes.

They found evidence for the reciprocity principle: women liked the men more when they were led to believe that the men liked them a lot compared to when they thought the men liked them an average amount.

Women in the uncertain condition, however, were most attracted to the men. Women also reported thinking about the men the most in the uncertain condition, and there was tentative evidence that the effect of uncertainty on attraction was explained by the frequency of their thoughts. In other words, it wasn’t the uncertainty per se that was attractive but the thoughts it induced.

Interestingly, women in the liked-best condition were in a more positive mood than women in the liked-average condition, but women in the uncertain condition were no different in mood than women in the liked-best condition. Women felt just as positive under uncertainty as they did knowing for sure the guy liked her!

When women think of assholes they don’t want to date, they’re thinking of caring assholes. The kind of men who are clingy, mate guarding buffoons. The assholes who are loved by women are the men whose jerkitude is implied through emotional distance, cocksureness, outcome independence, and inscrutability. The man who cares least earns the most love (and sex) from women. The gradient of this Uncaring Male-Loving Female curve is steep at the beginning of a relationship (courtship, dating) and levels off as the relationship deepens, to a point where the man’s SMV is noticeably higher than his lover’s and she is practically begging for romantic beta signs of his continued love and commitment.

The Uncaring Male-Loving Female curve is also dependent on the comparative sexual worth of the partners. A beautiful woman with a lot of options will be more attracted to romantically ambivalent men. In contrast, an ugly woman with few options will need and feel grateful for conspicuous signals of sexual and romantic interest from men.

As a man with game, you should always default to the Uncaring Male-Loving Female dynamic. If you overshoot, you have room to rein your indifference and bedaub the woman with tiny jewels of romantic intent; if you overshoot in the other direction — i.e., you lavish too much beta wooing on a woman — there’s no chance to come back from that category error.

Interestingly, psychologists are coming around to the CH theoretical (and field-tested) framework that the frequency and amplitude of “care least” courtship and dating rituals are increasing. Women, at least those in the highly sexually charged ruthouses of our major anonymizing cities, are responding more to aloof men, and are themselves mechanistically cranking the reverse gears of their pair-bonding algorithms. There are a host of reasons for this state of arid affairs, but one major factor has to be something like this: Women have become as men, and the flipped sexual polarity is warping every incentive structure of the dating market.

We’re tits-deep in the era of men and women competing like cheap date gladiators for the honor of most invulnerable animatronic ego maximizer.

One thing for certain: In this environment women are unhappy, society loses, and men with game win. Because if it’ll be about nothing but banging with piston-like efficiency and avoiding romantic entanglements, men will clean up the arena with the battered husks of women’s egos.

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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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Why Chateau Heartiste Taunts Loudmouth Fatties

Occasionally, barely concealed incipient concern trolls will ask why CH gives so much shit to obstreperous fatties instead of just leaving them to their moribund misery.

The answer — besides a vigorous reminder that CH is not a camp of saints — is that loud and proud fatso promoters deliver a caustic, soul destroying message that will increase the total amount of ugliness and unhappiness in the world should women reading their lies start to believe them. Fat apologist feminists who insist on writing manifestos excusing or rationalizing or glorifying their fatness, or slandering anti-fat crusaders, will get, and do very much deserve, both barrels of the shivgun. Call it environmental activism. Call it the penile erection protection program.

Lies must be met with truth. Ideally, that truth comes packaged in stylistic ordnance that explodes in a shower of entertaining dazzle for fence-sitting gawkers and liquidates the central processing egos of the blubbery lie machines. Utterly annihilated, their demolecularized fatty essence scattered to the wind, the suffering fat chick (and it’s almost always a chick claiming fatness is fine, which should tell you something) howling in pain and impotent indignation serves as an example for the others: If you spread filthy lies that cause, intentionally or consequentially, women to be stripped of their beauty and thus men deprived of their happiness, CH will be here at the ready, the tip of its nimble hate spear plunging deep into your ululating hindbrain, probing, excavating, and finally stabbing with the force of a thousand unleashed hells the heart of your scarred, coal black id.

Fat shaming now, fat shaming tomorrow, fat shaming forever! MOOAH!

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