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Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

There’s this bar/nightclub that has two floors, the second floor extending about 2/3rds of the way out from the back of the venue, so that those on the first floor near the front of the club can look up and see people on the second floor. (it’s great for boning up (heh) on your upskirting skills.) An iron railing about waist high protects dancers and drunkards from falling over the edge into the crowd below, though I can’t fathom how there haven’t been topplings that I know of, given the nature of drunkards to fall over just about anything that isn’t a brick wall.

The club gradually morphed from a Chad-White bro-scene to a Dindu savannah, but it never completely de-gentrified (bixnoodified?). A given Saturday night could be 50/50 White/black. Many of the blacks were hardcore ghettolanders bused in from duskier parts of town, so the 50/50 ratio felt more like 10/90 if you were a wypipo. One street creature carries the menace of one thousand of Shaun King’s threatening tweets.

The night would quickly humidify with the influx of MUH DIKKING and jungle musk, and White Privilege at that time never felt more remote. But it was still fun to stay despite the risk of a massive house riot because of what would eventually and inevitably transpire on that exposed second floor. The nubian ladies would line up along the edge, two-handedly grab the railing, bend over and jut their steatopygian buttocks out as far as possible, rhythmically swaying and bouncing and jiggling their leopard skin tights-clad, dimpled posteriors with a ferocity that would evoke a post-monsoon reproductive dash for ass among Africa’s red-butted fauna.

Then the real show began. The brothers in their knee-high sweatpants would lope into the buoyant backsides of these Nail Rail sisters, making a big show of judging the asses for quality — some nodding their heads and licking their lips in vigorous approval, other stroking their chins in phony discernment — before channeling Al Frankenstien on Viagra and pressing their tighty-whitey-strained boners into the gluteal abyss of not one, but two, three, or ten event horizon booty cracks.

The Bump n Grind commenced, howls and hoots and screeches that startled birds and sent them flying out of the canopy would echo off the walls of the club. Spilled drinks, sweat, spit, and possibly semen would rain down on the first floor denizens who were staring upward mouths agape in unbelieving laughter. After a short while, the tribal “music” having sufficiently worked the participants into a copulatory frenzy, the fertility dance would move to stage three. Already ten to fifteen sassy girls were displaying along the Nailing Railing, and the woefully underprivileged and eternally victimized gentlemen of color would begin the musical chair part of the mating ritual, swapping girls between each other, slapping asses with an air of perfunctory ownership as they entered and exited ass cubbies.

Usually the buckiest of the daggering brothers would hog (heh) the preponderance of booty, overstaying his time with each ass, choosing the finest ass (as he saw it) from among a murderer’s row of gargantuan globularity, and grabbing two asses at once, one glued to his pelvic region, the other tickled into a spastic froth by his outstretched hand. It was at this time that the scent of sudden mayhem was strongest, and the possibility of a violent resolution bristled through capillaries and engulfed the room, electrifying the senses.

This is when the smarter Whites leave, (the smartest Whites never arrive), but for one time the crowd remained in full as a climactic scene unfolded that stunned the gallery before a great laughter ensued. At the mating dance’s peak excitation, a tall scrawny nerdy White man with “I’m a shitlib Virtue Signaler” practically tattooed on his fivehead stepped confidently into the tush pit, smiling goofily, full of wonder and joy at his chance to bond with the natives, and bounced heavily at the knee near an open black behind, waiting for a cue from one of his hued heroes to enter the Dark Incontinent without a safari guide. The Flummoxed Flava took one long incredulous look at this Supreme Dork, promptly cackled in unison, slapped his back, and pushed him into the booty dead center at the rail.

Below, the crowd erupted in cheers. Gangly and spindly, our brave sinfiltrator jerked his body like a broken marionette to the smooth gyrations of his amour, nearly disappearing into the sea of butt blubber. Slipping on the wet floor, he almost dove headfirst over her back and the railing, but steadied himself by planting his paw in the thiccness of her shoulder padding, and it was at this moment that his other hand swiped right….toward her giant tit mashed into the iron bar. He leered at the crowd as he gave it a lusty squeeze, at which the girl turned to look back at him, stood up, shook her head in that OH NO YOU DINT way, and slapped his face. He rocked backwards from the force of it, and the gathered brothers released gales of knee-slapping, tongue-wagging laughter as they resumed their spots in the tar pits.

There is no moral to this story except don’t go looking for love in the bush.

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The Starbuckwheat is the term for the numinously accessible black mascot adopted by 115 IQ SWPL shitlib sanctimony-addict Whites who want to prove their moral righteousness to wine party circuit peers. Anon at Sailer’s uncorks a portmanteau with accompanying etymology that is so causticly readable and insightful it deserves a reposting here at the Chateau. In his example, the Starbuckwheat du jour assuaging shitlib egos is Ta Nigisi Coates.

With the ebbing of religion, Negro Worship became the new faith in America, esp among White Libs. It’s tied to MLK as the new founding father, the new messiah, the new christ, new martyr.

Blacks are seen as holy because they not only suffered slavery and discrimination but can sing & dance and do sports.

So, Negroes are supposed to be the Moral Arbiters of America. Whites are supposed to save and protect (instead of exploiting) black bodies so that blacks can save white souls.

Blacks bodies are supposedly impoverished because whites treated blacks badly. But because whites gained so much by robbing blacks, their souls have become sick and diseased. So, the New Race Deal (maybe should be called New Steal) is about whites healing black bodies and blacks saving white souls.

And MLK seemed to be that great leader. In a way, his death made the Negro-as-Saint bigger than ever. Turned into martyr, he could be worshiped like a god. If he’d lived on, he’d been just another Jesse Jackson.

So, there is this constant search for the Great Black Hope. The one who might live up to the white dream of Negro as Moral Redeemer. But too many blacks are into crime, ugly rap, corruption, or dementia. And stuff like BLM turns invariably into Trash Talk and violence.

Since blacks on their own are incapable of putting forth the Great Black Hope, white Libs must nurture and create them in their own Laboratory. The Lib-Lab. And Obama was a graduate from the Lib-Lab. His formative influences were hardly black. And even though The Nasty Coates grew up among Negroes, he found sanctuary among Nice White Folks who could channel his obligatory rage into pseudo-intellectual & pseudo-inspirational rhetoric. He is to social theory what Neil Degrassie Tyson is to science. A mascot for white Libs to show that they are into Diversity and the Great Black Hope. White Libs (and even White Cons) get high from over-praising blacks. (Thomas Sowell is smart guy but Paul Johnson praising him as the greatest thinker is just goofy.)

Because of the Negro’s role in the American Imagination, every era needs its
Negro Laureate.

It’s like white feminists were esp taken with Alice Walker’s COLOR PURPLE.

Also, The Nasty Coates looks like a turtle without a shell, a perpetually lost child in need of milk and cookies and kindness of strangers. He is Arnold for the intellectual class.

Also, there is something strangely satisfying about watching a Negro succeed in intellectual field. Though whites once resisted the rise of black athletes, it’s now long been established that blacks are good at sports and dancing and physical stuff. So, there is hardly any moral excitement in championing the black athlete. Ali was the last one to ride on that wave because it was the Civil Rights Era. So, his victory had racial overtones. There is still some of that when blacks make inroads into sports that tend not to be very black. Like tennis and golf and gymnastics. And of course swimming and winter sports, those associated with white privilege and culture of exclusion. Even so, it’s hardly surprising that blacks, if given the chance, would do well in something like tennis.
In some ways, there is a kind of subtle ‘racism’ in praising black success in sports. Some may see it as stereotyping blacks as BODIES who are more adept at brawn than brain. So, even as black success in sports is seen as triumph over ‘racism’, it is also felt as a kind of ‘racism’ since it stereotypes blacks as akin to beasts who can run and jump.

So, it is more surprising and satisfying to see blacks do well in brainy fields in which they’ve lagged behind other races. This goes against stereotype. It also means that blacks as thinkers are less threatening than blacks as fighters or athletes or thugs. But the problem with praising blacks-as-thinkers is it makes them less authentic. It robs them of their black essence that is closely associated with the thug, street hustler, musician, athlete, or big personality. It could be construed as whites trying to force ‘whiteness’ on blacks. This is why white Libs feel uncomfortable around black conservatives. Why, they are ‘uncle toms’, and white Libs don’t want that.
They want the non-threatening Negro but who retains his authenticity and this means Race & Rage. But for this Authentic Rage to be acceptable among white Libs, it must be articulated in less threatening manner. And the ‘genius’ of The Nasty Coates is he has concocted an intellectual coffee-grinder that turns his blackness into something more Starbucky. He is Starbuckwheat.

That wasn’t a shiv, that was a thresher to the shitlib id.

There are some phaggy male-things on liberal news outlets like NPR (Negro-mascot Purification Ritual) who virtue signal so hard when they have Starbuckwheats on their shows that their voices slip into a whisper and crack with welling emotion like a single tear is about to stain their soycheek.

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Story.

A new book aimed at children in Sweden is entitled Grandpa Has Four Wives in another example of how Sharia law is being normalized as the country takes in thousands of Muslim migrants.

The book, named Farfar har fyra fruar in Swedish, has been published in both Swedish and Somali and is aimed at 3-6 year olds.

“Asli has never been to Somalia, but now she finally gets to go there with her dad, to meet grandfather and all her grandmothers,” states the blurb for the book, which is written by Oscar Trimbel and published by Adlibris. […]

Another book by the same author entitled Mormor är inget spöke (Grandma is no ghost) serves to normalize the burka.

“Omar greets his grandmother who comes from Somalia. When it’s Halloween, Omar wants to dress up like a ghost like any other child. He wants his grandmother to come along because it can be scary,” states the blurb for the book.

Despite many countries in Europe handing out fines and prison sentences for polygamy, Sweden recognizes polygamous marriages performed abroad and allows up to four wives to be registered as spouses.

Lemme see if I have the math right.

One Sweden + one Somalia = White supremacy
Zero Swedens + two Somalias = Diversity

I must have missed the international council that convened to declare words no longer have meaning.

Ya know, a while ago I predicted that legalized polygamy was coming to the White West. I wrote that the logical trajectory of anti-White shitliberalism would lead sans opposition to the normalization of every degeneracy and regressive human behavior antagonistic to the genetic, cultural, and historical habits and traditions of Western societies.

Sweden recognizes polygamous marriages performed abroad and allows up to four wives to be registered as spouses.

Too depressing to muster a preen.

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I’m gonna stop critiquing leftoid media drivel and just post pics of the authors, activists, and reporters. It’s a more efficient and powerful rebuttal.

PS I think we should start calling the anti-White Left genocidal maniacs. The funny thing about fightin’ words is that it forces the recipient to answer the charge. And that’s half the battle won.

PPS When the Realtalk flood came, I figured the Leftoid Equalism establishment responses would be:
1. shame
2. defame
3. inflame
and if those responses failed to produce the expected result, they would trigger the nuclear options:
censorship, suppression, and extortion.
The ICBMs have been launched.

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Do not adjust your screen. What you see below is an actual leaflet given to newly arrived Dirt World colonizers in Sweden. (via)

Similar pamphlets advising swarthy invaders how to find, meet, attract, and impregnate the local ladies have been handed out in Germany.

Is there some glitch in the soul of White man that convinces him, once he has created an earthly paradise for himself and his posterity, to then give away the fruits of his labor and imagination to ingrate locust swarms who will consume his creation and then his lineage in an orgy of primal gluttony and spite?

Houellebecq is a living prophet. And do I not bleed if I am denied a preen? I too have been warning for some time the feminized corruption that haunts the heart of Western man. Well here we are. All that’s left is to dot the i’s and cross the t’s on the West’s crumble into District 9 decay.

I blame wide-faced sociopathic low E cat lady hags. Hillary Clinton and Mutter-less Merkel are members of the species. It’s the Kuntocracy of Post-Menopausal Pussyhatters who heedlessly clamor for their dusty muffs, or its psychological equivalent, to get pounded out by the migrant vanguard of the Caliphate. These dumbfuck biddies and their gay mangina enablers tossing Western Civ overboard for a Fake Romance with a swarthswarm soldier will be the death of the West if they aren’t stopped.

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I really thought we had reached Peak Estrogen during the Cuck Menstruation of 2015/16 when Trump ran for President, but these past few days of cucks tearing up the 1st Amendment in their race to condemn self-aware White people for speaking unauthorized opinions on matters already settled by the Ministry of Untruth has been like free-basing soy and birth control pills. Pure estrus.

Rushing headlong to condemn violators of sclerotic social norms is such a womanly thing to do, but nobody ever confused GOP cucks for real men. McAmnesty, Magic Underwear, Fruitio…these hysterical, treasonous, and authoritarian queens have to be jettisoned from power.

Take a breather, post C’ville. The truth is just starting to dribble out past the Gaystream Media information curators (as usual it looks bad for leftists). When you feel dazed & confused by the swirl of events, ground yourself with the following truths:

1. The Prime Enemy is the media
2. A White majority is self-evidently good
3. Economic nationalism and de-urbanization are necessary correctives
4. Trust Trump. He’s the best friend you’ve got.

PS Trump’s “alt-left” is a linguistic kill shot.

1. isolates, freezes, and polarizes the left
2. easy to remember
3. sidesteps hoary old terms like marxist that normies tune out
4. opaque enough to smear entire left
5. forces Fake News to cover it
6. most crucially, PUTS THE LEFT ON DEFENSE

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I love writing about the strangeness I encounter in the dating trenches. Universal principles of female nature are more fun to continually rediscover when they’re embroidered with quirks and hiding under free-bushing skirts.

However, I’ve had to curtail recounting these exploits in a public forum as increasing numbers of Chateau guests have emailed to say they’ve recommended the blog to their sons, and sometimes daughters. When I hear about this in the middle of contemplating another launch of raunch, a feeling comes over me……one I can’t quite describe…..it’s so alien to me…..guilt, yes that’s it. Guilt, mixed with embarrassment. Apparently, I think of the children more than Hillary Clinton’s Cunt Corp does.

But I can’t resist this tale of the tail. So to any parents reading, please usher your children to their radiator shackles.

I girl I dated had a perfumed asshole. She was half-Asian (not the same Asian chick as the one featured in this post). I caught a whiff when she straddled me 69 style to suck me off. Her ass bobbed closer and closer to my nose, and the scent of jasmine (assmine?) wafted pleasantly across my face. Sweetest smelling mini-vag I ever sniffed.

For Lucifer knows what reason, I never bothered to ask why her asshole smelled like perfume. Best explanation I can give is that when I’m in the bone zone I let fleeting and amusing thoughts escape transmission to my tongue, so while I may think it, I never get around to vocalizing it. If it’s a particularly unusual assfectation, it can feel awkward to bring it up. So I enjoy the sensation and the farcical quality of the moment and leave it at that.

Recapping, I wonder now what that hapa’s perfumed asshore meant. I come up with five possibilities.

  1. it’s an inscrutable oriental thing
  2. her asshole was either congenitally very smelly, or she adhered to a higher standard for asshole freshness, and perfuming it helped her live with herself
  3. it was an olfactory invitation to me alone to rectally ravage her (rim jobs are out of the question, jeez people, i’m not a savage)
  4. she was a serial sphincter spritzer, and the jasmine aroma was the equivalent of a sexual history report card. straight As in anal play
  5. she had just had a spicy dog stew

If you have a memorable time with a woman who perfumes her asshole, you’ll think “that’s brisk baby!” and have an immediate compulsion to come to the Chateau to share your glory. We’ll be here with the lights on. Because proctology dies in darkness.

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