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Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

For those of you new to the Chateau, the rationalization hamster (original hamster — O.H. — introduced here) is a descriptive term for the typical woman’s tendency to rationalize her decisions to fulfill herself sexually such that her personal culpability in making the sex happen is removed or reduced. Since that original definition, the rationalization hamster has come to acquire a broader meaning, encapsulating all the odd little mental tricks that women (and sometimes men) do in service to their glowing self-conceptions.

Psychological projection, in its conventionally understood sense, is attributing to others feelings or motives that you yourself possess, but are uncomfortable acknowledging or unable to perceive in yourself. In dating market parlance, projection is a form of rationalization for an opposite sex’s idealized behavior. For instance, women often project onto men their own expectations and attraction triggers, fooling themselves into believing that what they desire in men is what men must desire in them, (or, similarly, that what women dislike in men must be what men dislike in women).

FYI, men, especially inexperienced beta males, project their desires onto women as well, though this particular self-deception is more commonly found in use among women, (for reasons that have been explained in previous posts, namely, the paradox that women have more to gain from their self-deception). A good example of a low N beta male projecting his desires onto women is the man who believes that women will only be intrigued by him for his looks, because that’s what he primarily desires in women.

The reason I bring this up is because I swoon with anticipation in presenting to you, CH celebrated readers, what I consider one of, if not THE, best representations of female psychological projection ever put to print. The article is titled, ‘8 Reasons Why You Should Marry The Complicated Girl’, and, if you check the authoress’s accompanying photo, the listicle was compiled by what appears to be a high testosterone woman with a glare so evil she could make the Grinch recoil in horror.

First, she begins by explaining the basis for her theory,

I am not simple. I am a challenge for any man, I will admit. As hard as I try to be the simple girl, it is just not in my nature to be one. I demand more from everyone because I see great potential.

I only want the best for myself and for my partner, so I will never just go along with some semblance of a mediocre, passionless relationship.

An unevolved man or a boy will always want the simple girl. He doesn’t want to have to work hard for anything, especially not a relationship. He doesn’t want to be challenged or confronted.

But, a real man knows that by being with a complicated girl, he will be better for it.

So, essentially, slander is the basis for her grand theory of male-female relationship dynamics. “Unevolved” men want simple (i.e., kindhearted) girls; “real” men want complicated (i.e., drama-prone) girls.

Her eight points are a gold mine of accidentally revealed preference… that is, her own revealed preference for what SHE wants in men, not what men want in women.

Marry the girl who tells you exactly what she expects and follows through.

Men who aren’t named John Scalzi despise domineering women. Women, in contrast, have shown a noted proclivity for enjoying the company of decisive men with leadership qualities.

Marry the girl who demands your respect.

Girls are respected when they earn that respect, not when they demand it. However, men who make inordinate demands on women do tend to get rewarded sexually for their impertinence.

Marry the girl who can talk politics, even if her opinions are different from yours.

Again, pure female projection. Nothing, other than obesity or a secret penis, kills a man’s incipient boner faster than a girl who is jabbering about politics on a date and is making a point of defying the man’s opinion. Women, otoh, do feel delicious yearnings for men who have strong opinions and stand their ground in the face of opposition.

Marry the girl whose eyes flicker with passion about a number of different subjects.

Translation: “Please marry me for the same reasons I want to marry you, oh passionate and learned man whose eyes flicker with life about a number of different subjects.”

Marry the girl who won’t let you get away with slacking on your talents.

Nag. Even a died-and-uncool male feminist will weary of a nag in time. But women do love a man who qualifies them as worthy partners.

Marry the girl who pushes you to be better every day.

Demanding potentate. But women do love a man who keeps them on their toes and away from the pints of ice cream. What she’s really admitting is that she wants to craft a man to be more like the type of alpha male who turns her on. This doesn’t translate into what men desire in women, though.

Marry the girl with whom you sometimes fight.

Drama queen. These kinds of girls love the pre-sex fight as much as they love the post-fight sex. Men just love the post-fight sex. Most men would be glad to jump straight to the post-fight sex without actually having the fight.

Marry the girl who is your equal or greater.

And here it is. Distilled female rationalization hamster projection. Pure femergy. Men don’t want women who are their “equal or greater”. Men want sexy, pretty, young(er) women with a feminine, more or less submissive disposition. It’s women who strongly desire an “equal or greater” lover, because women are viscerally attracted to mentally, physically, and emotionally strong men.

Post-list, the funny keeps on giving:

My dad always says the thing that attracted him most to my mom was the fact that she was smarter than him.

Gullible, thy name is desperately ego-assuaging woman.

Only a real man can say that and know it’s good for him.

Or a smart man who knows that empty flattery works on aging wives.

Don’t get me wrong; a complicated girl who is not yet mature will be a pain in the ass.

Define “mature”. (Answer: It never arrives.)

She will pick fights with you about everything, and you will always feel like a failure in her presence because you won’t know how to make her happy. But, with a little experience and wisdom, this is the girl who will become wife material.

Maybe the reason why men don’t want to commit to attention whores like herself is because they can see the writing on the wall. Just a thought?

And, once she’s at that point, you better never let her get away, or you’ll risk losing the best thing you ever had.

High blood pressure?

In some respects, this is one of the saddest, and most textbook, feminist limbic blurts I’ve read. Pained by men who have rejected her need for screed, she, like many women, refuses to look at herself squarely and instead puts all the onus on men to accept that they are really attracted to girls like her, and only men’s unevolved immaturity is holding them back from realizing this about themselves.

Yet again, a sterling display of a woman avoiding the consequences for her actions. The best thing she could do for herself — deep examination of her off-putting drama whore behavior and steps to correct it — she won’t do. Those eyes say it all:

“I am woman, hear me roar for validation.”

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Beta Or Omega Male?

Many readers sent CH a link to this story for inclusion in the Beta of the Year contest. But is he really beta, or is he that lowest of life forms, the omega male?

A Chinese man dropped to his knees for 30 days (and 30 nights?) in an act of contrition to win back his girlfriend. (No word on what he did that pissed her off. Journalism!)

The Beta Male of the Year series is meant as a learning tool. Betas are put under the spotlight to help readers understand the kinds of commonly encountered male behaviors that cause vaginas to snap shut. Extreme supplication like that committed by the Chinaman in the story above isn’t very helpful by dint of its rarity and absurdity. Most beta males aren’t committing treason against their sex in quite so spectacular a fashion.

What this is a better example of is a greater omega male at a loss for what to do when the love of his life (and probably the first woman to sneak a peak at his chicken beak) breaks up with him. He reverts to classic omega form: Prostration, appeasement, self-abnegation, and public humiliation. The funny thing is, he doesn’t appear to be an especially ugly man, yet his theatrics are so off-putting to women that everyone reading this intuitively knows his girlfriend is filling with disgust at the prospect of laying with him again.

Omega males aren’t all sexless basement dwellers. The better species of them sometimes manage to get girlfriends (quality control notwithstanding to the contrary). What usually distinguishes greater omega males from beta males is the facility with which omegas will acquiesce to their gelding and the energy they bring to doing all the wrong things to woo women.

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Lena Dunham is quite the classy lady.

Dunham writes of casually masturbating while in bed next to her younger sister, of bribing her with “three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds . . . anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.” At one point, when her sister is a toddler, Lena Dunham pries open her vagina — “my curiosity got the best of me,” she offers, as though that were an explanation. “This was within the spectrum of things I did.” […]

Lena Dunham never actually writes that she was raped by a mustachioed campus Republican named Barry at Oberlin College. She leads up to it with a long story about her childhood misuse of the word “rape” — she accuses her little sister of raping her and tells people that her father sticks a fork in her vagina when she misbehaves — and dwells on her lifelong fear of being raped. She describes two different versions of the same sexual encounter, in the latter version insisting that she did not consent to what happened. And in a remarkably dishonest turn, she has other people describe the event as “rape,” thereby dodging any intellectual or moral responsibility for making the claim herself. […]

Dunham’s writing all this is, needless to say, a gutless and passive-aggressive act. Barry is not a character in a book; he is a real person, one whose life is no doubt being turned upside down by a New York Times No. 1 best-seller containing half-articulated accusations that he raped a woman in college, accusations that are easily connected to him. Dunham won’t call him a rapist, but she is happy to use other people as sock puppets to call him a rapist. She doesn’t use his full name, but she surely knows how easily it can be found. She wouldn’t face him in a court of law, but she’ll lynch him in print.

This is the last time I’ll write a post about Lena Dunham until she drowns herself in an extra-wide bathtub *fingers crossed*.

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California has lobbed another salvo in the War On Men: Governor Moonbeam signed into law

a bill that makes California the first in the nation to define when “yes means yes” and adopt requirements for colleges to follow when investigating sexual assault reports.

State lawmakers last month approved SB967 by Sen. Kevin de Leon, D-Los Angeles, as states and universities across the U.S. are under pressure to change how they handle rape allegations. Campus sexual assault victims and women’s advocacy groups delivered petitions to Brown’s office on Sept. 16 urging him to sign the bill.

De Leon has said the legislation will begin a paradigm shift in how college campuses in California prevent and investigate sexual assaults. Rather than using the refrain “no means no,” the definition of consent under the bill requires “an affirmative, conscious and voluntary agreement to engage in sexual activity.”

Romance is dead. Long live romance!

I can’t think of many things that would kill the moment faster than whipping out a consent form and a pen as you’re sitting on the edge of her bed. Unfurling a one inch micropeen? Reaching under her dress to grab a handful of frank and beans? Unsnapping her bra to release a bundle of tissue paper and two deflated flapjack tits?

“Every student deserves a learning environment that is safe and healthy,”

Infantilization. Coddling. Child-proofing the cap on women’s brains.

We’ve shifted the conversation regarding sexual assault to one of prevention, justice, and healing.

Poopytalk.

The legislation says silence or lack of resistance does not constitute consent.

Women generally don’t like to verbalize their desire to get banged out. They prefer dropping subtle cues that experienced, confident men will recognize and use to lead the interaction toward the bedroom. They also prefer to put up token resistance before relenting completely. A law that requires women deny these two essential aspects of their nature, or to twist them into something inhuman, is a law doomed to fail… or to “succeed” beyond the wildest dreams of its femcunt sponsors.

Under the bill, someone who is drunk, drugged, unconscious or asleep cannot grant consent.

If a drunk woman can’t grant her consent, then a drunk man can’t comprehend her consent. This legal contortion cuts both ways. But of course only men are responsible for their own actions, so loophole exploited!

Lawmakers say consent can be nonverbal, and universities with similar policies have outlined examples as a nod of the head or moving in closer to the person.

Well, that’s a relief! Put away the consent form, you only need a video camera to provide proof to a jury of your feminist inquisitors that you received the requisite head nod and mutually voluntary personal space encroachment to proceed under legal allowance into a reproductively-thwarted union. Wait, it wasn’t thwarted by condom or Pill? Are you evil?

If it wasn’t a travesty, it would be a farce. Worse, it’s humiliation. The point of these toxic, insane, dehumanizing feminist and equalist laws is humiliation of straight (white, beta) men. That’s it. Never forget it. This is your enemy.

***

Reader 1357 quips,

I see a lot more secret recordings of all sexual encounters “just in case”, happening in california pretty soon.

Oh yeah. Externalities are a bitch. What man worth his seductive prowess will risk bedding a slutty headcase now, without video proof of her writhing arousal and surrender? But it would have to be secretly videotaped; not many women are down with a camera rolling on that first magical night together. Keep the closet door ajar, hide the camera behind cable wool sweaters, and don’t forget to put black tape over the red record light.

How ironic if a perverse law designed to catalogue the organic and nuanced stirrings of mutual consent — aka foreplay — were to have the knock-off effect of flooding the internet with more ill-gotten sex videos of regretful feminist whackjobs!

Reader joe sixpack imagines what convincing a girl to sign a pre-sex consent form would entail:

“OMG, lol, what’s that thing on your head?”

“That’s my new GoPro.

Now just look at me and say the following: “I hereby swear of my free personal will, that I do consent to sexual contact up to and inclusive of sexual intercourse whereby I grant unrestricted consent for your penis to enter my vagina, and I duly swear to hold fully exempt from any future civil and/or criminal litigation resulting from said intercourse.

You may not need the GoPro. There’s now an app for that. Good2Go. Nerds rejoice, they finally have a technical means of determining if and when a girl likes them in “that way”. Naturally, whatever slim chances a nerd gets in his life to have sex will promptly be scuttled the moment he pulls out his Good2Go app for permission to continue fondling the girl’s upper forearm.

On a serious note, this law is unenforceable. Last I checked, judges tend to side with defendants in “he said-she said” situations. (Who knows, though? That could be changing, like everything else in America, for the worse.) A law like this is pure signaling by alpha males and omega females. The former get to flex their power over weaker men and demonstrate through their indifference a prowess with women that will never be threatened by morning-after regret. The latter get to make life harder for better looking women of sound mental health, and much much harder for those creepy beta and omega males who sheepishly and awkwardly hit on them in elevators. The nerve! Then there’s the politics of it all. The War On Women rhetoric has ramped up so loudly (and incongruously) that politicians can score a lot of votes by pandering to the worst elements of womanhood. The rest of the women just step in line with these feminist gorgons, because that’s the direction the herd is heading.

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Homeless Gay Game

A million readers have sent CH links to this video and accompanying story of a purportedly homeless dude picking up girls for sex and flophouse stays.

I haven’t bothered to write about it because, well, watch the video and you’ll see why.

Strong gay vibe. This video is either a production house put-on or a confused gay man’s misdirection. If he’s a rump raider, then you should believe exactly 0% of his words. If, despite loudly pinging gaydar, he’s straight, AND telling something close to the truth, then godspeed exiled git of the vertical slit. Faux gay game has its place in pickup history; many a fine dandy wooed women with their aloof, refined charms.

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An attractive woman emptied her brain bowels online and pinched off a tapered string of sentences so vapid that you would be challenged to find a more inane splatter of poopytalk. From her article at a site called The Daily Love, titled “You do not have to prove yourself to anyone“, in which she tries to prove her point of view to anyone reading, the following nugget is excavated:

As a soul sister to many, I often find myself being called upon for a variety of supporting reasons. Today, I got a phone call from a fellow goddess and she was in absolute disarray. She was, well, a hot mess.

Separately, each of those sentences is empty überfeels nonsense. Together, they create a kind of super storm of silly doublethink (why would a goddess be in disarray?), solipsistic posturing, and infantile prattle.

This is your modern American woman with a cable modem. The internet, among its pantheon of induced pathologies, has had as well the salutary (sadistic?) effect of exposing dim-witted women, and particularly the attractive ones, to criticism and mockery of their forehead furrowing thoughts that they normally would not experience in the real world where people are politer and men more indulgent of non-obese fuckables.

This doesn’t seem to thwart the flow of distaff nonsense, though. Instead of retreating to lick their wounds and go back to doing what they do best — defer to the man of the house — they circle the wagons and soundproof their echo chambers. But the walls come tumbling down eventually. Some of the shivs must penetrate; expect an epidemic of mental illness among our wired women in the coming years.

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The subject of hugs as a social lubricant surfaced recently in the comments. Before continuing, I’ll say that hugs as a tactile ploy to quickly escalate physical comfort with a girl is an entirely different matter than hugs as they are used by girls when meeting friends or even loosely affiliated acquaintances. The former is an established game technique; the latter is, well… emasculating.

Gadfly Amy writes,

This is an interesting observation. I hug people all the time, and you are right, the “alpha” guys don’t really hug back. They don’t freeze up and act uncomfortable or nervous… they just don’t physically react. They make me do the work.

Hugging is all the rage in SWPL-land. And it’s something I could do without. But some social forces are so deeply ingrained that even the mighty iconoclast you know and luv, Highlander Heartiste, must bend to the will of the herd.

Although hugging is a great kino escalation tactic, in nearly every other context it’s phony and suspiciously emasculating. People (mostly women) feel the pressure to hug, and like lemmings they dive right over the personal space cliff to hug everybody from exes to bosses to friends of friends to friends of friends of boss exes. Whatever import accompanied the practice has long ago been stripped mined from it by perfunctory overuse.

Hugging is Depo-Provera for the Androgyne Generation. It’s the final snippity snip of soft castration for men whose testes are already halfway ascended to their diaphragms. It’s a comforting boundary in a world of hair-trigger offense, and a reprieve from busting a move to get the girl.

Hyperbole? Ok, try imagining Don Draper hugging Peggy or Joan or his secretary du jour every time they got together at a party. Try picturing James Bond hugging a woman he had no intention of seducing into bed. Try imagining your father, or your grandfather, or this guy, asexually hugging women at a backyard barbeque.

It is to laugh.

Fact: If you aren’t initiating hugs to fast-track a familiarity that can be leveraged into quick seductions, or you aren’t hugging a girl as post-coital homage to her bedside acrobatics or sympathy for her dead grandma, then the hug you are receiving is beta.

Naturally, if I have to put up with hugging I’m gonna press in real close if the hugger is a cute girl with a big rack. That’s called making smoosh juice out of lemons. And lemons it is, because hugging, besides feeling like a coerced gesture to which one submissively relents, is in most ways subtly desexualizing. I don’t know when or how the practice got to be the go-to social greeting among self-regarding liberal whites (aka alien grays), but I’ve no doubt that many women now deploy it as a means of preemptively dissipating any simmering sexual energy that might radiate from a man who still has stones knocking between his legs.

In some cases, the sexual energy she subconsciously seeks to dissipate is her own. Which is flattering to the man, until he stops to think that the hug is basically the girl pulling a Heisman on him.

Exceptions exist. Hugging is occasionally an overt come-on by a girl who wants to communicate her sexual intent using tools deemed safe and plausibly deniable by broad social acceptance. If you can tell that’s happening to you, then by all means welcome that hug and let your hand drop to the top of her ass.

But more often, hugging is a female power move to claim control of a man’s beastly sexuality. It’s emasculating in the sense that the hugger feels so at ease in your company, so blissfully unthreatened by your percolating sexuality, that she can swoop right into your flaccid body and press her supple flesh into your spirit house. Not in your house? Oh yes, in your house.

The female hug is a nonverbal message delivery vehicle. It can say “Wow, I like this guy and just want to feel his strong swaying manboobs”, or, more typically for your average SWPL betaboy who must entertain upwards of ten friendzone hugs per day, it says, “Wow, this guy is such a team player, but just in case he’s got life left in that microbone of his, I’m gonna arouse him with the proximity of my body and drink of his nourishing despair as he realizes the extent of his paralyzed impotence.”

You don’t want to be that guy. But what to do when the world is hug-happy and refusal would assuredly consign you to the disinvite list?

Based on what I’ve seen charming alphas do, there are two effective countermeasures. One, you can do as Amy observed, and let your body hang in languid repose, forcing the girl by your inaction to assume all the sexual pre-penetrative tension that is always bubbling not far underneath the polite veneer of a hug. Call it, “amused receivership”. The trick is to substitute calm indifference for rigid discomfort. Done right, it’s a great way to non-verbally wedge a girl into the “chaser” role. She’ll feel like she’s doing all the work, so you as a man must be worth it.

The other method requires a more cantankerous personality. When she moves in for the hug, agree and amplify. As she’s hugging, let your hands roam over her back and hips. Exaggerate your pleasure for the entertainment of the crowd or for your own amusement. Smile like you’re getting a hummer and press harder into her. Moan a little. Sexualize the hug. Accuse her of copping a cheap feel, or making you feel dirty. Force her world to accommodate your insolent penile aura. She’ll either be aroused by your manly effrontery and begin to contemplate unclothed transactions with you, or she’ll be thrown into a state of perturbation and think twice before hugboxing you again as if you were a little eunuch doll.

Either way, you win. If the second method should scandalize the gathered, prep them with a clownish attitude. This way there’s less chance they’ll mistake your gropings for anything but physical humor. If she, or her friends, really chafe at your impudence, you shouldn’t be hanging with such uptight pussies anyhow.

Amy continues,

How do your girl friends greet you, then? How do you expect/want them to greet you?

I don’t press up against guys when I hug them, it’s a greeting type hug, quick, and I usually kiss them on the cheek. The only exception is if I’m really glad to see them for a specific reason, i.e. the other night I saw a friend of mine who just recovered from a freak illness that almost killed him. I was so happy to see him out and looking healthy that I hugged him hard. But I don’t think anyone would confuse that with a sexual advance.

You underestimate the proclivity of men to interpret all variety of female attention as a cry for copulation. But to your question, long-time close girl friends I have no intention of fucking may get a hug now and then. Mostly though, there is a tacit understanding that it’s cool to get together without having to grease the friendship wheel with gobs of histrionic symbols of affection.

The French have it right, like they do in so many matters of intersex politesse. If you must have a physical greeting with women you aren’t fucking, the lean in, arm grab, and air kiss on the cheek is sufficient. Otherwise, just chill and go for the high five, pulling away at the last second leaving her hand flapping in empty air, after which you execute the “who’s gay” finishing move.

Failing that, there’s always the fist bump, a gesture which ironically works a lot better to establish your alluring dominance when used on girls than on male friends.

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