Archive for the ‘Rules of Manhood’ Category

A boy had come of age. His father, sensing the boy’s agitation, sat down with him and told him a parable of the pearl diver and the thresher.

“Son — ”

said the father,

“there were two young men ready to enter manhood, their lives before them. They were full of passion and idealism, eager for adventure, and yearned for love like they would never yearn again.

The first young man, about your age, was a pearl diver. He would dive deep into the sea, knife clenched between his teeth, holding his breath, until he reached bottom where he pried open oysters for pearls. Many of the pearls were small, or misshapen, lacking luster. Others were uniform and round, suitable as jewelry, but short of the exquisite perfection he demanded. He ignored those for something truly prized. He would have to dive many times and deeper each time to open more oysters, until he found that perfect, precious pearl he wanted.

Each dive, deeper and longer underwater, was risky for the pearl diver. He could tire and drown, or get the bends while ascending from a great depth. He could cut himself with his knife and attract sharks. This was a risk he was willing to take, to put his life on the line for that one pearl like no other.

Which he did. Many years he dove, hunting for his special pearl while what he considered lesser pearls sat on the ocean floor, unable to catch his eye. He grew weary of his toil, and resentful that the pearl of his dreams hadn’t yet presented itself to him. Time ran away from him, until one day, diving deeper than he had dove before, he spotted the finest oyster he had ever seen, and began prying it open. It was tough, refusing to yield its treasure, and he began to look upward to the shimmery sea surface wondering how much longer he could stay down there. Eventually, with tremendous effort, he pried it partly open and glimpsed the beauty within. His eyes widened, his heart pounded. My pearl! he thought.

He frantically wrenched the knife into the flesh of the oyster, forgetting his poise and the skill he needed for a proper extraction, and out popped the pearl, to be suddenly carried away by an ocean current! He swam after it, his chest throbbing in pain, his muscles aching, dizzy from breathless exertion and fear. Come to me!, he seemed to cry to the escaping pearl. Finally, his hand wrapped around the gem, and he started his ascent to air…but he was a long way off and before he made it halfway he drowned. In his death throe, his hand loosened and the pearl and his knife floated to the silty bottom, to lay within sight of each other for eternity.”

“The second young man…”

continued his father,

“also your age, maybe a little older, was a thresher. He worked on a farm and threshed wheat to separate out the grains. He pounded and flailed wheat every day, to collect huge basketfuls of grain. He cared not so much for the quality of individual grains, for he was paid by weight. He would throw out moldy grain or diseased grain, or pest-eaten grain, but beyond that his interest was simply to collect as much edible grain as he could.

And so he threshed wildly and tirelessly, his brow glistening with sweat, singing a tune to himself all the while. Grains tumbled into his waiting baskets, and he marveled at the product of his efforts. Every basket was a feather in his cap. The grains ground up and baked would provide food for himself for a long time. No meal would be a king’s feast, but he would never go to bed hungry. He would thresh, eat, and rise to thresh again. There needn’t be more to life, he thought, as long as I can satisfy myself.

The thresher spent many years threshing wheat for grain, and many years eating that grain, sometimes marveling at its nourishing consistency, but with increasing frequency as time passed wondering if the development of his palate was stunted. He had fine-tuned his day to day life to ensure he would never go hungry, and he mostly enjoyed his work, even if it lacked a higher purpose. As long as the grains tumbled, he was happy. Perhaps there was little passion in his pursuit, but there was comfort and satisfaction and well-being.

Years turned into more years, and the thresher wearied of his routine. I’m fed, he thought, and each bread I make from the grain is a little different from the last, but my heart never soars even as my belly is sated. I live a good life and never want for food, but something is missing. I have secured myself a reprieve from hunger, but in doing so have made myself hungrier than I could ever imagine.

The thresher laid down his flail, prepared to set out and seek meaning, but too much time had passed. His joints and muscles ached with overuse, his back stooped from gazing earthward instead of heavenward, his heart lacked the vigor he would need to start anew. Memories blurred into an indistinct stew, leaving him nothing within to sustain an odyssey, and the transcendent feeling he wanted was long lost to him.”

The father sighed, and sat back in his chair.

“Son, you can be the pearl diver or the thresher. How you choose will affect you for the rest of your life. Or you can take to heart the wisdom I’m about to give you:

There is a time for threshing and a time for pearl diving, and you would do well to know the virtue in both.”

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Via Waffles, “As Johnny Depp got older / more successful, his GF’s got younger.”

As Johnny Depp’s fame (and age) increased, the relative age of his lovers decreased. An exponential relationship! (The minor trend-outlier, Paradis, must have had a paradise pussy. i will dine on pubic dew, and lap the lube of pussy pried…)

This isn’t a one way sexual market phenomenon. As intensely as men are attracted to young, beautiful women, women are intensely attracted to rich, famous (and often older) men. Depp doesn’t have to chain these barely legal minxes to the radiator; they come to him willingly and eagerly.

As did many of those post-Wall PoundMeToo women now claiming in the dimming of their sexual allure to have been victims of the very men they trampled the competition to be near when those women were in their primes. See through this sexual panic, the Chateau does.

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Henry Mueller (this guy again!) has a great anecdote that involves himself, an SJW chick, and a brief but sufficient flash of brass balls.

No matter how often it happens, I’m still surprised sometimes by how well “You’re wrong” game works.

Just for kicks, I tried this approach with a girl standing in line for food recently. Turns out she was a carpet muncher. A 4 or 5 at best. But she started loudly talking shit about “pussy power feminism” and all that, in line.

Finally I couldn’t stand it any more and just started playfully contradicting everything she said. I called hardcore activists losers with no lives, and to my great surprise she said “Well..I don’t actually go out protesting and all that, my girlfriend is more into that…”

Point is, during a five minute interaction I actually had her by the end leaning against me while asking my help looking up a book I had recommended. We could call this the “I hope you’re not like those other girls” frame, and it’s another old school tactic that still works like a charm.

“You’re too pretty for the pussy hat march” might be the ideal game for these types. Most of them are in it for the virtue signalling as mentioned. And all women want to be perceived as special, especially at the expense of other women. Even if that woman is her girlfriend.

Convince her that this SJW nonsense is for losers, and then it’s a win-win either way. Either she sees the light and comes to the right side. Or she just pretends to in order to submit to you.

Isn’t it great when you can get a pussyhatter SWPL chick qualifying herself to you?

Every girl desires a dominant man. Every girls secretly desires to submit to a dominant man. Every girl will test men for their dominance. Every girl BEGS for a man to PUSH BACK against her insolence and entitlement.

Girls are BEGGING to be DEFIED.

Keep close CH’s three rules of manhood:

YOU make the demands.

SHE is judged worthy or wanting.

Always be prepared to WALK AWAY from the deal.

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Choose wisely.

The consequences are permanent.

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Gentlemen….Game 101:

Never EVER take a woman to dinner before you’ve fucked her. You’re begging to be resource exploited. (aka economically objectified)

If the girl wants you, dinner isn’t necessary to coax her across the consummative threshold.

If the girl doesn’t want you, dinner won’t change her mind.

Save your money, sup her honey.

Stick with bottom shelf sugary drinks for those first crucial dates. Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. Food only gets in the way of alcohol absorption, and no girl feels sexy gnawing rack of rib in between talking about herself.

If anything, buying expensive dinners to impress a woman will turn down her thermosnatch. One, she’ll perceive (rightly more often than not) that you’re desperate and trying to pry her legs open with lavish payments up front. Two, if she thinks she can soak you before soaking your hog, she will.

Sperg Alert draws up the timeline:

What happens when you take out a #Modern #Wamen to a fancy dinner, and achieve… The #Friendzone.

…But don’t worry! She’ll suddenly have #Sex with you when she’s 35, and #PostWall after #Chad stops returning the phone calls, and you can have maybe 5-10 years of #Marriage before she #DivorceRapes you.

There is no end to the ways in which being in the bangzone is better than being in the friendzone.

PS What kind of dingbat spends $400 at an Italian restaurant? It’s fuckin pasta!


Henry Mueller is positioning for a COTW nomination:

Seriously. In the wake of #reetoo, I can’t count the number of “bad date” articles by complaining women that have appeared: “His choice of guacamole felt really problematic to me.”

If a lsmv man dares to even approach a woman, it’s “entitlement” rape. But if a decent guy she didn’t click with disappoints her, she feels obligated to write up a novella about it.

It’s a bizarro world we live in where a man seeking sex with a woman is taboo and a woman seeking to syphon off everything she can get while giving nothing in return is celebrated.

The term of art is Gynarcho-Tyranny. And only Game can defeat it….and save the West.

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*cracks knuckles*

Leaning in, kung fu grip of +100 mate guarding, forehead cuddling PDA.

Verdict: beta body language

Assessment: trouble brewing

This power couple is Martin Sellner and Brittany Pettibone, renowned figures in the It’s Self-Evidently Awesome to be White revolution. Sellner fronts a European “Identitaire” group, but don’t hold me to that. I don’t follow these things closely.

Does their pose remind you of anyone?

I know there’s a post in the CH archives about cheekpecker guy above, but I can’t be bothered to search for it. Anyhow, I remember the romance did not end well for him (nor did it start well for him).

The lean-in with goopy canoodling is the international symbol of anxious betatude. All men should strive to avoid it, especially when cameras are pointed at them.

A few readers have objected to Sellner’s skinny fit purple pants, green sneakers, and man purse (excuse me, European handbag). That’s not much of a hit against him, tbh. It’s classic peacocking, and it works if paired with a confident jerkboy attitude. His bigger problem is that his body language betrays an Inner Niceguy. If Brittany’s ardor wanes, it won’t be because of his floodwater purple jeans.

To his credit, Sellner does strike a legit contrapposto pose, the ideal Davidian stance that girls love across time and space.

Why do I tease Brittany? Because she’s totes adorb, and it’s what I do with adorable girls. I can’t help it, it’s in my mischievous DNA. (Sellner may be adorable, but I wouldn’t know. All men are ugly to me.) I mean no disrespek to the Movement Minxes. I wish these two the best, but Manpurse is gonna have to step up his body language game if he wants to heave Brittany the bone. Call it tough love.

Martin, less of what you’re doing in that snap above, and more of this:

You’ll thank me later.

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CH Maxim #34-24-36: The quality of a broad’s ass is directly proportional to the time it takes to realize her ass isn’t worth keeping.

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