Archive for the ‘Self-aggrandizement’ Category

Sex survey accuracy is suspect because of “social expectation bias“, which influences sex survey participants to respond in the way they think is socially acceptable. Sex surveys are back in the news because word is getting out to the masses that recent survey data shows younger generations are having less sex, something that strikes people as odd given the current Western cultural climate of utter depravity.

But besides social expectation bias (and the verified observation that women tend to lie more than men on sex surveys), there is something else at play that corrupts social survey findings: The ambiguity of the terms being used on the surveys and in synopses of results.

For instance, what exactly does it mean to “have less sex”? Yes, it means numerically to have less frequent sex (say as measured on a per month basis), but the assumption then is that this means fewer partners. It doesn’t. It is possible, (in fact, as CH will argue, probable), that less sex means more partners.

Compare a 1950s 25-year-old woman to a 2014 25-year-old woman. If sex survey results are to be believed without qualification, that 1950s woman was sluttier; she had sex 6 times per month compared to the 4 times per month the 2014 woman is having. The unthinking reader may exclaim, “holy crap those 1950s housewives sure got around!”

Ah, but that’s where a little knowledge of the sexual market can help your powers of induction. A married, faithful 1950s housewife who deeply loved and admired her bring-home-the-bacon husband would welcome sex six times per month. She would be ravenous in the sack. A sexually voracious woman is not a slut unless she spreads her sexual voracity among many men.

Now fast forward to our 2014 Götterdämmerung sexual market. Our 25-year-old woman is not married, and she is not dependent on any man for her discretionary cash needs. She dates a lot, but needs at least three dates before having sex with a man. She had one long-term relationship in high school, but since then it’s been all short-term post-collegiate flings. She meets a new man she’d like to bang about once every four months, which means she endures long dry spells between dates. She has a lot of sex with a man after he’s stuck around for longer than three dates, but her dry spells mean that her average sex frequency is only four times per month. Her relationships usually top out at six months now, so although she has less sex than her 1950s counterpart, she is far sluttier, having amassed a lifetime partner count in the double digits.

The lesson of this post is that the only reliable way you’ll get accurate data on how many different dicks the typical American woman invites into her chamber of intercourse is by insect-sized drone spying on her and recording every moment of penetration. Otherwise, it’s just her word on a piece of paper, and that plus a buck will get you a buck.

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Some call it the Cathedral. Others, the Blue Pill. Here at CH, it’s called the Hivemind, and it’s starting to show fissures in its cortical borg facade. Case study:

Why Girls Never Want Nice Guys — And Why It’s Too Late When They Do

I used to be a nice guy – way back when. Like most men, I learned rather quickly that being that nice guy wasn’t the best of decisions.

You see, I never saw being nice as a decision that needed to be made – I understood it as a state that naturally existed. I didn’t feel that I should go out of my way to be nice because I liked being nice.

More than that, I thought that’s what women wanted: men who were nice. Boy oh boy was I wrong. Sort of, anyway.

There are some women who want the nice guy because they understand that nice means good and not nice means bad. However, most women seem to have the concepts confused.

He goes on like this lamenting his discovery of the true state of female sexual nature. Bitter tears of cynicism streak the pedestal he used to polish to a shine.

But, like most embedded nodes in the Hivemind questioning their utility, his journey to the crimson side is not without setbacks.

She may believe she wants a nice guy, but in reality, she doesn’t want a nice guy. In her eyes, nice is weak – it’s boring. She wants excitement. She wants mystery, surprise, drama. She wants a bad boy.

Until she gets stuck with one, of course. Then all of a sudden logic swarms back into reality and bad, once again, means bad.

As any not-nice man with romantic experience will tell you, women don’t want to ditch the badboys they “get stuck with”. Women want those badboys to stick around, and they perform extraordinary psychological feats of manipulation and rationalization to convince those badboys, and themselves, to choo-choo-choose them for the long haul. Even 💋SCIENCE💋 has shown this to be true.

The Hivemind fractures don’t stop there. The Rude Word of CH is tunneling into the ids of MSM women who can’t help but squint at the glint of the slicing CH Shiv.

Are female breadwinners a recipe for disaster? […]

She’s always been ambitious and career-minded, so Stella’s not surprised that she’s earning big bucks — but, she admits (under guise of anonymity), this wasn’t the way she imagined her relationship dynamic would play out. “I had always known that I wanted to make money and be successful,” she says. “But it was still ingrained in me that the man makes more.” […]

Like any major cultural change, this one comes with growing pains: Sorting out new gender roles can be tough on both partners in a household where she’s the one who brings home the bacon, no matter how progressive both parties might think they are.

“Ingrained in me” = “My vagina doesn’t tingle when we swap traditional sex roles”.

Female breadwinners are tough on relationships and marriages because women *instinctively* want to admire a man and look up to him, while men *instinctively* want to provide for and protect a lower status, more vulnerable woman. This is a timeless fact of human sexual nature that will not be denied, no matter how many hamsters spin or reeducation camps are opened for business.

“My husband and I talk very candidly about the disparity,” says Torabi, who is pregnant with their first child. “He knows he may never make as much as [I do], but he is interested in pursuing a career with more income potential, if for no other reason than to get me to be less stressed [ed: “less frigid”]. I would love for him to be the breadwinner one day. It’s a really awesome position to be in!”

Behold the passionless marriage. Their numbers swell.

CH was on top of these cultural schisms before they were a tentative tremble in the Hivemind’s collective keyboard fingers. Good to see the ugly truths are beating back the black tentacle goo of the equalist lies. Let’s hope it’s not too late.

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Here’s an example of the utility of reframing to domains outside the sphere of pickup. Reader PA asks,

What is a good, short, SFW [safe for work] response to the 77% [pay gap] lie?

Other than “it’s not true if type of profession, years of experience, and overtime are factored in.”

PA is right to tacitly assert that an effective reframe to a ridiculous but widely-believed PC lie should be short and sweet and digestible. References to arid data or statistical qualifications won’t win over the common plebe or plebette.

One reason why anti-Cathedral dissidents rarely get traction in these sorts of arguments they should be winning handily is that they don’t know how to package their pushback in a way that makes it more receptive to the part of the listening audience who aren’t brain-dead true believers. What is true for seduction is true for persuasion. Terse charm >>> loquacious insistence.

So in that vein, some persuasive, office-friendly reframes to the 77% pay gap lie would be:

“You say that like it’s men’s fault.”

“And secretaries only make 10% of CEOs. We should narrow that gap too.”

“Motherhood really competes with work.”

“Handouts would fix the problem.”

I welcome the readers to add their own pay gap myth reframes.


PS On a related subject, change is a-blowin’ in the wind, my friends. It’s small change, but something is definitely happening. I’ve noticed of late a certain reticence by the boyfriends of SWPL girls to robotically agree with their girlfriends’ feminist boilerplate. Instead of the usual head nodding and “yes, yes”s whenever their girls babble feminist cant, these once-sackless wonders have begun to look off into the distance impatiently, and their blank expressions betray conversation thread-killing neutrality. It’s not the CH-style shiv, but it’s better than total supplication.

I’d like to think that the Chateau message is finally influencing the zeitgeist; if so, we may be cresting the horizon to revolution, and moving into a brighter, sunnier, more unapologetically erect day.

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A series of riveting studies, referenced in this video from 7:15-11:05, examined the effects of reward, punishment, or a mix of the two on behavioral attachment. The reader who forwarded the video summarizes the studies’ results,

Experiment where baby animals are rewarded, punished, or a mix of both, for following researchers, their “mothers”.  The researchers measured attachment this way, and while punishment leads to more attachment from baby animals to the researchers, a mix of both, uncertainty leads to the most attachment.

Applied to game, this shows that while being an asshole is better than being nice, a mix of both, keeping a girl on her toes, will lead to the most attachment/attraction.

The pertinence of these studies to game should be obvious to the proto-illuminated. In turn:

– Young monkeys who were scared avoided the wire-constructed feeding mother in favor of the non-feeding, comforting cloth mother. Warmth and comfort were more important than food to fostering attachment (aka LOVE).

Game relevance: Beta males who think they can buy women’s love are sorely mistaken. Corollary: The comfort stage of game should not be neglected.

– A fake “rejecting” mother (a blast of air pushed the young monkeys away) increased the monkeys’ attachment. Frustration actually amplified the monkeys’ desire to attach.

Game relevance: The optimal game strategy is neither All Push nor All Pull, but Push and Pull working in concert to create delightful, tingle-generating uncertainty.

– Puppies who received random, intermittent love became the most attached to the researchers.

Game relevance: Relationship dread increases emotional attachment. This is a ❤️direct vindication❤️ of a core CH principle of intersexual relations.

A brutally truthful quote glares at you from the linked video:

…stress, including the mental stress of uncertainty, is an ingredient in attachment or love and that perhaps even manifestations of hatred (its polar opposite) somehow enhance love.

Where have you heard this before?

Indifference, not hate, is the opposite of love.

Of course, you don’t need the science to convince yourself of the merits of game. You could do the more personally rewarding thing and exit into the real world, try it out on women, and discover the power of applied charisma in the charts and graphs of women’s wet, yearning eyes and venturesome fingertips.

There’s a tangential point to be made regarding this slew of studies. The carrot and the stick together work best to alter people’s behavior. Those weepy liberals who decry “shaming” tactics take note. All access/all the time kumbaya self-esteem feels boosts make puppies and monkeys and ducklings… and humans… selfish little ingrates. If you want women to try and please you, they need to ride the exquisite see-saw of your acceptance and repudiation. Women may not *want* this, but they *need* it to feel the release of passions they escape to pulp romance to obtain vicariously.

ps For those claiming this “works on men too”, do note an important implied qualification: It works on beta men. Desirable men with options are rarely hornswoggled by women playing the same game they play.

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The recently outed Duke porn whore Belle Knox (real name MIRIAM WEEKS) was interviewed by an intrepid CH reporter.

You can watch the interview here.

Ok, so she’s not much for words. Her mouth is busy doing other stuff. And yes, she really is a women’s studies major. Like millions of other women with useless degrees and six digit student loan debt, she had no choice but to turn to facial abuse porn to survive.

At least one member of her immediate family will self-deliver before the year is out, count on it.

ps MIRIAM WEEKS. She wants the publicity, she and her family will get the publicity, good and hard. I’m sure she can accommodate.

pps This story is less about MIRIAM WEEKS than it is about our leftoid, pozzed media who love to jam stories like these down everyone’s throat. I dunno, but I imagine in halcyon days of American yore a stone bold slut like MIRIAM WEEKS would be shunned by everyone, including the media, to live out her diseased days alone and isolated from normal human contact. She might not be a changed person, but the culture that enveloped her would be different. And what worse fate for the BPD attention whoring sociopathic slut than being utterly ignored?

pps I love that porn whores and obese monstrosities are the only real allies feminists have left.

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A rich man traded in his old wife for a less old pole dancer. Burned by the $7 million bonanza payout to his ex-wife, the man drew up a pre-nuptial agreement with his stripper girlfriend before marrying her.

He married [the stripper] Ms Stelzer in October 2005, but not before a pre-nuptial agreement was signed, stating that Ms Stelzer would receive $3.25 million if the marriage broke down in the first four years.

I bet you can’t guess what happened.

They separated after two.

I used to be amazed how unbelievably stupid smart men could be when dealing with women who make their dicks hard. Obviously this guy was smart enough to amass a small fortune. Also as obvious, he was stupid enough to sign over $3.25 million to a glorified slut with a pre-nup loophole so big she was practically preordained to waltz through it.

Mr Wallace fought to have the pre-nup deemed invalid, claiming that Ms Stelzer behaved fraudulently by making “false promises of love and desire for children”.


Money is not necessarily a marker for alphaness. Many rich men are complete betas. These are the kind of head in the sand romanticists who’ve been spit-shining women’s pedestals since birth, and who really REALLY believe a pole dancer when she tells them she loves them, as the ink is drying on the deal that amounts to a lottery win for her if she bails within four years, with eager assistance, of course, from the anti-male divorce industrial complex.

There are two — just two — safeguards against the insidious predations of women: celibacy, and love. No, not phony declarations of love paid in full with baubles and trinkets. I mean real love, the kind of uncontrollable love women lavish on charming jerkboys. If you have game… if you can play a woman’s heart like a harp… she won’t need to be bought off. She won’t WANT to be bought off. The only scheming she’ll do is convincing her friends and family that you’re really a great guy underneath the rough exterior.

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If you hang out with a mixed group of friends on regular occasions and at venues that encourage the taking of group photos, you can’t help but notice patterns in how the women organize themselves for the camera lens. This snapshot (heh) of female behavior illuminates so much more than lighting and focal preferences.

There’s always the Lens Hog, of course. She’s usually the hottest and most sociable girl. Her spot is right up front, center, and smiling like she has a huge secret about a rival she can barely contain. She stands with her hip jutting outward for maximum femininity. She is a leader partly as a function of her looks and partly because her looks have facilitated her fearless socialization, which often cows other girls to fall in line behind her.

Where it gets interesting is in how the women below the Lens Hog on the female hierarchy self-arrange for “spontaneous” group photos. The jockeying for snapshot status is nasty, brutish and short; a years’ worth of repressed emotions often gets played out in the few seconds it takes for a bunch of women to line up for a group shot.

First up is the Court Concubine. This just-short-of-pretty girl has flirted with every man in her social group, and has probably slept with at least two of them who have high fived each other over it. She’s fun, but she’s no alpha’s first choice. She will scoot right away for a position wedged in between the men standing in the back line of the photo, with her arms draped languidly over the adjacent dudes. She’s the one whose boob “accidentally” presses into some guy’s chest. (Or belly, if she’s short.) And in every photo her headlights are on, for some reason.

Next is the Queen’s Consort. She’s the second in command girl who’s almost as pretty as the Lens Hog but not as extroverted. She shadows the Lens Hog and will quickly assume a position at her side for a photo. Her smile hints at resentment. She looks like she sticks pins in a voodoo doll of her hotter friend. She screws like she’s getting back at all the Lens Hogs who robbed her of the throne, and that’s a good thing.

Then there’s the Chubby Jester. She’s sorta cute, sorta chubby, and lots o’ fun. She has the personality of a hot girl trapped in a mediocre girl’s body. She will beeline for a spot in no-woman’s-land, tucked between the front and back lines, so that her body is obscured but her face shines for the camera, looking like it sits, disembodied, atop the shoulders of the girls situated just in front of her. It’s all smoke and mirrors with this girl, but at least her smile is genuine.

The interchangeable Pawns are next. These girls are filler for the cheap seats. Neither pretty nor ugly, sociable nor shy, they dutifully attend to their posts in the wings of the photo, adding heft and preselective gravitas to the stars at the center. Many of these girls are off the market, and have grown weary of the group photo circus. They no longer care about maneuvering for status or pleasing the men or the Lens Hog; they’re just there out of a sense of obligation and to drink and say to themselves that at least they’re not like those couples who sit at home all the time schnoococoonoocuddling. They take their sweet time finding a spot in the photo line-up, which ironically makes them seem more photogenic.

In the mix you may toss the Facebook Whore. A subspecies of the classic attention whore, the Facebook Whore angles for a position that will produce a photo she can upload to Facebook that will best reveal her carefree, sexually wild social life to the asshole ex-boyfriend she still loves. She is the one with her tongue out, like Miley Cyrus having an epileptic fit. She’s not particularly well-liked by anyone, so she often winds up at the edge of the photo leaning way in, out in front of the other girls, grabbing some of the Lens Hog’s limelight. She’s a clueless photobomb. A photoboob.

The Pained Plain Jane cuts a sad figure. She hates these stressful social tests, because she knows she’s not pretty enough to compete with most of the girls but there’s no opt-out clause that would save her dignity. If she tries to ignore the group photo, her friends will think she’s being anti-social and draw attention to her pitiful solitude with cloyingly earnest solicitations. If she joins, she looks out of place, her bland features thrown into saturated relief, her smile so fake and try-hard and now permanently recorded for history. So she loiters around the periphery of the assembling and rapidly congealing group, takes a shot at a position well within the bowels of the group in hopes she’ll get lost in the jumble of faces, gets pushed aside by another girl gunning for the same spot, and eventually settles like a gimp sea turtle shuffling into a hole in the beach sand at the far reaches of the group to lay her forgotten eggs, where ironically everyone who views the photo will notice her because she’s the only girl not being embraced by anyone.

Finally, there’s the Photogeneric Fug. Ugly, knows it, has stopped pretending she’s not. She doesn’t need the excuse of a group photo opt-out clause. She just heads for the bar to munch on beer nuts and mentally formulate her next Tumblr post about cisgender privilege.

The group photo sociosexual dynamic provides plenty of opportunity for the player to exploit. For instance, take a firm hold of the shoulder of the Pained Plain Jane as she’s wandering in utter confusion and panic around the gathering crowd, and hustle her into your orbit at the center of the group. You’re now her white knight rescuer. Except little does she know you’re using her as a pawn to tease the hottie you really want. “Hey stop hogging the camera. Your big head is blocking out your friend here.” You get points for the chivalry and the neg. Caress your wallet condom, because it’s about to taste freedom tonight.

PS: There’s one other type of girl you sometimes see at group photos. She’s a rare bird, but getting less rare. Her sleazy beauty is juxtaposed against her abominable character. She’s the “group selfie” girl who will stretch out her arm and take a selfie — like Barack Kenyatta Obama recently did at Mandela’s funeral — of herself surrounded by her group of sycophants. It’s one thing to take a selfie in the privacy of your bathroom and tweet it because THIRSTY ATTENTION WHORE, or to take a selfie in public while on vacation because you’re too shy to ask for assistance; but it’s a whole other level of narcissistic indulgence to force all your friends to squat like a human halo around your awesomeness as you point that camera straight up your nostrils.

You, Group Selfie Girl, deserve exactly one pump — like Obama’s first term — and one dump — like Obama’s second term.

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