Stinkfist

One of the greatest tunes (and visually arresting music videos) of the ’90s — Tool’s Stinkfist — uses the symbolism of fist fucking to warn against creeping consumerism in both the material and romantic senses. Stinkfist’s pairing of the vulgar with the transcendental is right in the Chateau wheelhouse. Pure poetry, and possibly a proto-vision of what would later become this blog outpost’s overarching theme.

Knuckle deep inside the borderline.
This may hurt a little but it’s something you’ll get used to.
Relax. Slip away.

There’s something kinda sad about
The way that things have come to be.
Desensitized to everything.
What became of subtlety?

How can this mean anything to me
If I really don’t feel anything at all?

I’ll keep digging
‘Til I feel something.

I bring this up because Tool’s frontman and creative genius, Maynard James Keenan, was recently PoundMeToo’ed by a slutty groupie.

Deep breath. I have to anonymously tell this story because I tried to tell it from my real account and couldn't name him directly out of fear, so I deleted the tweets. Here goes: I was 17 and he was 36. 1/

— Iwas17HeWas36 (@IWas17HeWas36) June 23, 2018

Maynard is as pozzed as any Left Coast musician, but surprisingly he is not on record as an anti-Trumper. The little political stuff he’s said is radically banal, by the standards of his artfag subculture, which means in the current climate of Leftoid Intolerance he stands accused as insufficiently anti-Nazi.

So maybe that’s why he was just MeToo’ed. Or maybe our society is being corrupted by lonely attention whore has-been roadie skanks who upon approaching the long midnight of post-Wall sexual obsolescence decide to spit out totally unverifiable 20-year old sexual assault accusations against famous men to scratch their itch to be vaginally relevant again.

weev has the deets:

actual Maynard quotes:

“Trump is not your enemy”

“We have the privilege to do that because of active and former law enforcement and military, defending our right to do so. Those of you who are law enforcement and military, your job is to defend our right to act like whining, entitled snowflake assholes – myself being one. Snowflakes, your job is to respect them f**king doing that for you.”

Regarldess of these quotes just read the lyrics of “Hooker with a Penis” and “Vicarious” and tell me he’s not our guy.

Maynard is a singular musical genius, unlike any other, and even if he wasn’t now that Neil Peart is retired Danny Carey is objectively the greatest living drummer. Forty Six and Two, The Grudge, Triad, Ticks and Leeches. Listen to the drums in those.

Don’t you think it is pretty likely that baseless impropriety accusations by an anonymous Twitter account getting massive coverage by the (((music journalism))) industry is a direct result of Maynard’s statements in regards to our President?

“I went back to a trailer with a rock star and watched a movie in his bed and we ended up having sex. It was rape.” Seriously, who believes this?

No one who doesn’t have an axe to grind against the expression of normal male (and female) sexuality. And by normal, I mean men are attracted to youth and beauty and women are attracted to power and fame. Put the two together, and sparks fly (which is later retconned as assault by spiteful slores).

I hope this Synchronized MeToo Menstruation will end soon, despite the overwhelming majority of the accused coming from the one group that I despise for their efforts to ruin my homeland under a deluge of Dirt Worlders…

The Bad Hair Brigade

…because the whole media-crafted enterprise reeks of forgotten sluts clamoring to revisit a few seconds of fame to slander and demonize famous men with whom those sluts didn’t have the integrity nor the horniness self-discipline to walk away from when the lay-for-play proposition was put before them.

***

The Judge comments,

Lol “..he rapes in every city”

It’s not enough to have fucked a rockstar. Now you must be raped by one.

There’s something to this cynical take. A couple generations of coke-carved lithe groupies getting banged out by rockstars (which is something of an anomaly in the sweep of human history) has inured the public to the reality of it. Everyone expects it now, so it’s no big deal, for better or worse. How’s a groupiegirl supposed to preen when throwing her legs open for rockstars has lost its cachet? Of course, she says she was raped by a rockstar! It’s not much of an achievement to be a rockstar’s ho-hum Tuesday night strum receptacle, but to arouse the ardor of a rockstar to the raping point? Ladies, that is the stuff of GRRLPOWER.

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The Cock Carouseler’s Lament

Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.

At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.

Oh, she has a family…

A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.

…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.

In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.

Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.

Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life

“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.

I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.

Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,

For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.

and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.

Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.

I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”

The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.

I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.

But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.

I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.

Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.

(Boy, did I make up for that later.)

What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s

The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”

Dating red flags.

At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.

Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.

I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.

Just the hilltop?

When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.

What a headcase.

Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.

Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.

It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”

Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!

I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.

I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.

Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.

Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”

The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.

(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,

What talent does she have?
*spreads legs*
Oh yeah.

I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.

Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?

In my writing,

which sucks, btw.

I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.

She writes like she’s 14 years old.

I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.

Common denominator: all the men are exes.

He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.

Humbleshagging.

In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.

“No, I don’t do double penetration.”

[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”

Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.

Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.

But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.

Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!

Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.

If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.

Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.

Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.

These days I work as a change activist,

poopywork.

mounting summits

I bet.

for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.

How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?

I dated a woman for a while

Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity

But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,

…she says as if it was her choice.

although it was all I talked about in my 20s.

There was more conversational material to work with back then.

That’s pretty one-dimensional.

Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.

Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.

A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.

Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.

Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)

The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.

She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?

If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.

Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”

Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.

EatPraySlut

I was also celibate during my time there.

I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?

Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?

Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was

She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!

— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.

It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.

It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.

Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.

Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.

It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.

Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.

If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.

I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.

Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.

Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.

Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?

This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.

“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.

Blame Carrie?

Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.

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Shiv Of The Week: The Most Vicious Slut Shamers Are Other Women

I’ve gotta hand it to black women, they have a knack for cutting through (or being unconcerned with) feminist sophistry, to deliver the id vivisecting shiv.

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“Trump slept with me”

“George Washington slept here” is a pretty common plaque found at or near historical sites throughout colonial America. As his legend grew, American households which hosted the Great Man for the night were proud to publicly say so, even if his presence in their humble abodes was apocryphal.

Likewise, hot sluts who hosted today’s Great Man — President Donald Trump — in their vaginas are proud to publicly say so, and will go to any lengths to be allowed to preen that their vajeen was a canteen for Trump’s alpha cream.

How many hsmv women has Trump pumped? Trump apparently boffed the entire back catalog of Playboy centerfolds. GAME RECOGNIZED.

Porn whore Stormy Daniels is so desperate to prove that she caught the attention of the world’s most foremost alpha male who used her as a Godseed receptacle that she took a lie detector test, and gave us this timelessly iconic Clockwork Orange-esque pic instead:

Atavator writes,

Game measured! [ed: lol] And by the way, is this a polygraph, or a tit scale? I think this is excellent pictorial representation of just how desperate the establishment is to take Trump down.

Yes, you’ve gotta think that for a number of these women, “Trump slept with me” is their last hurrah. It’s a great study in female psychology. At the time they signed these agreements, they figured they’d have no trouble abiding by them. After all, having concluded their affairs with Trump, they were off to ride other Alpha men. They didn’t foresee… apparently couldn’t foresee… a time when that would be over.

That’s exactly it. This is all sexiness signaling by aging has-beens. The difference between sexiness and sexiness signaling is the same as the difference between virtue and virtue signaling: the former is the real deal while the latter is a claim to being the real deal (but is usually just hypocrisy or self-serving ego stroking). A sexiness signaling woman is admitting she USED to be sexy and tacitly suggesting she MAY still be sexy enough to catch the eye of high value men.

Carlos Danger wonders,

Who rivals Trump’s bedpost notches in terms of quality? DiCaprio? Maybe Brady pre-Gisele? And Trump gets there with 50 more pounds, 30 more years, and the pompadour. Impressive.

If the stories and rumors are true, I don’t think many men can rival both the quality and quantity of Trump’s notch count. The man is as close to a modren day Genghis Khan as a Westerner can be. Wilt Chamberlain? Nah, I read somewhere most of his lays were with ghetto groupie trash. Porfirio Rubirosa might top Trump’s meet-to-lay ratio.

I have to imagine Sinatra is up there.

Wasn’t Sean Connery legendary in his day? Going way back, you’d have to give the nod to Lord Byron, Voltaire, and similar Supreme Gentlemen of the West. Some (pre-indie hipster) stadium rockers could rival Trump’s womanizer score. John Bonham was known for his unreal hotel room orgies. He once said he couldn’t tell which vagina belonged with which face when he was in the middle of a romp.

anon writes,

from the the looks of it, Trump has never slept with an ugly girl in his life.

That’s the small detail that elevates Trump’s womanizing well above the human plane.

A word about Trump’s Women. We have the obvious angle — a cat herd of Wall impact whores looking to cash in on the bottomless appetite of Shitlib, America for salacious stories about Trump’s sexual stamina (Freud would have a field day) while the cashing in is good — and the angle obvious only to Chateau guests: none of these cum dumpsters cumming out of the woodwork now to relive their glory days getting Pump and Trumped, or accusing Trump of allegedly taking their flirtations at face value, were scandalized at the time of the alleged affairs and grandfathered PoundMeToo infractions.

I guarantee that every woman who is now crowing about getting fucked by Trump, or moaning about getting groped by Trump, absolutely, undeniably, LOVED HIS GOD ALPHA ATTENTIONS AT THE TIME THEY HAPPENED. This is because women are viscerally attracted to powerful men, much the same way men are viscerally attracted to beautiful, young women. Women can’t help themselves around powerful confident men; they lose all sense and judgment and notion of personal accountability.

Women go into every alpha male flirtation with the subconscious hope that he will make her his princess (or his movie star, in the case of weinstein). Even the sloppiest of slopworn sluts feels this way in the presence of a mortal GodKing. It’s not until years and hundreds of wrinkles later that some of these women, realizing they have been had by a cad and by the merciless approach of the Wall, give in to their bitterness and lash out at the man who would be theirs but chose differently. In a fury of spite against the God of Biomechanics, these cast-aside bitterbitches try to take down the powerful men who once loved them, believing in their tiny black hearts that this will redeem their poor life choices.

And this secret desire hits ostensible Trump-hater pussyhatters, too.

Trump (or Trump’s hog) is living rent-free in her vagina.

In related news, feminists are finally starting to catch on that sexbots will mean the end of their romantic possibilities. In France, femcunts are trying to change the law to include nonconsensual sex with sex dolls under the definition of rape. Please don’t bother trying to work out the logic of their stance, you’ll only be met with MUH FEELZ, MISOGYNIST!

If feminists are allowed to ban male sex substitutes, then patriarchs are allowed to ban dildos, vibrators, pulp romance novels, and pretty much everything broadcast or streamed on TV. Fair’s fair.

***

Jay in DC writes,

There has been a long list of vag slayers of Trump caliber. Sinatra, Warren Beatty, Redford, (Connery as mentioned), etc. Even Kennedy was neck deep in pussy far beyond Marilyn Monroe if the rumor mill is to be believed.

This was a non-event in times passed. Only in this faggoty and #metoo era are high status alpha males who are showered in trim some kind of neo-puritan scandal.

Fuck man, for anything you think about him even Slick Willy was a very smooth talker and got ALOT of pussy. Far more than Killary would like her cogdis to ever come to grips with.

Both Bill Clinton and Art of the Sealed Deal Trump are charming. but Bill is a classic case of the charming alpha hitched to a snarling ballcutter, so to him any juicy adoring prolehole seemed like a goddess. Trump has mingled and commingled with hotties his whole life. His wives were the opposite of thecunt hillary. Trump’s mistress standards were thus a lot higher than Bill’s. And tbh I think Bubba was a borderline sociopath and probably did rape that Paula broad in a fit of sexual energy after spending weeks on the couch escaping from dragonbreath hillary breathing fire on him.

Trump, otoh, is not a sociopath. He’s a confident jerkboy full of justified swagger who seems to genuinely love women, and loves making love with beautiful women. He hurts his wives satisfying his urges, but he has the good sense to keep it discrete, and I wouldn’t doubt if he’s had conversations with his wives that his appetite is yuge and they should accept that part of him, in exchange for assurances that they will always be his number ones and he will never fall in love with his mistresses.

If you want a leader with the HEAVY BALLS to take on the Deep State, then you’ll have to reconcile yourself to a leader with the HEAVY BALLS to have a romantic history filled to brimming with porn stars and centerfolds.

Manly vigor is a complete package. (heh)

williamk writes,

Trump gave this lifestyle up for us.

Other men (like Bill Clinton) attain power for the purpose of getting pussy. Trump gave up getting pussy in order to deserve power. Its pretty amazing.

His enemies know his weakness; he’s probably swatted away numerous honeypot attempts. My bet is Trump was smart enough to give up getting strange when he decided to run for president. And of course, chances he’s had any new pussy since getting inaugurated is just about 0%.

Trump’s sacrifices shame our craven self-serving establishment rulers. He deserves our loyalty. He deserves our fight.

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The Fake Bravado Of The Gross Skank

A gross skank brags about cheating on every man she’s been with, and pretends it’s her preferred career path. It’s a classic case of sweet lemons rationalization (the inverse of sour grapes rationalization). She can’t get a quality man to commit to her, so she lovelessly fucks around with losers or fly by night cads who have no problem pumping and dumping a sloppy slut for a no muss no fuss easy lay, and then claims it’s the perfect lifestyle for her and anyone who will listen. Those LSMV lemons are really sweet! she swears through jizz-stained tears.

When I talk about my future with my friends, it always includes marriage and children. But I’ve also cheated on every person I’ve ever been with.

No man worth marrying is gonna wife up and have kids with a slattern. What man could trust such a bargain bin cum receptacle? Why would any man with something on the ball give a Proud Slut and an incorrigible cheater the blessing of birthing his champions? He’ll always wonder if the kids are his. The lowest of loser males might consider it, but that’s because they have no other options except incel, and the skank will be reminded daily of her low value as a woman by loserboy’s presence in her life.

People don’t refrain from cheating because they’re happy with their partners, they refrain from cheating because they’re afraid of being caught.

That’s not the whole story. Fear of being caught rarely stops a cheater from turning thought into action. The primary reasons monogamous people don’t cheat are because 1. they can’t (un-tradeable undesirability) and 2. they actually love their lover. Oh, and guilt. Most people feel guilt about cheating on their lovers or spouses. People who putatively don’t feel guilt, like Gross Skank, are sociopaths missing a part of their humanity.

Fear of being caught factors prominently into the decision for older married men who have money and holdings they could lose in divorce court, or for stay-at-home moms married to alpha males who aren’t apt to “forgive and support” a wife caught cheating.

But Gross Skank has never been in love (sad!) so it’s easy for her to cheat on the street curs sniffing around her putrid pussy, and then act as if spreading her diseased jizz trap for these hard-up losers (how much you wanna bet most aren’t white?) is some sort of achievement, (it’s not an achievement for women….getting a man with options to stick around, now that’s an achievement).

It’s easier to get away with than you think

Only if the males she fucks are beta noobs who have little experience with women and can’t identify the warning signs of a slut. Or they don’t give a shit about her character.

If you’re worried about them seeing you on Tinder, don’t be. Ask them why they were on it in the first place.

That non sequitur won’t allay their suspicions.

And if a friend sees you? Say your account is old.

She must have very gullible friends if they believe her unconvincing bullshit.

There’s no easier way to get bored of someone than by dating them.

And nobody wants to date someone who doesn’t have their own life. Seriously dating someone is similar to moving in — you can’t just un-move in with someone you’re seeing. You’re either going to spend the rest of your lives together, or you’re going to split. Those are literally the only two options. With decades of time ahead of you, why rush into pushing other people out?

I hope (and assume) you know this by now, but guys want whoever is least interested in them. Once you’re dating, it’s impossible to keep playing hard to get unless you actively work towards making yourself unavailable.

Psychological projection — thinking that others feel the same way one feels — is everywhere in this age of bruised, fragile egos. And women are particularly prone to this cognitive bias, because as a rule women are more solipsistic than are men. When a woman is rejected by a man — rejection for a woman is romantic, not sexual — she is brutally soul-seared by the experience; to protect her ego from imploding to a hamster singularity, she rationalizes the rejection as her failure to be insufficiently man-like, rather than insufficiently woman-like which would be a much harsher indictment on her worth as a woman.

Men don’t want whoever is least interested in them. Men want beautiful women who are attentive, feminine, and loving toward them. Women, otoh, *do* desire challenging men who give ambiguous signals of interest for them and who “have their own life”. A herpes incubator like Gross Skank who can’t get what she wants from high value men — marriage and kids — subverts the reality of differing male and female desires to avoid confronting the obvious cause of her woes: her revolt against ideal femininity.

Not all girls think men are attracted to the same traits that they are attracted to, but most do. And slutty low value girls are the worst afflicted by this psychological deflector shield. The slut who thinks men want what she wants can justify to herself why men don’t stick around after porking her without harming her self-conception as a desirable woman.

In the end, you’re going to date a lot of people and you’re going to marry almost none of them.

Almost? Sluttery is the triumph of self-delusion over experience.

But how many of your friends and interests are you going to shelve while placing them first, only to realize you’re boring and impossible to date afterwards? You have nothing of your own because everything you had was shared.

Telling. She defines herself by the number of cocks she hoovers. And if she isn’t hoovering random cocks and cheating on “boyfriends”, she’s “boring”. This is a woman so empty inside she needs gallons of cum to spackle a veneer on her paint-stripped soul.

Someone should remind her that most emotionally healthy women manage to have their own personalities while being faithfully committed to a man.

Guys don’t want you to sleep with other people because it’s the only thing they have that we don’t.

That’s not it. Men don’t want their gfs or wives to sleep with other men because it’s disgusting and she could get knocked up, cuckolding him.

And once you rise above that, they realize they’ve lost their grip on that leash they thought was so tight.

So very revealing. This is unfiltered man-spite. She’s trying to lash out at men because she’s been burned so many times by them in her quest to find the love that has eluded her for her whole life.

I didn’t love any of the people I cheated with, and I never went on to date them in the future.

The palimpsestic lament of the unloveable lovelorn.

But ultimately, they taught me more about myself than any of the guys I called my boyfriend.

Obviously, these “boyfriends” were nothing of the sort, and her naming designation was an exercise in ego assuaging conceit to avoid calling them what they really were: dildo-shaped opioids.

And as far as the “boyfriends” are concerned, they’ve all slid into my DMs since. Checkmate.

I put “boyfriends” in sneer quotes above to highlight Gross Skank’s essential dishonesty, but here she is one line later putting “boyfriends” in sneer quotes herself, so if she comes by here to wake up on the table and witness her own vivisection she should find herself in complete agreement with what I wrote about her. Checkmate.

Executive summary: Butthurt Caroline Phinney pens the Fake Braggahocio of a lonely hearts club cunt.

***

A reader writes: “the whole article reads like a foolish attempt to project the image that she’s super in demand, which she’s obviously not if you look at her nose. Literally ruined any hope of marriage.”

Yeah, it’s all another version of LOOKATME by a road-worn disposable cumdump. I’m sure all the “boyfriends” she cheated on have shed copious cockodile tears over losing such a prize.

As with all matters issuing from the Degenerate Freak Mafia, their underlying motivation is revealed with a quick glance at their physical form.

Here’s Gross Skank at her absolute best, caked with makeup and saturation lighting:

And here she is the morning after (which explains why her pumpings are always followed by dumpings):

Yeesh. This is all publicly accessible, readers. She wants the world to see this, so who am I to deny her the audience she craves?

Finally, the full body physiognomy:

Manjaw.
Manhips.
Manwaist.

Physiognomy — or more generally, anthroposcopy — is realer than ever.

High T, Low E boy-shaped hole fucknchuck aggrocunt sex piston slurping wine slag from the bottle wants you to know she cheats on every man she’s been with and will continue to do so, men really like it despite not a one of them sticking around to show their appreciation, and by the way she dreams of marriage and kids one day, a dream which eludes her, but that’s totally unrelated to her decision to shill for skank glorification.

PS Related: Research shows American women are becoming less feminine since the 1970s.

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Rare Footage Of Young Heartiste!

da GBFM dug up an archived gem: rare footage of a stripling CH caught cheating on one of his crisis actress plates! She tries to get back at him by burning the jailbait coal, but her revenge plot is foiled when it’s obvious her wee p1ckaninny prefers….different company. File under: Post-America.

David Hogg is jealous of this girl’s acting ability.

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Cuckoldry Red Flags: A Woman’s Chosen Career

NewYorkerParody stumbles on a good reason to judge a woman by the job she keeps: it could be a warning of future infidelity:

I think the best possible wife material is a preschool teacher: Cute, employed (but inevitably makes less than you), in a motherly/nurturing career, not surrounded by alpha males, has to get up early, has summers off so she can watch the kids (I.e. no expensive summer camps; you can take family vacations). Contrast this w/ a wife who travels/works in sales.

If this sounds familiar to old-time Chateau readers, it should. From a 2007 CH post “What a girl’s job tells you“:

Elementary School Teacher

Pure gold.  Put this girl on your short list for long term commitment.  What’s not to love about the elementary school teacher?  Cute, thin (it’s a workout chasing kids all day), ultra feminine, nurturing, selfless, caring, and most importantly blessedly low maintenance due to the nature of her workplace environment sequestering her from the attentions of men.  The best ones teach 1st through 5th grades.  Women who supervise daycare are too toddler-focused and will love the kids more than you.  You will soon tire of her coo-ing at every baby you both pass by.  High school teachers are too stressed out from their job to properly service your manly needs at home.  Don’t bother with college professors unless you think foreplay is listening to an earful of pomo feminist shrillness.
Bonus:  teachers don’t make much money so your financial status will always be higher, guaranteeing a long and healthy relationship.
Sexual Satisfaction Rating:  3/4th erection
Long Term Potential Rating:  hope diamond (she’s not gonna have much opportunity to cheat at work)

The world is converging on a conventional wisdom that is indistinguishable from Chateau teachings. In a few years, anchors on the locals at 8 will be saying diversity + proximity = war and citing the relevant studies linked at this blog.

It wasn’t mentioned in the original CH post on this topic, but a yuge cuckoldry risk red flag is a woman with any kind of job that requires extensive business travel. Any men looking to wife up a faithful companion should steer clear of women with enough frequent flyer miles to EatPraySlut the four corners of the world with swarthers from afar.

You may as well call it United Cucklines.

***

What about men who travel a lot for their jobs? Aren’t they risking a cuckolding when they leave their lovers behind to keep home an hearth in wait for their return?

Yes and no. The risk of cuckoldry is higher with traveling women, because they interact with more alpha males on the road than the homebound woman does in her time alone while her man is away on business. Naturally, women can get lonely, and a man who’s traveling all the time opens himself to getting cucked by a sneaky fucker loitering back home and whispering emotional lube juice in the romantically starved hausfrau’s ear. But in general women’s hearts grow fonder for ambitious men who must be on the road a lot….to a point, beyond which the local butcher’s eyeplay starts to catch her attention.

Another thing to keep in mind: women in jobs that require a lot of travel are typically low E, high T manjaws gunning for the brass ring. That is, the type of woman who might not think twice about fucking a co-worker in a flyover Marriott to scratch an itch (or jingle a tingle).

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