Archive for the ‘The Big City Life’ Category

I walked past a couple of piss-stained dindu street bums — a man and woman, from whom I could see the foul odor emanating — shouting at each other in their native patois. She was yelling through plump piehole labia, “…women are a den of snakes. I’d take a gay man without a working penis as a friend before a woman…”. She trailed off as I left them behind. Street theater at its finest.

Say what you will about dindu street bums, they are often more entertaining than anything Challahwood or TV puts out. As long as you don’t have ringside seats to catch the spittle.

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But remember, citizen, Diversity™ is our strength! And Black Lives Matter!


“#ConanHaiti” (ref)

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This is the ideal cat lady. You may not like it, but this is what Peak Resting Bitch Face looks like.

She had her first eggs frozen at the ripe young age of 38. Story here.

Let’s zoom in on those eyes.

Thousand Cat Stare.

Brigitte Adams caused a sensation four years ago when she appeared on the cover of Bloomberg Businessweek under the headline, “Freeze your eggs, Free your career.” She was single and blond, a Vassar graduate who spoke fluent Italian, and was working in tech marketing for a number of prestigious companies. Her story was one of empowerment, how a new fertility procedure was giving women more choices, as the magazine noted provocatively, “in the quest to have it all.”

Adams remembers feeling a wonderful sense of freedom after she froze her eggs in her late 30s, despite the $19,000 cost. Her plan was to work a few more years, find a great guy to marry and still have a house full of her own children.

How can an ostensibly SMRT, overeducated woman be so fucking deluded? I doubt artificial wombs or lab-grown eggs, or the egg freezing already available and discussed in this sob story, will have the huge impact on the sexual market that I hear claimed in some quarters. Men don’t fuck frozen eggs or hidden wombs. Men fuck women. A woman’s face and body is what motivates men to fucking or to a bid at fucking. This is why I’ve argued sexbots will be the game-changer, rather than those other reproductive technologies coming down the pike. The sexbot correctly manipulates men by simulating the experience of sex with a younger, hotter, tighter woman.

Our Peak RBF has forgotten the common sense that “younger, hotter, tighter” doesn’t mean “younger, hotter, tighter eggs”. A sexy egg in a decrepit body is still an egg no man would bother fertilizing.

Things didn’t turn out the way she hoped.

The realness of physiognomy applies. What man would want to wife up a prissy schoolmarm careerist shrike with that pleasing face? Surely, one look at her and all men would think, “there’s a feminine lady who would happily cook me dinner and give me blowjobs and have unfaked orgasms”.

In early 2017, with her 45th birthday looming and no sign of Mr. Right, she decided to start a family on her own.

*insert Idiocracy opening scene*

She excitedly unfroze the 11 eggs she had stored and selected a sperm donor.

Was that excitement or panic?

Two eggs failed to survive the thawing process. Three more failed to fertilize. That left six embryos, of which five appeared to be abnormal. The last one was implanted in her uterus. On the morning of March 7, she got the devastating news that it, too, had failed.

Darwin welped.

Adams was not pregnant, and her chances of carrying her genetic child had just dropped to near zero. She remembers screaming like “a wild animal,” throwing books, papers, her laptop — and collapsing to the ground.

The God of Biomechanics wins in the end. (tbh it’s best for the race if her kind drop out of the darwinian arena.)

The story goes on to describe in excruciating detail the low, low odds of women conceiving via frozen eggs, with the odds dropping precipitously every year after age 35, a time in a hopeful woman’s life known as the “fertility cliff”. By age 40, most women should just throw in the towel and become nuns.

In an unfortunate and unfair twist of nature, men are believed to replenish their sperm at a rate of 1,500 a second through most of their lives; there are documented cases of men remaining fertile into their 90s. Age also affects the quality of sperm [ed: overblown risk pushed by aggrieved feminist researchers], according to numerous studies. But the effect on fertility is markedly less dramatic than in women.

Sperm is economical
Eggs are valuable
Men are expendable
Women perishable

The procedure is growing rapidly in popularity: Gina Bartasi, the former chief executive at fertility benefits company Progyny, predicts that as many as 76,000 women could elect to freeze their eggs this year.

Natural selection in real time. The White women of the future will be nothing like the careerist ballcutters of today. Think more “Stepford wife” than “empowered shrike”.

Her own story has a happy twist.

After a dark period of mourning and soul-searching, Adams began IVF again, this time with a donor egg and donor sperm. On a recent weekday afternoon, she was lying on an exam table staring at a computer screen — her first ultrasound.

She is literally an incubator for a child who has no genetic connection to her and was conceived of a father she has never met. Yet somehow, incredibly, she manages, along with a guiding agitprop hand from the media whore, to put a non-dystopian, happy clappy spin on her predicament.

Picking out a sperm donor was fun, she said, like perusing an online dating site to find the ideal mate.

The problem is that she spent too much of her total lifetime in urban slore hell perusing dating sites for men who would ultimately pump and dump her in search of more fertile asstures. And now, looking at her, she’ll be lucky to catch the attention of old black men.

Trying to select an egg donor, on the other hand, was “excruciating,” she says: “You are thinking, ‘This should be me.’ ”

Of course. That’s her bioprogramming telling her she done fucked up.

Adams says she is trying to control her emotions, given the ups and downs of her long journey. But then the doctor comes in and locates the thud-thud of a heartbeat, and her eyes start to water.

The baby, a girl, is due in May.

This is how the West ends
this is how the West ends
this is how the West ends
with a procession of issue-less bangs followed by a single autistic, allergic, Downs-y IVF daughter who will grow up to hate her selfish bitch mother for dying on her before her high school graduation and for denying her a flesh and blood father to love.


A big reason why we have an epidemic of overeducated women tragically delaying marriage and childbirth until it’s too late is because of the reality of female hypergamy. When women gain economic, occupational and social status, their mate criteria rise commensurate to the rise in their self-perceived (or more precisely, their self-wished) SMV. The tragedy is that their high SMV left them in their youth.

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We may have reached the apotheosis of cat ladydom. A couple photographed themselves as the “mom” gave “birth” to a kitten.

This would be mildly amusing if these two were actually poking fun of the cat lady culture, instead of implicitly poking fun of “breeders” as this type is wont to call people who have human children. But no, they’re not kidding around about their embrace of the cat lady/cat lad lifestyle. Proof:

But one couple who recently [adopted a kitten] decided to let the world know about their furry new family member in the most unforgettable way. […]

Photographer Lucy Schultz and her partner, Steven, don’t have any kids of their own…

WOMB, there it isn’t. Looking at her, it’s not as if she’s got years left to contemplate having a real child. The clock on her egg factory is set to expire. Maybe they can psyche themselves up for the coming regimen of IVF treatments (using a buck’s sperm) by fondly looking back at these photos for encouragement.

And he looks like he’s about one tofu niblet away from his testicles burrowing back under his fupa.

“I’d been talking about doing a kitten announcement shoot when I was finally ready to adopt for over a year,” Schultz told The Dodo. “I just wanted to celebrate my cat adoption milestone as it’s something I’ve looked forward to for such a long time.”

It took her a year to decide to adopt a fucking cat? How many years will it take her to decide on the real thing? No wonder these shitlib Whites are going extinct at a rapid clip.

Schultz enlisted the help of her colleague, photographer Elizabeth Woods-Darby. The two have worked together documenting human births…

A woman’s maternal instinct has to be pathologically underdeveloped if she photographs human births as a career and still doesn’t feel the urge herself.

The photo shoot is certainly comical, but there’s nothing insincere about how much love they have for their new pet.

Two minutes after they die (from toxoplasma gondii complications), this cat would be gutting them and slurping up the pools of blood.

Hilarity aside, Schultz hopes it might inspire others to grow their own families with a pet in need of love:

“My message to everyone who is digging these photos is to check out your local shelter, consider volunteering or become a foster home and consider adopting one of the amazing homeless pets out there!”

This is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whisker.

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White women always react the same way to a bothersome kneegr0 beggar: with deference, patience, and finally sorrowful apology for not coughing up enough dough.

Black women react differently: they completely ignore him or give him lip for not minding his own business.

Black women know how to handle their black men.

There’s a lesson there for earnest shitlib White women. #NotLikeUs

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Urbanization and the accompanying social disconnection have the effect of pathologizing female hypergamy, turning it from a useful Darwinian selection mechanism to an auto-immune disorder that robs women of their prime child-bearing years and elevates their risk of spinsterhood.

De-urbanization will throw a monkey wrench in the gears of the cock carousel and corral runaway female hypergamy. If you want to improve the romantic and marital prospects of beta males….that is, if you want more beta males to have access to relatively unsullied feminine women who forsake gogrrl careerism and avoid emotional pollution by shitlib hivemind propaganda in favor of family formation and hearth duties…you’ll support de-urbanization.

A de-urbanization program (aka a Heritage America Renewal Project — HARP) plus an immigration moratorium for a couple of generations are together the only long-term solution to feminist dysgenics. Federal and state incentives should be structured to support small city and town development, antitrust to break up megacorps…basically decentralization and de-scaling.

Infrastructure projects will help revitalize the US interior, making it more attractive for businesses and locals, which will limit the brain drain from rural regions to the coastal megacities. Ending immigration and thwarting the menace of Diversitopia will make good districts more widely available and thus more affordable.

Now if we can only solve the existential problem of female obesity in the heartland, we’ll truly have made America great again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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