Archive for the ‘The Good Life’ Category

There are three abiding truths about chicks and their attraction for jerks.

  • Women have always had, and will always have, a big place in their hearts for charismatic jerkboys.

  • The romantic allure of charismatic jerkboys is stronger than the romantic allure of dependable niceguys, in nearly all circumstances.
  • There are environmental conditions that can repress or amplify women’s innate love for jerks.

In this post I make the case that we are living in a Golden Age for Charismatic Jerkboys.

Note: I did not say we are living in a Golden Age “of” charismatic jerkboys. Rather, the age is ripe for jerks, should they assert themselves, to exploit the presently configured sexual market to their hedonistic benefit.

It’s not a surprise that, among those nethers-deep in the American dating scene, there is a shared opinion that jerks do especially well with women. It’s neither a coincidence that this opinion has disseminated through the dank and vile with the same gusto that the overarching culture alternately chest thumps and whimpers its way toward a new norm of masculinized women and feminized men.

All one need do is peruse the SJW oeuvre on the usual striver media outlets for accumulating evidence of an epidemic of low T faggotry sweeping through Millennial manlets. Men, White men mostly, have become cringing, feminist boilerplate reciting, race cucked suck-ups to every group making a claim against their impudent White male privilege.

Opposing this gathering effeminacy are the women, who seem hellbent to secure the blessings of frat bro licentiousness to themselves and their twerking posteriors. No one seriously argues that megaphony feminists aren’t mostly a collection of ugly manjaws with masculine behavioral profiles. But there remained hope that screeching feminist stridency was a niche market, leaving the wider society unscathed.

That hope may be premature, if vagnettes like this one recounted by Jonathan Haidt, the popularizer of the five moral senses that distinguish shitlibs from normals, are indicative of scenes across the fruitless plains.

Mean girls and cowed boys. A sure recipe for sexlessness and false rape accusations, leavened with romantic entreaties for pre-kiss consent forms and Title IX Damegeld.

This is the manginarrific milieu the amused jerkboy find himself navigating. And if he is perceptive, he’ll know this means his time is now.

How so? Think about the CH maxim that the best way to understand women is first to accept the disconnect between their words and actions. When leaned-in careerist tankgrrls shriek against slut shaming, the patriarchy, and phalloaggressions, as sycophantic eunuchs scrape and bow before the clitdick juggernaut, these women are really projecting a mournful need for the ministrations of the very type of men they hold up as exemplars of chauvinist misogyny.

The weakness and effeminacy of the males around them is the very triggering (or one such triggering) that impels women to lash out at men in the aggregate; and, as is the wont of the supremely rationalizing sex, to lash out specifically at a fantasy simulacrum of the exciting, dangerous, sexually irresistible badboy who is regrettably missing from their alpha-parched lives.

The charismatic jerkboy will stand out as a sexual savior from among this melange of mewling manboobs. His product, so rare and valuable in a sexual market saturated with softies, will be sought after with a vengeance by economically self-sufficient and urban heat island-anonymized women intoxicated to apoonplexy from the merest whiff of unapologetic, sexually entitled alpha maleness.

We are currently living in an environment that is amplifying women’s desire for jerks. What was once a latent female lust, controllable with the proper societal and peer inputs, for the ZFG jerk has exploded into a delirious hunger that no social control, even if it was available and willing to be deployed, could possibly dampen now.

Women HATE HATE HATE weak men, with the same passionate revulsion that men HATE HATE HATE uglyfat women. Of course, few women have the cognitive awareness or discipline, or the sadistic stones, to come right out and say they hate male weakness, so they engage in a little of the ol’ ultratransference of their negative feelings onto socially approved targets of hate, i.e., sexy patriarchal jerkboys.

So every time there’s a public showing where beta manlets once again perform down to feminist lapdog expectations, the howl of women for the heads of wished-for patriarchs on spikes intensifies. And, every time an amused jerkboy steps into this chaos to plunder the down under, he walks away from the scene of his 50 shades of crime glowingly reviewed by those very same shrews. In fact, his pleasure vessels might send him a post-cortical thank you note for his efforts to restore their faith in mankind.

Lesson for aspiring jerkboys: Stop paying attention to what women say, and start giving them what they truly, deeply, want. Your journey begins on your feet, instead of at hers.

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#ISaluteWhitePeople is the latest dialectic front in the resistance against the Anti-White War of the Equalist Leftoids. Resistance fronts are opening up everywhere.

We are starting to see pushback from Whites against the reigning Equalist Narrative, and this pushback is increasing with frequency, fervor, and confident execution — just as this ‘umble outpost of love predicted years ago would happen once the malignant reality of Diversity™ made the battle lines starker and the craven expediency of ignoring the animosity unsustainable.

It all started with a simple directive culled from the Chateau Heartiste Commandments of Poon:

Stop apologizing for who you are and what you value.

Once you’ve rid yourself of the beta reflex to obsequiousness, the rest just… falls into place.

Trump, 2016

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Here is a mayor of a Hungarian border town, telling his fellow Hungarians, and the world, that THIS BORDER IS CLOSED. (Stay tuned for the epic trolling near the end.)

“Hungary is a bad choice. Asotthalom is the worst.”

Laszlo Toroczkai should be included as a representative in the MPC “non-shitlib-faces.png” thread.

PS Bring back physiognomy.

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There’s a theory floating around alt-blogs that human IQ in the developed world has been steadily decreasing since about the dawn of agriculture. The working hypothesis is that agriculture enabled dense urban life to develop, and cities are known population sinks (lack of space/high cost/disease vectors all contribute to lower fertility rates in cities).

The thinking goes that cities attract smarter people, who upon settling into urban mimosavilles promptly forget the Darwinian Prime Directive and fail to reproduce themselves in sufficient numbers. 1.5 sprog per hipster village yenta is a recipe for extinction. (Which is not necessarily a bad thing.)

I don’t know if I buy this theory of decreasing IQ in total, but if true, I can suggest another plausible mechanism that is far more pertinent today, now that disease threat and high child mortality have largely been eliminated. This mechanism is far darker than disease or child mortality, once you get to peering at it closely in your skull ham.

You could call this the CH-ian “The Pill, The Rubber, and Abortion, Oh My!” theory of dysgenia.

The speculative specs: Evolution has slowly, and sometimes quickly, produced human populations with great intelligence (on average). As these population groups gained smarts, they reconfigured their environment so powerfully that their cultures began to exert more influence than the natural world did on how their progeny would evolve.

Gene-culture co-evolution became the order of the day. Civilization sprouted and flourished. And it was good. Until…

These groups of humans became so smart that they outwitted — for a time — the second evolutionary guiding principle of reproduction. They invented Pills and Rubbers and safe and cheap Abortions, thus allowing themselves the joy of sex without the joylessness of changing diapers.

Smarter people, having by their inherent mental dispositions a lower threshold for the tedious and boring tasks of infant care, stopped having so many babies. But smarter people USED to have more babies than dumber people! What happened since then? Well, when pre-20th Century smart people had sex — which they never found boring — they were often stuck with the consequences. Most of them simply accepted the boredom of child-rearing as a necessary component of life.

Once the Era of The Pill, Rubber, and Abortion began in earnest, smart people saw the wisdom, from their own personal hedonistic perspectives, of using these smarthuman-created tools to separate the consequences of boring child-rearing from the titillation of sex. End result: Fewer smarties having kids, more dummies taking up the slack, dysgenia in full black lotus bloom.

For the first time, perhaps, on a large scale, humans had made an end run around a Darwinian First Principle. Humans — some humans, anyway — had become TOO SMART and invented pregnancy-thwarting tech that also thwarted the cosmic, and divine, imperatives. The Pill, The Rubber, and Abortion may be making us dumber!

Hard double-blind, metabolically-controlled ¡SCIENCE! evidence for this “PRA” theory is sparse and mostly circumstantial, but it is out there. For instance, in a study of German parents, having a child lowered their happiness more than any other life change, including death of a spouse!

And of course there are the oft-cited stats of later age of first marriage and lowered fertility plaguing almost the entire Pan Western developed world.

There are countercurrents pushing against the PRA theory of dumbing down humanity. The Pill seems to alter women’s sexual preferences so strongly that they choose less masculine beta males as partners if they were on the Pill during the time of choosing. This would imply that these women would have more kids, Pill-disposed as they are to settling into family life with a beta provider. However, it could conceivably run the other way: Once married and thinking about having kids, women who get off the Pill might suddenly become repulsed by their babyfatted betahubbies as their ovulatory machine revs up again after a hiatus of many years. This could lead to an increase in divorce (which in fact has been happening throughout the West since the 1960s) and consequently a decrease in children (or a decrease in children born in wedlock).

Is the evolution of human intelligence self-limiting? If it is, will societies respond by banning the Pill, the Rubber, and the Abortion? Or will we just have to ride this one out for a few millennia, until the fitness maximizer pendulum swings back to the smart set? Either way, going on the way the West is going now, something’s gonna give.

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It used to be that a father’s job was clear and understood by all: To guard his daughters’ chastity and to teach his sons to stand up for themselves. For all his kids, a father’s duty also encompassed control and guidance over their peer groups, assuring that his kids wouldn’t wind up with “the wrong crowd”.

But times have changed. We are in the Post-White America Era, and a father’s number one job now is to defend his children’s minds from infection by the poz (shorthand for degenerate leftoid culture) and anti-White indoctrination. Reader and father Corvo explains by way of example from his own life:

My 8 year-old son and I were at the library this morning. He picks out several books to borrow and shows them to me: 2 of them were some variant of “Shaneequa has to sit in the back of the bus” / “Darflavius wanted to vote” libtrash propaganda.

I told him to put those two back because they’re full of lies and half-truths all about making white people look bad; when he finds one that shows that without white people Darflavius would be living in a mud hut and shitting himself to death of cholera in Africa or living as a slave to some black slavemaster in the Congo, then he can read about how bad that seat in the back of the bus is by comparison.

Hard truths need to be introduced early if we’re going to inoculate our kids against the anti white hate out there.

The stream of anti-White filth has gushed into a torrent, washing away the edifice of America like limestone under assault from the ocean surf. I know it’s tempting for parents to pacify their kids by hooking them up to iPhones, iPads, and the TV, but this “plug and pray” method of lackadaisical parenting is a surefire way to fill their heads with lies and equalist antiracism garbage. Parents who want to instill self-pride in their charges, to cultivate in them a strong identity that, yes, includes pride in their racial pedigree, will have no choice but to take a more active role policing how their kids entertain themselves.

Parents may have to lead by example. Trash your TV and limit your cell use. Ban the tentacles of social media from your household. Tell the race cucks of the predominant culture to go fuck themselves, in other words. Hey, here’s a suggestion: substitute all that electronic memetic warfare with some blood and soil activities. Go outside and toss a ball around with your kids. You’ll shed a few flabbo pounds in the process.

Why not involve mothers in this? Well, practically, I don’t see mothers having it in them to do this job. This is one which fathers are temperamentally equipped to handle. How many mothers do you know who seem ready and willing to ditch their access to 24/7 gossip generators? Certainly, there are exceptions, and if you happen to know a mother who takes seriously the job of protecting her children from anti-White cultural messages, then by all means compliment her for her foresight, because in the social sphere women need and thrive on words of encouragement that enable them to defy the womanly herd.

PA adds,

Well done. If you had a country of your own, you could be hands-off and let society help you shape your children. That’s what countries and cultures are for. It does take a village.

But under an occupant, parents have to be proactive and vigilant. Every occupied nation in history had understood that, and “the hand that rocked the cradle” quietly told the child who he is. The tragedy of Murka is that many parents do not know that they are a conquered nation under an enemy occupant.

“A country of your own”. This is the tragedy of Post-America. There was a time you could hand your kids off — to other kids, to other parents, to schoolteachers, to the bosom of mother earth and her bounty of adventures — and rest easy knowing that they would receive a real life education that would meet your approval.

We no longer have a country of our own, haven’t had for a while, but many parents are still unaware of how entrenched the official anti-White narrative has become, and they allow, blindly, fruitlessly, another hand to rock their children’s cradles.

There is always when observing massive cultural shifts a peculiar lag time between the establishment of the new paradigm and the recognition of the existence of that paradigm by the masses, and during this period of ignorance malevolent forces run wild with the zeal of revolutionaries. But they always overreach, and the masses always wake up. When the awakening happens, the brutality of the vengeance meted upon the enemy will be commensurate with the length of delay between the onset of hostilities and the acceptance by the targets of those hostilities that they are indeed under attack.

Corvo continues,

I noticed that the anti-white indoctrination has started even in elementary school. We haven’t hit the haul-my-cost yet but I’m sure it won’t be long.

Last year, in second grade, my son was happy he could skip doing one of his assigned December homework worksheets when he learned that our family’s position is that “Kwanza is not a real holiday.”

Small, individual acts of defiance embolden the anti-White enemy to stamp out rebel agitators, which they do with glee and awful effectiveness. Small acts of defiance multiplied by a million.. and then a million more… now you’re cooking (the Hivemind) with gas.

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Thumping, throbbing, pulsing… a sinuous dolphinoid stroke through crisscrossing waves of briny, grinding flesh, arrive at destination: a ramshackle tropic-themed auxiliary bar. I wave, regally, in the vicinity of the bartendress, to order a stiff one. To my left, propped lordotically on a stool, a slim blonde in slimmer dress squeezes a lime wedge into her love potion. She thinks (incorrectly) a stray sour squirt hit me; I feign injury.

Blondie: “Oh, I’m sorry about that!”

Left hand up to left eye, I execute a grimace with great gusto. “Aagh! My eye! It burns.”

She gawks for a beat, I spread two fingers slowly apart, revealing the abstractly-afflicted eye, peering at her with my miraculously and expediently cured vision through the finger gap, smiling with same orb a reprieve from a personal injury lawsuit. I leave the scene, pressed in equal measure by physiological necessity and the advantages of calculated absence. Her friend, almost as attractive, says “bye” loudly as I set off.

The right inflection can flip a “bye” into a “why not stay for a longer ‘hi'”?

Re-trace my dolphin migration, arrive at bathroom to discharge the blowhole. Too many pissers. The walls bulge, Matrix-like, with the teem of testosterone. Zipping and careful to avoid slipping in the slosh of urine accumulating on the floor, I contort my return way through the crowd to the bathroom exit, as a crescendo of primate chest beatings alerts my early warning detection system. A stygian mutant standing in the doorway prognathously bellows, “That’s rude, man. That kinda rude can get a man killed”, at a retreating Topper pretending to ignore the taunt. He repeats his threat in staccato bursts of gumfire three or four (thousand) times, a menacing series of war cries intended to evoke the fear of an inevitable eruption of normalcy into sudden, violent, pitched battle. I raise my arms into a preparatory garrison as I snake around the rapidly intensifying black hole of gravitational incivility.

Escape velocity achieved. One hundred paces between chaos and rapture. Back at dryland Bar Tiki, the blonde, still seated, still smoldering, shifts to make room for my adjacent insertion. I accost her.

“You know I’m practically blind in my right eye now.”

“You mean, your left eye?”

“Oh, yeah, my left eye. Blind as a bat. At least your right side looks good. I hope your left side makes the grade.”

Her face energizes for gratifying combat. She sparkles, I toggle. Everything is gonna be alright.

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This photo taken by a reader is a whimsical foray into the world of the stalkerati, but the reasons for posting it here are flattering, so I believe the subject matter wouldn’t object too strongly.

Slayer tee?

The reader, Manic 5, explains,

So I saw Mystery walking around the other day. Here is a man in his mid 40s clutching hands with a woman a decade plus his junior.

Male SMV definitely ages well if maintained.

The window of male SMV viability is, on average, about a decade longer than the window of female SMV viability. The SMV viability sex difference becomes truly pronounced as we approach the extremes of SMV upkeep — for example, in the form of a Mystery who doesn’t get fat and still cultivates a charming, negging persona — where we find men who can enjoy twenty or even up to forty extra years over and above what women can enjoy of prime romantic experiences.

Game isn’t just for college students or post-college barflies. It’s for all men, at all ages. I bet Mystery, as nerdy and prone to algorithmic reductionism as he is, has enjoyed the company of more hotter younger tighter babes than a roomful of tut-tutting tradcons and sneering tough guys who think themselves naturals.

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