The Times Of Year You Should Watch Your Woman Carefully

Via numerous sources, an “infographic” datanaut has put together a graph based on Facebook relationship status updates that shows the peak times of year for breakups to happen.

As you can see, breakups occur most often in the weeks before Spring Break and Christmas. (Breakups remain high during Spring Break; in contrast, they plummet on Christmas Day itself. Maybe if Christmas was marked by the sight of thousands of scantily clad babes, it would compete with Spring Break for the dump olympics.) Obviously, this graph is skewed toward the relationship dynamics of college students, what with Facebook being primarily the domain of that demographic and college-aged exhibitionists the least likely to exercise discretion about their personal lives.

There is a smaller uptick in breakups just prior to Valentine’s Day (don’t wanna spend the money on this bitch I don’t even much like), April Fool’s Day (I love you… haha! April Fool’s! we’re through!), and the beginning of summer (gotta make room for my summer romance!).

The linked article says that Mondays are the most popular days for breaking up, but I think that is a misread of the data. Most Facebook dorks update their status announcements the day after a big personal change in life, so it’s likely more accurate to say breaking up happens frequently on weekends. Which would make sense, because if you’re sick and tired of a lover, the grating prolonged presence of that person on a wide-open weekend would serve to wonderfully focus your mind on getting the hell out of Dodge.

The data gives seducers valuable info in which to tailor their game for maximum harem retention. First, we know both from anecdote and extrapolating from divorce data that women initiate 60-80% of all relationship breakups. The evo psych reasons for this are that women think more long term than do men, and are thus less likely than men to coast in a marginally-acceptable relationship for the sexual benefits. Women also have a more stringent list of criteria they demand from their lovers, and failing to meet bullet points 457-463 can cause her to reassess your value.

Not only that, but when men aren’t doing the breaking up (and why would they? pussy attached to an unlikeable personality is still pussy, and pussy you aren’t planning to marry still feels as good), women in their infinite passive-aggressiveness are manipulating men into breaking up with them.

Second, women on the verge of breaking up can often be brought back from the brink by a renewed application of core game principles. If you can predict with decent accuracy which days of the year she is thinking about breaking up, you can take preventive countermeasures. If you are a womanizer with a harem (i.e., multiple long-term relationships), it pays to know not just how to reignite her love, but when her love is most likely to dissipate. Timing your efforts creates efficiencies that help you better manage multiple girlfriends.

Women mostly break up because the betas they are with have ceased activating their tingle machine, but let’s not forget that a not insignificant minority of women initiate breakups because their alpha lovers have stopped lavishing them with affection and other signs of commitment. If you are in the latter category, your job is easy, should you choose to accept it. Pay her a few compliments and give her a massage once in a while, and she’ll be back in the fold.

However, if you are like most de-balled men in long germ relationships, you are being dumped because she has grown weary of your betafication. Familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed contempt, but familiarity with betas sure as hell does. For you, betaboy, the goal is to turn up the aloof asshole in late November, mid-February and early June. Other times of the year, particularly the autumnal hunkering down, you can take her for granted.

In sum, herby betas need to be extra vigilant after Thanksgiving. Turn off your cell, refuse to answer texts right away, stop nuzzling in her bosom like a hungry cat, and call her from places where girls are squealing in the background. Once Christmas is over, you can return to being your watery-eyed, limp-noodled self.

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The Eternal Shallowness Of Men With Options

As any man who’s been with a number of women will tell you, every woman has a bad day down there occasionally. It isn’t an STD issue (unless you are screwing a conspicuous skank). It might be diet or her cycle or the flu or incomplete showering, women just have those days when they aren’t as “fresh” in their doodle-cave. The musty, organic smell, to a normal man’s nose, is unmistakeable, and quite nauseating — like a devil’s recipe of Roquefort cheese, sweaty armpits, compost and ear wax. If she hasn’t thoroughly scrubbed her ass crack clean, the shit smell on top of everything else will make your stomach turn.

Needless to say, this is bad for the boner business.

I had been with a girl for a couple months, and she was turning out to be everything I aim for in a lover — sweet-natured, averse to attention whoring, cute, well-groomed, eager to please (in all ways), charmingly affectionate, supportive, compassionate, apolitical, anti-feminist (in action if not necessarily in claimed beliefs), socially adept with my friends, able to slow down and enjoy life without feeling that incorrigible SWPL urge to “do something”, and a damned fine cook. And her cooking wasn’t the equivalent of the TV dinner especiales; she used ingredients in her food. Bonus: I never once saw her wear flip-flops.

One evening, after a very good home-cooked meal, we tumbled into bed. She liked to finish up doggy style, reveling in the complete surrender of her body to my animalistic poundings. The lights were low, but not so dim I couldn’t feast my eyes on the action. Soon after raising her buttocks to accept my divining rod, a pungent odor hit me square in the nostrils with such force that my head jerked back and to the left. Stifling a reflexive “phewf”, I gamely tried to recover my senses without interrupting my rhythm, but quick as my head turned back and my eyes focused on the penetration below, another wave of the most rank effluvium attacked my nose. I pretended it was a stray waft from outside — perhaps a garbage truck had just rumbled by? — but when my eyes began to water I realized the source of the hell odor originated in the very hole (holes?) my dick was sabotaging.

I was near climax, so there was no point stopping now. What excuse would I use? “Oh, babe, I have to stop. Your vagina stinks so bad I’m choking over here.” Or perhaps I would say it in Elizabethan English, to add a dash of romance to an otherwise morbid turn of events: “Oh, m’love, I must cease. Your nethers usher forth an odoriferous assault so breathtaking in its impudence my manhood doth reclaim its softness.”

You want to eviscerate a woman’s ego and scar her for life? Offer some lame excuse for disengaging from her pussy just before you, and her, are about to cum. Say “Um, hey… gotta take a break. I’m feeling a little queasy. Probably the Mexican I had” right as her moans of ecstasy peak. Extra ego-smashing points if you pull out semi-soft.

Since I did not want to eviscerate her ego, this option was right out. I had to see this through, and fast, before my boner was gone. I redoubled my efforts and concentrated on the sound of my balls slapping against her slippery mons. I say “sound” because by this point I was looking up and away at the ceiling, pinching my nostrils shut with my left hand and counting the spackle nubs in the paint job. I dared not look down at the action for fear that I would forever associate the rancid smell with my lover’s vagina. Call me a romantic.

For about twenty seconds, it worked. With the increased nostril distance from her privates, the smell became tolerable. Not acceptable; just not as bad as shoving my face in a well-used tray of kitty litter. My gagging stopped and I could take small inhalations for life sustenance in between my lengthy exhalations. Unfortunately, habit got the best of me and I glanced down to savor the visual of meaty intrusion.

Big mistake. As before, the smell crushed my face. Even worse, I began to embrace my masochism and spent an inordinate amount of time examining her ass crack and taint. Against my better judgement, I gingerly… cautiously, ever so cautiously… spread her ass cheeks. The light was ambient, but I could see details well enough to note, surprisingly, for the first time, just how dark and mysterious her womanly furrow revealed itself to be. Shadows danced in the Mariana Trench twixt her glutes, and twilight fell like a pall over her taint and labia. My cock shaft, clear as day as her youthfully fresh lube glistened on it, simply disappeared into the murk of some unfathomable abyss of wombness.

Now well acquainted with the stink and unmoved by prudence, I moved in closer to discover… what? the holy grail? smurfs at play?…, a glimpse of what it was that inhabited the dark place, but her Crack of Shadows denied me illumination. For a second, I thought my ears and eyes played tricks on me as I heard a rustling that one might hear from a grove of cattails in a windstorm and I saw a fleeting sight of black squiggles thick and luxurious like a jungle canopy. But just as quick, the visions were gone, and I was left there pistoning like a robot, hypnotized by the siren smell of the inscrutable, ink black crevasse swallowing my cock whole.

My eyes now red with the stinging nettles of her vagcloud, my breathing reduced to staccato gasps, I relinquished the usual victory to my rapidly deflating cock, and decided to beat a hasty exit before she noticed the flaccidness and spend the next few weeks questioning her attractiveness to me. (“Do you think I’m fat?”, and its various permutations, swiftly becomes old after the 100th iteration.) One last deception up my sleeve — one I don’t use except under the direst of circumstances. I withdrew my 1/2 full member, mimicked a few groans of completion, and loogied a warm globule of spit, Beavis and Butthead style, onto her right ass cheek. It dribbled down her hip. Before she could examine the evidence, I grabbed a nearby towel and wiped her off.

“Big, wet load that time!”, I lied.

“Yes, baby. Come here, I want to snuggle.”

We snuggled, my nose pressed hard into her pillow, relieved of duty.

As we lay there, I made a solemn mental vow to call the girl I had met in a furniture shop a week earlier. She was sexy and smiley, and likely a bit slutty. Her red dress danced the tango in the cottage of my mind.

Guilt? I felt some. Here was sleeping next to me, by most men’s measure, a catch. A girl you take home to mom. A girl for the long haul. She was the good girl in nearly every way. But that smell… so unforgettable. If her pussy was an Etch A Snatch, I wanted to shake it clean, start over. Everything she gave and all the great feminine characteristics that are so important to me, I was ready to throw away in an instant because of a visceral reaction to an unfortunate, and temporary, body odor. When would the odor be back? I didn’t want to find out. Did I care that I might walk away from a real gem? Abstractly, yes. Emotionally, no. If I didn’t have the ability to go out and meet new women, and to bed them with relative ease without needing a marriage contract, I might think twice before cutting and running on a woman with a heart of gold but an asscrack of dubiousness.

And what guarantee that the next girl wouldn’t have the Crack of Shadows? Crack to crack to crack… my eternal search continued. Relentless. Uncompromising. Unwise.

We talk a lot here, justifiably, about the feral nature of women’s drives and desires, and how such knowledge is ignored if not outright censored by the larger society in the interest of promoting beta male (and to a lesser extent, alpha male) obeisance. The Chateau, a house of thrill repute, acts also as a foundation of change, of enlightenment, and of power, that will bring balance to the force, a balance long denied in the West and bursting with the will to reclamation.

But we should remember that men have an animal nature, too. And while women’s wild sexual energies are more dangerous to civilization if left untamed and unbroken, men’s sexual energies can be a force for destruction and dissolution as well. The man with sexual options, (not many by any reasonable account, but enough to make a difference), when left to his own devices and free from social stigma or peer punishment or self-imposed female chastity, can rampage through a harem of pussy before the typical beta male with his steady paycheck and doting attentiveness has even fapped to the first dribbles of pre-cum. If you think this is the way to a prosperous nation, I invite you to look at these two pictures:

I called the red dress girl. Her crack was better. Because it was new.

This entire post, while true, served a dual purpose as parable of the current political climate and the electorate at large.

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Compare And Contrast: Two Bitter Ex-Lovers

A jilted ex-boyfriend went on a scorned nerd rampage on live TV while his ex-girlfriend sat next to him.

As a YouTube commenter astutely noted:

That is the nerdiest smackdown ever. If this wasn’t C-span I could swear it was Comic Con. Probably the most eloquent way of saying “That bitch is a ho”. Although, I wouldn’t mind tapping her Yale degree because she is probably a superfreak closeted S&M mistress and that’s my kind of political maneuvering.

I’m telling ya, YouTube commenters are the new American comedy art form. More:

typical fat guy’s laugh in the background.

Funny, fat guys DO have a distinctive laugh!

What was your reaction when you watched the video? If you’re like me and most people, you felt a mix of contempt, cringing revulsion and pity. You probably thought “wow, what a loser.” You vowed never to let a chick get under your skin that badly. A fleeting moment of sympathy made you wish this spazzy nerd would learn some game and start dating girls who didn’t look like Philip Seymour Hoffman.

There’s no doubt this dude is a lesser beta, perhaps even a greater omega. And this judgment is not solely a reflection of his unfortunate looks; his attitude, mannerisms, and, of course, total lack of amused mastery peg him as the needy, desperate, no-game-having betaboy he is deep in his soul. He has failed spectacularly the live TV version of the Jumbotron test (the worst way to fail). If he fumbles with nerdo Randian women, it is because of these latter characteristics, and not because of his looks.

His exceptional intelligence cannot compensate for all his negative traits. If anything, his smarts may be working against him. It’s easy to imagine his big brain spending week after week excessively analyzing his breakup and thinking up ways to rectify his pain. In a moment of pique — her body which he once penetrated (assuming he did) now mere inches from him on a televised panel — his unruly emotions took control of his mind and steered all that IQ in an embarrassingly unproductive direction.

This is what happens when you don’t have a clue how women operate. He exhibited the opposite of amused mastery — distressed incompetence. Vaginas all over the land snapped shut on cue.

Now I want you to read the following story. See if you have the same reaction to the bitter spurned ex-lover in this news story that you did for the woeful man in the video above.

Now that her label is finally starting to play the album for select critics, it’s easy to fathom why its contents have been closely guarded, all fears of leakage aside. Some of the lyrics are startlingly candid, even by the standards of Taylor “Naming Names, Taking No Prisoners” Swift.

And listening to “Dear John,” the scorching song that is-from all appearances-aimed at Mayer, all we can say is: Joe Jonas, you got off easy. […]

And it might seem sensationalistic to focus on “Dear John” at the expense of the rest of the album if it didn’t feel like it might be her masterpiece to date, or at least the most bracingly, joltingly honest song you’ve heard any major performer have the nerve to put on record in years. Maybe not since John Lennon took on estranged partner Paul McCartney in “How Do You Sleep” has a major pop singer-songwriter so publicly and unguardedly taken on another in song. But while Lennon’s song came off as mean-spirited, Swift was motivated by vulnerability and woundedness, which makes her song far braver… and more cutting. […]

There may be those who’ll accuse Swift of exploiting her own romantic travails in this and other songs. But the extended bridge section of “Dear John” (and, at six and a half minutes, the entire song is fairly extended) packs such a cathartic punch, it really does transcend any tabloid associations. When Swift sings “I’m shining like fireworks over your sad, empty town,” anyone who ever felt manipulated or used and found the strength to move on may be cheering like it’s the 4^th of July.

Taylor Swift is doing no different than Todd Seavey did to his ex-girlfriend on that C-Span panel: she is lashing out bitterly at an ex-lover who she feels wronged her. Substantively, her actions are the female version of Todd Seavey; the only distinction is the style in which each exposes their hurt and feeble stabs at revenge. (I say feeble, because I doubt very much John Mayer is going to lose sleep at being called out as a callous womanizer. The horde of groupies queueing up to sample his callous cock after hearing how he treated Taylor Swift is surely growing by the mile.) In fact, it could be said that Seavey is more admirable than Swift, for he at least lashed out at his ex while she was there to defend herself.

Here is an excerpt of Swift’s revenge lyrics:

Dear John/I see it all now that you’re gone/Don’t you think I was too young/To be messed with/The girl in the dress/Cried the whole way home/I should’ve known. […] It was wrong/Don’t you think nineteen’s too young/To be played/By your dark, twisted games/When I loved you so. […] You’ll add my name to your long list of traitors who don’t understand/And I’ll look back in regret I ignored what they said/’Run as fast as you can’

Notice how all the blame is shifted to Mayer. Swift removes any responsibility and accountability for her decision to fuck the alpha male. She is a mere womanchild, a vassal into which evil men have their way with her. (If true, can we revoke the right to vote from these womenchildren?) Todd Seavey’s bitterness flows from the same place — an inability to recognize that he bears responsibility for the impression he leaves with women.

Todd Seavey and Taylor Swift’s behavior toward exes IS ONE AND THE SAME. Their bitterness is a shared bond that crosses class, looks and celebrity.

And yet, what did you feel reading about Taylor Swift’s lash-out at John Mayer? The same contempt, revulsion and cold pity you felt for Todd Seavey? Likely not, if you’re honest with yourself. Certainly the women reading these two stories did not feel the same toward each antagonist protagonist. I bet the same women (and some manginas) who subconsciously lambasted Seavey for his bitterness were quick to offer sympathy and understanding to Taylor Swift. Just look at the way the story is told by the reporter, Chris Willman (presumably a man): “vulnerability and woundedness”, “startlingly candid”, “such a cathartic punch”. This is the reaction of someone who wants to offer Taylor Swift a shoulder to cry on. Todd Seavey will see no such shoulders offered; he will instead be cast to the icy wastelands where the tribe will mercilessly mock him from afar.

Your conflicting emotional responses to Seavey and Swift are no fluke. They are evolutionarily imprinted in your brain. All flows from the basic premise that eggs are expensive and sperm is cheap. From this premise, we subconsciously affirm that men are expendable, and women irreplaceable. One man can impregnate an entire tribe and keep the population growing. One woman is a population bottleneck that will mean the extinction of the tribe. And further on from that premise, we find ourselves offering comfort and uuuuunderstaaaaanding to Taylor Swift, while we offer nothing but sharp barbs and ridicule to the expendable Todd Seavey.

This is our reality, our world, our universe. Some human beings are worth more than others, and despite our grandiloquent litanies to the contrary, our actions tell us all we need to know, if we are willing to look with open eyes. Remember that the next time a palace guard of the old order tries to tell you what’s in your best interest.

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The Duke Rejection List

I’ve gotten more emails to write about this Duke slut Karen Owen than I have on any other topic. I wasn’t interested at first, having scanned the notorious Powerpoint (also at this link in case first doesn’t work) and concluded that it was just another story of a whore riding the (alpha) cock carousel who happened to forego discretion and publicize her sluttery, nothing to see here move along dystopia down the hall and to your left. But a closer inspection of Owen’s tell-all reveals a river of scorned subconsciousness that the mainstream feminist bloggers have predictably failed to notice —

this chick was rejected by each and every one of these high status men she banged.

“But how can that be?”, some of the duller among you will ask. “None of the men turned her down for sex.”

Don’t you know it’s different for women? Failing to get laid is not how women are rejected; they are rejected when they don’t receive romance, love, and long term commitment from the men who fuck them. Most women under 25 with a slim and healthy 17-23 BMI profile have no trouble getting laid from the men they find attractive. Given that most young women can get sex fairly easily, falling into bed with a man, even high status men such as the Duke athletes targeted by Owen, is not much of an accomplishment. It’s like giving a trophy to a dog for being able to lick its own balls.

Now convincing these fly-by-nighter men to date, romance, introduce to their friends, spend money on, and marry the women they screw… that’s the real trick. And it is the measuring stick we should be applying to skank hos like Karen Owen. For by that metric, she and many others like her fail miserably.

For example, here is her write-up of the man (a tennis star) she rated the worst:

Note this man’s utter dismissal of her as a potential long term prospect. “Did not bother to kiss more than a few seconds”. “…after which he simply walked out”. “…did not return”. “‘I will leave them outside of the building for you'”.

And Owen’s reaction?

“1/10. Seriously.”

That is the tersely bitter send-off of one pissed and deeply wounded woman. Don’t let the whimsical snarkiness and slut empowerment pose fool you — even the raunchiest cockgobblers have a heart inside that beats for a man to love and cherish them above all others. The love of a man, true and loyal, is the slut’s white whale.

But what about the men she rated highly? Did they stay with her? Here’s her write-up of the man she rated the highest:

What did the first place man do differently than the last place man? He catered to her female need for signs of romance and commitment (which, in the end, weren’t forthcoming. And that kid went HA HAW):

“…intense level of eye contact”. “‘…if I get lucky you’ll wake me up with a kiss in the morning'”. “Him refusing to allow me to leave before noon”. “…how important it was to him that I got off as well”.

So when PUAs talk about leaving women better than you found them, this is what they mean — treat your pump and dumps like girlfriends and in the ego-assuaged haze of their pleasure they will forget that you haven’t actually committed to them beyond offering the half-eaten burrito in your fridge.

Unfortunately for Miss Owen, this story with ÜberMan #1 does not have a happy ending. After that amazing night together, this is how the following rendezvous meetings went down:

I saw him out briefly at Devines the Tuesday after, but since we had only just seen each other [ed: “seen” = “fuck” in chickspeak. GSS Fail!]… I did not even approach him, only making sure that he saw me in passing. […] I would have liked to have hooked up many more times than two, but he was tired and I needed to graduate the next day.

Long term romance fail. When a girl is careful not to talk to a lover in public for fear of creating an awkward moment that might kill the budding romance, you know you are dealing with a slut shooting way out of her league and, in the big picture, a dating market beautifully arranged to the maximum advantage of alpha males. This truly is the golden era for single men with game who have wisely avoided the trap of marriage. Conversely, it is the hell matrix for betas who now have nothing to offer but the pitiful consolation prize of being willing to wear ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ t-shirts in hopes of copping a pity fuck from a short-haired hippie chick on a five hour bender.

The whole Powerslut Powerpoint reads like the above. Owen snags another Duke alpha athlete (implicitly she has studiously avoiding snagging any computer science students on campus), has her sex, and then never sees the guy again except at beer pong parties where they exchange knowing glances if she’s lucky, or unacknowledged quick exits if she’s unlucky. Then she writes about it with a dash of humor and self-awareness to exorcise the demons tormenting her broken heart and chafed vulva, and sends it to a couple of girlfriends, her male-oriented brain assuming the girlfriends would be loyal to her and not pass it on to the wider public. Big mistake.

Probably the stupidest commentary on this affair was by that cougartown fembot Penelope Trunk, (the hypocritical conniving cacklepuss stalkercunt who harassed a man and his family in real life for having the gall to sneer at her feminist boilerplate), who in her infinite perspicacity managed to turn it into a treatise on, color me surprised!, sexual harassment and female empowerment via the magical art of spreading your legs for chaste men who only have sex once every thousand years when Jupiter and Saturn are aligned.

So what makes these slides so fascinating?  I think it’s her spunk and self-knowledge and enthralling sense of her own power. I wish I had had that when I was her age. I am twenty years older than Owen, but she inspires me to be brave, takes risks, and let my creativity get the best of me.

So what’s stopping you? Oh, that’s right. Twenty additional years (forty in female years) isn’t good for the bangathon business.

Jesus, what a buffoon.

Here’s some real insight for ya, Penelope and assorted Jizzabelers — Karen Owen has royally fucked up her chances to extract marriage from a good man thanks to her intemperate decision to write about, share and, consequently, archive for the masses for all eternity her insatiable hunger for a variety of lacrosse cock. Try to turn down the knobs on your psychologically-cemented female projection modules for a moment and put yourself in an alpha male’s shoes. What man worth his yarbles in character, money, career, looks, charm and/or social status is going to use Karen Owen for anything more than a hole in which to dump a perfunctory fuck? What high status man would marry a slut with a tap sheet a mile long, her every clitoral flutter registered in loving detail in ASCII, jpeg and png for his friends to read and laugh at?

Rhetorical.

Naturally, the double standards crowd will pipe up that Owen was just doing what men do all the time. Congratulations! You just figured out double standards exist and life isn’t fair. First prize, a group hug from fellow knobbobbers. Second prize, a beta with few options. Third prize, you’re still a rancid slut.

The impolite fact is that a man who wrote an Owen-esque fuck list would not suffer much, if any, penalty in the dating market *or* in the more tightly regulated social market for his promiscuity. Sure, a few femtards would wail at the objectifying of women and the unfairness that ugly but SMRT broads are passed over for alpha bimbo sorostitutes, but in the crucible of real life most normal heterosexual women would be uncomfortably drawn to such a man, and would work for his affections. I’m sure the athletes who are a part of Owen’s fuck list are high-fiving their pounding of Owen’s sperm cavern when they’re not fucking a hundred other groupies scrambling for their attentions.

Bottom line: a male Karen Owen would actually see his sexual market value *rise*, while Owen’s value as a girlfriend and potential wife has undoubtedly fallen. This — plus the raw hypergamy on display by her choice of sexual partners and her ability to effortlessly fulfill that limbic impulse — is the underlying message of Owen’s cutesy confessional. And it’s the message that the legacy media, the middle-aged vicars of vicariousness, and the feminists are trying hard to miss.

******

A few other points of note. Duke is also the site of the infamously racist false rape accusation by a black stripper against white lacrosse players. The mass media and fembots had a glorious communal orgasm over that one until it was discovered the whole thing was a lie. Funny how now, with another Duke scandal wafting in the autumn air, those same media mavens and feminists can’t be bothered to string up Karen Owen for her objectifying of Duke’s male students. Instead of a wail, admiration for her journey of self-actualization is shared by all.

Hypocrites, liars and filthy cunts, the lot of them.

Karen Owen herself looks masculinized. Check out her manjaw, beady eyes and heavy overhanging brow (on the left):

The photo of her lends evidence to my theory that women with high serum testosterone, or women who have been prenatally drowned in single mamma’s high T syrup, are more likely to slut it up with a platoon of men. These kinds of women are also more likely to value raw looks in a man, whereas more feminine women tend to downgrade male looks relative to other attractive male traits such as humor, charm and social acumen. It is possible that Owen’s masculinization gives her the male-like capacity to absorb to a greater extent than most women a series of repeated romantic rejections from crudely inattentive one night stands.

Last thought. What I’ve written above is based on the assumption that Owen was honest with her Powerpoint. It isn’t a guarantee that she’s telling the truth. The internet is the place where people make shit up. (Case in point: I could be making everything up as well. Every story I write could be a total lie. It isn’t, but it could be. You’ll just have to take my word for it.)

Owen could very well have made everything up for shits and giggles, or she could have been cruelly rejected by an alpha lacrosse player and this was her weird idea of getting back at him and those like him. It’s not unheard of that women will lie, in both petty and grand ways, about the men who have hurt them in a vain attempt at exacting vengeance, nor is it unheard of that they will fantasize out loud about having sex with alpha males. For purposes of discussion, we’ll have to believe the story as reported: the hookups are real and she only meant to send her fuck list to a few (formerly) close girlfriends.

I’m sure the Duke lacrosse players are crying in their red cups. [/sarcasm]

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Attention Whore Hyperactivity Disorder

Roosh’s post about the future of game brought to mind a trend in female behavior regarding girls and their self-perceived value shooting through the roof thanks to relentless male attention from social network sites and online dating.

Thought experiment: imagine two girls with an objective beauty rank of 6. Which girl will have a higher opinion of her attractiveness to men?

a. A rural girl without internet access who does not have an online presence and has only received flirtatious attention from a handful of men who live in her town?

b. A thoroughly modernized and plugged-in girl with a Facebook account that she posts photos to every day which gather comments from twenty different men, a Twitter account with a hundred male followers who read her every passing inane thought, and a Match.com online profile that receives emails from hundreds of horny men on a weekly basis?

You can see where this is going. It would be a miracle if girl (b) didn’t delude herself that she was a 7, or maybe even an 8, and behave accordingly. Conversely, there is a good chance girl (a) perceives herself having lower value than she does, because of the paucity of male feedback.

It’s long been a contention of this blog that a girl’s attractiveness level is objectively self-evident; that is, that girls intuitively know what their ranking is without men to offer feedback. They have mirrors after all. But because the female mind is a mushily pliable organ, and because so much of the female prefrontal cortex is immersed in the job of spinning self-delusions (spin hamster spin!), it stands to reason that a modern, technological context — within which instafame and the amplified sexual barter that flow from it are only a click away — could conceivably sever the holy link between mirror and female self-assessment.

There is evidence that this is happening today in the West on a scale unknown in all of history. Thanks to Facebook and all the online dating sites, women are the recipients of more male flattery and solicitude (however insincere or inept) than they know what to do with, and this is as true for the hotties as it is for the middling plain janes. (The ugly girls continue to find no relief in the celebritizing factory of the internet; their parched romantic ostracism remains intractable.) The result of this massive, all-encompassing meddling with the gluttonous female ego will be a dark pink world of entitled, demanding princesses holding unrealistic standards and bullet point checklists a mile long.

A woman come of age in this world is a ravenous beast who has had a tube of sunshine shoved up her asshole and an IV of Megan Fox attitude pumping her full of unicorn rainbow buttercup gas.

What sane man would want to deal with that?

Enter game. How do you handle a woman who thinks she is God’s gift to men?

You knock her bloated opinion of herself down a few notches.

And how do you do this?

You qualify her. You make demands of her. You extract compliance from her. You tease her. You neg her. You deny her expectations until her lust is so overpowering you may as well have paralyzed her with your supersecret magnum look.

In other words, you flip the seduction script so that she is chasing you.

Old-fashioned men who speak in stentorian tones about a man’s duty to god, family, country and his obligation to resist the pull of degenerate hedonism cannot fathom this steely-eyed view of seduction and women and why it is more necessary now than ever. It is all Greek to them. “Too late to start the training…”

The fame laboratory that is the internet has produced a generation of women high on themselves. Has there ever been a time when the neg — also formally known as the backhanded compliment — was more suited for the social milieu in which it operates than now? Obesity is to blame for game, yes, but now we can add another variable to the cause of the rise of game: online dating and social network sites. Want a recipe for maximizing marginally attractive women’s egos and fueling their self-delusions about their sexual worth? Combine an ever-fattening female population with the attention whoring of online social networking, mix liberally with desperately horny men latching onto any semi-slender chick, and you’ve got a dating scene that mercilessly cuts betaboys off at the knees and rewards the biggest jerks who are expert at pinpricking those inflated ego balloons.

If present trends are future projections, this crisis of the expanding female ego + waistline is only going to get worse. It is easy to foresee a toxic dating environment where the majority of girls — marbled throughout with chubsters — become unapproachable, ballbusting bitches who retreat to the reassuring confines of the online dating sites, Facebook, blogs and news magazines when their egos suffer a minor setback in the field.

*Field -noun
1. the world formerly known as real life; a world characterized by living, breathing humans aware of subtle changes in tone and facial expression.
2. a world notably free of duckbill poses.

Here is a prediction: the more women organize their lives around Facebook and online dating, the harder it will be to game them in real life. And the uglier that women get in body and soul, the more they will turn to the internet for their flattery fix. It’s a vicious feedback loop. You see, real life has some big disadvantages. One, it’s not as good at hiding physical flaws. Two, it’s an uncontrolled environment.

On Facebook, chicks can manage their human interactions with the precision of a German machinist. Every picture, every word, every like or dislike, the timing of replies and the length of ASCII conversations — all are under the user’s complete control in the virtual world. The uncertainties of fleshly communication, with its judging eyes scanning bodies top to bottom and its unexpected quips that shatter expectation, are rendered obsolete. In the electronic social networking world, the woman and her prerogatives are preeminent.

There is one countermeasure that can keep this growing monster in check: face to face interaction. Only when the 4s, 5s and 6s confront the vicious reality of men ignoring them in clubs and at parties for the hotter, skinnier babes, will we see their egos fall back to earth (and concurrently, their personalities improve). This is a call to arms. Men need to walk away from Facebook and online dating sites and force these chicks back into the harsh Klieg lights of the primal mating field where the frontlines of cold, pitiless judgement are everywhere. It is as much a man’s destiny to humble women as it is to build civilizations.

Want to intrigue a girlfriend until her love for you is all-consuming? Stay off Facebook. Refuse to abide her Craven New World.

A brutally long, hard economic contraction might restabilize the dating market. How ironic, given that our current troubles are largely the result of handing women the vote.

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A Woman Explains Why Chicks Dig Jerks

Why hear it from an evil player when you can read a normal, everyday woman tell you how much chicks love assholes? This girl confirms the Chateau maxim that Do Almost Nothing Game is an important component of any man’s arsenal of ardor.

Curiously familiar hypothetical situation: You’re at a bar with your friends when you spot a guy you recently hooked up with. You’re feeling indifferent about him, but you wouldn’t be opposed to giving it another go. You think, “Ehh, no need to say ‘Hi’ right away.” Twenty minutes later, he still hasn’t approached you. You wonder, “Why hasn’t he said anything to me? Does my hair look bad?” But granted you’re not criminally insane, you brush it off and look for someone else to schmooze. Thirty minutes later, still nothing. Well, he did wink at you from across the bar (or was there just something stuck in his eye?), but then he started talking to some girl wearing a tube dress. Your confusion escalates. “Oh god, she’s way hotter than me. I knew I should’ve worn heels.” Suddenly, your neurosis reaches “Girl, Interrupted” levels and you wonder how you got so nuts. To avoid further humiliation, you turn to a friend and ask if she wants to leave and get nachos.

Yes, the Asshole U Luv knows when and how to parcel his attentions. He knows that ignoring you to flirt with another woman in your line of sight makes you horny and desirous of him.

Fact: Girls love guys who are, for lack of a better description, total assholes.

Any man who’s lived a day in his life knows this is true. Deniers are true blue brainwashed believers in gender equalism, whores who have gotten stiffed by assholes one too may times and purify their damaged psyches within an imaginary reality, or… well… pretty much all women for whom any fact about female nature is discomfiting.

We’ve seen it time and time (and time?) again, but nonetheless, it’s an issue that riddles our minds with confusion, stress and a shitton of excitement. So, what’s a girl to do about this bleak reality?

Sit back and enjoy my beef jerky intrusion. After all, you may as well ask what’s a man to do about his lust for hot, young, slender babes with pert tits and firm asses.

The authoress goes on to list reasons why she thinks women swoon for assholes.

Most girls are turned off by a guy who showers her with attention. It bores us, it seems desperate and it can be a predictor for a slew of undesirable behaviors lurking beneath the surface. Instead, we gravitate toward guys who give us just enough attention to keep us on our toes. Here’s what I mean:

Socially-unaware-nice-guy: Hi Rachel! I saw you from across the bar. You look pretty. Can I buy you a drink? You look like a G&T gal. So, what are your career aspirations? I love kids. You look pretty.

Asshole: Hey.

She is one of the few self-aware chicks who gets it. I’m sure it’s soul-ripping for my detractors to see my Do Almost Nothing Game and One Word Game confirmed by female experience.

Think about it. Have you ever seen a guy you’ve recently hooked up with and waited an hour for him to start flirting with you? And worse, did you feel great when he finally approached you and probably said a total of four syllables that somehow made you feel on top of the world?

Forget the wordy, clever openers. Keep it succinct, stupid.

Don’t be embarrassed if that’s a yes. We’re aroused by the unpredictability of waiting for a guy to strike up a conversation with us, and the longer it takes, the more rewarded we feel when it actually happens.

Value of scarcity. Why do women love men who make their availability scarce? I submit this universal female preference has its roots in preselection — women get turned on by these types of men because in the fevered downtime the women muse that his unavailability is caused by other women occupying his time.

You know what? It’s a cop-out to say only weak girls go for assholes. Self-esteem aside, many girls crave the thrill of keeping up with a jerky guy, or better yet, putting him in his place.

This admission was like a stake through the haters’ hearts. The “low self-esteem girls fall for jerks” rationale is the go-to lie of nerdy internet femtards everywhere.

While they might not always be better at flirting per se, assholes have a certain knack for conversation that confident girls can’t wait to provoke.

Yes, it’s called passing shit tests with ease.

When you’re not looking for anything serious, few things are sexier than a well-spoken, quick-talking guy whose comebacks somehow indicate that he’ll be amazing in bed.

She’s admitting that women put up bitch shields to test men for their alpha worthiness, and that men who pass their shit tests are automatically deemed more viscerally attractive. I’m coming to the conclusion that 80% of early game, when attraction is being built, is basically passing a woman’s shit tests.

Entertaining as his drunken tales are, [Tucker Max] has spawned a new breed of wannabe assholes who masquerade as genuinely awesome guys by mimicking traits like confidence, charm and humor in the forms of aggression, sleaze and flirtatious insults. It’s difficult for our drunken brains to distinguish between worthwhile guys and those who embody that second set of qualities — and for most casual flings, we don’t care to evaluate the difference. In fact, getting attention from an identified asshole can seem weirdly special.

A clarification is in order: it’s difficult for drunken *and* sober women alike to resist the charms of the asshole seducer.

And why is it weirdly special to receive an asshole’s attention? Because women imagine, rightly so in most cases, that the asshole is the apple of many other women’s eyes. And so to be the recipient of his bastard charms is to know that his quality seed is hers for the moment.

Example: If a guy won’t give other people the time of day, but he’s taking a moment of his time to be semi-decent toward you, you might think to yourself “Wow, this guy’s being nice to me. He’s usually such a douche! I must be different.” False.

Women also get turned on by the thought that they are defeating other women for the prize studs.

In the end, there’s no clear way to stay away from guys who play these games. It seems the best we can do is hold our heads high, stay on our toes and sleep with one eye open.

For me to spooge in!

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Beta Fights Back

what a mistake i have made
to reputedly conceive
with a woman whose face
could strip bark from a tree

You want to feel sorry for this poor bastard, but then you are left asking “WTF was he thinking?” Marriage and cuckolding is beta enough, but for a good-looking, high status man to hitch his wagon to such an ugly broad? It defies natural law.

A filmaker is suing his ex-wife for allegedly duping him into believing for 17 years that a child was his daughter.

Andrew Douglas, who directed the 2005 remake of The Amityville Horror, is demanding back hundreds of thousands of pounds in child support.

He says Ameena Meer asked him to marry her after claiming she was having his baby. But the real father, according to the lawsuit, was another Briton she had been cheating on him with.

Mandatory paternity testing is coming, and it is going to put an end to these vile shenanigans by women. In the meantime, men can act to protect themselves by following one simple rule:

Don’t screw hatched-faced man-women.

The more eerily a woman resembles a man, the likelier it is she will cheat, cuckold and cover it up for 17 years. Just look at the markers of high prenatal and serum testosterone etched into this whore’s face. Is her nose a Ginsu knife?

Once pregnant, Miss Meer said she didn’t want a baby born out of wedlock because ‘it would cause great shame and disgrace to her parents, who were practising Muslims’.

Ah, a little of the ol’ religion guilt-trip coercion. If I were him, I’d have told her to have fun with her stoning.

The writer moved to London and married Mr Douglas in August 1992. But the couple split months after Sasha Douglas was born and Miss Meer took their daughter back to her New York home.

It never ceases to amaze how incredibly ignorant some men can be about marriage and women. Like the dumb broad dressed in a tramp’s miniskirt walking at 2AM through a well-known bad neighborhood, the man who willfully blinds himself to the nature of women deserves some of the fault for creating his shitworld.

In the court documents, Mr Douglas says he had little contact with Sasha until her tenth birthday and felt depressed about failing as a father.

How can you tell a man is a beta at heart? He will always blame himself first.

Miss Meer, who has had two more daughters with her second husband, allegedly told the director that ‘a price tag was attached’ if he wanted to play any part in the girl’s life.

In a legal climate that was fair toward men, a stone cold lying bitch like Meer would be thrown in jail for extortion. But, no, the femtards will applaud her moxy and shift blame to the man for “walking out after being a part of this child’s life for so long”. As I always tell the femtards when they play this lame “unextractable part of life” card: if the cheating bitch was worried about the child not having a biological father in its life, she should have thought of that before she whored around.

He said he paid nearly £450,000 in child support and tuition fees, gave Miss Meer £17,000 when she fell behind with her rent and handed out a further £6,500 for a new bathroom.

This guy Douglas is a case study demonstrating how a conventionally high status man can be a beta in his soul. That examples like Douglas exist is why this definition of the alpha male is the right and proper one.

Tests showed [Douglas’ DNA] was incompatible with the 17-year-old’s. Miss Meer allegedly brushed off his concerns, telling him in a telephone call last September:

‘If you’re not Sasha’s father, it must be immaculate conception.’ A DNA test taken later that month revealed that it was virtually impossible for Mr Douglas to have been the father.

Cuckoldry is a valuable reproductive strategy for women. Women will tell the most blatant whoppers to protect this “choice”. I doubt there is a single woman in the world who, when exposure threatens the gravy train of child support, will confess to the dirty deed. This is why MPT is needed; there is no way any man can fully trust a woman in the matter of paternity, no matter how much she loves him. MPT will protect men from the female version of rape. It will save them years of emotional and financial servitude. A fully functioning MPT regime would have two primary results:

It would curb female infidelity.

It would lower marriage rates, as women become more careful about which men they marry. This, consequently, would increase single mom-hood and abortion rates.

A woman who knows the technology is virtually failsafe and the law is gender-neutral will think twice before stepping out on her husband sans contraceptive. Because of this modern day restriction on a very ancient secret female prerogative, the fembots will fight tooth and nail to prevent MPT with concomitant changes in the law that further bastardize the meaning of family and the connection between genetic progeny and paternal responsibility. This is why absurd laws are cropping up lately redefining cohabitation as marriage (with all the servile duties and legal impositions that implies) and holding the non-father boyfriends financially responsible for the bastard spawn of the single moms they are fucking. (This is another good reason to avoid using single moms as anything other than pump and dump receptacles for your withheld sperm.)

The court file says the biological parent is ‘a British man who, unbeknownst to plaintiff at the time, was involved in a sexual relationship’ with Miss Meer.

Stuff like this is rarely “unbeknownst” to alpha males.

The real father refused to marry her and so ‘knowingly and with malice’ she told Mr Douglas the baby was his.

Real father = alpha. Deadbeat dad fucks her and bolts, while the well-off, responsible beta with a heart of gold foots the bill for the rancid cunt’s cock-hopping and her little bundle of dystopia. Where have we heard this story before?

The legal papers say Mr Douglas still loves the girl he believed to be his daughter, but wants his former wife to pay back the child support and pay compensation for emotional damages.

If Douglas wins, this could be the start of something beautiful. The feminists and their diaper-loading enablers have run roughshod long enough over our venerable institutions. A serious rectification of the West’s corrupted legal system is in order.

A friend of the filmmaker told the New York Post that Mr Douglas was ‘a stand-up guy’ who ‘took Ameena at her word 17 years ago’.

Maxim #19: Never take a woman’s word; a woman’s actions are the best interpreters of her thought.

Betas never seem to learn this lesson, and it is a lesson they pay for dearly, over and over, because women smell beta from twelve parsecs, and it stirs a contemptuous, malicious compulsion in them. Alphas can be victimized, too, but they rarely are, for the alpha male by his character and his game exerts a calming, domesticating influence over the nastier primitive spirits animating a woman’s will. Often, and incredulously to those of a constitutional gullibility, a devious evil woman for whom no second is too soon to stick the shiv in a betaboy’s back will act against her own interests to spare the dignity of an alpha male who has happily shamed her.

He said Miss Meer has now banned Mr Douglas from seeing Sasha.

So much for the importance of the child being a part of the father’s life.

Miss Meer told the newspaper that she had never knowingly lied to her ex-husband.

Women know. She knew she was fucking around, and thus she knew there was a chance the kid was another man’s, unless she is a functional retard. This slippery sophistry shouldn’t convince anyone.

‘Of course I didn’t lie. I obviously didn’t think that he wasn’t her father,’ she said. ‘If he wants to be her father, he should provide for her. Isn’t that what’s fair?’

Let me tell you what’s fair, MIZZ Meerkat — a full remittance of all child custody monies plus interest and punitive damages paid forthwith to your ex-husband, jail time that is the equivalent of whatever sentence a man would receive for raping a woman and burdening her with the cursed spawn that was the result of such an unholy union, and your motherhood card revoked in a public shaming spectacle so outrageous you spend the rest of your life a mere husk of a woman devising macabre ways to off yourself and end the unremitting emotional pain that forever tortures your every waking moment.

THAT is what’s fair, you filthy festering cunt.

She said the lawsuit was ‘a terrible thing for him to do to his daughter’.

And that’s how to know it was the right thing. A terrible justice invoked. Evil trembled, desperately searching for allies, but none were to be found.

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