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Archive for the ‘The Id Monster’ Category

High yella shit stirrer Courtland Milloy hates white culture (which means he hates white people, since a culture is a reflection of a people’s racial essence).

For years, the struggles of middle- and working-class black people animated life on 14th Street. Now all of that is gone. It’s been replaced by a stultifying air of aloofness. The millennial newcomers — most of them white — jog, bike and walk about the city as if in a trance, oblivious to the lives that helped form the place they now call home.

“in a trance” = “normal white people behaving like whites and not like ghetto blacks, which really irks and alienates me”.

Even leftoid Hivemind media organs can’t keep the commenter Realtalk™ storm at bay. From “econundertow”:

14th Street isn’t as much fun as was in the good ol’ days, that’s for sure.

I’m sad that the wall-to-wall junkies that used to pass out on top each other in front of my ‘house’ @ 14th and T sts. NW are gone … fine upstanding citizens, all of them.

I fondly recall the time when the carjacker pointed his .45 Colt at me out of his stolen car window @ 12th & N sts, There was an upstanding member of the 14th street community.

I recall the young man shot to death in front of the house I was renovating on Fairmont St a year later. I miss being shot at myself while operating a machine on the same street. What is 14th street without these folks?

There were the drug-dealing kids who tried to gun down a rival on R st @ 14th. They fled in a late-model Ford station wagon … poor aim, they missed their target despite 15 shots from a 9mm pistol. Nevertheless, fine upstanding members of the community.

I recall the shyster car dealers, the winos, pawn shops and liquor stores … the suburbanites looking to score PCP, crack, heroin and pot in any number of large, open air drug markets. The sound of children playing, “Hey, dude, you need anything?”

W st @ 14th was once one of the most dangerous areas in the city, like 144th @ Lenox Avenue in Harlem, even for cops. The the large, rotting apartment buildings lining W st were mazes, the druggies knew them inside and out. Ditto with the row of large apartment buildings on R st between 14th and 15th. All those living in those buildings and the other derelict apartment houses are certain to be missed.

Indeed, all those young black men were certainly on their way up, they just got shuffled aside by zombie millennials. Right…

Do the Courtland Milloys of the world deserve a measured response? Nah.

Fuck these fuckers in their phonyfuck faces.

PS Diversity + Proximity = Courtland Milloy’s butthurt id!

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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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A perceptual puzzle. I was idly watching, from a height and a distance that would approximate 80 meters along the hypotenuse, a woman mount a bicycle. She was clothed in long pants and long-sleeve shirt, and wearing a hat. Her face was open for inspection, but at the distance my eyes were trained her features were nothing but a formless conglomeration of four russet blobs — the top, sides, and bottom, meeting in a very vague oval shape, and smeared with fat brush strokes by a drunken painter.

Yet, from that distance and inconclusive physical details, I was able, subconsciously at first and quickly percolating to my conscious consideration, to gauge the bike woman’s age to be in the range between late 40s-mid 50s. When she biked nearer my location, my opinion was confirmed.

I thought, how could I know her age so accurately with such clarity of judgment and such paucity of particulars? What gave it away? I pondered, loosely, the various betrayals, and struck upon multiple hypotheses — the play of ocular shadows, the refraction of light off wrinkled skin, the subtle cues of motion tainted by a distressed body in decline — but could not settle upon a winning giveaway.

Our ability to accurately discern age from a parsec must rank up there with the wickedest riddles of human perception. We must have this ability for a reason. A very, very good reason. #ThreatAssessment #RottenEggs

Update

A commenter mentioned weight being the dead (weight) giveaway. While it’s true people tend to fatten up with age (until at a great age when they start to lose weight), in this case the woman was slender and shapely (as far as that can be determined under concealment). So while weight can cue age, I think it is not the sole, nor even a major aid to our perception of a person’s years on earth. There is something more profound signaling to us the walk of time over a stranger’s facescape.

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Women serve as an exceptionally accurate barometer for the measure of a man’s attractiveness and social standing. The hotter, sweeter, and more feminine a man’s girlfriend or wife, the likelier it is that man is charismatic, beloved, high status, and possessing those traits and achievements which other men admire and set women on fire.

Reader james1 draws a parallel between this truism and current events, in a comment reprinted from a Steve Sailer thread.

From steve sailor comment #27:

I know love can be a fickle thing, but I am sorry, I just can’t have much respect for Jeb over his choice of a wife. The guy was a wealthy man from a prominent family, not some nouveau riche slob. He went to the finest prep school in the nation. Yet according to his mom, Columba was the first gal he dated. From her bio it appears she might even have been an illegal. Yet Jeb fell hook, line and sinker for her. I wonder if it was the extreme differences in their social positions which allowed him the confidence to think him worthy of her? If so he probably couldn’t deal with any woman in his same social level or even a few levels beneath. No, it took an illegal woman for Jeb to feel comfortable.

I’d like to see Heartiste delve into this one.

Columba is powerful evidence of ¡Yeb! Bush’s intrinsic beta maleness. She is homely and culturally antagonistic to the once-majority anglo-germanic country Jeb presumes to lead. Yes, it’s true, given Jeb’s social status and great wealth he could have done a lot better. A LOT. But he settled for a squat inca who can’t even speak English and looks like a rock troll from the movie Frozen. And she was illegal. I absolutely believe Jeb feels like a worthless beta male in his soul and has horrible inner game, and this is why he only felt comfortable dating an illegal alien housemaid who made him seem like a DOMINANT JERKBOY GOD in comparison.

Do you trust a man who has horrible taste in women, and a lack of confidence in his ability to get and keep better women he truly desires? Do you trust a man who, in his choice of woman, lies to himself every second of every day he must gaze upon her apparition?

Do you want a low self-esteem, dumpster diving beta male with zero confidence in his appeal to English-speaking white American women leading your nation back to greatness?

Or an alpha male who, for all his flaws, has proven he knows how to get the job done when it matters?

No further shivving, yerhonner.

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Another sign that we are living in the r-selected age of a rising cad/tramp society (and a declining dad/damsel society) is the perception among women that having a low marital market value (LMMV) won’t hurt their long-term romantic prospects or rebound to their eventual unhappiness.

Reader duderino writes,

I broke it off with a fuck buddy a while back and she posted this popular meme, directed at me.
“I’m not the girl you’re going to marry, but I’ll be the one you’ll be thinking about 20 years from now when you’re having polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline”

Try-Hard Level 99: Unlocked.

It’s weird to live in a time when girls brag about not being wife material. To me this (and the weird new pop songs) is a defense mechanism. Girls are giving it up without even a realistic chance of commitment now, and this was their post rationalization they had any power in the situation. In the time society tells them they are supposed to be empowered, most of them are feeling cheap and used.

That’s why women have to keep telling themselves they are expensive and factory fresh. The more reality harshes their mellow, the bigger the toke they have to take off the anti-reality blunt.

She wasn’t anything special, for the record.

Duly noted, and duly unsurprised. (You will hardly ever hear exquisitely beautiful and exceptionally self-possessed women trash talk in this manner. IM THE TOWN HO YOU’LL BE JERKING OFF TO IN TWENTY YEARS is the pained oinking of mediocre m’ladies and bitterbitch spinsters.)

A lot of this is sour grapes. A girl who has a shitty personality and little in the way of looks to compensate will find it psychologically comforting to pretend to herself and others that she never wanted those juicy wedding day grapes hanging just out of her reach. The best thing to do with girls like this is set phasers to “ignore”. The butthurt attention whore fears social isolation more than anything. If you want to twist the cosmic shiv a little before departing her presence, answer her womanly rant with a curt “gay”.

Donning the CH sociological omniscience cap for a moment, the turn by women away from selling themselves as worthy marital properties (and a concomitant turn by men away from selling themselves as dutiful provider betas) is a totally expected emergent sexual market phenomenon when marriage rates are down, age of first marriage is up, fertility is down, the Pill is up, and women can generally get by economically supporting themselves and their bastard spawn through SJW enforcer jobs or government largesse (itself redistributed from the efforts of reviled white beta males).

The devil is in the details. It’s the little things like this — woman crowing about their low MMV — which escape datanauts and statisticians combing through coarse sociological signposts for theories about where we are and where we’re all heading. In time, the little details of societal collapse add up to an epic story of shit, and an ending no one can confuse for fiction.

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Reader PA provided a springboard for a post when he mused about the male archetypes found in the lyrics of love songs by female singers.

Love songs by female artists about each of VoxDay’s [male SMV] ranks.

Alpha – Carly Simon “You’re so Vain.” He’s a legend and a lady killer who always takes what he wants, he never wants it for too long, and she will never forget him.

Beta – Whitney Houston “All the Man that I Need.” The title alone tells you that he is not larger than life. But her physical and emotional satisfaction is total.

Delta – Taylor Swift “You Belong with Me.” He’s literally the boy next door. An attractive girl plays him, but a plain girl wants him.

Gamma – That was a tough one. How many girls sing love songs to John Scalzi? Best I can think of is Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” A drab woman pleads for mercy to a seductress that wants to toy with her loser husband just because she can.

Omega – Concrete Blonde “Joey.” He is broke. He is drunk. He is laying in a pool of vomit. No, he is not Keith Richards.

Sigma – Heart “Magic Man.” Nobody can make heads or tails of the attraction; it’s like, WTF? But it’s like out of a dream.

Lambda – ?

I’ll assume a lambda is a gay. Have any female singers crooned about a gay man? Here’s one:

It was tough to dig up that video. For all the talk about women routinely falling for gay men unbeknownst, in reality most women have pretty good gaydars. At least the hardened urban slut cynics do.

One thing that’s interesting about female singers is that you can obliquely track changes in the sexual market by the themes of their songs. One big change has been the anhedonic increase in faux tankgrrl posturing by mainstream twat-rockers.

Women used to sing, authentically, about their vulnerability and heartbreak, often at the hands of callous badboys. Their songs reverberated with truth, because they sang with honest self-appraisal instead of posturing feminism. Even the “tough girls” of the past, like Pat Benatar, singing about daring a man to “hit me with your best shot” (i.e., game the living tingles outta her), aimed many of her punches at her own sternum.

Well you’re a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me

In the 90s, the GineVibe started to oscillate along an anti-human, pro-androgyne wavelength. The first fully-flowered feminist singers made man-hating propaganda a focal point of their songs. Many of these girlpower/girlvictimism songs were based on carefully constructed lies. (Tori Amos was never raped.)

Since then, the trend among female singers has been accelerating to more absurd and ridiculous phony Sandbergian “lean in” power postures. Today, we have the spectacle of fatties like Elle King (Deuce Bigalow’s daughter) singing about all the studs who can’t get enough of her doughgirl rolls and chase her around like puppy dogs.

Older, current female singers are in on the zeitgeist too. Sia boasts of her time on the party circuit and cock carousel as she hides her cracking face under a veil for live performances and calls it a symbolic blow against patriarchal oppression.

Even within female singers’ careers, there’s a trend away from honest self-assessment and feminine vulnerability toward chest-beating theatrics that would challenge the antics of the horniest male rocker. Taylor Swift morphed from a smitten, naive romantic to a fortified fembot “shaking it off”. Katy Perry roars, without a hint of irony. Miley Cyrus milks her femininity-disavowing sexual ambiguity for profit.

Female singers have started aping and co-opting the caricatured masculine themes of promiscuity, emotional distance (implied or revealed), and middle finger majesty, without any of the poetic discordance in feelings or slipped confessions of humility that male singers often drop into their songs.

It’s bizarro world with these aggrochicks, and it sells today. But why?

Maybe as a nation/country/world bazaar declines, its “””people””” need to cling evermore tightly to delusions about the sexes, about the races, about the classes, and about the tribes. And maybe that’s why we have the Elle Kings and neo-Taylor Swifts selling their fake-outs to millions of thirsty femme ears, to both transparently faux-bragging fatties and meekly acquiescing manlets alike.

Or, maybe the modern sexual market has become so alien to women — rife with jerkboys, betas, delayed marriage, childlessness, and Diversity-fueled social disconnection — that the only way they can comprehend it is to pretend to be like men, swinging their clitmores and hewing testicles for sport.

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The ironic misuse of the “creepy” slander by women toward men is in part a case of psychological projection by the unfairer sex. Commenter “Not Thought Police” explains:

Ahh “Creep”

Never attribute to internal failing that which can be explained by a woman’s inherent need to emotionally project.

Do not pass go. Do not validate. Do not entertain her musings until projection is ruled out first.

This holds true for many facets of femininity but i think in no other place does it hold more weight than the concept of male creepiness:

A woman, in vetting a man, will:

Gossip with friends, look through his private stuff, his books, his music, find out his political leanings to the n’th-degree (from his feminist sensibilities right down to how he feels about trade agreements n shit), how he feels toward his mother, how much he earns, is he carrying a mental illness, can he provide?, does he look and act like Gosling? Can he sing like that dude from Coldplay or at least do something notable so she doesn’t look like she’s just dating Dave, the accountant? Is he strong..but not so strong that he cannot be controlled? Is he intelligent..but not so intelligent that he might win in an argument? Is he confident, but not so much that he might attract the attentions of other girls (not that she’d be jealous or anything because women aren’t creepy like that) Is he articulate but not so much that he might outshine her beaming personality? Is he cool but not so cool that he’d make her look uncool. That’d never do!

Contrast this to the creepy, rapey Man: What’s her rack like? Is she kinda half normal?

Tell me who is really the creepy one here?

Here’s an uncomfortable truth: The Surveillance State is women’s natural operating procedure. But we autonomically give women a pass for being precociously creepy toward men within the field of view of the female Eye of Ovum because… well, read about the Fundamental Premise.

Of course, women have good evo-bio reasons for being creepier than men (and equally good reasons for fooling themselves about their own creepster instincts), but that doesn’t mean men have to roll over and play the women’s game the way women want it played. Correction… the way women “””want””” it played; triple-quoted to indicate that women may consciously want obeisance to their rules from men, but subconsciously, where messages are sent direct to the vagina, women want men who don’t do what they “””want”””.

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