Supply And Reprimand

I wonder what gated libertarian foodie Tyler Cowen… excuse me, Cheap Chalupas… thinks about this?

Thanks to the reader who emailed the pic. I like the twist of your shiv, sir.

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Saracens Launch Surprise Attack Against French Newspaper Office On Day Of Houellebecq’s Publication Of ‘Submission’

Charles Martel wept.

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First Principles

First principles are the bark of a man’s soul, in both senses of the word “bark”. Betray your first principles for expedient negotiation, and you’ll pay a costly tribute for your cowardice later.

Along this theme, commenter Trainspotter writes,

ho: “that anti white goyism isn’t the only thing at work”

It might as well be. Everything else pales in comparison, or is a mere offshoot of the essential anti-white nature of the current ruling orthodoxy. For example, the “war on men” is really a war on whites. The real target is white men, and more broadly Western civilization. That non-white men are also harmed is more collateral damage than anything else. They were never the real target.

To put it in, shall we say, less than scholarly terms, I’d order the importance of various issues more or less as follows: first and foremost, the racial issue. Then a pile of shit. Then another pile of shit. Then everything else.

That’s why leftists can tolerate dissent on almost any issue, save race. [ed: and feminist victimhood/empowerment (nevermind the contradiction)] Oppose any of their other pet projects, and sure, they won’t like you. But oppose them on the racial issue, and they go insane with hatred and rage. Their heads spin around and explode. And even when they go nuts on another issue, it’s almost always because it ties in with an important racial angle or consequence.

Race is the decisive point on the battlefield. That’s why when conservatives gave up on the racial issue a few decades ago, and re-branded themselves as “color blind,” the current fiasco was baked into the cake. Once the anti-whites won on that single issue, they were inevitably going to win on pretty much everything else, given time. And they have.

Separation is the only solution.

Well said. “””Conservatives””” abandoned their first principle when they caved to the lie of color blindness. Once they turned their backs on the truth of essentialist race differences, they doomed themselves to lose every battle to follow. In Heartistian terms, they tried to save their skins by sacrificing their scrotums. That never works. And, as history has shown since that seminal self-betrayal, and continues showing, the leftoid Hivemind juggernaut steamrolls the American culture and flattens it into its preferred shape: two-dimensional. The scalped ballsacks of their conservative suckups swing from lampposts against the gray skies.

It would’ve been the harder path for conservatives, but sticking to the first principle of the immutable disparities of the races would have spared a brighter future for the nation. They would not have spent the last six decades in the defensive crouch, squealing like stuck pigs.

Other first principles:

A government’s first principle is defense of the territory in which its citizens live and thrive, and guardianship of the borders against the invasion of races dissimilar from the race of the founding and creating native stock of the nation.

A man’s first principle as regards his interaction with women is to act as if he is spoilt for choice, even when his choices objectively fall short of limitlessness.

A woman’s first principle is to favor her procreative capacity over all other concerns.

Betray these first principles. and any short-term consilience won will in due time become corrupted, and then reconstituted by your enemies into spears aimed at your heart. Oftentimes, the spear will be wielded against you by your own hands.

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The Art Of The Golddigger

If you observe women without rose-colored glasses tinting your impression or a shiny pedestal obstructing your view, you’ll easily notice patterns in their behavior that abjectly defy their spoken intent. Sometimes, not often though, women will admit in moments of candor the true shape of their desire that they otherwise spend inordinate energy and time concealing under layers of obfuscation and guile. Russian women, bless their cynical souls, have a habit of divulging the secrets of the da!da! sisterhood. One of these pre-babushkas, an avowed golddigger, confessed to the yearning she and other women have for men who are “walls of stone”. Dominant men.

“There are three types of men,” she tells her students. “The creatives. The analysts. We’re not interested in those. The ones we want are ‘the possessors’,” and she repeats the tell-all, prison-intimating phrase, “a man behind whom you feel like behind a wall of stone. We all know how to spot them. The strong, silent men. They wear dark suits. They have deep voices. They mean what they say. These men are interested in control. They don’t want a forceful woman. They have enough of that already. They want a girl who’ll be a pretty flower.”

The alpha male. Every woman wants one, few will nab one. Supplies are limited. Most women, average in looks, will spend a lifetime with men they don’t fantasize about seducing.

Oliona came to Moscow with next to nothing when she was twenty and started as a stripper at one of the casinos, Golden Girls. She danced well, which is how she met her sugar daddy. Now she earns the basic Moscow mistress rate: the apartment, $4,000 a month, a car, and a weeklong holiday in Turkey or Egypt twice a year.

The rewards are good for women born with a fortuitous commingling of DNA.

Oliona’s playing fields are a constellation of clubs and restaurants designed almost exclusively for the purpose of sponsors looking for girls and girls looking for sponsors. The guys are known as “Forbeses” (as in Forbes rich list); the girls as “tiolki,” cattle. It’s a buyer’s market: there are dozens, no, hundreds, of “cattle” for every “Forbes.”

The line between soft and hard polygamy blurs in totally liberated sexual markets. Thanks to female hypergamy, the choosiest sex isn’t women; it’s alpha men. Bring in the cows.

“So many eighteen-year-old girls,” says Oliona, “breathing down my neck.” She’s only twenty-two, but that’s already near the end of a Moscow mistress’s career. “I know I’ll have to start lowering my standards soon,” she tells me, amused rather than appalled.

Glasnost.

 “Today we will learn the algorithm for receiving presents,” the instructor tells her students. “When you desire a present from a man, place yourself at his left, irrational, emotional side. His right is his rational side: you stand to his right if you’re discussing business projects. But if you desire a present, position yourself by his left. If he is sitting in a chair crouch down, so he feels taller, like you’re a child. Squeeze your vaginal muscles. Yes, your vaginal muscles. This will make your pupils dilate, making you more attractive. When he says something, nod; this nodding will induce him to agree with you. And finally, when you ask for your car, your dress, whatever it is you want, stroke his hand. Gently. Now repeat: Look! Nod! Stroke!”

Game for women is essentially methods for maximizing the allure of their beauty and their child-like vulnerability.

(“They think they’ve won something when they get a dress out of us,” one millionaire acquaintance tells me when I tell him about the lessons at the academy. “I let them win sometimes. But come on: What could they ever, ever take from us we didn’t actually let them?” “You know what my word for them is?,” asks another. “I call them gulls, like sea-gulls, circling over garbage dumps. And they sound like gulls, you know, when they sit and gossip in a bar together. Kar-Kar! Kar-Kar! Gulls! Funny: isn’t it?”)

The men sitting in the drivers’ seats know how to play this game too. If you’re a billionaire, gifting a hot piece of ass with a $4K/mo apartment is chump change in exchange for sexually spoiling her prime fertility years and dumping her when her four-year expiration date has been reached. (Female product expiration dates tend to arrive much sooner for men with more market options.) In gambling, this golddigger strategy is what is known as a sucker’s bet.

“Russian men are completely spoilt for choice; Western men are much easier,” she says earnestly, like one carrying out market research. “But the problem with westerners is they don’t buy you presents, never pay for dinner. My German guy will need some work.”

If you’re an American dating an ex-pat Russian girl, don’t buy her stuff. Sure, she’ll lash out occasionally at your stinginess, but she’ll keep coming back for that one roll stuffed in your pocket that really matters. In other words, ACT like a man spoilt for choice.

“He’s handsome as a God,” Oliona tells me, whispering with excitement. “He was giving out hundred dollar bills to girls for blow jobs. Kept going all night. Imagine his stamina! And those poor girls, they don’t just do it for the money you know; every one of them thinks he’ll remember them, that they’re special, so they try extra hard. Of course I refused when he offered: I’m not like THEM… Now we’re seeing each other. Wish me luck!”

Super alphas get a train of blowjobs in da club for pennies on the ruble. The women, naturally, deceive themselves that they’ll be the ones to “convert” the alpha into relationship material, aka sponsorship.

The one thing Oliona will never, ever think of herself as is a prostitute. There’s a clear distinction: prostitutes have to have sex with whomever a pimp tells them to. She does her own hunting.

You have to admire a whore’s honesty about the nature of the deal.

‘Do I really have to go home with him?’ I asked my boss. ‘Yes.’ I went back to his hotel. When he wasn’t looking I slipped some Ruffinol in his drink and ran off.”

Russia is in an anti-feminist alternate universe.

Finally, the shiv that twists guts in the platitudepuses:

“But what about love?” I ask Oliona. It’s late; we’re taping an interview in her apartment. We’re drinking sticky, sweet Prosecco. Her favorite. The nervous little dog snores by the couch.

“My first boyfriend. Back home in Donbas. That was love. He was a local authority.”

Authority is a nice word for gangster.

Chick meets jerk. Chick falls in love. Real love. Fin.

Oliona’s relationship with the Pushkin-loving Forbes didn’t last long. “I thought at first he wanted a bitch. So I played that role. Now I’m not sure, maybe he doesn’t want a bitch. Maybe he wants a nice girl. You know, sometimes I get confused, I can’t even tell which one I am, the nice girl or the bitch.”

Women will bend over backwards to appease an alpha male exactly like beta males will do to appease a cute girl. The difference is that women prostrate themselves for a shot at a relationship, and betas for a shot at sex.

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The Era Of The Apex Alpha

Men throughout history have known that the top dog attracts women. They saw it when their wives made shiny eyes at the circus ringleader. They saw it when politicians came around to give stump speeches. They saw it in school when the athletic boy or the dangerous boy magically acquired a doting harem of admirers, like some Poon Piper.

So the fact of female hypergamy wasn’t a mystery to at least a large minority of men, even if those men couldn’t put to words what they were seeing. There had to always have been a sense among the common man that women feel an instinctive attraction to powerful men. But that sense was circumscribed by the limited availability of provocations which could stimulate unrestrained raw desire in women. There weren’t that many powerful men to go around in, say, 1850 America, and of those there were, the communication mediums to transmit their sexy power to potential throngs of adoring female fans didn’t exist in any meaningful form. If a powerful man passed through your small town, you were one of the few (un)fortunate local men to witness first-hand how women would veritably kneel before this exotic stranger from afar.

That all changed with the advent of rapid transportation, radio, TV, and stadium amplification.

Commenter Chairman of the Board excerpts,

“What Girls Want: Seventy Years of Pop Idols and Audiences”

“When former bobby-soxers remember Frankie of the bow-tie years, they emphasize that the Voice was seductive. Janice Booker saw her generation of bobby-soxers using Sinatra to express the beginnings of feelings otherwise inexpressible. Writes Booker, “[h]e was safe because he was unattainable; unattainable because he was a celebrity, and unavailable because he was married with children” (74). [ed: laughable. sinatra’s marriage wasn’t stoking sexual frenzy in his female fans.] Martha Lear recalls a feeling less proto-sexual and more actively sexual: “Whatever he stirred beneath our barely budding breasts, it wasn’t motherly. And the boys knew that and that was why none of them liked him, none except the phrasing aficionados… [T]he thing we had going with Frankie was sexy. It was exciting. It was terrific” (48).

In the highly restrictive prevailing sexual mores of the 1940s, girls’ options for exploring their sexuality were severely limited. Through movies, radio shows, and popular novels, girls were taught that sexual intercourse was for marriage only. Their own magazine, Seventeen, instructed girls to be extraordinarily careful about the liberties they allowed their dates to take; the magazine advised against necking and petting—and anything further down the line was definitely out of the question. Discouraged from loving in private, teenage girls did love in public—they loved their Frankie, fiercely, unashamedly, loudly. They made a spectacle out of themselves, they made a star out of Frank Sinatra, and they made a social space into which generations of girls following would continue to scream and faint.”

Right around mid-20th Century America, the era of the apex alpha male began, an era that could rightfully be called something new on the scene, for there were few comparable eras in human history, save for ancient empires ruled by khans on horse and emperors in palaces.

Reader PA writes about one mid-century American apex alpha,

Another bullet to DoBA’s list of [Charles] Manson’s accomplishments — the girls stayed loyal to him through their own murder trials. They didn’t plea bargain or confess for a sentencing deal.

I wonder… a decade earlier Presley set off a mass hysteria just by shaking his hips. The Beatles had girls scream-ovulating. Was there a … female hunger in apex-America that some musicians and sociopaths tapped into. Their success suggests a low hanging fruit effect. No rocker today makes girls scream quite like that.

Mid-century America — circa 1940-1970 — was the time of the “Great Compression”. Economic and social equality were high among whites; the American Beta Male was in the primacy of his rule. All that equality is a turn-off for women; it’s bad business for female desire. There must have been a craving among young women during that time period for a big cheese, a kingpin, an aristocrat, a head honcho, a cult leader, a proto-Obama… a man who stood shoulders above other men. A…. rock star.

If the sexes were reversed, that time in America, (if you’ll allow me a loose-fitting analogy), would look like a time of great equality among dumpy plain janes, and no stand-out beauties to inspire men to reach for greatness. It’s not a great analogy, because, well, it’s hard to imagine any culture in which men faint in the presence of a hard 10. Abject veneration of HSMV members of the opposite sex is primarily the wont of the female of the human species.

Imagine how the masses of mild-mannered, provider beta males experienced mid-century America: Their shock and confusion watching their best women literally throw themselves at pop culture icons, begging to give their sex away for free to unapologetic cads. This was something new, something beyond the conventional wisdom about female nature, and it must have royally fucked with the heads of men. What lesson did our mid-Century forefathers learn? It wasn’t an idealistic one. In twenty years, a Western civilization’s worth of pussy-propping pedestals got knocked over, never to stand upright again.

Commenter Arbiter writes,

this is something I often make a point of, and it’s one of those things that move people’s circles. Women screamed and fainted at Beatles concerts. Men never screamed and fainted at Madonna concerts.

Feminists say behavior is programmed by capitalist media, for whatever reason that would be. But what media ever told women to scream at concerts? None. What media ever told men not to do so? None. Feminists can at the most claim that women “are made to desire the men in the band”, but the screaming would be completely unnecessary for that purpose.

Those who claim media can mold raw sexual desire are either lying or old and so far removed from their youthful yearnings that they have forgotten what it’s like to experience a sudden rush of lust for, if a man, a cute girl or, if a woman, a socially popular man. No media was responsible for that first thermonuclear blast of lust when my stripling teenage eyes saw the red-headed girl’s pert tits and round ass in a whole new light. That was a fire that started deep inside, and has smoldered there since.

So it is with women. Their hypergamy isn’t a media creation; it’s God’s creation. The media at best can only poke and prod the dangerous beast from its slumber.

So what lessons did our mid-century beta males take to heart as they had to endure watching pathetically from a corner their women en masse essentially cuckolding them with their ids (and many with more than that). As the romantic insults piled higher, I bet America’s beta males — some of whom invented space exploration and high def porn — began to share a general outlook on life and on women.

We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchens deliveries
We gotta move these refrigerators
We gotta move these colour TV’s

Now look at them yo-yo’s that’s the way you do it
You play the guitar on the MTV
That ain’t workin’ that’s the way you do it
Money for nothin’ and chicks for free

The Sexual Devolution of the late 60s was as much or more a reaction of men to the change in their women’s comportment as it was a protest by women against cultural restrictions on their sexuality. The Kraken was released from its subterranean prison in women’s hindbrains, and once surfaced it wrought psychological destruction on a mass scale. Profoundly disillusioned and not a little nauseated, salt-of-the-earth mid-century men must’ve thought, “And I’m supposed to slave away for something these yapping faggots are getting younger, hotter, tighter, and for free?!”

It’s an irony of human experience that the golden ages of great civilizations, the heights of their power, immediately precede their sudden and rapid collapses. It’s becoming clearer with time that America’s Golden Age was the 20th Century, a Golden Age which coincided with a Golden Boy Age, and that had our fatherly forebears the wisdom they would have more readily perceived the omens in two generations of their women prostrating themselves in worshipful sexual abandon at the feet of the apex alpha demigods of the day.

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Champion Of Promiscuity, Or Garden Variety Skank?

Recall the CH definition of feminism:

The goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.

The goal doesn’t have to be consciously intended for it to be operative. Most feminists aren’t thinking, “I want to enlarge the sphere of acceptable expressions of female sexuality and shrink the sphere of acceptable expressions of male sexuality.” But conscious awareness isn’t necessary for subconscious desires to percolate up through the prefrontal cortex and get rationalized as a moral crusade for an invisible sex inequality.

Taking their actions and their steady stream of contradictions at face value, it’s evident that feminists loathe male desire. How else to explain the facility with which feminists hold competing and incompatible worldviews in their frazzled hamster brains?

Vanity Fair had a very favorable write-up of Strayed in a recent issue and at one point states that Strayed “is a champion of promiscuity”.

In the very same issue, VF has a profile of Russell Brand, and gives us this gem:

Which brings us to a sticking point: for all his talk of prayerfulness and humility, there persists an image of Brand as a bounder and a cad. Does this compromise his credibility with women? I put this question to Suzanne Moore, a liberal, feminist columnist for The Guardian who is, in many respects, politically sympathetic to Brand. “It’s funny. I have a 13-year-old daughter, and she absolutely adores him—he seems designed for young people who are just getting into politics,” she said. “But he still has this history, no matter how much he cloaks his sexism—and I’ll call it sexism—in this new spiritual talk. He plays this double game, being very self-aware of his past misdeeds, but I don’t know how much respect he has or shows to women.”

Which begs the following: How would VF cover a Strayed-Brand hookup? Champion of Promiscuity Hooks Up with Misogynist Pig, seems about right.

The feminist schizophrenia in terms of liberated promiscuity coupled with our “rape culture” brings to mind that classic scene in Little Shop of Horrors with Steve Martin as the sadistic dentist and Bill Murray as his masochist patient.

Further proof, as if it was needed, that feminists and weak-minded women who chant along monotonically with their idiocy, really only have as their purpose the construction of a world where men are harangued and shamed for their natural male sexual desire and women are exalted for theirs. Thus, we get nonsense like relabeling skanks as “champions of promiscuity”.

Why do feminists want this world? Because most feminists are ugly, sexual marketplace losers who have to give away their putrid pussies for free to get any action, and they take out their resentment on men and on the normal women who love men as men and want to satisfy men in the way that only feminine women can.

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Love Letters To Mass Murderers

A Norwegian regular reader passes this along.

Major Norwegian newspaper VG (vg.no) today have prison authorities confirm that mostly women send letters to Anders Breivik, the anti islamist who killed 77 people in 2011. Many of the letters are love declarations.

In the paragraph “Get [receives] letters from all over the world”:

It reads:

– He gets all kinds of letters. Senders [“Spammers” like Google Translate suggests is not the word used] are from all continents, some are very young, most of them are women, he gets some declarations of love, but the majority of the letters express support for his political views, says Hillesland.

Original link in Norwegian:
http://www.vg.no/nyheter/innenriks/terrorangrepet-22-juli-anders-behring-breivik/fengselet-stanser-breiviks-massebrev/a/23360188/

chicks dig jerks
yes they do
a jerk in jail
is extra diggable too!

Breivik is no Don Juan in the looks department, but he still gets more marriage proposals behind bars than a law-abiding beta male will ever get buying drinks for girls at bars.

Exhibit Anders in reflexive female desire for killer men should be heartening in at least one small way to dissident rightists: You can put to rest any theory that states young, fertile women must be won over first for a revolution to get off the ground. Nah. Assert your principles, start the revolution without the women, and the women will follow once you burnish some serious badboy iconoclast cred. Add a dollop of charm and a reckless disregard for the feelings of others, and the women will come running.

In totally unrelated news, J.K. Rowling has no idea why so many Harry Potter fangirls LOVE LOVE LOVE morally dubious badboy Draco Malfoy.

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