Liberal Men And Fat Chicks

I’ve been meaning to read Jonathan Haidt’s new book “The Righteous Mind“, on the recommendation of many readers who say it is an epic synthesis of human morality that merges Darwinism with political ideology.

From a customer review at Amazon:

[A]ccording to Haidt’s and others’ research, there are at least six mental ‘modules’ that go into moral and poltical decisions, and it is difficult to argue that any one (or two or three) are more important than others. And they are: care/harm, fairness/cheating, loyalty/betrayal, authority/subversion, sanctity/degradation and liberty/oppression. Some people (often of the political left) care most about care/harm and fairness/cheating in their emphasis on egalitarian politics that aim to provide care for those in need and create fair rules in the sense that everyone, relatively speaking, starts on an ‘even playing field.’ Others (usually conservatives) have tempermants that focus on authority/suversion and loyalty/betrayal, focusing on maintaining or promoting institutions that foster some level of deference to authority (in legitimate hierarchies), and loyalty (whether to country, God, family, etc).

One point Haidt makes is that conservatives score stronger than liberals on the disgust (sanctity/degradation) module of morality. (Interestingly, liberals appear to have no ability to even relate to this aspect of human morality, whereas conservatives can relate, albeit with a weaker degree of intensity, to putatively liberal moral modules such as fairness and care.)

Conservatives feel stronger revulsion toward disgusting things than do liberals, who, apparently, like to wallow in shit, (or to reframe it in a nicer way: like to experience unique vistas). So when the conservative thinks about gay sex and the penis pushing hard into another man’s anus, he recoils with revulsion. The liberal merely shrugs his shoulders. Not a sermon, just a naughty thought.

Which brings me to pondering something critical to the maintenance of our nation’s infrastructure: do liberal men, with their higher threshold for disgusting things, tend to fuck fat chicks more often than conservative men fuck fat chicks? Is the liberal male more open than the conservative male to slumming it?

Have any of you readers noticed differences in the strictness or laxity with which your liberal and conservative friends hold their standards for opposite sex partners? Have you noticed if the libs you know like to dumpster dive with dirigibles more than you’d be comfortable doing? Have you noticed if the conservative men you know are more judgmental of fat chicks? Do your con or lib male friends date skinnier, hotter women?

This post is purely speculative, because personally, I have not noticed much of a difference between men of differing political persuasions in their willingness to tumble with a landfaring tanker that couldn’t be more parsimoniously explained by differences in sexual market value, rather than liberal comfort with or conservative distaste for the dung heap of humanity. Some leftie men I know, while they preach a good bit about beauty being subjective, are quite the unforgiving judgmental pricks when it comes down to decision time, and they make their choice for 0.7 waist-hip ratio slender babes (when they can).

On the other hand, the flabby swingers and dirty scenesters I’ve met were all, to a tee, left wing cranks. As are the postmodern aka smear menstrual blood on a canvas “””artists”””.

I wonder if Haidt addressed this pressing question in his book? If he did, his may be the best book ever written in the PC era. Kudos would go to him.

Now I can already hear the liberals who read this blog whining that disgust is a weak moral module that should have no impact on public policy or personal choice. Consenting adults, and all that. But the utility of disgust is underrated by the neckbeard crowd. Disgust helps uphold lofty norms, and demands the best of society’s members. Disgust makes lebensraum liveable, and raises the beauty aesthetic. Disgust protects a tribe against being overrun by beastly invaders.

Disgust, it could even be plausibly argued, created female beauty. Generations of men over the eons, sufficiently disgusted by ugly chicks and fat cows, have done their part to bang and reproduce with the best looking women, and that gift is bequeathed this day to us, their descendants, in the form of barely legal porn and hot Russian tennis minxes. If our ancestors had all been live-and-let-live liberals with a weak disgust reflex, we modern men might be hitting on hairy cavewomen with long, dangly breasts and anvil-shaped jaws that could shell walnuts.

I mean, if you can pick up a steaming shit without flinching, maybe you shouldn’t have too much say in local zoning laws.

I have a very strong disgust reflex, for those of you wondering. If I see even a tiny superfluous fold on a chick’s belly, I get my whiteboard pointer and poke the offensive fatty deposit a few times, until she takes the hint. Protractors and tape measures are often utilized to emphasize the teachable moment.

Related, here’s a good discussion on the morality of disgust, over at Mangan’s.

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Chicks Dig Cruelty

Blogfly Whiskey has taken his fair share of lumps from the alt-sphere commentariat for his view that white women universally swoon for black cock and for his… ahem… Scots-Irish sensibilities. But this comment he left over at Sailer’s contains more than a grain of truth.

Here’s the mechanism. Guys being funny get chicks. Girls being funny get … well maybe just maybe fame. But say an ugly girl who is a stand-up comedian won’t pull as many hot guys as an ugly guy who has the same level of success. Because men value looks while women value fame and social dominance more.

Russell Brand is (to my male eyes) one ugly dude who looks like an ape and is not in particularly good shape; nevertheless women go nuts for him, because he’s famous and considered funny and socially dominant (by abusing social taboos and being cruel to old guys — women generally find cruelty arousing in a socially dominant way).

The “funny-to-fuck” theory is likely true, and we don’t really need to read a study to determine that. Just go outside and socialize in mixed groups for a few times each month. Funny chicks get as much male attention as their looks command (which is to say, their humor generation capability is irrelevant to their mating success). But funny dudes will, if their humor isn’t overly-deprecating, often clean up with the ladies, regardless of their own looks. The reason for this illustrates another core game concept: chicks dig male status, dominance and personality as much as, or more than, they dig male looks. Men, on the other hand, dig beauty first and foremost, and a woman’s comedic timing, however it might make a man laugh, won’t stir his schnitzel if she’s a dog.

Since women don’t see a benefit from humor in the competition to attract men, their sex, on average when compared to men, has not evolved a strong cortical humor module. Women are better equipped to appreciate humor than they are to produce humor.

(As usual for the feminist-impaired, I will note here that the fact of male humor superiority does not mean no funny women exist. I have known a few funny chicks in my life. There are just a lot fewer funny girls than there are funny boys, and within that select group, the funniest funny men are a LOT funnier than the funniest funny women.)

The more insightful and scandalizing assertion made by Whiskey is the connection he draws between male humor and male cruelty, the two of which often travel hand in hand. Anyone who goes to stand-up shows a lot knows that the best male comics are sometimes relentlessly cruel, either to the invisible characters populating their anecdotes, or to hecklers in the crowd. And when they are cruel, merciless sadists, the women in the audience are laughing their pedestaled asses off.

The darkest truths of female nature are so dark that they are rarely broached in free-thinking underground subcultures, let alone polite, straitjacketed society. And one of those darkest of truths is the dispiriting observation that women become sexually aroused by men who expertly wield the soulkilling shiv of sadism.

Of course, style matters. You can’t just go around pointing and laughing at bums and expect dates to jump your bones. (Although, if I were pressed to judge competing strategies, I would say that your chances of banging a hottie after a date are better if she’s watched you mock a bum than if you gave her a bouquet of flowers when you picked her up.)

Cruelty that is delivered with supreme confidence, bemused detachment, and eviscerating precision is catnip to women’s kitties. Glib male cruelty says “I have so much power and self-assurance that I can freely shit in the faces of losers and foes without appearing insecure”. It is the mischievous cruelty of the Joker that makes women swoon. Despite themselves, women will get turned on by the masterful application of cruelty toward lesser men (and women!), because cruelty, almost in a league of its own, flaunts dominance. Male dominance is to women as female beauty is to men: it’s irresistible.

I say “despite themselves”, because women will hardly ever admit to such crass cravings. In the face of your cruelty to others, she’ll pout and feign a morally indignant pose and wag a finger and beg you to show mercy and pretend to be put off but in the final calculation the seismic ripples of her pussy will speak louder than any words coming from her mouth.

You think I jest?

Me: Sweetcheeks, look. That bum just winked at you. He wants to take you back to his cardboard box. [waving at bum] Hi, bum!
Her: [struggling to conceal a grin] Shh, stop that. Stop waving. You’re horrible.

Me: You want to take a bus? Forget it. [nodding in direction of obese woman] She ate it.
Her: [looking heavenward] Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that.
Me: I hope it wasn’t a school bus. Think of the children.
Her: [smiling] Why are you being so mean?

Me: You ever date a really fat man and compare boob sizes?
Her: Jesus. [laughing] You’re not winning any points.
Me: Would you be with a man who could fill out your bra if he had a million dollars?
Her: I sometimes wonder why I’m with you.
Me: The huge prehensile cock.
Her: Oh yeah. [kiss]

Me: [looking over at girl in wheelchair] Would it be rape if she can’t feel anyting down there?
Her: [facepalm] Are you SERIOUSLY going to be like this tonight?
Me: You mean, like the bastard you love?
Her: No, like the immature boy I definitely do not love.
Me: Don’t make me pull your ponytail.
Her: I can’t stay mad at you, can I?

Me: The perfect lover: black cock, white looks, asian flexibility. Waddaya think?
Her: I think you’re being racist.
Me: You know what black girls call me? Colonist.
Her: More like COLON-ist.
Me: Wow. That was. So. Funny.
Her: Shut up.
TRIUMPHAL SEX

***

Sugar and spice and everything nice?

NO.

Tingles and wetness and everything alpha.

The above snippets are far from the cruelest a man can be, but you get the idea. And, generally, the crueler you are, as long as you are confidently cruel and don’t back away from it when she huffs and puffs, the sexier you will be to her. Sure, women are generally the overtly nicer sex and won’t make a habit of ridiculing the weak and degenerate, but WOW JUST WOW can they appreciate the sadistic streak in men.

The way it will usually go down is like this: You revel in your cruelty. She reacts with manufactured disapproval, often stifling laughter. Her vagina moistens. A wave of hidden shame releases a continuous flow of blood to her vaginal walls, maintaining her in a semi-aroused state all day long. Later that night, the floodgates open and you slip in like a lubed eel.

And a thousand ancient dictums are proved right once again.

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Kevin Smith Game

Reader James has a game-related question:

Hey Heartiste I’ve got a question. What do you make of this:

On a couple of occasions I had college age girls strike up conversation with me by telling me I looked like someone they knew. In a third occasion I just recalled while writing this, another college girl struck up a conversation with me while waiting in line at the grocery store by claiming I looked like Kevin Smith of Silent Bob fame (in all three scenarios I was overweight and in all likelihood sporting a homeless person style beard since I was too lazy to shave. I’m also pretty tall, a bit over 6′, but physically that was likely my only positive trait.) whom she was a huge fan of. In one of the bus cases, the girl was telling her fat friend she needed a boyfriend because she was stressed and wanted to “blow off some steam”, and she must know I heard the conversation since they were only a meter or two away from me. Grocery store chick was standard issue swpl, 6-7 by most men’s standards I would estimate. Blow some steam girl was pretty hot, probably an 8. Second bus girl looked similar to grocery store girl, only she had short hair (huge turn-off) so I can’t give her more than a 5.

I figure they were all lame pick-up attempts, but who the fuck tries to pick up a guy who looks like a hobo? so I’m gonna ask some of the experts for a second opinion.

Fame is such a powerful aphrodisiac for women that even the flimsiest simulacrum of it can redound beneficially to a man. Yes, if you look like a famous dude, no matter how physically repulsive that famous dude is in real life, you can score pussy off of your gift. Sometimes this works despite the girl knowing you’re a lookalike.

Kevin Smith may look like a hobo, but he’s famous, and chicks will spread for all sorts of famous men, no matter how dirty, ugly or smelly they are. (The same is not true for men, as demonstrated by the professed romantic travails of ugly Hollywood actresses who don’t get anywhere near the lustful attentions that ugly Hollywood actors get.)

You’ve never seen a woman’s rationalization hamster spin its wheel so fast than when the roided-up rodent is giving a presentation to the Figurehead Ego in the corner cortex trying to convince him that the vehicular meat unit ensconcing both of them needs this ugly, unhygienic, drug-addicted famous guy’s seed pronto.

Figurehead Ego: He’s only interested in a one night stand.

Hamster: We can win him over. And it’ll feel better than that five year grind we had with Bob from accounting.

Figurehead Ego: We’re just a groupie to him, like all the others.

Hamster: We’re not like all the others. Look at how he smiles at us.

Figurehead Ego: He’s going to forget us before the morning is over.

Hamster: We can beat the morning odds with a well-timed home-cooked breakfast. We’ll be unforgettable.

Figurehead Ego: Did you read in the tabloids how he had a different girl on his arm last week?

Hamster: You can’t believe everything the tabloids say.

Figurehead: And how he was in a group orgy with Victoria’s Secret supermodels on his birthday?

Hamster: Mere rumors. Anyhow, those girls are sluts.

Figurehead: And how he got married in a private ceremony last month?

Hamster: He doesn’t love her.

Figurehead Ego: And how he cheated on his wife?

Hamster: Open relationship. Don’t you just love honest men?

Figurehead Ego: And he punched a homeless guy in the nose?

Hamster: He was probably asking for it. Those bums can get pushy.

Figurehead: Ok, but what about his drug addictions?

Hamster: He’s a tortured soul.

Figurehead Ego: His run-ins with the law?

Hamster: His passion sometimes gets the better of him.

Figurehead Ego: The facial contusions he gave to his ex-girlfriend?

Hamster: Oh god.

Figurehead Ego: What?

Hamster: I just tingled.

Figurehead Ego: Yeah, I could feel that seismic shift all the way up here. What about the shit smell emanating from the seat of his pants?

Hamster: I don’t smell anything. But if I do smell something wafting delightfully under my nose, it must be his musky cologne. More men should be so confident to wear such unapologetically masculine scents.

Figurehead Ego: And the flies buzzing around his head? It looks like he hasn’t bathed in a month.

Hamster: He’s in touch with nature.

Figurehead Ego: And the yellow stains in the pits of his t-shirt?

Hamster: He doesn’t care what people think of him. So sexy!

Figurehead Ego: He just farted in front of you.

Hamster: Authenticity.

Figurehead Ego: And I suppose you’re Ok with the log he left in the toilet.

Hamster: It looks like Jesus.

Figurehead Ego: Or that he’s a D-lister who hasn’t had a profitable hit in ten years.

Hamster: He’s FAMOUS. Didn’t you see the TMZ photo of him pissing on the front steps of that rape crisis center?

Figurehead Ego: Or that he’s going absolutely nowhere in life.

Hamster: But I love him.

Figurehead Ego: And his dick is rumored to be small…

Hamster: It’s all I need.

Figurehead Ego: …and he’ll come in two seconds.

Hamster: I’ll come in one second.

Figurehead: And you can forget about post-coital cuddling.

Hamster: Not when he sees what a catch I am. He’ll hold me forever and ever and never let go.

Figurehead Ego: You tired yet?

Hamster: NOPE.

Figurehead Ego: Look, let me put this to you straight. He’s going to use you as a convenient hole to get his rocks off. He will demand ass privileges (something, need I remind you, you haven’t given to any man before, even your ex-husband) and you will get nothing you want in return. He will, if the drugs don’t first kill his erection, face fuck you until you’re gagging and tasting hot tears. He will then kick you out of his hotel room, with perhaps an autographed pillow mint as a consolation prize. He’s not going to call you back. He’s not going to take your calls. He will pretend he never knew you when people ask. He doesn’t love you, he never will love you, and he will never marry you, buy you a house, or (knowingly) have children with you. In fact, it’s very likely he will despise you approximately fifteen seconds after he has unceremoniously deposited his demon seed in your ululating vagina. Afterwards, men you actually have a decent shot at winning commitment from will hear of your slutty reputation and avoid you like the plague. There is nothing in the world you can do to alter this guaranteed outcome. Second thoughts?

Hamster: Aren’t these garden flowers pretty?

Figurehead Ego: I give up.

Hamster: OMG, he’s pointing at me. And now he’s pointing at his crotch. *SWOON*

***

So here’s my suggestion to you, reader, the next time a girl mistakes you for Kevin Smith. Run with it. What’s that, you say? You’re ethical? Tough shit. Go home and play with your Epictetus.

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Fertility, Intelligence And Religion

The perennial underground subject of the nexus where fertility, IQ, education and religion meet gets another go-round on the avant-garde right. You can read a couple of takes here and here. Bottom (literally) line: dysgenics is real, and it’s happening right now.

I have a thought on the issue that I haven’t seen addressed in any of these discussions. Perhaps smarts and dislike of, or cold indifference to, children are intertwined at the genetic level? Hypothesis: The genes that code for smarts also contribute a suite of personality alterations that result in reduced enthusiasm to have kids.

Maybe instead of all these calculated, or emergent, trade-offs accounting for lower fertility among the SWPL class — e.g. more schooling leading to more lost prime fertility years among women — the real reason for the dysgenic trend is that smart people just don’t get as much enjoyment out of kids as dumber people do. As a result, they use the contraceptive tech and cultural memes at their disposal to actively avoid the burden of children, especially when they are younger and the world is full of delights.

Maybe this, too, would explain why there are natural evolutionary limits on selection for high IQ. In small-ish numbers, high IQ confers a group benefit, but in larger numbers high IQ becomes fitness-reducing, if by fitness we restrict ourselves to the gene’s eye view of getting more copies of itself into future generations.

Anyhow, not a sermon, just a thought. My time around smart people, and my observations of their discomfort and/or boredom when in the company of children (particularly the men) leads me to believe they don’t really have a strong internal motivator pushing them in the direction of reproduction. Pushing them in the direction of sex, yes. But thanks to rubbers, the pill, and destigmatization, they are able to thwart the end goal of their genetic programming.

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Beta Males In The Wild

This is a photo of a first wedding anniversary.

Humans are naturally repulsed by certain objects in the state of nature. Rotting carcasses. Fetid water. Leprosy victims. Feminists. Manboobs. A steaming pile of poop triggers our disgust reflex. This reflex likely evolved to protect us from ingesting poops and then dying from infection during a time when modern medicine was a schizophrenic witch doctor.

Like fresh turds, we are instinctively repulsed by the above photo. It violates our preinstalled norms of sexual polarity. Men, and women too, have evolved limbic systems and higher order cerebrum that are groomed to respond positively to couples where the man looks to be in charge and self-possessed and the woman looks in his thrall and in need of his protection. When we see the opposite — like in this pic — we recoil as if we had just accidentally stepped in a mound of dog shit.

The masculinization of Western women and the feminization of Western men continues apace, with no bottom to the depths to which this depravity will sink. Point by repugnant point, let’s examine the bizarro world inversion illustrated in the photo:

– Lap sitting, male on female. INVERSION
– Smothering neck vise, male on female. INVERSION
– Cross-legged male, open-legged female. INVERSION
– Stupidly grinning male, grimacing female trying hard to hide it. INVERSION
– Wraparound koala bear hug, male on female. INVERSION
– Closed body language and clenched fist, female on male. INVERSION
– Micropenis, male. Acromegalic clit, female. (speculative) INVERSION
– Being OK with having this picture taken and the moment memorialized for all time, male over female objection. INVERSION

The question, as always: What does this have to do with game? Gentlemen, you will have no success with game if you first don’t exorcise the sin of anti-game from your mortal soul. This means not behaving like a woman would behave when she is in the company of an exciting alpha male.

The good news is that recognizing, and discarding, bad anti-game habits is easier than learning pro-game techniques, especially if you are a natural introvert for whom cold approaches and crutch-like helpful scripts give you the hives. You’re 50% of the way there once you’ve stopped acting in ways that make girls feel like they just stepped in dog shit.

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The Curse Of The Player

Beware the blessings of gratification.

The relationship. The long-term relationship. The Holy Grail for some. Purgatory for others. Serene limbo for most.

The relationship — aka marriage, when in its most loathsome permutation — is supposed to be the culmination of romantic transcendence. It moves lovers beyond lust into the realm of silent covalent bond. But this bond, unspoken and understood, can’t form out of any primordial soup; it requires the presence, and the absence, of specific ingredients. The rarity of the founding broth is the reason why poets elevate inviolate love to the sublime. One isn’t liable to effuse about the commonplace or the trite, which can spring like weeds from the craggiest soil.

In every relationship, there is a transition period; that window of time when a man senses he has crossed a boundary from experimental abandon to tribute paid in increments of freedom. A man stands at the Gates of Pudenda and makes his decision for Eros: to step through, committing himself to a revised moral code etched with broad brushstrokes of obligation and the peculiar rewards accrued therein, or to turn back to gallivant another day.

The decision at the moment of transition is not the same for every man. If you haven’t experienced multiple lovers, your transition into an LTR will be easier. You won’t sacrifice much in leaving behind your life of infrequent elation for the rhythmic reassurance of content stability. Players with a lurid, technicolor memory plate filled with many women will find it harder to accede to the straitjacketing of an LTR because of an acute sense of something missing, of what could still be had for the taking, and of withdrawal from the thrill of the hunt. The man who has bedded in his lifetime more than two or three lovers (the average number for the typical beta male) has a feature length film of past and present conquests running in a continuous loop, instantly evoked, as H.H. would say, on the “dark innerside of his eyelids”, in perfect optical replication, to effortlessly remind him of the incomprehensible pleasure of vulvic variety and of all the women waiting in oblivious anticipation for the arrival of his plunderprong.

The memory and the knowledge are the curse of the player. Memory stokes the wanderlust with insistent, torrential recall of scores of curvaceous bodies and rippled vulvae. Though in theory one vagina is no different than the rest, in a man’s mind each furrow is an ecological feature etched into strange planets across the galaxy. Every vagina is a new world to a man, some more exotic than others, and the unbridled enthusiasm he will feel planting his flag on fresh colonizations is no accident of evolution. Contrary to feminized misappraisal, this is not the pretentious joy of shame or escape; it is the sincere joy of pleasure that needs no reason.

The knowledge that the player possesses at his whim the skill to seduce women is the twin sabotage that undermines relationship endurance. A player will see the world of women lit from every angle, exposed to his exploration, if he knows, through experience, through the touch of a thousand fingertips, that he can bed women fairly consistently, and with manageable effort. The psychological emollient of knowing this power is his is enough to burden the heart of a man contemplating even a facsimile of fidelity. Bound to his lover by, in turns, conscience, social opprobrium, and legal sanction, the streams of waiting conquests slipping past like rivulets of glimmering intimacies, taunting his parched loin loosely moored to the ballast of loyalty, is the torture of a lifetime of short-circuited ejaculations.

In contrast, to be the grateful man with no history of sexual plenitude, for whom omnipresent sensual possibilities seem as remote as the twinkling stars in the heavens and thus unlikely to stir his ancient calling, is to be released with the gift of the constrained vision. Where possibility is dead, or unfathomable, so is dangerous yearning. He is now free to step back from the beautiful painting and dryly ponder its geometric contours. When this man falls in love with an accessible work of art, one he can call his own, he has little else to compare its grip on his imagination. He cherishes his chosen muse, blissfully ignorant of the carelessness and glibness with which he would succumb to, and love, the millions of competing muses were they to be more tangible to him than airbrushed magazine cover placeholders.

The curse of the player, then, is ultimately illumination, tactile and cerebral. His own success in love betrays his quest for the ultimate love. He has seen vistas he cannot unsee.

He is not a disbeliever in everlasting monogamous love, quite the contrary; but his eternal search for it has corrupted the destination. Each step of his journey lands like the heavy stamp of slash and burn machinery, decloaking the mystery of the source at the mouth of the tributary. He is as certain to destroy underfoot the elixir of redemption as he is to finally catch it, leached of its nutrients.

Ironically, the man (or woman) best situated to find divine love is the one whose efforts aren’t excessively profitable.

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Happy Sexist Is Happy

It’s a regular trope of feminists that male sexists are bitter, beta male losers. “Oh, you hate women because you suck with them”, and vice versa. It’s very comforting to feminists — actually, to all women — to believe that only resentful losers they don’t find attractive would harbor sexist thoughts. It’s very discomforting to feminists to entertain the thought that happy-go-lucky men who do well with women would be brazenly sexist.

But the truth, as per usual, falls squarely in the “discomforting to feminists” camp.

Research indicates that the endorsement of sexist ideology is linked to higher subjective wellbeing for both men and women. We examine gender differences in the rationalisations which drive this effect in an egalitarian nation (New Zealand). Results from a nationally representative sample (N = 6,100) indicated that the endorsement of Benevolent Sexism (BS) predicted life satisfaction through different mechanisms for men and women. For men, BS was directly associated with life satisfaction. For women, the palliative effect of BS was indirect and occurred because BS-ideology positioning women as deserving of men’s adoration and protection was linked to general perceptions of gender relations as fair and equitable, which in turn predicted greater levels of life satisfaction.

So if you are a benevolent sexist — that is, you believe men and women are psychologically different and respond to stimuli in different ways, and that women are the weaker sex deserving of male protection — you are more likely to be a happy person than the man (or woman!) who clings to a bitter feminist ideology that assumes biological and psychological equality between the sexes.

And that’s really got to stick in the craw of any feminist who comes ambling through the Chateau happy hunting grounds. Not only are sexist men happier in life, but women in the company of sexist men are happier as well! Paging sad vegetable lasagna Alex Pareene…

But that’s not all. Sexist men make more money than their manboobed counterparts. And, in what is sure to be a shot straight to the flabby feminist gut, women are more sexually receptive to assertively sexist men.

The popularity of speed-seduction techniques, such as those described in The Game (Strauss 2005) and advocated in the cable program The Pickup Artist (Malloy 2007), suggests some women respond positively to men’s assertive mating strategies. Drawing from these sources, assertive strategies were operationalized as involving attempts to isolate women, to compete with other men, and to tease or insult women. The present investigation examined whether hostile and benevolent sexism and sociosexuality, the degree to which individuals require closeness and commitment prior to engaging in sex, were associated with the reported use of assertive strategies by men and the reported positive reception to those strategies by women. It was predicted men and women who were more sexist and had an unrestricted sociosexuality would report using more and being more receptive to assertive strategies. Study 1 (N = 363) surveyed a Midwestern undergraduate college student sample, and regression results indicated that sociosexuality was associated with assertive strategy preference and use, but sexism only predicted a positive reception of assertive strategies by women. Study 2 (N = 850) replicated these results by surveying a larger, national U.S. volunteer sample via the internet. In addition to confirming the results of Study 1, regression results from Study 2 indicated that hostile sexism was predictive of reported assertive strategy use by men, suggesting that outside of the college culture, sexism is more predictive of assertive strategy use.

tl;dr — chicks dig sexist jerks.

None of this should come as a surprise to my alpha male readers (estimated at around 20% of readership). If you’ve spent any time in the company of other alpha males, or if you are an alpha male yourself, you know how sexist in-demand, high value men can be, whether shooting the unmonitored breeze with male friends or challenging the preconceptions of feisty girls. And you know how much women swoon for those sexist pigs.

Some of the best sexist jokes I’ve heard came straight from the mouths of top gun alpha males. Some of the most revolting, too. And you wanna talk about how badly men objectify women? Try listening to a player describe in delicious detail every nook and cranny of the broads he boffs. Bitter beta males bemoaning the unfairness of getting the shaft in divorce court are veritable wymyn’s studies graduates and honorary lesbians in comparison to their distant alpha male cousins.

Now don’t get the wrong idea; alpha males are breathtakingly sexist, but they aren’t spiteful about it, nor do they allow their cynicism to ruin a good time. They love women as women, not as substitute men, and if that imbues them with an air of condescending paternalism, then so be it. Chicks dig that, too.

The trick is to coat your sexism in a lacquer of smooth cockiness. Call it: sexism with a smirk. You never want to logically argue with a feminist, at least not in typical social situations; you want to mock her. Preferably mercilessly. You don’t want to launch into diatribes about the double standard of paying for drinks; you want to tease a girl asking you to buy her a drink if she’d like your debit card as well. You don’t want to make a fuss about holding a door open for a hot chick; but you do want to let it slam in her face if she’s ugly or obese. You don’t want to discuss loaded feminist topics on a first date; but you do want to chide a girl who gives you feminist guff over drinks. She’ll appreciate your refreshing boldness*, or she’ll become indignant. If the latter, you’ll know it’s safe to stiff her with the check. Or just stiff her.

*Most girls will appreciate the sexist’s boldness, because the type of girl who would be stupid enough to bring up feminist topics on a first date is usually the type of girl who, regrettably, dates way too many beta males and is sick of their sycophancy. She is testing the waters for real manliness, which means real sexism… the kind of Draperesque sexism that drives women wild with the opposite of closed-vagina indifference.

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