Speaking Power To Truth

A malignant white leftoid decided to try and get himself arrested for a nuisance crime to prove (in his own mind) that police “stop and frisk” profiling of blacks and hispanics is wrong because it presumably lets a lot of white Manhattanite would-be criminals off the hook.

Wearing a suit and tie and carrying a couple of cans of spray paint, he had a hard time getting arrested. Even after tagging a public building in full view of security cameras, he still couldn’t get arrested (a cop at the scene was bewildered by the leftoid’s brazenness, and who can blame him), so he turned himself in, where he discovered that white cellmates had fewer bruises on them than non-white cellmates from what they claimed (always trust a con) were altercations with cops.

Naturally, the leftoid is humblebragging about his revealing exposé of the criminal justice system and, I’m sure, he’s now a hit at Upper West Side parties where he has cashed in his anti-white status whoring points for beaucoup feels. But all this moron did with his campy street stunt — aka criminal tourism — was prove that criminal profiling works. There are so few suited-up white men in NYC spraying graffiti (the number doubtless hovers around zero) that one of them carrying a can of spray paint isn’t cause for suspicion. The one white guy who does get punished for it is a performance artists who intended to write about the experience in The Atlantic. His race commits so few petty crimes in New York that he had to force the issue to get any notice from the law. So, the cops were right to ignore this buffoon.

Leftoids are fond of reciting their religious belief that blacks committing nuisance crimes — like trespassing — are handled more roughly by cops than are whites doing the same. What leftoids always fail to consider is that cops have good reason for the putative double standard; a black kid running across a suburban lawn is more likely to be heading on his way to a home invasion than is a white kid criss-crossing backyards. Those crime stats… they just don’t lie.

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A Fool And His Money

A rich man traded in his old wife for a less old pole dancer. Burned by the $7 million bonanza payout to his ex-wife, the man drew up a pre-nuptial agreement with his stripper girlfriend before marrying her.

He married [the stripper] Ms Stelzer in October 2005, but not before a pre-nuptial agreement was signed, stating that Ms Stelzer would receive $3.25 million if the marriage broke down in the first four years.

I bet you can’t guess what happened.

They separated after two.

I used to be amazed how unbelievably stupid smart men could be when dealing with women who make their dicks hard. Obviously this guy was smart enough to amass a small fortune. Also as obvious, he was stupid enough to sign over $3.25 million to a glorified slut with a pre-nup loophole so big she was practically preordained to waltz through it.

Mr Wallace fought to have the pre-nup deemed invalid, claiming that Ms Stelzer behaved fraudulently by making “false promises of love and desire for children”.

“HOW COULD SHE DO THIS TO ME?!?”

Money is not necessarily a marker for alphaness. Many rich men are complete betas. These are the kind of head in the sand romanticists who’ve been spit-shining women’s pedestals since birth, and who really REALLY believe a pole dancer when she tells them she loves them, as the ink is drying on the deal that amounts to a lottery win for her if she bails within four years, with eager assistance, of course, from the anti-male divorce industrial complex.

There are two — just two — safeguards against the insidious predations of women: celibacy, and love. No, not phony declarations of love paid in full with baubles and trinkets. I mean real love, the kind of uncontrollable love women lavish on charming jerkboys. If you have game… if you can play a woman’s heart like a harp… she won’t need to be bought off. She won’t WANT to be bought off. The only scheming she’ll do is convincing her friends and family that you’re really a great guy underneath the rough exterior.

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Caplanization

Swiped from the Boys from Brasil Norte, a neologismic mockery missile worthy of repoasting:

Caplanization is the process by which the proponents of a particular policy (in this case unrestricted immigration) argue for it in such a manner than virtually all reasonable people are attracted to the opposite position.

Related. You know how robots that get too close to looking human, but not close enough to precisely mimic humans, reach what is known as the Uncanny Valley, and creep people out? Caplan and his hivekind are like the reverse of that process, humans who get too close to robotic facsimiles of humans, but haven’t yet reached full robotization, and creep people out with their vertigo-inducing human-borg form. Only when his transformation is complete will normal people begin to enjoy Caplan’s company, putting the cat on him and sharing a laugh as he roombas around the family room.

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Putting The Penis On A Pedestal

One of the biggest problems of our phallocentric culture is the constant pampering to the superficial behavior of men. The dating arena is a prime example of this. I won’t ridicule mainstream dating advice. That the “golddigger” strategy is dubious at best should be common knowledge by now. Instead, I want to attack a particular corner of the Internet that proclaims that they have the solution to the dating problem: the so-called “women’s issues” community. A lot of the criticism applies to the “glamourmagosphere” as well, though.

What struck me always as absurd was that those alleged relationship madams didn’t teach women to “woman up”. No, not in the “be a real woman and get a high-paying career so you can marry a grateful niceguy after you’ve had your fun”, but for real. They just don’t tell you to stand up for yourself. No, instead you are supposed to become an expert on cosmetology, fashion, exercise science, gossip, looking your best, behaving in a sweet feminine manner, and all kinds of frivolous nonsense. This alone should make any reasonably smart woman very skeptical. Even if this stuff worked — wouldn’t you want to have an at least halfway intelligent man instead, since as we know intelligence and primal biological sexual preferences are mutually exclusive?

That’s not all, because mainstream relationship madams also tell you how you should react to his ambiguous behavior. They call it “charming” when he’s acting flirty towards you, and tell you to “just keep making him chase you, girl!” Do you know what any girl with an inkling of self-respect would do? If he’s charming, you just move on, but if he’s really sexy and dangerous, you can just tell him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, some men are so damned sexy that they’ll get turned off by that and next you.

The men you’re interacting with are supposed to be adults, but if he behaves like a high value man with options, you have the choice of either confronting him or trying to change his behavior. Have fun with that! What also works is to not bother with him and looking for a more mature man instead. By “mature” I don’t mean some boring man with no game, but a man with a modicum of mental maturity who has a bug up his ass about the idea of having to impress the opposite sex. Mental maturity depends on a cultivated resentment that there exist two sexes with differing reproductive goals and psychologies that must be accommodated if one is to make it through life as something more than a loveless loser. There are plenty of shockingly immature normal people who don’t carry chips on their shoulders — men and women — around.

Let me just dwell on this topic a bit longer. Probably any girl who ever agreed to go out on a date with a man, or went along with it when he wanted to “hang out” will have experienced that some men just won’t commit. No, they don’t toss you out of bed. Instead, they just don’t show up three months later. A smart way of dealing with this problem is to make the man wait a little for sex so that you can tell if he’s the type just looking for a fun time or if he’s really into you and wants a deeper relationship.

It is not the case that men are unaware that they are cagey about commitment. I guess the “matriarchy” keeps them down so that they can’t pick out a ring and marry you, or just say “I don’t want a relationship” in the first place. What do those ridiculous dating madams aka your grandmas tell you, though? They talk about “getting Mr. Right”. You’re supposed to keep showing cleavage and dressing sexily and putting on make-up and watching your figure and flattering him to “build attraction”, and if he still won’t commit, you’re supposed to play hard to get and withdraw sex and generally act as if time is short and you need real commitment before your peak fertility window of desirability closes.

I mean, whom are those “relationship artists” kidding? Even if you managed to eventually win such a man over, what kinds of precedents did you set? If anything, the man now knows that you like him for more than sex (horrors!), and that you’ll work hard to pin him down in a long-term relationship. He knows that you’re a completely normal woman who happily gives up self-righteous celibacy for the remote chance to get some love. As if a man’s love was the solution to anything (*snort*)! Instead of calling him out on his foot-dragging, you invite him to remain indecisive, and you even make excuses for his normal male behavior, all for love!!! This is nothing but absurd. Congratulations, you’ve turned yourself into what they call a “lovestruck girl.” Yes, this — “relationship game”, they call it — is the supposed alternative to mainstream dating advice. It’s laughable.

“Relationship management” and “beautification” are just more elaborate forms of penis worship and pedestalization. Women will never earn their self-respect until they are ready to “go their own way”.

Many thanks to Paul Elam for publishing this post at his blog A Voice For Women.

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Why Having Kids Is Not A Measure Of A Man’s Alphaness

Kindred stone cold truth tellers occasionally like to rib your humble galactic overlord by pointing out that social survey data shows that beta males have more kids than alpha males as the latter are commonly recognized, and that this means betas aren’t really betas. I respond, with amused mastery, that having kids is no measure of a man’s alphaness, especially not in this day and age of brat-thwarting contraception.

But there’s more contradicting the speciousness of this “kids = alpha male” line of thought than just the expectation-busting effect of contraception. To give the readers a clue into why it’s so wrong-headed to assume fatherhood is a default alpha state, read this story.

The guy has two (putative) sons by his parrot-faced wife, yet she does no housework, doesn’t cook, and only has sex with him on his birthday, and then not even every birthday. A bit of an extreme example of a neglectful, sex-withholding wife, but the extremes illuminate what it’s like for the mediocre masses of married men who suffer similar torments, albeit less spectacularly, at the hands of their ingrate wives who prefer to diddle to vampire porn.

So, yeah, you can snag yourself a fading beauty eager to accomplish the goal of popping out some rugrats with a man she can feel certain will do as he’s told, but don’t for a second think that “””achievement””” makes you an alpha male. The alpha male may or may not get married, may or may not have kids, but rest assured he’s not begging like a dog for pellets of pussy chow or listlessly shuffling around the house in an apron holding a dust buster.

Oh no, just the opposite; the wife of an alpha male is throwing herself at him because she can’t get enough of his undomesticated dongle.

In related beta male news, a new study found that upwards of 70% of couples are not with their true loves and are just “making do”. So sad. Game can help men find and keep their true love instead of settling for any girl who will take them. Game is pro-love. Game will get you closer to God.

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Are Beta Males Responsible For Feminism?

Here’s a theory which I don’t think has been expressed elsewhere, because it seems on the surface to challenge long-held conventional wisdom among the pro-truth, anti-feminist crowd that feminism was the result of an unruly alliance between alpha males seeking to enlarge their pool of attractive, single women and ugly omega females seeking separate status whoring avenues where they wouldn’t have to compete with married mothers on their turf.

Most avowed feminists and feminist leaders are dog ugly, so that part of the alliance rings true. But what if it was beta males, rather than alpha males, who were the other prime movers of Boomer feminism? (Boomer feminism was the beginning of the really warped variety of feminism that supplanted suffrage and Prohibition.) Did beta males enjoin the feminist sabotage of civilization because they thought it would cramp the style of alpha males? The betas probably didn’t grasp the long-term consequences of their project, but crippling their competition was the short-term goal they had in mind when they allied with the femfreaks. They were probably thinking (beneath the layers of socially presentable equalese), “Aha, elevating women to positions of power will help kick out those entrenched alpha males and level the male playing field. More poosy for us!”

Poor pathetic beta male feminists. Little did they realize that helping women become economically self-sufficient and freed from the “slavery” of marriage allowed them to ignore betas for the sexy alphas promising nothing but a good time. The one bit of leverage beta males bring to the sexual market table — their emotional and financial provisions — they trashed in a fit of spite against the jocks they hated in high school.

That’s my theory. I think it makes sense in light of the whiny resentment modern “male feminists” like John Scalzi reveal toward incorrigible charmers who defy the logic of gender politics and not only suffer no consequences for their impudence, but profit from it.

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Mainstream Feminist Outlets Try To Bury Their Association With Hugo Schwyzer

Hugo Schwyzer, buffoon. Hugo Schwyzer, hypocrite. Hugo Schwyzer, self-proclaimed male feminist leader. Hugo Schwyzer, lover of porn stars, seducer of younger coeds, defiler of the matrimonial vow, potential giver of the herpes simplex Types 1 and 2, self-pegging fap-exposing murder-suicide contemplating part-time homosexing beacon of hope to dumbass feminists and their suck-up allies.

Now we can add one more honorific to Schwyzer’s curriculum vitae: Disgraced, womanly pity whore.

And who, besides Schwyzer himself, helped bring Schwyzer to the depths of the most public of public humiliations? Who was the first to mock his phoniness, ridicule his idiotic male feminist musings, turn him over on the spit for the world to poke with pointed sticks, implicate his supporters and advocates for hitching their fortunes to his ass-kissing self-aggrandizing lies?

Who, indeed.

Schwyster knows all this, too, which makes him a phonyfuck of the highest caliber. The guy spent his early years as a professor cashing in his higher status for the pleasure of fucking his 18-21 year old students. Maybe he is wracked with guilt, and his current ultrafeminist stance is his form of atonement. Or maybe (and more likely, in my view) his hypocritical feminist sycophancy is a ruse to get in the panties of the deluded naifs who take his classes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The difference between me and a lickspittle errand boy like Schwyster is that I don’t go around claiming there’s something psychologically wrong with men for desiring the hot bods and feminine charms of young women. I don’t blame a guy like Schwyster for wanting to stick his dick in his peak fertility students, nor do I stroke feminist egos to earn PC brownie points and page views.

If you want to know who got under Hugo’s skin the most, you need only see which of his tormenters goes missing by name from his meltdown Twitter feed and from his confessionals to less sadistic bloggers than CH.

The reason Hugo doesn’t want to credit the source of his everlasting torment is because CH stuck the shiv in his mottled hide hard and deep, and it’s the twist that still pains him. Unlike many more charitable judgers of Hugo Schwyzer, I feel no pity toward him, nor any incipient feeling of charity. He is a liar, a phonyfuck, a charlatan, and a male attention whore with flapping labia where his mouth should be. He is an enabler of the worst of society, a useful tool conveying the rotten propaganda of assorted losers and misfits and degenerates, singing their off-key tune while he happily cashed in his exploitative scheming for the very nubile rewards his mass of followers tune in to hear him rail against. He is utterly repellent, a lizard in human clothing. I hope that he slices lengthwise, and should he do so, I will dance a happy snoopy dance the likes of which the dark side of the internet has never seen.

But there is a bigger story here than Hugo’s personal twilight, and that is the quickness with which mainstream, widely read feminist media outlets are attempting to bury and conveniently forget their association with Schwyzer. Hugo was, for a long time, a well-regarded paid contributor to such popular feminist and feminism-favoring organs as Jezebel, BlogHer, xojane, The Atlantic, and The Good Men Project. As Chuck noted,

But a few outlets like The Good Men Project, Jezebel, and The Atlantic took a chance on the history and gender studies professor from Pasadena City College who established himself as a male pop feminist by kissing the right asses and having sex with the right people.  Those outlets have avoided addressing their relationship with Hugo.  Jezebel’s editor Jessica Coen wrote a slippery post which was clearly about her former writer, but she wasn’t willing to actually mention Hugo by name. The post was evasive, and many commenters at the site called Coen out for it since Jezebel generally has a confrontational style.  I pitched my conversations with Hugo to The Atlantic as a tale of how two adversaries had spoken about his troubles.  Maybe my low Klout score kept the editor there from accepting the pitch.  And I didn’t go to The Good Men Project with a piece because they’re boring.  Regardless, all of those outlets saw the same person before them that me and many other critics of feminism saw, but they hosted Hugo for years.  Behold the power of telling people what they want to hear.

Funny how that works. You tell an ego-parched fug feminist what she wants to hear, and she opens her legs to your cock and her internet real estate to your cockamamie drivel, believing… oh, so very believing!… .that the male feminist lunacy dripping like honey into her ear palate was the Word of Goddess Herself. Hugo had a niche, and his sneaky fucker strategy netted him the adulation and the blowjobs he craved. Such a niche is not without its merits, but do keep in mind that being a community college professor to dimwits, however lowly in the academia hierarchy, is the lube that greases the coed skids. Playing the male feminist for fun and profit is not likely to work for the man who doesn’t have that hypergamously-grooved prof podium from which to tingle the tangles of thick-bushed queer gender studies acolytes. I don’t fault Hugo for pursuing this snatch-accumulating strategy. But I do shit in his lying face, and I do shit again in the faces of those who took his lies for truth.

So this is a glorious time to be an anti-male feminist. The wails and the rending of pit-stained t-shirts of the manboobs and the scalzied and the Dumb Hams of the world are the dulcet melodies of soaring symphonies, punctuated by the thunderous cymbal crash of lies being smashed. Ahhh, indeed.

But Hugo is an impenetrable pathological narcissist. No amount of soul shivving, however poison-tipped or torturously twisted to tickle vitals, will bring him the event horizon pain he so richly deserves. A shell entity who lives and breathes publicity, bad or good, will only welcome the psy knife that surgically pries his id. No, Hugo will only feel pain, real pain, when something else, something much more threatening to his ego survival, is presented to him. And that something else is Ostracism Total.

The targets of tender CH ministrations, then, are Hugo’s benefactors as much as Hugo himself. Jizzebel, The Atlantic, Good Men Project… you were duped, but only because you wanted to be duped. You wanted to believe in equalist, man-hating lies that caressed your stunted, shriveled, gimpy souls. You bent over and received the tepid diseased injection of a broken freak who knew how to locate and lick your ascended testes. Losers of a feather…

Jizzebel et al., you are served notice. I have you and your lackeys in my sights, and your filth that spews from the fountain of filth which is your whole stillborn existence is the effluvium I will shove back down your throats until you choke on it and recede from public discourse to clear the shit from your veins. The days when you can hire gutter liars like Hugo Schwyzer, and wallow in his fetid stink free of consequence, are over. Your only hope is to drive the Schwyzerian rats from your manicured harridan shelters, so that your circle diddles may continue under the radar of stone cold soul shivvers like yours truly with an eye and a scalpel for finding and dissecting egoistic neediness.

Then, when you — Jizzebel and the rest of the twisted sisters — have cast Hugo and his fellow castrati to the icy wastelands, will the real howls of pain fill the air to the delight of CH guardians of truth and beauty. For nothing will torment the likes of Hugo Schwyzer more profoundly than the torment of solitude.

Hugo, I know you’re reading this. If my words will bring any goodness and light to this world, your days as a lying sack of shit media token shilling for other lying sacks of shit are over. No one will call you, not even your former feminist allies. No one will publish you. No one will admire cross-eyed your throbbing intellect. No one will talk of you. No one will even think of you. When that day comes, and the barrel of the pistol is nestled in your mouth, lazing metallically on your tongue as your thinning, middle-aged lips glide over the shaft like long-ago unshaven feminist coed lovers used to do to your anti-feminist, patriarchal boner, no one, not even your family, will give a shit.

And that will be the lonely solitary pain from which you can’t escape or repurpose to your craven desires. In that moment, that sweet final moment of true and real reflection just before self-deliverance, you will think of my words, and my reminder that you had a choice to turn yourself against the mountain of lies you willingly embraced as your totem and your fate and your salvation. Sweet dreams, eternal darkness.

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