The Tell-Tale Slap

When I had made an end of my morning labors slathering lotion on my skin to protect it from the sizzling tropical sun, it was eleven o’clock — hot but now tolerable, the air stirred by cooling winds, the rays glancing at a blinding angle off the sand. Laying on my towel face up, inviting the browning of my flesh, I swiveled my head to the left and right, to ensure my immediate area was clear for uninterrupted napping, and to savor perhaps one more plump, glistening nude buttock before I closed my eyes.

Sunlight ricocheted off the pocked sand, blinding me as I squinted to the smallest aperture possible to view my surroundings. To my right, about ten feet, two girls, early 20s, lay on a blanket on their backs, faces craned skyward. Skimpy bikinis concealed only the most imprudent parts of their lithe figures, and their pale skin, nearly as light in hue as the sand which enveloped them, showcased off-toned strap lines. I knew this because they had untangled their tops, letting the cloth rest loosely on their breasts. Giddy with freedom, they nonetheless couldn’t muster the insouciance to splay out entirely naked. Here they allowed a mere hint of their wares on one of the most notorious full nudity beaches in the world.

My right eye lingered on one girl’s twinkling side boob until I began to drift off.

As the surf sounded the seconds, there came a faint, seemingly distant patter approaching from my left.

slap slap slap

At first I thought it was the blood rushing through my ears, but as the sound congealed it became apparent the source was foreign and the noise it made strangely rhythmic, almost monotonic.

I smiled, — for what had I to wonder? Although the beach was only a third full, nothing of note ever occurred except the infrequent native pitchman hawking his trinkets. I strained to catch sight of the intruder, curious about his product for sale, but saw nothing save for bloated humps of tourist flesh possibly rolled over on their infant walruses. I grimaced that such aging monstrosities are often the ones least susceptible to self-regulating modesty.

I bade sleep welcome. But not soon enough, for the steady patter returned.

slap slap slap slap slap slap

I listened intently this time, agreeing with myself that the sound most resembled the light thwacking of a heavy, uncooked sausage against a wall or open palm. It grew ever so slightly in loudness, until, Doppler-like, it passed behind my head at its zenith and then receded, to return to prominence again in a few minutes as it swooped around the opposite side where my feet pointed.

slap slap slap SLAP SLAP SLAP slap slap slap

Ere long, I felt myself getting disconcerted and wished the sound gone. My head heavy with stupor, each time I looked around to locate my pattering torment, dazzling sunlight obscured my vision.

Had no one else been hearing what I heard? The walrus humans snorted and quivered like Jell-O, periodically scratching a fold. I fancied a hallucination brought on by the heat: but still the terrible soft patter encircled me. The gentle slaps became more distinct, less distinct, then more distinct again: I talked myself into believing it was an energetic small child bemused by a new toy to get rid of my curiosity: but it continued and once more gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise had stopped ten feet from me.

No doubt I now grew very intrigued; — but I remained unwilling to sit up for a clearer visual inspection that would solve my mystery, for there were only a few minutes left to the conclusion of my facial bronzing, a chore I had planned in advance and hoped to premiere at that night’s danceclub opening. Yet the sound stopping aggravated me even more — and why would that be so? It had stopped for a reason, and so close by, and I had to know its purpose.

I arched my head to the right, toward the girls again, and slowly gazed upward into the blackest silhouette imaginable, backlit by the blazing sun. I could see the geometric contour of a thin, sinewy man, standing close to six feet tall, looming over the heads of the girls, his face totally hidden in shadows like an eclipse, and below his torso, equally cast in impenetrable shadow, a tubular structure swung languidly like a pendulum, its edges shimmering from a corona of sunlight.

I propped myself on my elbows — could it be? And yet the beachgoers saw it not, or pretended not. The girls had just opened their eyes, possibly rousted by the man’s shadow cast across their faces, and one of them audibly gasped as she looked straight up into the vortex of the pendulous tube swaying inches over her forehead, and past it into the barely perceptible grinning mug of the man holding some primitive face masks in his right arm.

Her open mouth frozen in shock, perhaps awe, the man inquired loudly in the local dialect.

“I have masks. Very good art. Good party masks, too. Dancing masks. You wanna buy? Ten dollars, my friends.”

No reply. He talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the girls’ catatonia steadily increased. I stared at the spectacle, pondering a rescue, but all I could see were wispy limbs, torsos and heads swirling nebulously around the mammoth tube.

Finally, the girls both wriggled to their sides, holding their tops against their chests with a free arm, and assumed a kneeling position a few feet away from the pubic proboscis. They erupted in giggles, looking at each other for confirmation that what they were seeing was in fact real, and one of them shook her head no. But the other, ostensibly the mischievous one of the two, asked about his selection, which prompted him to extend his arm full of masks, the motion of which caused the tube to swing in a parabola before their faces, inciting another round of stifled giggles.

Though cast in shadow, his toothy, brilliant grin was nonetheless visible enough, accentuated by the obvious creases in his cheeks. I was certain he prowled defenseless, but easily entertained, fillies in this manner every day of the week.

A brief bargaining ensued with no sale, and the man shrugged and walked off, the slapping noise commencing once again. I watched him retreat, his consciously exaggerated gait betrayed by his muscled legs sweeping outward a bit, and as if excited to fury by the giggles of the women, the tube arched upward then fell heavily from its own weight, thumping against his thigh, grazing the knee.

And then I knew. The slapping — the irrepressible noise of flesh on flesh, growing louder, louder!, then quieter, heard by others for certain who irritated me sourly, for they never let on that they suspected the source of the noise (they knew! they were making a mockery of my horror!), and still they sunbathed pleasantly, and glistened like oiled slugs — the slapping was his enormous member, thick enough around to plug a truck exhaust, bouncing happily off one leg, then the other, as he strolled, each stride punctuated by the beast’s shaft and head landing on the thigh like a breaching whale on the ocean surface, just short of the kneecap, a full 17… 18? 22?… inches from its origin point.

slap slap slap

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I mentally swore at the thing for refusing to suppress my prejudicial stereotyping! I sat up straight from the towel upon which I had been laying, and watched the snake slither across the beach around mounds of apathetic onlookers, pausing every so often to surprise a mark into an impulse buy. I noticed he studiously avoided the naked men, who, I guessed by their indifference, had either seen the snake handler before and were inured of his infamy, or were gallantly hiding evidence of their insecurity with quick hoists of bathing suits over blotchy, reddened privates. In time, every woman, even the old ones, who caught sight of the unearthly appendage tittered like schoolgirls, laced with a hint of anxiety.

“Fake!” I announced to the brightened girls next to me, “It’s so fake. You have to admit it.”

“I don’t know. It looked real to me,” girl one demured.

“Yeah, you were pretty close to it,” scoffed girl two at her friend.

“He could rape a girl from across the beach!” girl one whispered loudly.

Disgusted with their levity, I told them that if they had grabbed the thing and tore it off at the root, they would have found the little guy hiding underneath. That it would be surprising if sex stores didn’t have very lifelike organs nowadays for sale, and this thing was his gimmick to sell child-like art to dumbstruck tourists.

In the distance, a good hundred yards from our spot, maskman waded into the turquoise water, still in shadows, his member nevertheless clearly distinct and hanging like a giant grandfather clock chime from his crotch. He grabbed the shaft in the middle with one hand (his hand did not make it all the way around), the unattached end of the leaden pipe drooping toward the water, and took a piss into the waves.

The girls looked back at me. “Fake?”

I smirked. “Camera tricks.”

Later that evening, for the first time in my life, I was less than proud of my god-given nine inches. It would be nothing but small-vaginaed asian girls for me, from then on.

Read Full Post »

Evolution Toward Immortality?

This is not my thought. It’s a transcribed comment from a science group I follow.

Evolution isn’t done with us yet…and the latest innovations may well be still in their ‘Beta’ phase i.e. unreliable and not yet fully functional.

One of the major components of cellular aging is the shortening of telomeres: the protective ends of chromosomes. But there is a cure for this shortening problem.  It is called telomerase, the enzyme that can lengthen telomeres and so, in many cases around the human body, restore youth or halt aging.

Why doesn’t telomerase reactivate?  Every cell in the body has the formula for telomerase written into its DNA, so transcription is possible.

But the only cellular population that switches telomerase back on (apart from during our period of maturation) is cancer.  And cancer tends to prefer damaged or old tissue.

Is it possible that evolution is trying to figure out a way to switch telomerase back on for old or damaged tissue, but the process, far from perfection, screws up each time and we end up with cancer instead?

It is an intriguing thought ~ that when evolution finally gets it right then some of the most prominent manifestations of aging will gradually disappear, perhaps leaving the majority of the population to age gracefully into their early 100s and, perhaps, beyond!!

A dizzyingly pregnant hypothesis. Seems to me the key to unlocking the human potential for almost infinitely youthful lifespans lies in a full understanding of cancer — that most mysterious of afflictions — and how to corral its cruel destructiveness into something beneficial.

A lifespan measured in the hundreds of years, the great majority of those years lived in prime time vigor, a world of 80-year-old rock hard boners saluting at full mast and breasts pointing skyward joyously defiant of gravity, would so radically alter humanity’s relationship with just about every social, political and religious institution I can think of that predictions on the matter are futile. But you’re free to try.

Read Full Post »

Chateau Ideas Are Spreading To The Mainstream

File this report under: “Chicks dig jerks, National Review edition“.

I’m glad to see mainstream writers basically cribbing from Chateau archives. At one time, the hosts here caught a storm of runny shit from the usual dimwitted suspects over posts about Rihanna, Chris Brown, and the desire by many hot, young women for the love of rageaholic assholes. It seemed many feminists, manginas, white knights and, well, just about everyone sleepwalking through a haze of self-medicating ego prose, couldn’t stand to read the truth about women’s sexual nature. That women are often complicit in the abuse they suffer at the hands of the jerks they repeatedly, and freely, return to for more of their special lessons in love. So instead of meditating on the subject like rational actors (heh), they threw feces all over their cages, hoping a turd would fly true, which it never did, for hosts at Le Chateau are much more agile than our enemies comprehend.

There are some ideas that are simply too bowel-twisting to allow examination in the light of free inquiry. But through dint of mischievous spirit and self-amusement, Chateau Heartiste has paved the way for once-forbidden subjects to be openly discussed in widely-read publications. A crack in the liars’ edifice has opened, and sunlight is streaming through. Warm, invigorating sunlight, the kind that burns away the choking mists of self-deceit and puts a bounce in the step. One day, not too far away, the wall will crumble, and you’ll pull yourself through, walking into personal freedom on a path constructed of the pulverized lies of the old order.

It will be beautiful.

Read Full Post »

Are Women Less Appreciative Than Men?

The NYBetaTimes Magazine features a small infographic titled ‘Academy award winning acceptance speeches by shout-outs (since 1971)’:

“Wife” is the number two most-thanked entity, thanked more often than even the director (!). The number of times a “husband” was thanked by a winner trailed in a pitiful sixth place. (If the world was fair, the screenwriters would be in third place, after the Academy and director, instead of last place. Better yet, the fans who cough up $14/ticket would be thanked most effusively.) Apparently, male winners think their wives are more responsible for their success than the writer, director, cast or agent. Well, they gotta go home to the wife.

These results aren’t a surprise. (When was the last time you met a humble or grateful attention whore? And there ain’t no bigger attention whore than an actress.) But it’s fun to speculate why female Academy award winners are so much less likely to thank husbands than male Academy award winners are to thank wives. Some reasons:

1. Although male and female awards are split evenly among the best actor and actress categories, there are plenty of awards given to technical categories that are probably dominated by men. Also, most directors have been men. So there are just more male winners overall to thank wives.

2. Women who win are (significantly?) younger than the male winners, and thus less likely to be married. Youthnbeauty is more important to an actress’s success than an actor’s.

3. Related to the above, a high status male award winner, no matter how ugly, is likelier to find a happy wife than a high status female award winner, who has priced herself out of most of the mating market. Also, ugly female award winners, despite their career status, still suffer from Kathy Bates syndrome, i.e., “why isn’t my success translating into a long-lived happy marriage?”

4. The feminist aka beta male-hating revolution kicked into high gear in 1971, so those early years were front-loaded with married (egads!) female Academy winners going out of their way to avoid thanking their husbands.

5. Women are, innately, less grateful than men. When a woman succeeds, it’s all about “me me me! look at me go!”. When a man succeeds, he feels a certain principled obligation to extend expressions of gratitude.

6. A woman who succeeds in her career can’t afford to thank her husband, because many people will presume the husband pulled strings for her, especially if he himself is powerful. A man, in contrast, can afford to thank his wife, because there is a tacit understanding among listeners that the wife really had nothing to do with his success.

It would be interesting to see this chart for the pre-1971 years, and broken down by award category. I suspect you would find more appreciative women before the SHTF.

Read Full Post »

Common Mistakes You Will Make While Learning Game

There is a cottage industry of anti-game, pro-feminist beta males who claimed to tried to learn the crimson arts but failed before seeing results. I suspect what happened to most of them is that they encountered some setbacks on their journey to higher quality, higher frequency poon, but instead of taking lessons from their losses they gave up and turned their frustration outward, against game and its advocates. What doomed them was a combination of defeatism, a lower than average starting suite of attractiveness traits, and unrealistic expectations of what game could accomplish for them.

Let me say, then, that I acknowledge their impotent rage. Most men who aren’t naturals will experience growing pains in their efforts to improve their game and success with women. I have seen all manner of mistakes made by recovering betas (and omegas) determined to increase their attractiveness to women. There is nothing unique or unsolvable about these common newbie game mistakes. If you are a beta starting out with game, you owe it to yourself to anticipate that you will experience the same setbacks that bedevil millions of men just like you traveling the same path of redemption. Anticipating mistakes means it will be a challenge to disappoint yourself, and your fortitude with thus be strengthened.

What follows is a list of the typical learning curve mistakes that men make while trying to become more charismatic ladykillers. I have pulled a couple of these boners myself, so don’t think there is a man alive who is immune to the occasional beta backslide once in a while.

Excitable Boy Syndrome

You’re pumped up for the night. Your face is flushed, your body is wired and your smile is a mile wide. You knocked out a three set of bicep curls just before hitting the clubs. You’re an approach machine. Look at you go! You’re so high on life and the possibilities of your newfound game knowledge that you forgot to remember chicks dig a man with state control. Chicks most definitely do not dig a hyperactive spaz. Don’t worry, soldier of seduction. The world is not going to run out of women tonight.

Overeager Reaction To Her Crumbs Of Interest

Your game has evolved to the point where you’re starting to get positive reactions from women. She touches your arm or pays you a genuine compliment or strokes her hair and beams ear to ear after you teased her. Pleasantly surprised and brimming with the sort of runaway horniness that has been fooled is on the cusp of being relieved, you respond with overeager gratitude, flattery and excessively loud laughter. Her brief window of kindness and flirty interest has opened your beta floodgates. You forget everything you learned and revert to the watery-eyed supplication of your puppy crushing preteen self. You push too hard for a romantic resolution, and you become outcome dependent. You know that old saying “Act like you’ve been there before”? Take it to heart. Chicks really do prefer men who don’t get too excited by female attention. Mystery called this attitude “active disinterest”, and that’s as good a description as any.

Fumble In The Red Zone

Your game has been smooth as silk. She’s standing with you on the sidewalk, a few kisses have transpired, and now you’re faced with the very real prospect that she’s ready to go home with you tonight. But the realization of this — the prospect that you may achieve your goal — freezes you. Instead of leading her to her exquisite doom with unstoppable confidence, you mumble something about maybe, possibly, seeing some band next week that you heard was good, your hands stuffed deep in your pockets. Her face slackens into disappointment. Your reward? A cavalcade of unanswered text messages and grotesque ponderings asking yourself “where did it all go wrong?”.

Overplayed Hand Syndrome

Wow! She really lit up when you dropped that neg! And look how she reacts so well to your cocky teasing. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. Game works!, you say to yourself. So more game must work more!, you answer in reply to yourself. You start dropping C&F on her like it’s going out of style. Slowly, or maybe not so slowly, you notice she’s not laughing as much, not opening her body to you, and not tilting her head to expose her vulnerable neck to you. She’s turtling fast, and now she’s glancing around the room. You captured her interest, and she wanted you to follow up with a deeper connection. An emotional bonding that would have added dimensions to your personality. But you responded with more of the same happy-go-lucky douchery. Game is not a hammer; it’s a scalpel. Use it as such.

Say Anything Stupid Syndrome

Every man fears it: getting stuck with nothing to say. This fear issues from a place of pedestalization. “If I don’t say something witty right now to break this awkward silence, I will lose her.” So in his beta haste he overcompensates by spitting out a jumble of small talk at best, and vibe-killing self-deprecation at worst. When you have nothing to say, the best response is to… say nothing. Let silence be your ally. 90% of the time, a woman confronted with a man’s silence will restart the conversation herself. Once she does that, the seduction script is flipped, and she becomes the chaser, uncontrollably instilling you with higher value. Women who don’t restart the conversation are not invested enough in you, and you may take that as a signal to move on.

Easy Discouragement Syndrome

You’ve arrived. You haven’t started talking to any girls yet. A cute girl sits near you with her friend. You suck in air deep, preparing to deliver your opener. As you turn to face them, you notice across the room a very good-looking guy juggling the interest of three adoring women. Discouraged, you hold your tongue and nurse your drink, alone, for the next three hours. You mumble something about game not working because you can never compete with men like that. Self-satisfied that your failures are thus justified and irredeemable, you slink home while a man who looks about like you do begins making out with a girl at a different bar in the city tonight. I hope I don’t have to spell out the moral of this story.

Stubborn Refusal To Adapt Spergitude

You’ve just dropped an inspired DHV routine on her. But for some inexplicable reason, she hasn’t responded the way you thought she would. The way so many others did. Boredom snakes across her face. You get flustered. “What do I do now??” Instead of changing course to something that might prove more fruitfully engaging for her, you continue blasting at her bunker with permutations of your nigh-invulnerable DHV story, hoping that some new way of saying this or that sentence will be the key to her heart. As an aspie beta nerd with stubborn mule tendencies, you are a victim of your emotional straitjacketing. Learn to adapt in the field by trying new things on the fly. Don’t be afraid to abandon a conversational trail that has gone stale. I’ve seen it so many times — men who stubbornly fix to a line of thought when the girl is moving the conversation in a new direction. The best seducers are masters of opportunistic conversational hijacking, and will lead and follow a girl’s train of thought simultaneously.

Apologia The Destroya

Incoming shit test! Thankfully, with your encyclopedic game knowledge, you know how to disarm it. But wait… she didn’t get that faux shocked, slightly horny look on her face when you slapped down her attempt to belittle you. No, she’s didn’t take your reply well. Another shit test, a nastier one, flies your way. Your brain starts filling up with self-doubt and second-guessing, and instead of nimbly swiping her second shit test aside, you begin apologizing — in so many words — for your impudence. Ughh. Game over, man! You let your wimpy, trembling beta id out for a stroll in the daylight. She took one look at the poor benighted creature and her fangs and claws were bared for the kill. Expect that you will occasionally have to deal with nasty bitches with zero tolerance for weakness in men. It comes with the territory. Knowing this, you will be better prepared to avoid getting entrapped by a woman’s betatization program.

Read Full Post »

Hypergamy, Sluts And Smart Women

A reader emailed a recent fascinating study that, AS PER USUAL♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, confirms many core Chateau concepts and related game strategies.

Although robust sex differences are abundant in men and women’s mating psychology, there is a considerable degree of overlap between the two as well. In an effort to understand where and when this overlap exists, the current study provides an exploration of within-sex variation in women’s mate preferences. We hypothesized that women’s intelligence, given an environment where women can use that intelligence to attain educational and career opportunities, would be: (1) positively related to their willingness to engage in short-term sexual relationships, (2) negatively related to their desire for qualities in a partner that indicated wealth and status, and (3) negatively related to their endorsement of traditional gender roles in romantic relationships. These predictions were supported. Results suggest that intelligence may be one important individual difference influencing women’s mate preferences.

Anti-game haters and various sore losers in life: reread the above for comprehension before commenting. You’ll save everyone a lot of scrolling effort to glide by your blockheadedness.

Let’s tackle the conclusions of this study one by one.

1. Smart, educated, careerist women (aka urban SWPLs) are more likely to want to ride the cock carousel (i.e., “engage in short-term sexual relationships”). That old game hater saw that only low self-esteem sluts and dumb skanks like to play the phallus field is the complete opposite of reality. It’s the smart, educated chicks who dig the cock and, by deduction, it’s the smart, educated chicks who will fall for short-term pickup game more than dumb chicks.

In one fell swoop, a cherished feminist and beta male shibboleth gets crushed into dust and blown away.

2. Smart, educated, careerist women are less interested in a man’s money or career status. This dovetails perfectly with the Chateau contention that female economic empowerment has led to a sexual market where soft polygamy — the clustering of financially independent women at the peak of their fertility (and beauty) around charming alpha males — is the new norm in blue state meccas. If money and occupational status mean less to smart girls, then guess what means more to them? You got it. Game. And who loses in this arrangement? Yup, boring provider beta males.

3. Smart, educated, careerist women are more likely to eschew “traditional gender roles” in romantic relationships. So it is the smart girls, not the dumb ones, who say screw it to marriage, dating, fidelity and lifelong monogamy while they are in their primes, and who are more open to fucking around, casual hook ups, cheating and, ahem, serial monogamy. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, a description of a pickup artist’s paradise. Smart girls do eventually get married at higher rates than dumb, lower class girls, but the relevant factor to the typical urban beta male is how many girls in his milieu are ready for marriage and/or long term relationships *during their 20s*, when women are at their most desirable. If the rising age of first marriage is any indication, not many.

Bottom line: your typical slut is a smart, educated woman.

So what does this have to do with that noted force of nature, female hypergamy? Well, if we premise our argument with the claim that female hypergamy always exists, and is always operational and acting upon women’s mate choice mechanisms (a claim entirely consistent with observed female behavior), then, given the study conclusions above, we are presented with the possibility that smart, financially independent chicks emphasize different male attractiveness traits when choosing mates than do dumb, financially insecure chicks. What are they?

Charm. Wit. Looks. Confidence. Social savviness. Social status (as distinct from wealth or occupational status). Charisma.

Most of these male attractiveness traits favored by smart chicks, yes, even including social status, can be grouped under the game umbrella. Game makes men more charming, witty, confident, socially savvy and charismatic. It even boosts a man’s social status. (Being known as a ladykiller is chicknip.)

Looks are the one thing game can’t change, but in most men’s experiences, women’s judgment and emphasis of male looks doesn’t much vary between the lower and upper class women, or the dumb and smart women. The study does suggest, though, that economically empowered and übereducated women probably will put more emphasis on male looks than will economically insecure, less educated women.

Now you know why poor, dumb religious girls swoon (settle?) at younger ages for provider betas relatively more than well-off, smart, secular girls. And why the latter can be found hanging off the arm of your local indie band singer before doing the smart thing and marrying a beta as her expiration date looms.

The trends in female mate choice I have described in this post go a longer way than any economic or class argument I’ve read to explain the coming apart of the white race in America as detailed in Charles Murray’s new book. Anyone who wants to take a long, hard look at social trends and the phenomena of “men dropping out” needs to incorporate into his thinking the cold, merciless, unrelenting reality of female hypergamy. To do less would be… uncivilized.

Read Full Post »

Female Hypergamy Getting Acknowledged By The Mainstream

How influential is this blog? Well, four years ago, Le Chateau Heartiste was writing about the overlooked social and sexual phenomenon of female hypergamy, and how this innate biological female predisposition has ramifications for a society’s structure and well-being. A term was coined by yer humble narrators for the changes being wrought in America and the West by the advancement of feminism, equalism and corporate globalism: the Four Sirens of the Sexual Apocalypse.

A recurring theme here, and one that has gone wholly underappreciated by our elites on the Left and the Right, is how insidiously the culture and the sexual market have changed since the advent of the Four Sirens of the Sexual Apocalypse. As a helpful reminder, here are the four sirens I’m talking about:

1. Effective and widely available contraceptives (the Pill, condom, and the de facto contraceptive abortion).
2. Easy peasy no-fault divorce.
3. Women’s economic independence (hurtling towards women’s economic advantage if the college enrollment ratio is any indication).
4. Rigged feminist-inspired laws that have caused a disincentivizing of marriage for men and an incentivizing of divorce for women.

As I have written, these changes are slowly, but powerfully, tectonically shifting the courtship playing field. The big winners are alpha males and the big losers are beta males.

Recently, thanks in part to the release of Charles Murray’s new book “Coming Apart“, there’s been a flurry of acknowledgement from the 1% bloggers that female hypergamy is real and its unleashed version may indeed be having tremendous effects on the shitty direction American society is currently heading. Ol’ Cheap Chalupas himself has been getting in on the action with a series of posts examining the issue. The comments are illuminative, particularly the ones from some rascally rogue going by the handle “CH”.

you know, it’s not like we don’t have historical precedent for this sort of sociosexual and cultural dystopia leading to civilizational collapse. the fact that female hypergamy — or other very unPC taboo subjects such as those concerning group population differences in civilizationally advantageous traits — wasn’t even on the smartypants pundit radar until, oh, right about now, should tell us how vigorously the elites in control of our discourse need to be pummeled over the head with the facts on the ground. It’s gonna be funny when, on the night before the long day of the rope, our leading light intellectuals confront the past 60 years of their cherished beliefs and realize it was all a pack of lies and wrongheadedness.

And when they do, they can look back at this blog — when no one’s watching them, of course — and tell themselves “Well, it’s not like we weren’t ridiculed warned.”

Read Full Post »