A Chick Who Gets It

The purple nail polish is killer. Now if we could just get wide angle shot with nekkid breastessesss included.

“There is no God but Love and Breastessesss are His prophet”

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What Should She Do?

A reader sent the Chateau the following email with no explicit instructions to withhold releasing for readership consumption the photos she attached. As per Chateau rules (Sec. 8, para. 14), if you don’t want your advice-seeking email correspondence or accompanying pics posted to the blog, say so. Otherwise, it will be assumed you are OK with it.

Hi Chateau,

I have been reading your blog and although I’m not a fan of some of the misogyny some of the guys that comment spew, I respect overall that you have a pretty good handle on the dating game. I saw the post & advice you gave that one girl who posted. I’m wondering if you would give me your honest opinion on how well I can do in NYC dating based on my attractiveness & other stats? I just moved here from California & it’s a jungle out here 🙂

Background on me: I just turned 25, am 5’6, around 125 pounds (attached photos). 0.7 hip to waist ratio, D breasts (they’re real).

Other statistics: went to Stanford, used to work in finance but quit that when it started changing my personality into a man’s, am now a writer / marketer. I can be funny, I have good manners & etiquette, I’m usually very positive and nice, and guys I’ve dated have said I’m fun to be around / very low drama/maintenence. Although I can be opinionated & want to be respected, I definitely voice those opinions in a respectful way. I can also cook decently well & I like sex a lot.

Money is important to me since I want to be a stay at home mom eventually (or at least have the option) and I never want to worry about money, and I’m wondering if I can do better than the guy I’m currently dating who wants an exclusive relationship with me. As I know my prime is now, and my options will only decrease with time, I’m wondering if you can give me an honest opinion of whether I should stay with him or start taking other offers more seriously? My friends don’t like this guy because he gives people shit sometimes / doesn’t care about being polite & so they’re saying I can do better, but they always say that. I like him, and I want your opinion. I have recently had the CTO of [major bank] ask to date me, and various other high earning finance guys. I just want to know what my chances are of actually landing a guy like these instead of being dicked around, or if I should even be concerned with it since I am really enjoying the guy I have now who I think is on the way up and I’m definitely unsure I’ll be able to match the level of chemistry and compatibility? I am wary of dating in NY because I’ve heard how brutal it can be, and I remain pretty much unscathed so far. I’d really hate to lose my optimism by getting abused by some douchebag who was never that into me anyway.

There’s nothing wrong with us, we get along really well for the most party. [Editor: A most excellent Freudian slip.] He’s a beta, 27, learned a lot of this pickup stuff and is dominant, which is great. Also can be cooperative & talk about psychology / relationships with me, which is so fascinating. He comes from a poor background in eastern europe, just started working for a hedge fund (seems to be good at it, the youngest guy there by 20 years) & sends money back home (admirable but a possible detriment in the future if they need to be continually supported). Very focused & interesting. Negatives are that he can be manipulative & critical, and doesn’t socially dominate / lead like some guys I know (was very uncomfortable in one large party situation where he didn’t know anyone & I knew some guy friends from school). Although he’s not the largest guy (5’10), he could probably hold his own in a fight (have heard stories about his rough upbringing).

Anyway, your opinion would be greatly appreciated.

Sorry the email is really long, I’m not a concise person 🙂

L.

She wants to know whether to stay with her doting, all-around niceguy boyfriend or to dump him to take one more stab at trading up in the hothouse dating market of Manhattan.

(rubbing hands)

She’s come to the right place!

Reading between the lines what we have here is a girl who likes, perhaps loves, her boyfriend, but has recently been propositioned for a date by a higher status man (the CTO of [major bank]). Her sexual market options suddenly thrown into stark relief, her hypergamous instinct is kicking in and she is contemplating, via the sounding board provided by the residents of the stately countryside Chateau, whether her boyfriend is really all that she thinks he is, and whether her ego isn’t as big as it deserves to be.

Gentlemen, behold the awesome power of female hypergamy. You can be the best boyfriend in the world, (and judging by her description of him, he sounds like a stand-up guy with plenty of positive traits), but if a higher ranking man comes along and shows some interest in your girlfriend (or wife!), you can bet your last penny she will be unable to resist pondering the opportunity to trade up and the concomitant reevaluation of her own market worth that goes along with attention from higher status suitors.

Women, of course, will cheer this as an example of female empowerment and being honest with oneself and yada yada down with the patriarchy yada, but imagine a man doing the same to his loyal girlfriend when a hotter, younger, tighter babe flirts with him. Those same women would be screaming like banshees from the rooftops.

It is the nature of the beast when the sexes have opposing reproductive goals.

But enough highlighting the underlying mechanism. Let’s examine this woman’s situation in point by point detail to determine whether it is in her interest to risk a breakup with Beta Lover for a shot at Mr. Big.

The Chateau keepers have reviewed the facts and rendered their judgment.

She is:

A 5.5. Maybe a 6 on a good day. She is not especially cute, but not invisibly plain either.

Her youth is her strongest asset. 25 years old gives her three to five years to complete her marriage quest according to the demands she has set for herself. Much depends on how well she ages. Her swarthy ancestry (Puerto Rican? Half black? Lebanese?) suggests she will stave off wrinkles for a longer time than the average white chick.

Her body is good. The numbers she has given put her at 20.1 BMI, which is right smack in the center of body weight desirability. But the photo she supplied makes her body look chubbier than would be expected with that low BMI. There is some tentative agreement among the hosts that she could stand to lose ten pounds.

Her breasts are magnificent funbags. But watch out! D cups are mesmerizing in their prime, but their prime is short-lived, surrendering rather quickly and ignominiously to National Geographic style sag.

The tone of her email gives the impression of a pleasant personality, but the content tells otherwise. She might qualify as a genuine golddigger. Golddiggers are one step below whores, because at least whores have the integrity to follow through on their end of the deal.

Look at the waist-hip ratio. She is the submissive type who needs a dominant man to make her feel like a woman.

She had a U-shaped smile. Untrustworthy.

Stanford? Irrelevant.

Writer/marketer? Irrelevant.

Good manners and etiquette? Meh. Girls who know where to place the salad fork have a detailed mental schematic for how to get them off in bed. Woe be the man who deviates from the script. Also, “good manners” reeks of try-hard, as if she is compensating for a poorly mannered cultural background.

Positive and nice? Your boyfriend might think differently if he reads this.

Opinionated? Translation: Loudmouthed nag.

Cooks well? Bonus.

Likes sex? Double plus bonus. But not much of a selling point in this raunchy day and age.

Her current boyfriend is:

A greater beta. He sounds like a higher ranking man than she is giving him credit for.

27 years old. So much for closeness of age being an important factor.

“Gives people shit sometimes / doesn’t care about being polite”: This is a trait of a greater beta, lesser alpha. Regular old betas do not give people shit. Instead, they take shit.

“On the way up”: Greater beta. At least.

“Level of chemistry and compatibility”: This guy sounds too good for her. If I were him I’d tell him to let her go get pump and dumped by the (likely married) CTO. When she comes crawling back, he can have his new, hotter girlfriend see her to the door.

“Learned a lot of this pickup stuff and is dominant”: Not seeing the problem with this guy? Oh, that’s right. He’s not a CTO. Manhattan, isle of twue wuv!

“Also can be cooperative & talk about psychology / relationships with me, which is so fascinating”: She is talking herself into staying with him. The hamster is really running the shit out of his little legs in this email.

Poor East Europe background? Irrelevant. Possible net positive, if he has brought over to America some of his cultural learnings for benefit of good wifely obedience.

Hedge fund work? Slimy, but alpha.

Sends money back home? As much as women say they admire generous family men, their self-interest pushes them into the arms of selfish men who give all their money only to wifey and the kids to the exclusion of her in-laws.

Manipulative and critical? Again, this is a characteristic of greater betas and alphas, not run of the mill betas. A beta always attempts to assuage his woman when she is upset. Stronger, more dominant men take a different tact.

Doesn’t always socially dominate/lead like other men she knows? This is beta, true. But it also shows how a woman’s perception of her lover is so heavily skewed by the behavior of other men in her social circle. If you are a beta, you’d do best to date a girl who is not often in the company of alphas.

5’10”? Neutral to slight negative.

******

The Chateau has rendered its judgment:

You are a fucking handful. You ask for advice, and yet every other sentence is a self-pleading justification for staying with your current boyfriend.

So stay with the man. But don’t be surprised if, in a few years time when his status goes up as yours is going down, he decides to dump your demanding 463 bullet-point checklist ass for a hotter chick.

Quite simply, in New York, you don’t have the looks to compete for the alphas as anything more than a convenient wet hole to be discarded unceremoniously when girlfriends #3 and #4 call.

Having delivered that harsh judgment, the Chateau does understand where you are coming from, and your feelings in the matter. A higher status CTO wants to fuck you. This makes you feel good about yourself, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this alpha will be the one who marries you and gives you the life of the princess stay at home mommy you’ve always dreamed of. There is room in the world for such arrangements. But based on your looks, it is more likely that you will begin dating the CTO only to either

a. find out he is married, or

b. get dumped after a three month fling.

What you didn’t tell us was a description of the looks of the CTO. If he is particularly ugly or nebbishy then there is a chance that dumping your loyal boyfriend to date him would work out for you. It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of couples featuring hot chicks dating physically unimpressive but rich herbs in our glorious cities.

But the bottom line is this: You answered your own question.

If you were truly tempted to stray with the CTO or any other high flying finance guy, you would have done it without emailing the Chateau beforehand for the imaginary green light. That you have done this instead tells us that you find yourself falling in love with your good-hearted but sometimes awkward boyfriend, and it scares you.

It scares you because love means a cutting off of options. But that is a risk worth taking. Before it’s too late.

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Saving Marriages One Blog Post At A Time

Reader J. writes:

R,

This post changed my life, “Relationship Game Week: A Reader’s Journey“.  The biggest problem in my 8+ year marriage was constantly failing shit tests.  Within hours of reading this, my life got waaaay better.

We’ve had the following “discussion” every month for the past four years.

Before [reading this blog]:
Her: How much did you drink last night?
Me: Eh, just a few.  I didn’t drink that much.
Her: Bullshit.  I could smell it on you when you came home.  Even after you brushed your teeth.
Me: Seriously, I only had 2 or 3 drinks.
Her: What if you got pulled over?  There’s no way you would have passed a breath-a-lyzer.
Me: I’m 37 years old.  I know my limits.  I’m sure I would have passed.
Her: What if you killed some one?  What if you died?  How would I explain that to our children. Blah, blah blah.
Us: [Fight]

18 hours after discovering your blog:
Her: How much did you drink last night?
Me: Oh, I got hammered.  [Buddy’s name] had to drive me home.
Her: *giggle* Shut up!
Me: *smirk* Yeah, go get dressed.  You need to drive me to [next town over] to get my car.
Her: *smile* Yeah, right.

I can’t believe this worked?!? [ed: believe it]

I’ve been reading your blog for all of a week, and I’ve seen numerous mentions of shit tests, “agree and amplify” and “beta baiting”.  Is there a “Shit Test 101” column somewhere?  If not, what is the original source material for this?

I don’t care what the nay-sayers say about “Game”.  This is bigger than you or me getting laid.  If betas adopt these techniques, millions of kids could be spared the agony of their parents’ divorce.  THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!

Seriously, man.  Thanks.

J.

I’ll be honest. When I started this blog my intentions were less than noble. I had set out to amuse myself by performing sociological experiments with the utmost predator sadism on the degenerate mafia of haters, losers, delusional tards, liars, and sexual marketplace rejects who would be drawn to the bracing truths contained within the walls of this venerable Chateau like gimped moths to the flame. Wailing in anguish, they limped, shuffled, and weeble wobbled over, right on cue, and it was good.

Lies perished. But truths were heralded, too. Dropped like a Heysoosian savior into this cruel fragfest thunderdome, I gave my only begotten sex, love and romance knowledge to the world, gift-boxed in a lament configuration and tied with a bow of barbed wire. Who would be strong enough — clear-thinking enough — to clamber above their human foibles and the limitations imposed by their egos to grasp the knowledge that was there for the taking?

I never wanted anything from this project but the self-pleasure of the soulripper. I didn’t care if no one took the message to heart to improve their lives. That was never my purpose. But then a funny thing happened. The emails from grateful readers started rolling in; men, young an old, and women too, writing to tell me what a positive impact this outpost of wicked illumination has had on their lives. I receive emails like J.’s above on an almost daily basis now. This blog has, despite its dark-robed proprietors’ demonic efforts, healed relationships and saved marriages. Something that an army of Pee Aych Dee wielding credentialissimo therapists and counselors, with their PC playbook of half-baked bromides and knee-jerk misandry, struggle to claim. And that is the burn that singes the denialists and foam-flecked haters deepest. That a despised womanizer could so thoroughly humiliate their comfortable worldview, and do them one better.

“How could anyone who writes such horrible things be a force for good in the world?”

A moment of clarity will give you the answer to your question.

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Using This Blog As A Pickup Prop

A late 20-ish/early 30s woman with a passing resemblance to Jennifer Connelly sat down on the springless couch to my right, relieved that she found a spot to sit in the crowded coffee shop. She sunk all the way in like a turtle retreating into its shell, and I smiled and told her the couch already ate two people. She laughed while pulling out a laptop.

My laptop was in front of me, perched on my thighs. In between spurts of typing I reached to sip from a cup of dragon well green tea and to munch on toasted focacia with slices of brie. Because my balls weigh that of ten men, I am secure enough to write the previous sentence. Immediately, my thoughts drifted to meeting this woman and how I could best use my supranatural Lucifer-given talents to accomplish that.

I waited for ten minutes to pass. When a woman is forced by circumstance to loiter in your proximity, it’s best not to jump on her right away. A man must leave an impression that his interest in a nearby woman only piqued after his mind stopped being preoccupied by whatever he was doing before she arrived. So I continued typing while pretending her stimulating looks hadn’t yet registered in the cock-shaped part of my brain.

Finally, I delivered my opener.

“I’ve never seen someone so engrossed in their work. You writing the next great American novel?”

Standard operating procedure. I’ve used the line many times, although it felt fresher this go round. Perhaps I was inspired by my latent decision to toss caution to the wind with what was about to come.

She chuckled at my opener, and answered with the confident voice of a woman who is used to sparring with men.

“Not quite. More like the next great American Excel spreadsheet.”

A good-looking woman with a genuine sense of humor? Did I sell my soul to the devil in a dream? Oh wow, I’d better not screw this up. My game has to be super tight! No margin for error. Just dance with the script that brought me here. No need to improvise. Stay the course!

“Ooh. My Mom warned me about women who use Excel.”

“Oh, really?” she playfully parried. “And what did she warn you about?”

“They’re bad news. They can analyze a man and know what he’s all about in two seconds.”

“That sounds like a great gift to have!”

We chatted for five more minutes. She was slowly hooking. Eventually, the conversation found its way to a point where I could deliver the following line.

“Luckily for me, I’m totally inscrutable. For instance, I’m definitely not writing an Excel spreadsheet. So you can try not to be so obvious when you peer over my shoulder to see what I’m writing.”

Babe bait.

“You certainly think highly of yourself.”

“I’m just a boy trying to figure it all out.”

“Is that what you’re writing about? Figuring it all out?”

“Sort of. I write a dating and relationship blog. Unfortunately, it’s pretty popular. So I have a lot of stalkers. Cost of doing business, I guess.”

“A dating blog?”

“And relationships.” I show her the front page of the Chateau.

“And you’re citizen renegade?”

“Among other names.”

“So, if you’re such an expert on dating, why are you still single?”

“The better question would be: Why *wouldn’t* I still be single?”

“Oh no, you sound like trouble.”

Ka-ching!

“Wow, the prison warden said the same thing to me.” She smiled and I let a few seconds of silence break the badinage.

I put forth my most serious face. “Hey, I have a confession to make…”

I love the ‘confession’ line. It’s like a mini insta-vulnerability game pebble that I can toss into almost any conversation to boost the girl’s intrigue. Plus, it makes girls a wee bit nervous, wondering if I’m going to confess to something really sordid that would make them too horny to control themselves.

“My blog is pretty controversial. I write about the dark side of human social dynamics as well. People with closed minds would probably not be able to understand. So if you find yourself curious, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I suppose now I’m going to have to take a look some time.”

“Hey, listen, I’ve got to run. But before I do I’d like to grab your number so our conversation doesn’t have to stop here for all eternity.”

This is my new number closing line. So far, I like it.

We exchanged numbers. The next day, I called her and set up a date that evening. No need to wait two days. She wasn’t an early 20s flakeriffic chick. The date went well, and we ended with a kiss. My blog was discussed, briefly, when she asked if I was really like my blog persona in real life. After I assured her I was (and make no mistake, it was assurance she secretly wanted), we went salsa dancing. A kiss to close the night, and I told her I had a good time. I didn’t set up a time for a second date. Never make plans for a future date while on a date. It reeks of urgency. Best to just tell the girl you must go, and you had a good time. Leave her stranded knee deep in the wonderment of her uncertainty.

***

I admit that using my blog as proof of status to pick up girls is cheesy. One of my goals in writing this post was to show just how powerful raw status game can be for a man. There was very little in the way of calculated technique-based game as is commonly understood used in this pickup. Instead, I relied on the crutch of high status within my endeavor of choice.

Cheesy, and effective.

She will probably read this blog post, so what I’m about to write may cost me, and her, a chance to see where this will lead. Or not. As I walked home from that first date, I asked myself if I really wanted to date the kind of girl who would be intrigued by what I write on this blog. If past experience is prologue…

But that is an answer for another time.

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I’m In The Weekly Standard

There’s an article called “The New Dating Game” in the Weekly Standard which mentions this blog. It’s written by Charlotte Allen and it is pretty good. But I do want to issue a couple points of correction.

Allen writes:

CH’s deliberately outrageous posts are a source of controversy. In a write-up on George Sodini, the man who shot up a gym near Pittsburgh last August, killing 3 women before turning the gun on himself, CH contended that Sodini, whose diary revealed that he had not had sex for 20 years before the incident, was simply a frustrated beta barred access to women by the sexual/feminist revolution and that “anything was justified” to avoid the “walking death” of celibacy. In other words, Sodini was a hapless victim of the sexual revolution.

In that infamous and widely misconstrued post (2,255 comments), what I actually wrote was:

When men kill women, the underlying reason is almost always an unfulfilled psychosexual need. This goes for spree shooters, rapists, and serial killers. I’m not surprised Sodini hadn’t had sex in nearly 20 years. As I’ve written before, to some men on the losing side of the desireability bell curve celibacy is walking death and anything is justified in avoiding that miserable fate.

I don’t personally argue that “anything is justified” to avoid the miserable fate of involuntary celibacy. I argue that some men who are losers in the mating race will be likelier to find any justification for acting out violently. I didn’t think this was a subtle distinction when I wrote the Sodini post, but judging by the storm of flapping vaj lips from the feministing crowd in response I should not have underestimated the deliberate deceit in which that post would be read.

Allen also writes:

CH himself, although arguably the most jaded of all the seduction bloggers, is actually a closet moralist who longs for the more constrained past when women dressed modestly (“Girlfriend or Fling?” is all about the kind of clothing and bearing that mark a girl as a “pump-and-dump”), refrained from swearing like sailors, stayed out of men’s beds (except his!), and generally conducted themselves like wife-and-mother material (although he says he has no intention of getting married himself).

While I argue that a sexual revolution instituted by a female-alpha male axis of ardor will ultimately result in the implosion of a secular modern society, I don’t long for a return to an era of chaste women holding out for marriage. I may describe reality as it is, and what it takes to prevent a first world nation from consuming itself, but I wouldn’t sacrifice my poolside pleasure to help the far-thinking forces of propriety reclaim a moral society that put a lid on loose pussy.

Postscript: I was asked via email by Allen to do an interview, but I had decided against it. I figure whatever I have to say about blood, sugar, sex, magik I’ll say here. Although Allen’s article turned out to be reasonable (the exception to the rule when dealing with journalists covering the topic of sex relations), most reporters will twist an interviewee’s quotes out of context according to their ideological whim or emotional vendetta. Whatever ethical strictures used to govern journalism have long since faded away in a miasma of rank partisanship and propagandistic hackery.

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When Elites Self-Destruct

When I first read this news story, I doubted its authenticity. It reads like something Snopes.com would later discredit. But I looked around and the story is repeated in multiple media outfits.

Transsexual performer vomits on Susan Sarandon

Oscar winning actress Susan Sarandon has had a bad time of it lately. The actress recently separated from her long time partner, actor Tim Robbins. Sarandon attended the third anniversary of The Box in New York’s Lower East Side.

A transsexual cabaret performer named Rose Wood engaged in projectile vomiting on stage and hit Sarandon with it .

Standing nearby were Scarlett Johansson and Liev Schreiber.

According to Wood it was not intended as an affront to the actress and she didn’t take it that way.

“Apparently [Sarandon] got a big kick out of it. She squealed with surprise and loved it when several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her. She had a ball! I saw her assistant downstairs afterward, and he was moved by it! She was in great spirits,” Wood told the New York Press.

Wood explains that vomiting on people is fitting is this establishment. “[It was a] fitting time for an outrageous act: the third anniversary of The Box. Everybody wants to offer safe and ordinary, not The Box!”

Was the vomit fake? The news outlets reporting on this story didn’t mention anything about the vomit being fake, so it looks as if an actual stream of hot, chunky puke hit Sarandon. If she was sitting down in the first rows, it is likely the projectile vomit splattered her upper body and face. Where does getting vomited on rank compared to other incredibly disgusting affronts to one’s dignity? Leaving aside for purposes of this discussion the creatively exotic ways in which the tortures of the damned might be executed (e.g., feeding severed genitalia to the writhing victim), I have ranked in descending order the top three most disgusting things that could happen to a person.

A tranny crapping on you. (Bonus points if face is the bulls-eye.)
A tranny projectile vomiting on you. (Again, bonus points for face.)
A tranny — assuming he/she still has a dick — jizzing on you. (Despite the terabytes of pornographic evidence to the contrary, I’d imagine that, like Clarice Starling, most women would not appreciate receiving an unwanted hot load to the face by a complete stranger, whether or not that stranger was doing “art” on stage. If we were to restrict our ranking to straight men, I’d place jizz in face above vomit in face, but just slightly below crap in face. If the crap was small, hard, and pellet-like, I think most men would even take that over jizz in the face. I once saw a porno clip of two guys on one girl and one of the dudes accidentally jizzed into the other dude’s face as that dude was kissing the girl. The reaction of the jizzed-upon dude was priceless. He jumped back instantaneously and retched, swinging his arms around blindly for a towel to wipe off on. I bet his nightmares will haunt his sleep for years.)

Was Sarandon auditioning for “two old leftie hags, one cup”? And what the hell was Scarlett Johansson doing there? Did she partake of the pukage? I’ve gotta say, nothing can desexify a hot babe faster than a little dribble of puke falling down her cheek, like a sad, gross tear.

This story has so much win it’s hard to know where to begin. First of all, it happened to Susan Sarandon. This is better than if it happened to Bono, although not as good as if it happened to Katie Couric. Secondly, the melding of elitist status posturing with the fraud that is modern “art” is perfectly symbolized in the caulking of the latter’s vomitus to the former’s face. This is meta-art that illuminates far more than the actual art.

Idiocracy isn’t confined to the plebes and riff raff. A counterpart idiocracy is simultaneously at work degrading the elite. A sure sign of a culture’s death rattle is its elite abandoning all pretense of taste and class in a vain effort to prop a barrier between themselves and the hoi polloi. The fraud that is modern art has served this function well for the past 50 or 60 years, but it is finally reaching its inevitable resolution, as it always would, devolving into a repulsive farce that says more about professed elite admiration for it than about the art itself. At one time, there was piss christ, which the elites could happily use as a club to bludgeon the unsophisticated into submissive apologia. But pretty (and not so pretty) lies are like ravenous beasts that must continually feed until ultimately they turn on their advocates. (See: Any multicultural society’s paeans to diversity.) And so we have the scorching parody of an elitist like Susan Sarandon suffering a stream of projectile vomit from the beast she helped breathe to life, and then being forced by a combination of circumstance and cognitive dissonance to betray her own disgust reflex at the altar of lifestyle liberalism.

Susan Sarandon’s defiled face and subsequent feint of enjoyment and poseurism is a symbol of the late Caesarean implosion of our putative overclass. Tim Robbins’ dumping her must have hit her hard. (Another high status man dumps aging wife! News at 11.) The “several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her” line is telling. Rose Wood knows what a wrinkled, sexually worthless woman wants to hear. On the other end of the social spectrum, People of Walmart race to the bottom free of any need or desire to ape the habits of their betters. And who could blame them when their betters are the likes of Sarandon, vomiting trannies, and enabling art critics and media mavens? All the while, the rapidly shrinking sane middle is beaten like a pinata by an unholy alliance of the hermetically warped elites and the wretched bottom dwellers, of which such end-gameplaying is sure to have deadly serious consequences.

Here is the truth of the incident. You, Susan Sarandon, got puked on by a freak degenerate performing nothing remotely resembling art except in the fevered imaginations of bathhouse Baudelaires and serial killers. It wasn’t cutely “outrageous” and it wasn’t conceptually deep that only you and your inner circle of pretend snobs could recognize its artistic merit. And those “handsome gentlemen” in attendance took pity on you, the kind of unwelcome, soul withering pity reserved for the losers and the lost. Of which you are now one.

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Is John Mayer Reading My Blog?

On January 21st, I wrote the following in this post:

Tiger Woods may not be a model citizen, but neither does he have an emotional or psychological problem. […] If Woods has a problem, it’s that he got married. Big mistake, chief.

On January 28th, John Mayer said the following in an interview with the UK paper The Independent:

“Tiger Woods’ problems come from him being married. The end,” Mayer said to the U.K.’s The Independent newspaper. “If Tiger Woods was single and he texted a girl and said ‘I wanna wear your ass like a hat’, why would that ever hit the news?”

There’s no date when the actual interview took place, but I bet John Mayer is a CH reader. Welcome aboard John. Good to see you heeding my advice and staying far away from marriage. I admit I laughed a little when you squeezed out the last drops of Jennifer Aniston’s precious years, and then played Lucy moving the football with the engagement ring. Stay single.

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