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Archive for the ‘Videos’ Category

Have you noticed the dearth of original ideas coming out of Hollywood? The problem is that a good idea needs a companion in the truth. And our culture has turned violently away from the truth. Consequently, novel ideas in all art forms are getting rarer.

Reader PA suggests a Crimson Pill movie idea that’s both fresh and honest.

I wonder if rape victims who experienced orgasms mid rape were capable of having vaginal orgasms in their normal lives.

You’re writing a screenplay for a drama/thriller involving a normal, happily married woman who was just brutally raped and came hard in the throes of the assault. Her husband is a normal blue-pill greater beta who suddenly finds her unable to have vaginal sex. The husband goes through tears and frustration, and self-defeating attempts at being “supportive” and then finds a crimson arts blog and makes a plan to transform himself into a Love-Heisenberg, to save the marriage.

Do you simply graft the script of “9 and 1/2 Weeks” from here on, or is there another approach?

Throw in a paint-by-numbers overcredentialed marriage counselor, a spiteful feminist BFF, and an undersexed white knight friend of the husband who secretly desires his wife, and you’ve got yourself boffo box office!

By the way, Fifty Shades of Grey, if you don’t already know, is a complete rip-off of the vastly superior Mickey Rourke-Kim Bassinger erotic movie Nine 1/2 Weeks. Ferkrissake, the male lead’s character name in Nine 1/2 is “John Gray”. I’m surprised critics have failed to note the similarities. It’s canny enough that the producers of Nine 1/2 (and the writer of the book on which the movie is based) have grounds to sue the fat pig who wrote Fifty Shades.

Bassinger’s character, Elizabeth, in Nine 1/2 also falls for a badboy with a sadistic streak. (Girls can’t help themselves.) There is a rape scene in which Elizabeth has a powerful orgasm. She is both bewildered and entranced by her body’s betrayal of her good sense. The movie has a sort of audience-stroking happy ending, when Elizabeth, deeply in love with John but emotionally broken by his intensifying manipulations (he has her watch a prostitute service him in a hotel room), leaves him, but in so doing turns her back on a piece of her womanhood. There’s a subtext that she will never joyously submit to that kind of fiery passion again.

(John should’ve balanced all that anxiety-inducement with some comfort. Game 101, man!)

Personally, I would take PA’s idea and make a feint toward a Nine 1/2 Weeks conclusion, except with a Walter White Breaking Badboy twist: The greater beta husband, upon elevating himself as the dominant force in his wife’s life and finally in a position to save their marriage (ironically via a route that mirrors his wife’s confusing rape experience), opts instead to succumb to the temptations of his reinvention. I’d also change the deus ex machina from a blog to a player buddy, or perhaps to a death row inmate with a pile of marriage proposals from adoring female fans. Internet-hemmed epiphanies don’t play well on screen.

Submission to a man worthy of it is engraved in a woman’s soul. She will deny it, the Hivemind will deny it, the pedestal-polishing plushboys will deny it as they politely discuss financial outlooks over the din of insistent pleat-imprisoned chubbies in sterile offices with gogrrl droids in pencil skirts, but when the blinds are closed and the darkness descends, every woman will arch her back to meet the lovely, exquisite pain of an icy caress.

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We have a guest post today from dissident humorist/satirist/troll “Duck” (you can follow his Twitter feed @jokeocracy, under the nom de plumage “Duck Enlightenment”). He explores the subversive themes and cultural schisms underlying a gaming communitaaaahh kerfuffle in which many triggers were triggered and micros were aggressed. Begin transmission…

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A New Rallying Cry For Men: “Who Bitch This Is?”

During a recent video gaming tournament, one of the competitors, a man known as Shinblade, celebrated a tough win. A particularly dumpy female in attendance took offense to his victory dance, and attempted to physically push him back down into his chair. He resisted, then realized he was being assaulted by a woman and addressed the crowd with four mighty words that shall echo through history: “WHO BITCH THIS IS?”

This man Shinblade is a true American hero.

“Who bitch this is?” is an exhilarating assertion of patriarchal privilege packed into a pithy four word thunderbolt. It manages in just those mere four words to pack so many deep layers of privilege and masculinity it seems almost impossible.

Firstly, “Who bitch this is?” correctly and directly labels the offending female, who has initiated a physical altercation, as a “bitch”. Immediately from just the second word it’s clear the speaker is pulling no punches and refuses to bow to any PC concerns.

Digging a bit deeper, “Who bitch this is?” also explicitly declares that the venue where the words are spoken is a male-centric environment. Any “bitch” present in this place must therefore be the property of another man in attendance, and it is therefore that man’s responsibility to keep her in line.

Even further, “Who bitch this is?” recognizes that there are essential differences between the sexes and that the sexes maintain varying degrees of self-control over their behavior. The speaker does not address his concerns to the “bitch” in question, but ignores her to instead query the wider audience to find the designated male responsible for her behavior. She is therefore explicitly declared not responsible for her own behavior, as it is known in male environments that women are unable to control themselves and hence they are expected to be the responsibility of an attending male.

I believe that “Who bitch this is?” should become a rallying cry for a male generation in the West that has allowed itself to be pushed around by feminist nonsense for far, far too long. Reasonable debate has failed and the feminist establishment refuses to listen to rational concerns about where they are leading our civilization. Direct words need to be spoken, and this man Shinblade has gifted us with these four powerful direct words to show us the way forward.

So the next time some silly cow gets in your face, or puts her hands on you, or accuses you of being sexist: just stay calm and don’t allow yourself to become upset. Maintain your frame, look around, and then in a clear loud voice ask the room one simple and devastating question: “Who Bitch This Is?”

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I feel dirty. Still, I laughed. At everyone involved. Because that was one sad spectacle. #GoodbyeAmerica

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Exhibit Audi:

I’m not surprised by this welcome turn to the masculine side. It is inevitable that as Western society becomes in practice more womanly, the rebellious, unquenchable spirit of boys and men would find renewed purpose pushing back against the zeitshrike of the age. I predict far fewer “goofball dad” commercials in the near future, and far more “dark triad rule breaker” commercials that make high T feminists swoon with a lethally dissonant combination of butthurt rage and muffpert craze.

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The Pathetic Creature

In this video, John Carmack, inventor of the first person shooter, unloads the BFG in the pinched face of a schoolmarm SJW.

A little background on the SJW:

Typical. Carmack accomplishes more before breakfast than this snout-nosed SJW has done in her lifetime.

Here’s the question to the studio audience:

Who’s the more pathetic creature?

– The insipid, hypocritical SJW, or

– The suckup, betaboy lapdog applauding (0:20-0:24) the SJW’s brave blow for gender justice?

No poll is necessary. I already know how most would answer. There’s something particularly grating about a self-castrating manlet propping the delusions of a funky cold medusa. We can laugh at the deluded naked king, but feel hate toward the cowards aiding and abetting the king’s delusion.

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Anderson Cooper enjoys a gleeful moment of white ethnomasochism when he happily discovers a slave murdered one of his ancestors.

No further comment. The sickness is self-evident.

UPDATE

Ok, maybe some further comment. To head off the inevitable haters and short bus slopeheads, the “sickness” to which I refer isn’t the anti-slavery posturing; it’s the preening eagerness that Cooper brings to learning about his blood ancestor being killed by one of the slaves.

A non-pussy white man with a set of working stones, upon hearing the same news, would react more like this:

“Hm. How about that. Well, I’m conflicted. Not too happy about the slavery thing, but I’m not going to sit here and crow about one of my own blood getting brutally murdered, whether his killer was slave or not, just to act all sanctimonious for liberal whites and TV ratings. So, I’m glad they hanged his killer.”

Is it really so hard for pussy white male leftoids to MAN UP a little? Must be genetic.

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Inspired by the subversively realist Shoshana Roberts catcall video, a hundred “Ten Hours of [X] Walking in NYC” parody videos have sprung up like facial scruff on Amanda Marcotte. This is a good one:

“Judge me by my size, do you?” :lol:

Mockery is the best tonic for feminist idiocy. I can smell the feminist butthurt. *sniff sniff* I detect notes of hairy asscrack.

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This video would’ve reached epic status if it ended with Chewbacca sidling up and roaring at her, and she gives him her number.

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I dare you to watch this all the way through without feeling at least a small gurgle of nausea.

Feminism For Bros (level 105) is a PSA by a group called “Centre for Gender Advocacy”, based in Montreal, associated with something called The Consensual Collective. I imagine corporate headquarters is a coffeehouse office where two manlets and a chubby cunt get together to project their confused sexuality and self-loathing onto normal people. The video shows a couple, (mostly the vaguely male hipster), asking for verbal consent at each step of foreplay. Unedited footage taken five years into the future shows him asking her if he may briefly appear naked in front of his now-wife while he dresses in the morning. She asks if she may shove her prized buttplug up his rectum. He assents.

“Can I kiss you?” “Can I put my hand here?” “Can I take your shirt off?”

Bzzt! Rebuffed! Her shirt stays on. They go back to loud kissing that sounds like an octopus pulling its tentacles off wet glass.

“Can I kiss your neck?” “Can I take off your shirt?”

This time he gets the green light. Not really sure what difference waiting ten seconds to approve his shirt-removal request made for the girl.

“Can I kiss you… there?”

He points to her sternum, that well-known erogenous zone on women.

“Can I go down on you?”

Of course, this faggot opts to mash his face in her pussy before banging her. OF COURSE. Pre-sex cunnilingus is 99% of times a huge beta male tell.

“CONSENT IS FUN”

No it’s not when it has to be verbalized every five seconds in a cloud of gnawing fear that a presumptuous ear nibble could lead to a rape accusation.

“CONSENT IS SEXY”

No it’s not, and telling yourself that won’t make it so.

“CONSENT IS SAFE”

Pretty sure gonorrhea is transmissible with or without consent. And there’s no way this manlet is overpowering the girl.

“CUTV”

So close.

I hope this video was a parody, because if not, then the people involved with this shit, or people who would seriously entertain its message, are down with the sickness that has no cure.

Coitus interruptus, meet passion interruptus. I can’t think of much that would kill the mood faster than asking for permission to escalate foreplay and slip the tip in. A barrage of mewling inquiries, however smokily whispered, makes whiskey dick seem like the pinnacle of bedroom prowess. Fatrelle whipping out his micropeen and flicking it to life with his porky pinky would be less likely to spoil the moment than a guy following BRO FEMINISM verbal consent guidelines.

Anyone who’s been with non-psychotic non-feminist girls (or, if you’re a woman, with men who aren’t afraid of their penes) knows how this works: The heat of the moment carries both of you forward through sexual escalation, wordlessly (unless you’re into actual dirty talk), clothes flying everywhere, hands exploring, mouths traveling great expanses of flesh, until panties are tugged off and sex ushers a symphony of moans. Consent is implied, usually, by the girl not saying “no” or pushing herself off the man.

This is what normal human beings whose brains weren’t hijacked by parasites do. As a female commenter at Total Frat Move put it:

As a girl, if a guy can’t take at least some control, it’s a turn off. If a girl doesn’t want sex then she will say so. If I want you, you’ll be able to tell. This was ridiculous.

Most feminist agitprop amounts to unattractive or psychologically defective women running from that scary and confusing female desire to submit to a dominating man, and grappling with those feelings that remind them of their vulnerable femaleness by neutering any man foolish enough to pursue them. A man who obeys feminist pique is a man who is never getting laid, and that’s the point. This stuff helps filter out weak betas who are too insecure to give women what they really want: A sexually entitled man who doesn’t second-guess his allure.

Males who are into this game are poseurs angling for broken snatch, genuine androgynous misfits play-acting revenge fantasies against the jocks who flipped their lunch trays, or sexually parched spergs who can’t read nonverbal arousal cues.

ps The reader who sent this clip wrote, “I love America, but I’m moving.” This sentiment must be shared by more men every day who watch this freak parade of putrescence shamble over the remnants of a once vital culture.

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