Poolside In America

Would you call this man smart? I would.

He jams, drinks, surfs, lounges beachside all day, and eats lobster on the public dime. Oh sure, he doesn’t have a lot of material possessions (but how’d he get that car?) that define the accomplished SWPL life, but when you’re banging hot southern Cally girls, (and I bet you big bank he’s tapping more sweet ass than a hundred Apple employees turning six figures are buying dinners for), the urge to bust your balls hunched over a computer screen 50 hours a week so you can acquire the latest iteration of some useless gadget and pay taxes for your active dispossession kind of fades away. The Dude abides his new perspective.

Poolside in America is the nation’s 21st century battle cry. And why not? The country is sinking fast under mounds of debt, unemployment, and alienation. The government pushes propaganda and policies that undermine the very concept of a nation, so no wonder growing numbers of Americans are jettisoning any feeling of duty toward their homeland like so much gassy ballast. Social atomization and the sheer massive scale of a bloated 300+ million population of competing races, ethnicities, behaviors, and temperaments herded like cats under ever-tightening rules and regulations and surveillance drones doomed to fail are splintering hard-earned loyalty and severing bonhomie. Obscene inequality of wealth and the total abandonment of noblesse oblige by the ruling classes has emboldened the leeches and parasites and sociopaths and hedonists and nihilists and clear thinkers. In the land of the left-behind, the poolsider is king.

Toward the end of the video, the interviewer asks RattLife Surfer if he feels guilty for taking advantage of Obama’s removal of restrictions on qualifying for food stamps, and helping himself to $200 of “free” money every month. He says no, and I believe him. It would be strange to feel guilt for sucking a pittance of Danegeld from fat cats helping themselves to ungodly profits from arcane financial transactions abetted by a cognitive firewall between the masses and the gated 0.1%ers on the hunt for ever-cheaper labor imported from shitholes. RattLife has made a very rational decision regarding his well-being: He has looked at the world he inherited, at the immense chasm between the haves and (relative) have-nots, and has figured that slaving away in a cube farm or a grimy sweatshop on a stagnating wage to serve a smaller and smaller cadre of super wealthy and femcunt HR schoolmarms is no life at all. What is the point of busting your hump when the brass ring has moved from your fingertips to Alpha Centauri?

“My job is to make sure the sun’s up and the girls are out.”

Now that’s radical.

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Serial Killer Or Omega Male?

“…other worlds where your dad still sees you as his own… i dunno, not shaming myself in the basement getting drunk off tiny wines…”

As many readers know, omega males are the sexual market dregs of malehood. Unlike beta males, omegas can’t get laid with any woman. Even the land whales have to have their renaissance faire turkey leg arms twisted to consider dispensing a pity fuck to an omega male.

What you may not know is the sociological intersection between the more deranged specimen of omega male and the serial killer. It’s a short stutter from counting paper clips and sniffing a chick’s hair when she’s not looking to performing mouth love with a butchered carcass.

Strangely enough, some omega males aren’t half-bad looking and can be quite intelligent. But their social awkwardness is so acute that any compensating positive traits are rendered useless, as we can see in the above video.

Chick needs to do something with her hair. Looks like a mangy red fox fainted on her head.

CH would like to thank the faggot striver boars at MPC for this find.

UPDATE

Evidence has surfaced that this could be staged. If so, it at least serves as a well-acted study of real omega male behavior. Though perhaps the giveaway here is the scripted nature of his soliloquies. A real omega would be hard-pressed to string together a single sentence in the company of a semi-attractive girl without losing his lunch or pausing to pick his nose and eat it.

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Serial Killer Dies, More Women Mourn His Death Than The Deaths Of A Thousand Beta Males

A reader updates,

So Richard Ramirez dies.  The AP does a write up, and throws in this line:  “Inexplicably, Ramirez, a native of El Paso, Texas, had a following of young women admirers who came to the courtroom regularly and sent him love notes.”

“Inexplicably”? Not to regular visitors of Le Chateau. Chicks dig violent psychopaths, even facially ugly ones like Ramirez.

In other “blast from the past” news, here’s a video of narcissistic serial killer Rodney James Alcala as a contestant on a TV dating show. (no joke)

He won.

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Cost-Free Gestures Of Romantic Reassurance

PA suggests that emailing this song to your girlfriend or wife is a simple gesture of well-timed beta reassurance that (uncorrupted, foreign) chicks dig… in small quantities.

It’s a fine song of loving lovitude. However, halfway through the listening experience my eyes drifted down to a random YouTube comment.

my dad played this song every time he picked me and my bro up for his court-ordered visit with us…actually ROD STEWART was the only thing both my dad and mom had in common. All they did was argue.

You are carried aloft on the whispers of a soulful love ballad, inspired to newfound hopefulness about the inherent goodness of the universe and the nature of woman, when you feel a tug and realize, once again, the dark tendrils of ugly reality are coiling around your ankles, dragging you back into the depths.

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Great Scenes Of Game In The Movies: Tony Montana Game

Some of you read the post title and immediately thought it referred to Tony’s classic master of the universe maxim:

Nothing wrong with this version of game. Power is, after all, the ultimate aphrodisiac to the female libido. But power derived from insane wealth takes a lot of work to acquire. What if you just want some quickie game to charm the lady in front of you, right now? Zipless fuck game, if you will.

Commenter Scray writes of another aspect to Tony Montana’s tight game:

Also, game in the movies…I never really got it before, but Tony Montana seems to have some game:

He drops a huge neg on her (it’s pretty nuclear but seems correct considering how low value she seemed to think he was). Then, when she gets pissed, he gives a pretty alpha smirk (I may try to steal that look actually lol)…”now you’re talking to me, -that- I like.”

The huge neg (really, more an insult than a neg, but whatever works) Scray refers to is the line (around 1:30), “Only you got a look in your eye like you haven’t been FUCKED in a year”. A line which, if I’m not mistaken, was lifted and reformatted for a sensible SWPL audience by Mystery et al. and incorporated into early ’00s game.

But the best part is how Tony handles Elvira’s inevitable (and quite caustic) follow-up shit test, “Hey Jose, who I fuck is none of your business.”

He replies, smirking egregiously, “Now you’re talking to me, *that* I like. Keep it coming baby!”

Patronizing condescension in full effect. THIS is how you handle a merciless shit test from a hard 10* who would make the typical beta puffboy crumple to the floor wetting his underoos. It says all the right things that chicks love in men: Amused mastery. Grace under pressure. Cocky humor. Dismissive entitlement. Daring. Impervious self-regard. Self-confidence. Immunity to beauty.

I want you to try this line the next time some hot chick gives you shit. “Now you’re talking to me, *that* I like. Keep it coming.” Report back here. This line is a shockwave of alpha. I predict that responses will be mostly positive. It may take an hour or two for the deep impact to scour the needy hole in her heart, but she’ll be thinking about you, and imagining… scenarios… transactions.

You say you can’t possibly utter such a gaudy line to a girl? Surprise yourself. If you aren’t doing something every so often that scares you a little, you aren’t growing as a man. In return, you may be surprised by the rewards lavished upon you by suddenly curious women who have had their expectations joyously defied.

*Yes, Michelle Pfeiffer was a hard 10 back in the day. One of the few who could accurately be described as such. Pointy elbow syndrome nerds, before you comment, please find the nearest couch crease and empty your tepid seed into it. The world of men thanks you for living your shame in solitude.

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Spot The Lesser Beta Male

Watch this segment on a gayly gay talk show. The mighty, gray-haired warrior male interviews two “””men””” and a woman living together in a polyandrous arrangement. (It’s silly to bless this perversion with the honorific of a relationship.)

Both of these men are betas. Maybe you could even call them functioning greater omegas. Why not just call them omega males? Because omega males are typically incapable of getting sex from any woman who doesn’t resemble a dirigible or an extra from the Star Wars cantina scene. At least these two males are, presumably, having some kind of sex with this rather fetching woman of desirable waist-hip ratio and slender BMI.

But one of these males is definitely the bottom bitch in this losers’ triangle. He is the one used for purposes of satisfying the woman’s emotional whoring needs, and for puttering around the adult playpen cleaning up the scattered sex-stained undergarments that the other male leaves on the floor after doing his job as the house cockubine.

He is the lesser beta, and his mission in life is asexual supportiveness, LJBF intimacy, trips to the pharmacist to get the morning after pill when male #1 forgets to pull out, and reflections in the cuckold corner hunched over his effortful pud, wet-eyed and trembly, as the other two housemates pound it out for his emasculatory benefit. Once in a blue moon she services him with a dreary handjob so that he doesn’t stray too far from his duty as harem pit crew.

Can you spot which of the two males is the lesser beta? Take a moment.

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Watch closely from 0:38-0:42.

Catch that?

A woman’s real feelings — her true unadulterated distilled purified desire — will rarely escape from her lips in the form of words. It will, instead, shoot from her fingertips, or emanate from her pelvis, or infuse the air around her thighs, or pierce the nicety veil from her hardening eyes. A woman’s words deliver the message of her brain. A woman’s body delivers the message of her vagina.

Near the ends her hamster reveals, “It didn’t mean I had to end this relationship with male #2. I could get my needs met with someone else.”

What a glorious hamster. So strong, so fit. This rodent must never stop running, because the three-way polyandrous arrangement is bottled lightning. Even weepy, scalzied lesser beta males have their id-shaped breaking points, and a woman who is getting both her sexy stud and provider dud needs met in one complete, if bifurcated, package requires an elite, special forces hamster that can spin up at a moment’s notice. Translating the above from its original hamsterese, we learn what the woman is really feeling:

“It didn’t mean I had to face the prospect of losing my kitchen bitch right when I was about to have a love child with another man. I could get my pussy ravaged by a slightly less repulsive man while still getting all the household help and emotional indulgence from a beautiful male feminist a mentally unbalanced woman like myself needed.”

It should not surprise the reader with which of the two males she decided to have her über bastard.

The starkness of the perfectly delineated two male-one female polyandrous circus is a powerful metaphor for the much larger and more accessible reality of the looser, serial soft polyandry that characterizes the dating market of late stage cultures in decline. There may not be many women willing to abide dating two men concurrently, let alone living with them in the same love shack, no matter how sufficiently those men placate the female dueling desires for sexiness and provider assurance and are willing to surrender their balls to the chopping block, but there are certainly plenty of women happy to date an alpha male and use a beta male on the down low for his gift of anhedonic attention. The male orbiter beta brigade plus the alpha male lover is a close approximation of polyandry in the wild.

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Microalphatudes

It’s the little things that matter. The difference between projecting a benign beta maleness or an alluring alpha aura can turn on a cocked eyebrow, a shift in body weight, an expression (or withheld expression), or a selfish microaggression. For an example of the subtlety in mannerism that typifies the alpha male, check out this video of a man refusing his girlfriend’s demands for a taste of his delicious ice cream.

She reaches over and tries to sneak a spoonful of ice cream.
He moves his ice cream away and her spoon comes up nothing but air.
She makes a face. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus is on the game.
She regroups and makes another charge at his ice cream. Again her spoon scoops air.
Again, he doesn’t look at her as he evades her self-entitled spooning. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. Stone-faced, with maybe, if you look closely, just a hint of a nascent smirk.
Now she’s got that “Whoa, I can’t believe you’re doing this to MEEEE. I’m a GIRL, remember?!” face.
She is turned on. Her O-face is a manifestation of her tingling, opening orifice.
Finally, he looks at her for a half second, and relents. He lets her have a spoonful. But he “surrenders” his ice cream in the most condescendingly possible way: he looks away from her and lets the cone dangle in her general direction. The whole maneuver screams “Here ya go, ya little brat. Happy now?”
He has had his fun. And, so has she. Their relationship is healthy and fulfilling, and will be as long-lived as he decides he wants it to be.

Now how would a beta male have handled this minor sex market opera? Like this:

She reaches over to take a spoonful of his ice cream.
He accidentally pulls the ice cream away from her as she’s reaching in.
She makes the “Are you kidding me?” B-face. (The B-face differs from the O-face in that the mouth does not form a nice round O. Instead, it purses into the shape of a bitch.)
He notices her aggravation, immediately assumes the whimpering pussboy look, and makes it easier for her to scoop a chunk, apologizing profusely as he watches her down the last ounce of his treat.
He then asks if she would like her own ice cream, even though he knows that when he offered to buy her an ice cream earlier she said no, and that she just wanted to taste his ice cream because it was his, and she thinks eating his ice cream instead of eating her own ice cream means she’s not actually ingesting the calories and putting on weight.
She smiles sweetly, and says no. But her eyes are on some other dude sitting three rows away.
He looks at his empty cone, and sees that she even sucked out the little pool of melted ice cream from the bottom. He is sad.

Commenter YaReally astutely notes that this short video clip can teach a beta shlub more about male-female interaction than one thousand mainstream media “relationship” articles.

Dude is a boss. That interaction has like a dozen little dynamics going on in their facial expressions and body-language. You can tell everything about their relationship and his alpha value from this like 10 second clip.

Beta guys with no game will think he was a jerk and got in trouble when he got home and he should buy her ice cream and apologize.

Red Pill guys know exactly how that guy’s night went. Lol […]

The 2nd pause they do, that facial expression and body language of like “bitch you HEARD me. Did you think I was joking?” is the one that you want to give when you tell a girl not to do something and she does it anyway to shit-test you.

Love this clip, and I like that the announcer guys are focused entirely on her reactions and how she feels and how much trouble guy “know” they’re in when their woman looks at them like that etc. it’s a good demonstration of how socially conditioned brainwashing has most of the guys in society reacting to women and worried about appeasing women and not being “in the doghouse”. It wouldn’t even occur to them that that guy could have the mentality of “you said you didn’t want ice cream when I offered so too bad. Next time don’t be retarded. Okay you can have a bit now that you’ve learned your lesson.”

It’s like watching a really small minor Soft Next in action. Beautiful.

Yes, beautiful. Even better to orchestrate this powerful game for oneself.

These minor demonstrations of higher male value that so thrill and enrapture women are what I call “microalphatudes”. The alpha male doesn’t bop his women over the head with a club. He just… jerks his ice cream away from her, and amuses himself with her predictable reaction of adorable indignation.

You think this is stupid. It’s just ice cream. You don’t get it. It’s about so much more than ice cream. All these alpha moments will add up in time… like tingles in rain… and she will love you for them. You build yourself into the man women love by carving out these fleeting moments, sculpting them and guiding them to your whim, inspiring stronger feelings and stronger memories.

Tease, taunt and play her
don’t ever obey her
Play, taunt and tease her
don’t ever appease her

Five instances of microalphatudes beats five years of boring beta obeisance.

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