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The Starbuckwheat

The Starbuckwheat is the term for the numinously accessible black mascot adopted by 115 IQ SWPL shitlib sanctimony-addict Whites who want to prove their moral righteousness to wine party circuit peers. Anon at Sailer’s uncorks a portmanteau with accompanying etymology that is so causticly readable and insightful it deserves a reposting here at the Chateau. In his example, the Starbuckwheat du jour assuaging shitlib egos is Ta Nigisi Coates.

With the ebbing of religion, Negro Worship became the new faith in America, esp among White Libs. It’s tied to MLK as the new founding father, the new messiah, the new christ, new martyr.

Blacks are seen as holy because they not only suffered slavery and discrimination but can sing & dance and do sports.

So, Negroes are supposed to be the Moral Arbiters of America. Whites are supposed to save and protect (instead of exploiting) black bodies so that blacks can save white souls.

Blacks bodies are supposedly impoverished because whites treated blacks badly. But because whites gained so much by robbing blacks, their souls have become sick and diseased. So, the New Race Deal (maybe should be called New Steal) is about whites healing black bodies and blacks saving white souls.

And MLK seemed to be that great leader. In a way, his death made the Negro-as-Saint bigger than ever. Turned into martyr, he could be worshiped like a god. If he’d lived on, he’d been just another Jesse Jackson.

So, there is this constant search for the Great Black Hope. The one who might live up to the white dream of Negro as Moral Redeemer. But too many blacks are into crime, ugly rap, corruption, or dementia. And stuff like BLM turns invariably into Trash Talk and violence.

Since blacks on their own are incapable of putting forth the Great Black Hope, white Libs must nurture and create them in their own Laboratory. The Lib-Lab. And Obama was a graduate from the Lib-Lab. His formative influences were hardly black. And even though The Nasty Coates grew up among Negroes, he found sanctuary among Nice White Folks who could channel his obligatory rage into pseudo-intellectual & pseudo-inspirational rhetoric. He is to social theory what Neil Degrassie Tyson is to science. A mascot for white Libs to show that they are into Diversity and the Great Black Hope. White Libs (and even White Cons) get high from over-praising blacks. (Thomas Sowell is smart guy but Paul Johnson praising him as the greatest thinker is just goofy.)

Because of the Negro’s role in the American Imagination, every era needs its
Negro Laureate.

It’s like white feminists were esp taken with Alice Walker’s COLOR PURPLE.

Also, The Nasty Coates looks like a turtle without a shell, a perpetually lost child in need of milk and cookies and kindness of strangers. He is Arnold for the intellectual class.

Also, there is something strangely satisfying about watching a Negro succeed in intellectual field. Though whites once resisted the rise of black athletes, it’s now long been established that blacks are good at sports and dancing and physical stuff. So, there is hardly any moral excitement in championing the black athlete. Ali was the last one to ride on that wave because it was the Civil Rights Era. So, his victory had racial overtones. There is still some of that when blacks make inroads into sports that tend not to be very black. Like tennis and golf and gymnastics. And of course swimming and winter sports, those associated with white privilege and culture of exclusion. Even so, it’s hardly surprising that blacks, if given the chance, would do well in something like tennis.
In some ways, there is a kind of subtle ‘racism’ in praising black success in sports. Some may see it as stereotyping blacks as BODIES who are more adept at brawn than brain. So, even as black success in sports is seen as triumph over ‘racism’, it is also felt as a kind of ‘racism’ since it stereotypes blacks as akin to beasts who can run and jump.

So, it is more surprising and satisfying to see blacks do well in brainy fields in which they’ve lagged behind other races. This goes against stereotype. It also means that blacks as thinkers are less threatening than blacks as fighters or athletes or thugs. But the problem with praising blacks-as-thinkers is it makes them less authentic. It robs them of their black essence that is closely associated with the thug, street hustler, musician, athlete, or big personality. It could be construed as whites trying to force ‘whiteness’ on blacks. This is why white Libs feel uncomfortable around black conservatives. Why, they are ‘uncle toms’, and white Libs don’t want that.
They want the non-threatening Negro but who retains his authenticity and this means Race & Rage. But for this Authentic Rage to be acceptable among white Libs, it must be articulated in less threatening manner. And the ‘genius’ of The Nasty Coates is he has concocted an intellectual coffee-grinder that turns his blackness into something more Starbucky. He is Starbuckwheat.

That wasn’t a shiv, that was a thresher to the shitlib id.

There are some phaggy male-things on liberal news outlets like NPR (Negro-mascot Purification Ritual) who virtue signal so hard when they have Starbuckwheats on their shows that their voices slip into a whisper and crack with welling emotion like a single tear is about to stain their soycheek.

Joker Game

This is a great response to a chick’s IHAB. Via Jimi2x,

IHAB game by the Joker (jack nicholson) in the first Batman:

Joker: Stop the press…who’s that?
Bob: Thats Vicki Vale boss..shes a reporter..shes dating Bruce Wayne.
Joker: Shes about to trade up.

Good stuff. I’d call this Mischievous Jerkboy Game. It’s not mean, it’s supremely self-congratulatory. It assumes the sale (she’s more likely to buy if she thinks she already made her mind up to buy).

If a girl is alone in your living room at midnight and she tells you she has a boyfriend, you say with a deadpan expression, “You’re about to trade up.” Cheesy? Maybe, but if spoken like an afterthought the cheesiness morphs into cockiness. And you all know from your time here at the Chateau that chicks love overconfident men.

Caution, I would use this line if it looked to me like she was already one vajflap into my bed. Subtler methods of psychological breakdown are needed fro girls experiencing sincere anti-slut hesitation and doubts, such as the takeaway and freeze-out.

From Girl Next Door to Sassy Slut, knowing what kind of girl you’re dealing with is the first step to tailoring your Game for a proper fit. Hawk explains what to say to a girl in your room late at night, who has demurred (a bit late in the hour) that she has a boyfriend,

Know your audience.

If she’s willing to be in your rooms alone despite the boyfriend she’s already decided that you might be worthy of her…seriously if her instinct was put into words out loud it would sound like that.

Verbal witty responses work differently depending on the girl.

“No you don’t ” is teasing the kid sister response. Funny, but not mean. Best used on the girl next door type.

“Really? Don’t see him here though.” More edgy, best used on the proto-THOT.

“Does the chastity belt chafe much?” A-hole response to the entitled HB7 plus.

“Not anymore you don’t” with a caress to her face, laser eye, is for the girl you’re interested in keeping around.

Your goal is to make her want to please you by forgetting about the boyfriend. Betas acknowledge the girl’s charms prior to her acting to please, alphas do so afterwards.

Hawk’s advice is similar to the Chateau’s recommendations on the use and suitability of Asshole Game. Age and innocence affect how well, or badly, a woman will respond to jerkboy charm. With some chicks, you gotta finesse it. With others, you gotta swing a whetting warhammer into her pussy.

Younger women are riper targets for asshole allure. Older women who have lost some of the sheen on their SMVeen will feel alienated and even rejected by a man giving them too much outcome independent jerkitude.

Age isn’t the only determinant of female receptiveness to male assholery. As Hawk wrote, sluttier, sassier girls will need more evidence of a man’s guttural disregard for her. She has seen things you betas wouldn’t believe…attack chads grinding on her posterior…she watched cum beads glitter in the dark near her cockhouser gate…all those cummings will be lost in time…like aborted fetuses in pain.

But the girl next door — a rare creature, worth yeoman seduction effort to despoil — might recoil at being assumed a sassy lass. Your assholery may make you seem unattainable to her, and cause her despair when she believes you are only toying with her. She likes a self-assured man but she hasn’t the constitution nor the sexual experience to handle your jerktruth. Proceed gracefully, accepting that her soft innerspace is sensitive to impudent cock shocks.

Where a girl resides on the Thot Spectrum — a Thotarchy if you will — that runs on the left from the preserved innocence of the nicest of virgin Amish coquettes, all the way to the right where you’ll find the bluest of blue-haired, bull ring-pierced aggrosluts, will give a hint to her need for a mental dicking. It stands to reason you as a man of taste of wealth must attune your assholery to the receptiveness of the woman in your hosshairs. This isn’t a green light to go Retard Beta and turn yourself into an asexual piece of furniture. It’s just a warning that your alpha attitude can and should be communicated in a fashion to suit the listening habits of your target audience.

#SheColluded

If you’ve been keeping abreast of the news these past two weeks, you might have noticed the anti-Trump enemies have become discombobulated and put on the defensive by recent exposure of their criminal misdeeds. What was “a reckless and treasonous Trump Administration suffering daily leaks and subterfuge by establishment loyalists” narrative has turned into a “by Zeus’ beard, the Trump Train is rolling and the lamentations of the shitlibs and their Bitch Queen Clinton are heard over hill and dale!” battering ram of truth.

Too funny that the Podesta-cooked Russia-Trump collusion scandal has completely boomeranged and threatens to take down the Clintons and their scummy surrogates for good. You think I’m exaggerating out of a misplaced love for Herr Furor. Nope. Check the latest bombshells.

PAY FOR PLAY, INFLUENCE PEDDLING, STRAIGHT UP BRIBERY. Foreign investors shoveled $145 million into the Clinton Foundation while thecunt was heading the State Department, to ensure thecunt and Gay Mulatto would OK a deal that transferred 20% of America’s uranium stores to a Russian energy company. IOW, thecunt colluded with Russia. Bill Clinton, meanwhile, got a cool half mil for a canned speech he delivered in Moscow the same time the Russian energy company Rosatom inked its deal for a stake in Uranium One.

President Trump (may God guard his path) recently inquired about the Seth Rich murder mystery. (He knows, fam)

thecunt campaign and the DNC (and now it’s been revealed, the Bushes and McCain) paid hefty sums to Fusion GPS to research manufacture the hillary fanfiction known as the Piss Hooker Dossier, with the intent to undermine the incoming Trump Administration (this is called treason).

Quads over at MPC writes,

In short: Tucker was contacted by a lobbyist from the Podesta Group. Lobbyist claims that the Russians, using a Ukrainian shell company, funneled money to the Podesta Group for the explicit purpose of influencing the Clintons. Paul Manafort was the go-between. Tucker is satisfied that his Lobbyist isn’t lying and has been verifying the details, so far all successfully. I.e., Tucker is reporting that Hillary colluded with the Russians and Manafort was in on it. Tucker promises more to come.

Surely it’s no surprise to any here that Hillary was a corrupt hag selling State to the highest bidder. But this news, on the heels of the Uranium One and Dossier stories, has great implications. Hillary allowed Uranium to be sold to Russia after they donated to the Clinton Foundation. Hillary funded Kremlin-compiled pissgate allegations which were then investigated by Obama’s Justice Department. That same Justice Department was headed by Loretta Lynch, who colluded with Bill Clinton on the tarmac to squelch investigations into Clinton’s crimes. This is no longer 4chan anon LARP conspiracy theories but verified news in the public record. What do we make of this?

First this calls into question Manafort’s role in the Trump Campaign. Is it a coincidence that Trump hired Manafort when Manafort had funneled money from the Russians to the Clintons? It’s hard to believe that Trump would work with Manafort to defeat Hillary without hearing Manafort’s dirt on Hillary. Alternatively: if Manafort colluded with the Clintons, and Manafort was the FBI’s justification for tapping the Trump campaign, did the Clintons collude with the FBI to wiretap Trump?

Second, what to make of Mueller? It came out yesterday that Mueller was investigating Tony Podesta. Manafort is one of the only other people we all know Mueller was investigating. Without going full /pol/lack conspiritard, is it possible that Mueller really is investigating Democratic corruption? Remember, Mueller was interviewed by Trump the day before he took up the special council. At the very least: if Manafort was working with the Clintons, doesn’t this shed new light on Mueller’s investigation?

This is all starting to sound too opaque, like a police cork-and-pinhead bulletin board. I wouldn’t worry too much about the details which, if true, imply much more dramatic conspiracies to be. The takeaway is that this isn’t in the realm of internet myth and rumor. This is real, verifiable. Senate investigations are starting and more is on the way. Is it possible that Clinton will really see the inside of a jail?

Hillary Clinton is going to jail.

I repeat, HILLARY CLINTON IS GOING TO JAIL.

Basically the whole Russia-Trump Collusion Narrative is a massive case at its root of psychological projection and deliberate misdirection by the Clintons and their depraved surrogates in the Deep State and the Gaystream Media. They smeared an incoming President with the very same crimes and treasonous actions that they themselves had committed. The best defense is a slanderous offense to Cuntlib, Inc.

This isn’t a White Pill, kind readers. This is a bucket of White paint dropped on your head from a booby-trapped door in Trump Tower. You’re swimming in White.

Who needs Challahwood when you have this kind of quality entertainment beamed into your eyeballs and earhalls every day IN TRUMPERICA? We are blessed to be alive at a time when our mortal enemies are closer than they have ever been to the breaking wheel.

Update: CNN checks in with their CONSISTENTLY hot take!

Bonus Shiv (it’s all related once you identify the anti-White source malignancy): PA on why Whites shouldn’t race-mix. The cruelest and truest of shivs: the cold heart gazes upon one’s own children and remains unmoved when it sees nothing of oneself in them.

The Alpha Male Anthem

There have been plenty of cad anthems in the rock and country music pantheons celebrating raw masculine privilege, but the song “I’m a Wanderer”, sung by Guinea-American Dion and released in 1961, is in my factual opinion the greatest alpha male anthem in American history.

Read the lyrics (along with my editorial commentary) and you’ll agree with my judgment of this song’s ZFG ALPHA GLORIFICATION:

Oh, well, I’m the type of guy who will never settle down
Where pretty girls are, well, you know that I’m around
I kiss ’em and I love ’em ’cause to me they’re all the same
I hug ’em and I squeeze ’em they don’t even know my name

Man of Mystery Game plus an attitude of Outcome Independence, aka Zero Fucks Given. The Wanderer knows that the pussy pedestal is a penis prison, and he should fight the urge to idealize women and to succumb to oneitis by treating women as if they were interchangeable.

They call me a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

Chicks love a hard-to-get man.

Oh, well, there’s Flo on my left and there’s Mary on my right
And Janie is the girl, well, that I’ll be with tonight
And when she asks me, which one I love the best?
I tear open my shirt and I show “Rosie” on my chest

Poon Commandment VII: Keep two in the kitty. Season with a bit of Dread Game and jealousy plotlines.

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

What’s the opposite of a beta male puppy dog begging for validation? An alpha male lion roaming the veldt for prey!

Oh, well, I roam from town to town
I go through life without a care
And I’m as happy as a clown
I with my two fists of iron and I’m going nowhere

I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around
I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town
And when I find myself fallin’ for some girl
Yeah, I hop right into that car of mine, I drive around the world

Love is The Wanderer’s Achilles’ heel. But instead of allowing himself to swoon straight into tingle-killing domestication, he makes distaff hearts flutter wildly by refusing the nuptial leash.

Yeah I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

Oh yeah, I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around
I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town
And when I find myself a-fallin’ for some girl
I hop right into that car of mine and drive around the world

Disappearing acts are cunt-nip.

Yeah, ’cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around, around, around

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer

I doubt a song with this unapologetically caddish message could be released today. Not so much because the arts and entertainment complex is suffused with bitterbitches and gays, but because there aren’t any men left with the requisite high T and heavy balls who’d want to proudly celebrate the male romantic prerogative. We’re in a male feminist world now, and our women are the worse for it.

The theme of this song and its time — 1961 America, right in the heart of the Great Compression when relations between the sexes were at its precious polarity zenith and wage-earning men could still acquire a reasonably pretty and slender wife (and nonWhite Diversity™ had not yet gutted the soul of the nation) — is puzzling when examined in its cultural context. Was it a rebellious sneer against the implicit monogamous restrictions placed on men, or was it a reflection of a sexual market that was perhaps wilder than we assume, or (my personal theory) reflective of the attitude of people at the time who understood the sexes were innately different and that men who make themselves a challenge to women are sexier than men who appease women?

PS On another note, check that handsome 1961 crowd in the video. Not a fatty, bluehair, or soyboy in the mix. America was truly a better country then, and no amount of blathering about BUT MUH IPHAG is gonna change the reality that as a culture, we Americans have devolved into quasi-mutants. Sad!

You’ve got a limbically lubed girl on your sofa. It’s late, the tension is thick (your pants pleats have flattened out). Whoa, tiger! You should know that LMR (last minute resistance) is coming. Are you prepared? Reader Mason shares a very typical anecdote illustrating the precarious tightrope that men must walk between beta orbiter and alpha orificer.

Dear Heartiste Proprietors,

Please allow me to share a wonderful story of how I SO BADLY fucked up and found your blog, which led me to erase the traces of betadom that disrupted and ruined an obviously good opportunity.

I met a cute brunette with blue eyes at an event and she talked about being “stressed about her long-distance relationship with her boyfriend”.

FYI girls don’t bring up problems with their relationships like this unless they are already one labia flap into the idea of cheating.

We hit it off and I asked her to drop me home.

I invited her to come up. She giggled.

The giggle is the loin wriggle vocalized.

I have an apartment by the pool. She stood on my balcony and started talking about her problems, how she had anxiety disorder. I did some light kino by touching her feet (she had a weird foot band on) and putting her hands in my palms.

She then came into my living room and sat down on my close sofa. And said hug me.

Don’t be so quick to hug a woman who solicits it. That’s a mild compliance test to see if you’d fit comfortably into the emotional tampon role instead of the sex god role. I’d have teased her, “hmmm, I dunno if you’re ready….my hugs are potent.” The idea is to get her begging for your hug, and in the mental space where she feels like she’s chasing you.

I did BUT immediately leaned in for a kiss like a moron. She backed off and said “I have a boyfriend”.

That was predictable. What she flung out was classic beta bait. Specifically, she tried a version of the “fishing for flattery” ploy. She’s “anxious” and “stressed” and wants reassurances from you that nothing that has happened — or will happen — is her fault.

Now here’s where I really fucked things up. I’m usually immaculately articulate but I just spaced out and sat back in my seat for an awkward 5 minutes. Her boyfriend messaged her and I told her not to take the text and she agreed. Now, despite my awkward silence for another 10 minutes she didn’t leave and stayed plopped on my sofa with heavy breathing and even said “look at my hair, it’s multi-colored”, asking me to run through it.

You were getting hardcore signals to proceed carrying her to dizzying heights of ecstasy and to ignore whatever empty protests to the contrary she may have thought necessary to squeak out to make herself feel less like a slut. Her “I have a boyfriend” feint was the verbal equivalent of the gif above. “I don’t know how I wound up in his bed, I swear I told him I have a boyfriend!”

She wants to feel desired again; obviously BF is not giving her that. But she won’t just “cheat”, so she’ll structure her seduction in a way that absolves her of responsibility for her hoped-for surrender to you.

I found your blog, Heartiste, and read through a hundred posts. I feel like an idiot because I thought that my typical dominant, aloof personality wouldn’t work on the “sweet, shy, innocent” girls.

Liddl’ betaboys with limited dating experience are often the ones to dishonestly and self-servingly assert that Game only helps men pick up bar skanks, but that is not true, unless they want to stipulate that skanks and non-skanks are essentially different sexes who respond to different male mate value cues. In fact, the girls that fall the hardest for jerkboy charm are the tingle-deprived “sweet” girls who otherwise languish in niceguyland where jerkboy charm is notably absent.

I should have laughed off her silly first kiss rejection shit test and tried again. I should have negged her. She asked me to twirl her fucking hair. I should have escalated kino gradually, asking her to sit on my lap, then kissed her neck, and then kissed her, and then pulled away feigning disinterest. Your stuff is ALL on point.

There’s no way a girl would act this way in the hopes of gaining a “friend” or a beta orbiter, right?

There’s only one way to find out. Force the issue. Make your intentions known, and if she’s insincere she drop her bluff and forget all about her boyfriend.

I mean, the fact that she came up to my room at 11:30pm and stayed for 2 hours alone makes me feel that this was an opportunity beyond obvious and I blew it.

Yes. Or she’s a psychocunt who wanted to torture you with the scent of her lush womanhood and slap your probing lips away when you made a go at it. A (thankfully) tiny minority of women amuse themselves by tempting and rejecting betas in an endless cycle of quasi-dominatrix humiliation.

Nothing lights the fire in your loins (heh) like a rough encounter with reality. Unlike the larpers here I’m not going to pretend I’m a total alpha or anything like it. I’m a young 20s guy with alpha and beta traits and I’ll have to weed out the latter.

This describes most men.

Laugh at me and feel free to share the story with your readers, but goddamnit, I owe you a debt of gratitude for waking me the hell up.

Cheers
Mason

I won’t laugh at you. The mistake you made wasn’t unique to you; many such cases!

Lessons learned:

  1. “I have a boyfriend” is an anti-slut defense if uttered within intimate contexts. If you hear it, relax. It means she’s looking for an excuse to continue being with you. You should have replies at the ready. My favorites are “I don’t care” and “right“. Better yet, ignore her and plow when she drops that line. Don’t give it the dignity of a direct response. Change the topic or shrug your shoulders or get yourself a beer from the fridge.
  2. Always Be Escalating. If she murmurs to you to stop, don’t. Physically escalate as long as she’s giving in to it, and don’t quit unless she’s walking out your door in a hurry. Sure, offer token (and temporary) signals of compliance to her rebuffs, but don’t get down on yourself, don’t sulk, and don’t think this means you have to keep your hands to yourself the rest of the night. If she’s in your bedroom for two hours in the middle of the night, her last minute resistance (LMR) is a perfunctory obstacle she tosses in your way which she fully expects (and hopes) you will hurdle.
  3. Push-Pull is the spice of seduction. If she asks you to run your fingers through her multicolored hair, tease her about it. “I dunno, it looks kinda greasy.” That’s the push. Pull her back by reaching over to gently cradle the back of her neck with your hand, while saying “See, I was right”. Frame everything she says and does as an advance ON YOU; this way you can “reject” her advances, which is a huge turn-on for women. No woman can resist the curiosity incited in them by a man who isn’t slavishly throwing himself at their taunting sex.
  4. Remember the Takeaway and the Freeze-out. If she’s insistently coy and bantering way more than she’s perforating, it’s time to flip the script. Her: “I have a boyfriend.” You: “You’d better not stay here any longer, or you might start getting the wrong idea about me.” Or: “Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, I don’t see you that way. We hardly know each other.” The Freeze-out is even more powerful. That’s a tactic where you simply get up off the sofa and make yourself a sandwich if she objects to your roving mitts. The key is to be utterly unmoved by her objections, as if you expected it and know she’ll eventually come around (or outlive your patience).

Finally, if you want to experiment with nuclear psy ops that can close the deal (or blow them out) a lot faster than is typical for women, try this bedroom finishing move when a girl agrees to come to your place: tell her she can’t go in your bedroom. When she asks why not, you have a rule that a girl has to be naked before going in there. A surprising number of girls will agree to this rule, and an idealistic young beta’s heart will have suffered another jolt of arrhythmic cynicism.

The bang threshold is similar to the nuptial threshold, except in the former you aren’t legally bound to one pussy for life, don’t have to worry about your savings and imputed income being transferred to fund a new boyfriend, and carrying her over it is a lot easier at her pre-marital weight.

The SurpriseCBM

If girls are checking you out in public with love in their eyes and mist ‘twixt their thighs, it could be simply the case that you’ve got a ten foot hard-on walking ahead of you.

This happens when you’re daydreaming about last night. If you have an active, imaginative mind capable of weaving exquisite detail into a memory, you’ll often access those neural pleasure vaults that store steamy scenes of lovemaking, ancient and recent, while engaged in blissfully pedestrian activities, such as walking outdoors to get from place A to place B. Dulled by pre-collapse hedonistic pampering, you zone out to the thump of your playlist and recall in vivid hues that would be the envy of a weinstein bros production the girl you lacquered 18 hours ago. Your mind’s hand caresses her mesmerizingly rolling skinscape, exploring every hideaway, parting slick chrysalises, kissing lip and trough and mound, a stray nipple catching on your chest and springing away to resume its erect posture….

…and then you’ve got a boney. A big one. You look down and smile, because you’re not a soyboy ashamed of your surprise swole pole. Instead of concealing your insolence behind a stack of Atlantics, you milk your gristly thistle for all it’s worth, thrusting your crotch as far forward as it can go before you tip over backwards. Maybe you put your hands on hips to draw inattentive doe eyes to where they should be focused. A fat feminist shambles by, and practically salivates before remembering to be offended. You guffaw in her maw.

Personal space? That’s pleb talk. You have summoned a mighty pipe from your manly dendrites, and a gift as that should not go unnoticed.

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