The Revealing Zeitgeist Of The Shirt Dress

It used to be that a woman would don an oversized men’s button-down shirt bathed in the afterglow of a mighty jackhammering, so that she could putter around in the kitchen for a post-coital snack. It is a sexy look, and was supposed to be meant for her man’s eyes only.

Somehow, in the past year, the shirt dress has migrated from the privacy of the bedroom to corporate boardrooms. The boardroom has become the bedroom. There are women wearing the equivalent of “I just got fucked” clothes in public. It’s not any less sexy to look at, but it is jarring to see it all over town. And most of these shirt dress-wearing women aren’t hedging their hedgerow with shorts underneath; that’s nothing but hip bone and panty peeking out from the high and tight shirt dress seam.

I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader what the shirt dress trend says about our currently operative sexual market.

Globohomogenized Envy

Commenter Out of Nod segues from a point I made about the deleterious effects of globalization on a human psyche designed to navigate social circles no larger than a couple hundred people.

“CH: …your average American mom can compare her mom-cred to moms halfway across the globe and all the way across the threshold of human degeneracy. This was unheard of for all of human history up until the last couple of generations.”

Globalization impacts more then just motherhood. Universities choose to accept foreigners over locals due to higher IQs, higher out of state tuition rates and higher diversity! Local churches see mega churches and aim to implement mega church tactics and teachings thinking that they will work on a smaller scale. Helicopter parents raise their children with the idea that their children are going up against global competition and thus the children are tested harder, given more worthless activities, and generally live an unhappy, fast paced life at a young age. Media presents what success looks like and invokes in the viewers the desire to mimic such successes and the constant nagging that you are a failure if you don’t. Small town women see high quality men through TV/Youtube and all of a sudden the local small town football star has become a loser.

Globalization plays to humanity’s penchant for envy on a global scale, and it has left in its wake paralysis, disappointment, depression, and failure.

Thought provoking.

Globohomogenization is human id accelerationism, corrupting natural human emotions and desires — envy, anxiety, female hypergamy — into monstrous deformations that ultimately dehumanizes as it propels people to emotional brinkmanship that exceeds the carrying capacity of their amygdalae.

Instead of the manageable stress of fitting into a social scene that might extend four town blocks and maybe one town over, the average globalized Westerner has her brain tricked to perceive competition with the global village hordes — millions of people, including those who occupy the farthest right and left tails of the human worth bell curve, from high SMV celebs to freakish cross-dressers, christcucks, and lactating men — and she simply isn’t equipped to handle that social input load without getting depressed and hooked on Big Pharma’s poison pills.

Out of Nod makes a good point about envy being pathologically amplified by globalism. One of the motivating drivers of the Acela-class affluent SWPL rootless cosmopolitan shitlib demand for Zero Border Control and embrace of GloboHomoism is so that they have an ever-broader avenue to access their need for a winner-take-all social status whoring competition in which they see themselves coming out on top of the global order. The White shitlib truly thinks herself morally and intellectually superior to all others (don’t let her Black Lives Matter shuck n hivemind act fool you) and what better way to finally prove that superiority than by winning on a world stage?

A “winner” pushes for more competition. Only “losers” would want to restrict or regulate competition (so the shitlib and deracinated cuck rationalizes). “Winners” don’t fear global competition because nothing could possibly threaten their winning station in life (largely paid for by imported cheap laborers). The religion of GloboHomoism thus becomes a social status marker for credentialist suckups whose lucky talent for abstract thinking has served them well in the post-scarcity data-driven borgonomy.

But it’s an ego-warped illusion. The more shitlibs push for globohomoism, the more they hitch their nation’s fate to inevitable decay and widespread poverty. And there are only so many gated communities to run to before the swarm engulfs its sponsor. Even now there are stories of frazzled urban hypercredentialist white libs cracking under the pressure of the Asian onslaught to their kids’ schools and colleges. The blight of despair won’t be contained to BadWhites alone. Meth ameliorates the pain of dispossession for rural Whites; Xanaz and yoga and Salon articles do the same for urban Whites.

Envy normally has built-in brakes on its expression, but globalism cuts the brake lines. A chap at MPC calls this feedbook loop disruption caused by massively scaled-up economies and social organizations, “Decision Laundering”.

Another aspect that you guys are missing is the WHY of the data obsession: because women and beta males are pussies. (Really. We are.) They don’t want to be the person that everyone points to when things go wrong, so every decision is made by committees fretting over metrics.  The purpose of the algorithm is to launder human judgement to the point where no one can remember whose judgement it was (and, thus, no one can be blamed).

***
It does explain the purpose and process of managerialism in two words, which is valuable.

Managerialism launders decisions so that f****t nerds can exert power over others without having to ever look anyone in the eye then avoid responsibility when their clever silly nonsense inevitably fails.

So the embrace of Globohomoism by effete, low T White shitlibs has less to do with a principled Randian stand for no-holds-barred worldwide competition than it does with globalism’s neat trick of removing all reason and accountability from the shitlibs’ sphere of activity. Globohomoism essentially turns the economy into a woman. Shitlib Whites aren’t so much succeeding in the global economy as they are enjoying its superficial privileges while passing the consequences of their unaccountable failures onto future generations.

Globohomogenized envy encourages people to eat their nation’s seed corn in the impossible quest to become a member of the 0.0001%ers at the commanding heights of the new global order.

All The Humor And Fun Is With The Maul-Right

…and you know what that means. Hot chicks!

Girls are irresistibly drawn to humorously cruel and sadistic men. Carrot Man’s mockery of the shouting, vein-throbbingly self-serious antifa phaggot is thermonuclear tingle generation to any female onlookers. More of this, and it won’t be long before even the skanky rainforest-bushed porngirls are hot for after hours access to Maul-Right social scenes.

PS Online sleuths have exposed some of Berkeley’s black-masked antifa organizers. Here and here. Beautiful. Bring the pain.

Ipso Factov

Stinky Pussy Girl

Recently, I had a weird run-in with an ex-fling. First, some background: We had met years ago in a different city while simultaneously exiting a dingy caliph-themed cocktail bar bobbing with the greasy-haired heads of a swarm of swarths; I had then asked her if she was racing out as fast as I was to avoid the douchiness inside. In the time it took her to laugh, I soaked up her package: tall, lean, enticingly angular facial aesthetics, pert tits, ivory skin, ebony hair. The hunt was on.

Two hours later, I had escorted her to one of my public pleasure palaces (a shadowed sofa tucked in the recesses of a hookah bar swirling with mood-smoke) where we made out in between sensually blowing smoke rings. (Gentlemen, you should coax a woman to blow smoke rings whenever possible, because her form will give you a good idea of what she’ll look like when she’s gazing up at you during a blowjob.)

Cutting to the end-of-chase: She went back to my place with me. I unzipped her knee-high boots and stripped her woolly skirt off and caressed her inner thigh with a free hand (the other stuffing a ball gag in her mouth….I keed! or do I?). Gradually, my hand hopped her panty border and day-labored in the fields of her life-giving lips. I listened intently for the liquid smacking of vajlube peeling from vajflesh, and redirected my glistening hand to her freed left breast….whereupon an odor most foul drifted from drenched digitalis to my nose, triggering an olfaction reaction inescapably pronounced. I retched a little.

But the boner reflex is inversely proportional to the disgust reflex; a man with a rager will shawshank through a snapper sewer to bust outta priapism.

So I bore on. And bored on. Or that was the plan, until in the act of ripping off the last tattered shred of her industrial-grade panties my face swooped a little too near her crotch swamp, and the sting of fetid juices actually made my eyes water. Did she notice my fully throttled necksnap to the back? I figured she must have, but she made no indication thereof.

Hyenas are known to marinade their scavenged rotmeat in stagnant pools of sun-ripened toxic water; the matriarchal beasts prefer their sustenance falling off the bone in gangrenous ribbons, much like our current crop of Western women prefer the composition of their nations. But man is not clit-dicked hyena. Notwithstanding my insistent boner to the contrary, my frontal lobe — or perhaps the hindiest part of my hindbrain — overrode my crotchal zone and in a burst of creativity spurred by sensory stinkulation and desperation, I stopped my attack cold and summoned a semi-quasi-pseudo-rationale for why she must politely leave and oh yes I would certainly call her soon and we’ll get together again the next time we will make it count it’s just that I care for your opinion of me and your feelings and I’m a romantic that way trust me you’ll love that I’m not like all the other men…..

Ad fuckin nauseam, she quietly left, a cloud of worry and suspended disappointment encroaching on her pretty face as I closed the door behind her and set upon my bed sheets with a fury, dousing them in Oxyclean and paint thinner. Mid-winter, windows wide open! AHHHHHHH WINTER-CHAN CLEANSE THIS HOME!

So tragic, such a waste of an adorable face, but whaddaya gonna do? Stinky pussy is the deal killer. The boner imploder. The Darwinian dental dam. Unless the girl is a hard 10 and the man is a hard-up 10, a subatomic stink down below will wither any hard-on.

Fast-forward to the near-present: New, far away town, new day. I’m in a store. A woman in black enters behind me. She has orange-red hair and a youthful glow despite her almost translucent skin. Fishnet fuckme stockings carve the contours of her long legs. A fleeting familiarity sparks my mind. I look a bit longer at her; she notices, and reacts with the expected mix of consternation and curiosity. Could this be the same Stinky Pussy Girl from years ago, unbelievably standing right next to me a thousand miles from where we first primed our directives?

It couldn’t be. The hair, and the clear skin. If it was her, she was wearing a wig or had a pro coloring job, and she hadn’t aged a minute since our rendezvous…. our, if you’ll pardon the pun, kerfluffle. Our whiff of a tryst, a long-faded memory, suddenly wrenched to consciousness, as freshly manured as if it had occurred the day before down the block.

I shook off the thought. Then she walked toward the exit. That walk, endearingly clumsy and lopey….I couldn’t possibly forget that walk, no woman I have known walked like her. It was her.

None of this happened all that quickly; I had time to run her down and tell her I knew her from long ago, and possibly (probably!) try for another stab at her stankflaps. But as powerfully as the memory of her face and body and weird walk flooded my corticalleys, so too did her pussy stink. That smell memory — smellory — punched my gut as hard as any pungently hectoring specter could.

So I watched her walk off, dissipating into a street crowd. There you have it, ladies: an incredibly coincidental re-meeting, an opening for love created by divine intervention some would say, and the mere memory of stinky pussy shut the possibilities off a second time as strongly as they were shut off the first time when the stink was fragrantly real and aromatically macroaggressive.

On the way home, all I could wonder was what her kids, if she were to have any, would telegonically or frictionally acquire on their way out of her ill-fumed womb; if for instance the poor sprogs would squirt out in a pigpen-like shroud of green gas that followed them everywhere.

Virgins are prized by men all over the world. It’s a universal desire, so evolution must have a good reason for men to prefer untrammeled twat. Paternity certainty is one given reason; men can be confident the kid is theirs if the hymen blood of their women stains their dicks. But now I think it’s something more conspicuous; whether caused by accumulating cock notches or poor hygiene, a stinky pussy is a warning to men that there’s something off with the talking vessel incubating the spicy vaginey. A tangy clam is nature’s red flag that disease or immune system failure lurks labially and threatens the fitness of any posterity that you might deposit in her belly.

Some of you may ask, “CH, why didn’t you just let her give you a hummer?”

Dear deluded friends of the Chateau, pussy stank is the warmest of air; it’ll rise, right up to my face. I wouldn’t want to deflate in the woman’s mouth and have to bear the guilt of possibly driving her to suicide.

The Moral Dichotomy Of Women

In the hindbrain of every woman throbs an autonomic neuralgorithm that mimics their genitalia and splits the female soul in two. It’s a sexual dichotomy which women are fated to reconcile into a teetering balance between the limbically juiced pursuit of alpha fux (a sexy charming jerkboy for sex) and the cortically lubed yearning for beta bux (a reliable if boring family man for resources).

Gatekeepers of the prime directive will necessarily be contradictory vehicles for genetic survival. To fulfill the only Darwinian duty that really matters, women have evolved an intricate cognitive system for accommodating their internal contradictions. CH has dubbed this system the “rationalization hamster”. This head-cased hamster ensures that women never think too hard or too closely about the concessions or the exploitations they personally abide on their quest to birth and raise the fittest, healthiest, and most productive kidlets in the merciless sexual and survival markets.

Unsurprisingly, the sexual dichotomy that animates women’s subconscious is overlaid by a conscious moral dichotomy which provides plausible deniability to the amoral compulsions of the subconscious.

On this topic, Cynthia speaks a great truth,

There is nothing that satisfies us ladies more than the knowledge that we are superior to another woman.  I know women who’ve based their entire existence around the pursuit of this feeling.

This explains why women can at once happily jump on the Freak Acceptance bandwagon while secretly satisfying their selfish urge to have their egos diddled and their social status elevated as a consequence of the favorable distinctions they will irresistibly draw between themselves and the freaks.

CH Maxim #91: The irony is that just as women are cloying sympathizers for their lessers, they are also avid pursuers of vaulting their lessers.

The female moral dichotomy is “declare inclusion, indulge exclusion”. The former gives license to the latter.

***

Do men have sexual and moral dichotomies within them? Yes and no. Certainly not any dichotomy at the same advanced developmental stage that women possess. Men haven’t evolved truly dichotomous natures because men aren’t the primary gatekeepers of reproduction. As the chosen sex (although this formulation isn’t absolute), men are Nature’s experimental guinea pigs and come born compartmentalized into a variety of sexual and moral configurations women choose from among, according to the fitness demands of the currently operative environment.

I would say the closest approximation to a male sexual dichotomy is the classic madonna-whore complex — or in modernistic bantz, Marry-Fuck-Kill. Men want the slut for the zero-effort instabang, and the virgin for marriage and mother-of-heirs. But the comparison is limited, since the sexually dichotomous drive is much weaker in men, who as a sex are generally less selective than women and will make easy compromises if a woman is sufficiently desirable (i.e., hot, young, and feminine). For men, women’s looks trump every other consideration so profoundly that any innate male dichotomous compulsion will often be drowned under the deluge of desire.

Likewise, a male moral dichotomy usually amounts to nothing more than spun up pretexts for guiltlessly pursuing NSA sex. The female moral dichotomy greases the id-skids to indulge intra-female status contests and ego gratification; in contrast, the male moral dichotomy has a more pedestrian job: to convince himself and the women who don’t immediately write him off that his love is unconditional, while pursuing the accumulation of sexual market capital that enlarges the scope of his mate options.

The Prime Sex Difference: Penmanship?

There are myriad sex differences — physical, emotional, mental, temperamental, and psychological — that anyone of sane mind unblemished by equalist propaganda can observe permeating every aspect of daily life in which men and women interact. But maybe the most pervasive, immutable, and encompassing sex difference is…penmanship. Johnny Redux writes,

I always have found one very fascinating difference between males and females, which can only be explained by brain behavior – pretty much 90% of the time, you can tell the difference between male and female handwriting. That shows how the brain actually behaves and interprets things, when pen is put to paper. It covers all educational levels, and all professions. I am not concerned with primate writing, so I can only speak on what I have seen of my race.

So true, and the Chateau covered this topic a while ago in this post. Cursive summary: the more biologically and irretrievably feminine the woman (according to digit ratio and personality assessment), the more feminine the handwriting. The God of Biomechanics is a prankster who likes to mock our cherished moral aspirations with the flick of a pen.

So if you’re dating a girl who still owns a pen and writes her d’s and p’s with bloated, pregnant relish and tops her i’s with hearts, wife that bitch up.