Gratitude

America is feverish with shamelessness. Teeming Trash World migrants are escorted here on a transnational, transubstantiating, blood red carpet, only to arrive and shamelessly agitate for handouts, hand-overs, and upper hands. Single moms shamelessly flaunt their “independence” and “empowerment” as their kids have to endure a parade of dickheads tromping through their living rooms. Sluts shamelessly crow about their accomplishment persuading desperate losers to dump a spastic fuck in them. Fatties shamelessly parade their blubber, and doubleplusshamelessly demand acceptance of their grotesqueness. SWPLs preach diversity while shamelessly doing all they can to insulate themselves from their ruddy religious icons. Government and corporate globalists shamelessly smash the concept of a nation for a fatter wallet. SJWs shamelessly slake their hatred for their enemies’ perceived sin of hatefulness. Male feminists shamelessly surrender the last vestige of their masculinity for a patronizing pat on the head from screeching witches.

Soon, women will turn the Walk of Shame into an exuberantly proud strut.

Worse, the American shamelessness fever burns in a Bonfire of the Butthurt. Enthusiastic abandonment of humility mixed with prickly sensitivity is 100% bad box office.

What this world needs is a little bit of gratitude. And that’s the reason for this post. A simple thank you to you, the readers, for visiting the Chateau and, more importantly, for taking the lessons to heart.

It goes unmentioned (until now) that CH receives emails almost daily from grateful readers who saw improvements in their lives, or in the lives of people who matter to them, after applying the lessons taught here. Propriety, and sometimes requested confidentiality, dissuades the Chateau from printing these emails.

Some of the emails are incredibly moving. Like the one from an American soldier who lost friends on the battlefield in a most horrific manner, but who found sustenance and fortitude in the CH writings to bear the pain of loss and carry on. The resulting improvement in his dating life was just icing on the cake. To think that this blog is read thousands of miles away by warriors as spiritual nourishment is quite humbling.

But the email that swelled the heart of CH the most was the testimonial from a father of a teenage son. He explained in eloquent detail his distress from watching his son grow unhappier and lonelier by the day, another numberless castaway of a hypercharged high school dating market. The father stumbled across this digital oasis searching for “help my son find a girlfriend” and, struck by the unglossed nature of the CH message of hope, passed along the Rude Word to his son. At first, his son dismissed him with an embarrassed flourish, which the father expected.

Then, something changed. A few months later, the father noticed his son smiled more, and gained a renewed interest in his hobbies. He was funnier, and fun-loving. The moping and slammed bedroom doors decreased in frequency. Not long after that, the son casually announced over dinner he had to leave the house for a couple hours to “meet his girlfriend”. Dad, a smart man, did not make a production out of it, but inside he was bursting with pride and joy.

As was CH.

The gratitude, therefore, is for the people behind these testimonials, because in the end if nothing comes of Chateau Heartiste but that one attentive father saved his son from loveless solitude, every word would have been worth it.

So thank you readers, and thank you to those who have made donations, big and small.

I leave you all with this:

Love ferociously what is worth loving, hate with equal passion what is worth hating, and know that in the happy flux between those two poles you can make chaos dance to your tune.

Romance, 2015 Edition

Commenter dirkdiggly unzips in front of a mirror and ‘miringly unfurls this meaty tale of modern romance:

What fun it would be to make a “romcom” depicting a fiery romantic relationship as it actually plays out for the garden-variety CH apprentice…

Boy meets girl at a gathering of mutual friends.
Girl is objectively prettier than the guy, and clearly bored with her life and asteroid belts of hopeful orbiters, also present at the gathering.
Guy behaves outlandishly, or displays bold talent that sets him apart -no fucks given.
Guy negs girl, finishes her drink while she goes to the bathroom to gossip.
Numbers are exchanged. Guy writes hers on a napkin -loses napkin.
She calls after a few days of expectant waiting and overthink.
Guy “forgets” her name, but tells her that he remembers her hairstyle because it’s so common these days.
Girl asks guy on a date.
Sparks fly, fluids are exchanged.
Guy loudly poops immediately post-coitus, bathroom door open. Girl is fascinated.
Guy doesn’t call for a week. Smoke pours from girl’s ears due to hamster wheel tread stripping and transmission fire.
Guy texts “sup”. Girl swoons.
Casual sex ensues for six months. Guy avoids meeting her family.
Guy moves across country. Girl uproots entire life, quits job at Forever21, follows.
Girl arrives to find guy with new girlfriend…”babe I thought we had an understanding”
Credits roll to sounds of wailing/sobbing.

I’m drafting a script now, wonder which studio will jump on this “feel-good hit of the summer” first?

I’ll be setting up an indiegogo for those who feel compelled to donate.

This romantic scenario is far more common than the ones you see in typical rom-coms. But it would bomb at the box office, because women wouldn’t like it. Women don’t like depictions of love and romance that are too honest about the nature of their own sexuality. See, for example, Blue Valentine. Concealed ovulation should be your first clue that women are born masters at the art of self-deception.

Romance Isn’t Foreplay

A reader passed along a link to a post from what I believe is a satire website, called ‘The Reductress’. The post title is ‘Nicholas Sparks’ Wife: Romantic Gestures Are Not Orgasms’. It’s funny, if stylistically pedestrian.

“She really was my muse,” Nicholas said of the former lending company account executive, who he proposed to in a thunderstorm but never let try a girl-on-top position.

The humor is accessible because it does say something truthful about the sexes. Women say they love romance, and in certain contexts they do, but grand romantic gestures never did do nothing for their vaginas that a jerkboy attitude and an impudent boner didn’t already do.

Romance is dangerous beta bait. Books and movies have genres dedicated to the proposition that sappy romance wins women’s hearts and gines. I don’t doubt that women sincerely love immersing themselves in romantic escapes, but to extrapolate from that arid swoon a real world wet desire by women for pre-schtup sentimental schlock is an inference error that will cost you more lays than avoiding displays of romance altogether.

Don’t chomp the bait. Romance can’t spark attraction. It can only reinforce love. You will never part a woman’s legs with a love poem. Usually the opposite will happen; your LLoyd Dobler love sonnet performance paying loose tribute to the movie scene that shook your amour to joyful tears in a dark theater will have a decidedly less aphrodisiacal effect on her in the bright amphitheater of humanwave transmission.

Maxim #49: Romance isn’t foreplay. Romance is, at best, seasoning on an established sexual relationship.

Corollary to Maxim #49: A premature romantic gesture will have the opposite of its intended effect on a high SMV woman. Untethered romance is a DLV.

Hey, I’m a romantic just like most men. I’ve given myself over to the mush side on occasion, and it was nearly always a mutually enjoyable experience. The one weird trick I used to ensure mutual enjoyment? I never sapped it up with a girl I hadn’t yet tapped. I learned that lesson early in life. Save your romantic wanderlust for girls accustomed to your lumberthrust. They’ll be much more appreciative than the girls who have a band of betas lavishing them with jizz-stained testimonials of enduring obsession.

Reiterating, this is how women perceive romance:

Post-sex romance = surprise love.
Pre-sex romance = sex-starved ploy.

Naturally, the demanding male logos asks, “Then why, if women don’t tingle for romantic twaddle, do they devour representations of romantic twaddle?”

You’ve got to consider the psychological prestidigitation of the female mind. There are two self-medications being administered here.

One, when a woman melts during a romantic movie, she’s not thinking of Bob the Beta photobooth weirdo wooing her as if she were Amelie in her own little gay Paree. She’s not even thinking of a sexy but strangely asexual alpha man doing that. Instead, she’s metamorphosing the romance porn into relationship victory. A cute girl has little trouble getting sex from a man, but converting that coin of the clam into a long-term investment is exponentially tougher. Male romantic abandon, viewed from this perspective, is cause for a victory dance by a woman who now has evidence she succeeded taming the dude. This female perspective is always tinged with a tacit subconscious understanding that sex was already happening, or destined to happen, somewhere out of immediate sight, and it was therefore the allure of her nonsexual charms that truly won the man over.

Two, women have a queer ability to imagine themselves as the protagonist in rom-coms, even when the protagonist is a man (as they often are). This is a bit of inverse projection by women, as they identify with the lovelorn “beta man” who is desperate to capture the love of the emotionally distant “alpha woman”. The male character’s romantic exertions remind women of the efforts they undergo to win the commitment of the hard-to-get alpha man. In this body swap, women see something of themselves in striver Romeos, especially that something which speaks to a woman’s craving for acknowledgement of her feelings. But of course, what women don’t see is the involuntary sexlessness that typically bedevil beta male characters, because women can’t relate to incel with the ease that they relate to insol.

Freelance Comment Of The Week: Shiv And Sweet

The best thing about stopping by the Cheap Chalupas grease truck is reading commenter The Anti-Gnostic (blog here) make swift work of liberaltarian shibboleths.

I think we’ve seen enough to draw a few conclusions: Islam is incompatible with Western ideals; welfare subsidizes violent, unassimilable, r-selected populations; and open borders mean the death (literally) of liberal society.

I like the slice of his shiv. Don’t dawdle about with the extremities; aim straight for the leftoid heart. Fun Frag: The Anti-Gnostic has won the FCOTW before.

It’s time for a MMM FRESH MEAT! injection of COPROP.

Islam is incompatible with Western culture.
A few passionate bad Muslims will change society more than a million mealy-mouthed good Muslims.
Tribalism trumps liberté and égalité. (Fraternité subject to context.)
Islamophobia is code word for anti-white.
The white elite is the first enemy of the white race.
Diversity + Proximity = Charlie Hebdo.

Supply And Reprimand

I wonder what gated libertarian foodie Tyler Cowen… excuse me, Cheap Chalupas… thinks about this?

Thanks to the reader who emailed the pic. I like the twist of your shiv, sir.

The Sex Ratio Is Getting Worse For American Men

Here’s an animated map of the sex ratio in the US by county, during the time period 1990-2013 (h/t reader Agree&Amplify):

The blue shades are areas where the number of men exceed the number of women. The red shades are players’ paradises where there are more women than men.

As you can see, the transcontinental picture for American men is bleak. Blue areas are expanding their territory and luscious labia red areas are ceding territory.

Sex ratio is important. A good sex ratio will help optimize a man’s game.

But wait…

This map is woefully inadequate as a gash guide. Most egregiously, it doesn’t break down the female population by age. Who cares about the ratio of 60-year-old women to men? What matters is the 18-28 female demographic.

What about race? Most white men (and since we’re being honest, black men too) aren’t interested in panty raids of the lands where Shaneequa Law is operative (or soon to be). The South has a “good” female-to-male sex ratio, but you don’t see Mystery or Neil Strauss hitting up the Mississippi Delta club scene.

And the Hispanic invasion wave isn’t a poosy paradise for American men, either. Most of the 50 million migrants of the last few decades are squat oaxacas with zero sex appeal. It’s worse than that, because first generation migrants are skewed male.

Nonetheless, the map isn’t totally useless. It does show a widespread secular trend toward more men and fewer women. Even when extenuating variables are controlled for, it’s a decent bet that the population share of supple, 18-28 white women relative to all men has decreased, and this, naturally, has knockoff effects on the balancing of the sexual market. Young slender women, and especially young slender white women, have always been the bottleneck to romantic pleasure, but now that bottleneck is squeezing tighter. Obesity, invasion of the less attractive races, and other more obscure factors are jacking up the premium on slender white woman pussy. With every bottleneck squeeze, the thin white woman ego inflates by 50 psi. Is it any wonder that game — the art of applied charisma — is more necessary in America than ever before?

UPDATE

Jayman links to a map which breaks down the singles sex ratio by the crucial 20-29 year old age group. (Original post here.)

Not looking good. May as well rename America to SausageFestivania.

As jheymon notes, this is city data. The countryside may be better for men, although I doubt it. Sexy single rural women tend to flock to the cities in search of the alpha male of their dreams, leaving their towns pussy-parched.

Saracens Launch Surprise Attack Against French Newspaper Office On Day Of Houellebecq’s Publication Of ‘Submission’

Charles Martel wept.