The Randomness Of Polar Bear Hunting

Something totally random happened in Oklahoma yesterday. A white man was randomly shot and killed by three random uruk-hais randomly pointing guns out of their random ghettomobile, and randomly choosing a target upon whom to unload their random fleeting emotions which some might randomly refer to less randomly as a pointed expulsion of hate.

Here are random photos of the random killers looking like any random person would look who randomly decided to shoot a man dead in the back:

In related news, I randomly chose wine instead of kerosene to drink last weekend. I randomly wore shoes to walk outside instead of going barefoot. And I randomly avoided a dilapidated neighborhood known to be full of restless orcs. It’s this randomness of life that makes all of us feel morally superior for avoiding the notice of any non-random occurrences. Three cheers for awful, tragic randomness!

“They pulled up behind him and shot him in the back then sped away,” said Capt. Jay Evans of Duncan Police Department. “It could have been anybody — it was such a random act.”

“It could have been anybody.” Translation: “The shit is going to hit the fan if white people start noticing that it wasn’t just anybody.”

Just how confidently can this police captain claim randomness as a crime motive? Were the three joy-shooters — two nightmare beasts and one miscegenated quasimodo — completely unaware of the race of their chosen victim?

Questions to ask the Captain:

How many people did the perps pass in their car before shooting Lane?
Was Lane the first “random” target they saw that day?
Did they pass up the chance to shoot any blacks before targeting Lane for the kill?
If the shooting was random, why were pedestrians coming toward them spared? The back shot seems especially cowardly and proof of forethought rather than pure chance.
Why, if the violence was totally random, is it two blacks and one mulatto with identity issues who stand accused of the crime in a city, Duncan, OK, that is only 3% black?

Of course, these questions will never be answered. Because the truth is a shiv to the post-modern, post-Western, anti-white posterity cleansing project. The truth is that there was nothing “random” about this morbidly banal killing; three gutter fiends spotted a white man — an iconic-looking white man jogging in that iconically white way — and gleefully took aim with all the roiling envy and hate their black hearts could muster, channeled into the spear of hot metal that would reward them with a few minutes of spastic joy.

Chris Lane was polar beared, just like Matty Yglesias was polar beared in his gentrifying DC enclave, except Lane took a lethal blow while Mattyboy was lucky to endure a flying fist as the weapon of choice of his insta-haters.

Look at that photo above, Mattyboy. Look at it real close. You know it. I know it. This is degeneracy. Human regression to a primitive prototype. Hate Machine in motion. Idiocracy ascendent. Brutish subterranean vessels of rank disgorged id spit forth from the perforating bowels of a diseased culture that has embraced lies and abandoned truth.

The Cathedral isn’t simply a metaphor for the mouthpieces of the mass media; its darkness — its evil — reaches deep into schools, government, entertainment industries, and apparently even local police departments. No mind is safe from its memetic synapse-blasting. Not even the minds of those who are up to their necks in daily reminders of reality and should know better than to spout blatant reality-warping lies intended as much to humiliate the listener as to redirect rage.

In this world, our Cathedral mind prison, media organs credulously accept the word of subhuman filth who claim boredom and random target acquisition for their actions, but will spin spin the universe on its axis to twist a news story about a Hispanic guy shooting a thug in defense who was bashing his head into the ground as a morality tale of white racism against angelic minorities.

Pre-human monsters from the abyss = wide-eyed Cathedral credulity.

Niceguy Hispanic looking out for his neighbors = Cathedral doubleplussmear campaign.

When you lie down with rotting filth, you get up with bad habits of the mind. Excise this stinking corpse of a nation from your mind, it is no longer a part of you and you are no longer a part of it. Time to rebuild something new, better, true and beautiful from the smoldering ashes. People are awakening. A cataclysm stirs.

The Rules Of Social Savviness: Rule #3

The King, (that’s you, bub), strides to the castle balcony to sonorously address the ear-pricked masses below. Your heavy velvet robe flowing around you, royal bling glittering in the sun, you gaze downward, lift your arms with palms to the sky, and say,

“What do you guys think of my rule?”

Ludicrous, right? A King would never speak to his adoring flock like that. He wouldn’t ask them their opinion; he would state outright what he was planning, and expect nothing less than enthusiastic reception for his nostrums. The King would not query. He would proclaim.

This is the last in a series on the Rules of Social Savviness. Rule #1 is here and Rule #2 here.

The third rule caps what I consider the winning trifecta of social behaviors that are characteristic of the socially savvy alpha male. As illustrated in the above scenario, it strikes us strangely when a high status man asks questions. We expect such a man to declare his intention or his opinion, not wonder aloud if his intention is workable or his opinion worthwhile. This natural human impulse to regard earnest questioners as innately lower status — an impulse that is especially refined in women as a psychological mechanism for determining bangable men in their midst — can be exploited by socially savvy men to their personal benefit.

Rule #3: Don’t ask questions when you can make statements instead.

Before Team Autist shows up to bristle that this rule means a man should never ask questions even if he needs the answer to something he doesn’t know, recall that life is full to brimming with generalizable rules that must suffer the indignity of hard-to-square exceptions. Learn to deal with the dissonance.

Rule #3 is the least firm and most frustrating of the three Rules of Social Savviness for social misfits, even as it is the easiest to follow (with some practiced self-awareness). Think of Rule #3 more as a goal to strive toward rather than an ironclad dictum.

Reader Lorem Ipsum describes Rule #3 very well in a comment on this post,

One of the best things that I ever did to improve my texting was to delete all question marks, as the interrogative mood is indicative of the classic beta frame (even when used as a rhetorical device; your texts should be the written equivalent of the terse statements of a pilot wrestling with the controls of a wounded aircraft). It is at its core a submissive posture; someone else has information (power) and you implore them to share that power with you.

“Is this a trick question? I loved the spice girls”
versus:
“Trick question. I loved the spice girls”

The second is more powerful. The Alpha ALWAYS knows, even when he doesn’t.

Act as if you know, even when you don’t. Chicks dig overconfident men. Overconfidence is the heart of game.

So get in the practice of thinking before speaking. Make that split second adjustment that mentally switches your questions to statements. Avoid the question mark in any texts, chats or emails. If there is room to rephrase a question to a statement, do so. And as your tongue nimbly accommodates this improved, alpha, way of speaking, you will discover a new man emerging from the chrysalis of your beta shell. Fake it till you create it. And make no mistake, you CAN create a better man out of the man that is now you.

The Three Rules of Social Savviness

1. Don’t get defensive
2. Don’t force conversation topics
3. Don’t ask questions when you can make statements instead

Abide these rules, and your social life will improve dramatically. Half of your game will be rendered obsolete because friends charmed by your company will go out of their way to set you up with girls they know. And they’ll make damned sure the girls are cute and feminine, because you wouldn’t want to disappoint the King, would you?

UPDATE

Mangan has linked to an article about “uptalk”, which is the linguistic habit of turning every statement into a question. Quote,

[Uptalk] is the very opposite of confidence or assertiveness.

Yet again we see that the landed gentry of the human sciences have ♥vindicated♥ Chateau Heartiste concepts, providing more ammunition for advocates of game as a legitimate fast-track seduction technique. Game denialists would weep, but their bodily fluids are empty on account of having shed their last post-coital tear of relief into their couch creases.

The Rules Of Social Savviness: Rule #2

Social Savviness Rule #1 was: Don’t Get Defensive. Also known as the “If you show your soft underbelly, people will claw at it until your guts are sliding out” rule.

In this post, we will discuss the second of the three Rules of Social Savviness:

Rule #2: Don’t Force Conversation Topics.

Men have a thermal exhaust port. We are too logical. No, seriously. Logic is great for building bridges that won’t collapse and for inventing calculus, but it’s horrible as a mental facility for managing relationships or persuading women to see your point of view.

(Women have a thermal exhaust port, too: Their emotional bonding and subsequent rationalization for their feelings that blinds them to a man’s true motives.)

Logical thinking is how theories are formulated, arguments are devised, and solutions are hard-won. Men, by dint of years of exposure to their own natures, have resilient egos which can withstand blows by opposing forces and regroup for another day of adventure and creative-destruction. Unlike women who retreat to deeper delusions when their egos are struck by reality, men can, to varying degree, take an ego shock in stride and incorporate new evidence that will accrue to their personal advantage.

That male trait which is a gift in non-romantically infused contexts is a handicap when the opposing force is an alien who doesn’t play by the rules of logic. That force is female self-love, from which all absurdities of thought and peculiarities of reason flow.

So what happens when the unstoppable force of male logic meets the immovable object of female self-love? You get what we in the seduction business call a stubborn refusal to let an orphaned conversation thread die out when it isn’t being received well by female company.

We’ve all seen this happen to some hapless over-logical male: The triumphant quasi-announcement of a scintillating conversation topic nursed in a split second judgment that the gathered will be amazed by his wit and wisdom, the forthright glee with which it is presented for studio consumption, the leaking of confident airs from his demeanor as he too slowly realizes no one is reciprocating his energy or spring-boarding off his brilliance, the stuttering follow-up as one or two congregants, usually women, ricochet unpredictably into new topical territory, the prison of silence that muffles him as he surrenders to the reality that the crowd has MOVED ON.

And then, the most awkward moment, the anti-climax he will regret for months if he is young and for an hour or two if he is older and giving less fucks about life’s sadistic pop quizzes. That moment, after the conversation has fully turned and spasms of fresh vigor have been injected by girlicues following their bouncing bubbly balls, when he throws himself, bellyflop style, onto the organic rhythm of the back and forth with a last-ditch effort to impose his previous stream of concreteness. And, naturally, the reddening splash turns to reddening hue as eyes of pity shot with capillaries of contempt answer his logical insistence with an ocular writ of cease and desist.

He is humbled, and his allies in male logic abandon him as the women take the lead to rescue a souring scene. As go the tingles, so go the tumescents.

If you get what you think is a winning conversational theme in your head, be prepared to abandon it at a moment’s notice. Like De Niro* might say about seduction, don’t get attached to a topic you aren’t willing to drop in ten seconds flat, if you feel the female heat around the corner.

(*Running ref gag.)

Let threads die. Don’t attempt to revive threads at a later time. Don’t beat a fun time over the head with your genius insight that the world is fated to endure. Don’t hammer home a message when the crowd has decided it’s time to talk about something else. If you can master the art of artfully dodging your own bull-headed self-loyalty, you can learn to appreciate the percolating jazziness of verbal foreplay. It’s a talent that comes second-nature to women, but which men — especially autist spectrum men — have to work at to achieve the same level of instinctive grasp.

If you feel that headstrong voice egging on your ego to drive home a point, don’t listen to it. Avoid its tempation. Choose strife. Accept that conversations and social pressures will be chaotic, and that from this bubbling froth of flirty banter that is outside of your narrow mental alleyways and that flourishes under both your simultaneous command and acquiescence, real desire can erupt, like a solar flare.

Women measure a man’s mate worth by many more variables than just his shoes or square jaw. They measure his wit, his grace under pressure, his adaptability. Can he steer discursive switchbacks with confidence? Can he quickly disown colloquially limp lows while claiming careening conversational highs as his own? These tells of a man’s alpha nature — and yes, they are the distinguishing hallmarks of the alpha male personality — are subtle enough to be missed by other men with eight-cylinder powered logical minds, but are magnified to outsized relevance by intuitive women with a million years of evolution to guide them toward the vessel of their orgasmically up-sucked überseed.

One trick I have learned that has helped me avoid the error of forcing conversation topics is to relinquish a flowering thought at the moment when the crowd wants to hear more of it. Better to err on the side of leaving a topic stranded close to a high note rather than beating it to death past its expiration note. You are not a stand-up comedian with a captive audience and a mic; you are a man in a group of people all more or less equally competing for air time. Use the floor wisely. Your wit should be a gift, not a chore.

Next post: Rule #3!

The Rules Of Social Savviness: Rule #1

This is a three part series that will delve into the fundamental laws of the pooniverse. The pooniverse includes within its sphere of influence any social interaction, whether in pairs or groups, single sex or mixed sex. Why not have the concentric embedding go the other way around? Because the biomechanical prime directive assures that any social interaction will create perturbations in the sexual marketplace that will move players up or down the reproductive fitness scale of worth. To put it bluntly, if you talk like a nerd, you’ll turn off women. If you talk like a charming mofo, women will brighten to your presence. And in the final analysis, everything we do, we do for love. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

The Rules of Social Savviness are foundational to game, and are vital to courtships and to friendships. The closer you adhere to the Rules of Social Savviness, the better every aspect of your social life, from your work relationships to your romances to your family to your friends, will be. The further from these rules you drift, the worse you’ll feel because people won’t want to be around you.

A socially savvy man makes other men laugh and enjoy his company, and this will be noticed by women, who cannot help by dance to their natures and become aroused by the sight and sound of a savvy man holding court like a king whose words are next to God’s. These Rules are therefore universally applicable, and ultimately redound to your success as a seducer.

Rule #1: Don’t get defensive.

Some might call this rule, “Try not to come off like a grammar nazi, or like Bryan Caplan on the verge of thumping his head with his fist after finding out he undercounted the paper clips.”

The object of this rule is simple: If a person (sometimes, yes, a cute girl!) is playing around with you, or even ribbing you with a whiff of malice, don’t take the sperg stand like a defendant swearing his humanness to a jury of his peers. The jury doesn’t care. They just want to be entertained. And logical refutation is not entertaining. Nor is butthurt indignation. Nor overwrought explanation. Nor cringing insecurity. Nor whiny baby boy whininess. Nor crestfallen defeat.

Well, that last one can be entertaining, but only to sadists.

I’ll give you an example of this Rule in action from my own life. I was at a [REDACTED] and did something goofy, the details of which I can’t recall but anyhow don’t matter much to the lesson being conveyed, when a colt-ily cute-ish girl announced with uncorked bravado to the assembled her opinion of my antic:

“Eww, that’s so creepy!”

Now, mind you, she said it with an obvious hint of humor, so the crowd wouldn’t get the idea she was being a bitch or anything. But even lubed with the laxative of facetiousness, this was the sort of blurted grillgrrl judgment that can sweep the leg of a lesser man who lacked experience in the ways of sex-simmered social politesse. Fortuitously, living My life as CH and master of all that He surveys, my reply was deceptively coy and disarming:

{raising eyebrows, curling lips downward, and slowly nodding like De Niro  contemplating the infinite cosmos}:

“You bet! I’m hoping to reach level 99 creeper some day.”

Not the wittiest line I’ve ever uttered, but that’s not the point. You can say anything to defuse a caustic jab and still sound entertaining and likable, as long as you don’t sound defensive. She laughed, crowd chuckled warmly, mission accomplished, at least for that three second window. These three second missions never end.

How would the typical, clocks in his 40 hour work week, stays on the straight and narrow, supports the infrastructure of civilization, beta male react to that same girl rattling his world with a half-cocked accusation of creepiness?

I’ll tell you (because I’ve heard a million beta males stumble their way through similar scenarios). The typical beta would say:

“That’s not creepy.”

Or, “No, I was just trying to…”

Or, “No, I didn’t mean it that way…”

Or, {says nothing, smiles weakly and blushes}

You get the picture. Defensiveness is the calling card of the butthurt beta male. A girl could be drenching her panties thinking about your glowing member, but if you adopt the defensive posture and utter three predictable, ego-bruised inanities in a row, her vagina will retract like a turtle in the midday sun. If that doesn’t shut her down completely, the retreat of a disappointed crowd surely will. Works on male friends, too. Your buddies will buy you more drinks and invite you more places if you’re that cool cat who doesn’t take stuff personally and knows how to badinage like a boss.

Don’t get defensive. Once you have this rule lodged in your head, you’ll be surprised how smoothly fresh grease for conversational grist oils your gray matter gears. It’s a self-therapy ploy to push yourself to think along new vectors, and to glide along stronger, slicker neural paths. Lose the bad habits, and good habits have room to grow.

Next post: Rule #2!

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.

Mainstream Feminist Outlets Try To Bury Their Association With Hugo Schwyzer

Hugo Schwyzer, buffoon. Hugo Schwyzer, hypocrite. Hugo Schwyzer, self-proclaimed male feminist leader. Hugo Schwyzer, lover of porn stars, seducer of younger coeds, defiler of the matrimonial vow, potential giver of the herpes simplex Types 1 and 2, self-pegging fap-exposing murder-suicide contemplating part-time homosexing beacon of hope to dumbass feminists and their suck-up allies.

Now we can add one more honorific to Schwyzer’s curriculum vitae: Disgraced, womanly pity whore.

And who, besides Schwyzer himself, helped bring Schwyzer to the depths of the most public of public humiliations? Who was the first to mock his phoniness, ridicule his idiotic male feminist musings, turn him over on the spit for the world to poke with pointed sticks, implicate his supporters and advocates for hitching their fortunes to his ass-kissing self-aggrandizing lies?

Who, indeed.

Schwyster knows all this, too, which makes him a phonyfuck of the highest caliber. The guy spent his early years as a professor cashing in his higher status for the pleasure of fucking his 18-21 year old students. Maybe he is wracked with guilt, and his current ultrafeminist stance is his form of atonement. Or maybe (and more likely, in my view) his hypocritical feminist sycophancy is a ruse to get in the panties of the deluded naifs who take his classes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The difference between me and a lickspittle errand boy like Schwyster is that I don’t go around claiming there’s something psychologically wrong with men for desiring the hot bods and feminine charms of young women. I don’t blame a guy like Schwyster for wanting to stick his dick in his peak fertility students, nor do I stroke feminist egos to earn PC brownie points and page views.

If you want to know who got under Hugo’s skin the most, you need only see which of his tormenters goes missing by name from his meltdown Twitter feed and from his confessionals to less sadistic bloggers than CH.

The reason Hugo doesn’t want to credit the source of his everlasting torment is because CH stuck the shiv in his mottled hide hard and deep, and it’s the twist that still pains him. Unlike many more charitable judgers of Hugo Schwyzer, I feel no pity toward him, nor any incipient feeling of charity. He is a liar, a phonyfuck, a charlatan, and a male attention whore with flapping labia where his mouth should be. He is an enabler of the worst of society, a useful tool conveying the rotten propaganda of assorted losers and misfits and degenerates, singing their off-key tune while he happily cashed in his exploitative scheming for the very nubile rewards his mass of followers tune in to hear him rail against. He is utterly repellent, a lizard in human clothing. I hope that he slices lengthwise, and should he do so, I will dance a happy snoopy dance the likes of which the dark side of the internet has never seen.

But there is a bigger story here than Hugo’s personal twilight, and that is the quickness with which mainstream, widely read feminist media outlets are attempting to bury and conveniently forget their association with Schwyzer. Hugo was, for a long time, a well-regarded paid contributor to such popular feminist and feminism-favoring organs as Jezebel, BlogHer, xojane, The Atlantic, and The Good Men Project. As Chuck noted,

But a few outlets like The Good Men Project, Jezebel, and The Atlantic took a chance on the history and gender studies professor from Pasadena City College who established himself as a male pop feminist by kissing the right asses and having sex with the right people.  Those outlets have avoided addressing their relationship with Hugo.  Jezebel’s editor Jessica Coen wrote a slippery post which was clearly about her former writer, but she wasn’t willing to actually mention Hugo by name. The post was evasive, and many commenters at the site called Coen out for it since Jezebel generally has a confrontational style.  I pitched my conversations with Hugo to The Atlantic as a tale of how two adversaries had spoken about his troubles.  Maybe my low Klout score kept the editor there from accepting the pitch.  And I didn’t go to The Good Men Project with a piece because they’re boring.  Regardless, all of those outlets saw the same person before them that me and many other critics of feminism saw, but they hosted Hugo for years.  Behold the power of telling people what they want to hear.

Funny how that works. You tell an ego-parched fug feminist what she wants to hear, and she opens her legs to your cock and her internet real estate to your cockamamie drivel, believing… oh, so very believing!… .that the male feminist lunacy dripping like honey into her ear palate was the Word of Goddess Herself. Hugo had a niche, and his sneaky fucker strategy netted him the adulation and the blowjobs he craved. Such a niche is not without its merits, but do keep in mind that being a community college professor to dimwits, however lowly in the academia hierarchy, is the lube that greases the coed skids. Playing the male feminist for fun and profit is not likely to work for the man who doesn’t have that hypergamously-grooved prof podium from which to tingle the tangles of thick-bushed queer gender studies acolytes. I don’t fault Hugo for pursuing this snatch-accumulating strategy. But I do shit in his lying face, and I do shit again in the faces of those who took his lies for truth.

So this is a glorious time to be an anti-male feminist. The wails and the rending of pit-stained t-shirts of the manboobs and the scalzied and the Dumb Hams of the world are the dulcet melodies of soaring symphonies, punctuated by the thunderous cymbal crash of lies being smashed. Ahhh, indeed.

But Hugo is an impenetrable pathological narcissist. No amount of soul shivving, however poison-tipped or torturously twisted to tickle vitals, will bring him the event horizon pain he so richly deserves. A shell entity who lives and breathes publicity, bad or good, will only welcome the psy knife that surgically pries his id. No, Hugo will only feel pain, real pain, when something else, something much more threatening to his ego survival, is presented to him. And that something else is Ostracism Total.

The targets of tender CH ministrations, then, are Hugo’s benefactors as much as Hugo himself. Jizzebel, The Atlantic, Good Men Project… you were duped, but only because you wanted to be duped. You wanted to believe in equalist, man-hating lies that caressed your stunted, shriveled, gimpy souls. You bent over and received the tepid diseased injection of a broken freak who knew how to locate and lick your ascended testes. Losers of a feather…

Jizzebel et al., you are served notice. I have you and your lackeys in my sights, and your filth that spews from the fountain of filth which is your whole stillborn existence is the effluvium I will shove back down your throats until you choke on it and recede from public discourse to clear the shit from your veins. The days when you can hire gutter liars like Hugo Schwyzer, and wallow in his fetid stink free of consequence, are over. Your only hope is to drive the Schwyzerian rats from your manicured harridan shelters, so that your circle diddles may continue under the radar of stone cold soul shivvers like yours truly with an eye and a scalpel for finding and dissecting egoistic neediness.

Then, when you — Jizzebel and the rest of the twisted sisters — have cast Hugo and his fellow castrati to the icy wastelands, will the real howls of pain fill the air to the delight of CH guardians of truth and beauty. For nothing will torment the likes of Hugo Schwyzer more profoundly than the torment of solitude.

Hugo, I know you’re reading this. If my words will bring any goodness and light to this world, your days as a lying sack of shit media token shilling for other lying sacks of shit are over. No one will call you, not even your former feminist allies. No one will publish you. No one will admire cross-eyed your throbbing intellect. No one will talk of you. No one will even think of you. When that day comes, and the barrel of the pistol is nestled in your mouth, lazing metallically on your tongue as your thinning, middle-aged lips glide over the shaft like long-ago unshaven feminist coed lovers used to do to your anti-feminist, patriarchal boner, no one, not even your family, will give a shit.

And that will be the lonely solitary pain from which you can’t escape or repurpose to your craven desires. In that moment, that sweet final moment of true and real reflection just before self-deliverance, you will think of my words, and my reminder that you had a choice to turn yourself against the mountain of lies you willingly embraced as your totem and your fate and your salvation. Sweet dreams, eternal darkness.

Spot The Alpha

The evidence:

Man in the back left can hardly contain his joy. Or his perforated ulcer. His fingers grip his super-sized prize like a rock climber dangling from a cliff face with no rope. He’s not about to let her tip over and capsize into her friend. After all, what is better in life than a fat chick with no tits?

Man in the back right is more composed, and maintains a firmer grip on his ballast. He seems fairly aware of the load capacity of his lumberjack arms and cornfed quads, and glows with the inner peace of a zen master who has touched the face of a semi-cute chick with his peen without ever having to touch her porky wet hole with it.

Girl in the front left is straining under the weight (heh) of her phony smile. She despises her reproductive partner, her grotesque starch bomb body, her life. But she loves her BBBFF who always makes her feel special and loved and free to be Princess Gluttony. Her dress sparkles because she knows how to attract the attention of horny military boys with alcoholic astigmatism.

Girl in the front right smiles naturally, smokes and drinks from a red solo cup. She has stuffed her carcass into a slinky cocktail dress meant for women half her size. She exudes self-confidence. Clearly, she is American. She likes her man and has taken many of his loads betwixt her fat girl ta tas. She is destined to cheat on him with a black man.

The conclusion:

The girl in the front right is the alpha male. Remember what the alpha male signifies: He is the man with options, who is dating “out of his league”, according to conventional metrics of date worthiness. Judging by this photo, the man who has made out like a bandit happens to be a woman.

And isn’t that modern society in a nutless-shell? An alpha male woman smothering the life out of a man who can do better, but won’t.