Sexual Market Value Boosted, One Shed Pound At A Time

Visual proof of the damaging toll that fatness extracts from a woman’s sexual market value, and of the major increase in SMV that accrues when the excess fat is shed, is in this series of photographs of a single girl taken at regular intervals as she lost weight and went from a hippo to a totally bangable hot babe.

At 197 pounds, this girl was a hard 3 on the 1 to 10 looks scale. A hard 3 means that she would have had trouble getting love from a dweeby loser beyond a shameful one-night drunken rutting.

At 124 pounds, this girl is a solid 7.5, perhaps pushing into 8 territory. Let’s call her an 8 and unsplit the difference. Perfect curvy body (“feminine curvy”, not “feminist curvy“), youthfully peaking nubility, shock of fire engine red hair, exquisitely smooth milky white skin. You wonder if your eyes aren’t playing a trick on you and this is a different woman from the one at 197 pounds. But your boner doesn’t wonder which of these women it wants to nestle within. At SMV 8, this girl will have no trouble getting a high value man to commit to her for the long-term, and even to marry her.

From a 3 to an 8. Five whole SMV points — that’s a lot — at the low low price of losing 73 pounds.

This is the rough male equivalent of an average Joe going from a suburban shut-in to a semi-famous B-list actor. Or of a run-of-the-mill beta male mastering core game techniques, putting on ten pounds of muscle, dressing more stylishly, and behaving with unshakable overconfidence.

Love is pressing a biomechanical lever. You press the right levers, in the right order, and you can make the opposite sex fall in love with you. No magic required.

Serial Killer Or Omega Male?

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

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

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

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

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

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

UPDATE

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

Funny Shit Fatties Do

In my travels far and WIDE, I have seen fat people do some really funny shit, usually unintentionally, or have funny shit happen to them on account of their abnormal size, weight, girth and texture. Can’t forget texture.

– Unknowingly dribble food bits and drink down their chins. A fatty completely oblivious to the organic particulates accumulating outside his mouth is a comedic sight to behold.

– Knock over chairs and rattle tables as they were shimmying into seats at restaurants. I once witnessed a fatty so humongous and ill-equipped to navigate her own circumference turn over an entire four-seater table in slo-mo, as her massiveness rounded the bend and she settled her planetary obstruction into her pitiably undersized chair. The table came crashing to the ground, spilling dinnerware and a sad candle onto the floor with a loud clatter.

– Fart with the slightest exertion at the waist. No matter how uptight you are, you won’t be able to restrain a chortle when you hear a fatty rip a sonorous cheek-flapper as she’s bending over a mere inch to straighten a wrinkle on her tent pants. And lest you think you can politely hide your amusement, remember that a fatty’s fart is ten times as loud as a normal weight person’s fart, given that the fatty’s back draft has multiple zones of blubber to travel before final release. You’d think this would act to muffle the offending blast, but instead, like a geothermal well, pressure builds until the equivalent of a refinery’s worth of gas has parted the outer ass layer, and the slapping of cheese-cleaved butt roasts produces a ten-piece trumpet tremolo worthy of the Philharmonic.

– Break a chair. Yes, despite its clichéd nature, I remember clear as the day the time a fatty sat her bulk on a chair and one of the back legs gave out, flinging her backwards like a post-breach whale. She landed with such adiposity that… and I swear this as Lucifer is my unholy mentor… she bounced a little upon impact.

– Take a direct hit from an out-of control bicyclist and barely nudge as the guy on the bike goes flying in the opposite direction. A particularly overgrown specimen of fatty — a man weighing in the arena of 400 pounds, mostly confined to the belly and, steatopygially, to the buttocks — was winged by a bicyclist who, inexplicably, didn’t see the fatty before it was too late to avoid collision. The fatty took the brunt of the front wheel’s tangential blow to the bull’s-eye on his hanging midsection and fell back two steps, still miraculously on his feet, while the bicycler, and his bike, ricocheted like a bank shot pool ball at a tidy 45 degree angle from point of contact, finishing their macabre pirouette in a heap on the ground, front wheel futilely spinning in the air, grasping for asphalt that wasn’t there. The fatty did eventually fall to his feet, but only well after the dust had cleared, ostensibly to catch his breath from the blow’s radiating shock waves of pain, thirty seconds post-crash, that were just reaching his delicate innards. Bystanders rushed to help the bicyclist but assistance for the fatty was, of course, beyond anyone’s ability, given that no witness appeared able to deadlift 400 pounds of dangerously shifting weight.

– Absorb a sunburn in a perfect circle on the abdomen. A fatty female who, incomprehensibly to those with sense, was wearing a bikini and sunbathing on her back, stood up to reveal a bright red spot that circumnavigated the entirety of her yeast-risen belly. The perfect geometry and smoothness of edge was astounding, and gave her front the look of a red-rumped baboon in heat.

– Smoosh flip-flops into micron-thin atomic layers. Take a look at a fatty’s flip-flops sometime. Notice how wafer-thin the soles are. Then laugh as you wonder if the flip-flop’s atomic lattice was pressurized into a new periodic table element.

– Push seven large, sweating and grunting, adult men to the breaking point during the Horah. No further elucidation needed.

– Since this is a non-denominational shaming session, I once saw a fatty with tits so grossly inflated completely bury her Madonna-esque crucifix in folds of breast blubber. Jesus wheezed.

And my favorite fatty funny….

– Listen to a fat chick expound at length about her “great catch” boyfriend, only to watch her unscripted surprise when he showed up, apparently uninvited, at the social gathering we were attending, and thereby proved without a doubt, by evidence of both his notable lack of swagger and blank personality, just how far he actually was from being a “great catch”. But the best part was when, later, she asked for a sip of his beer and then proceeded to chug nearly half the bottle, leaving him with a sorry puddle of dregs at the bottom, which he stared at forlornly for an uncomfortably long spell.

Some people, probably fat asses themselves, with a constitutional aversion to the idea of mocking fat fucks for fun and aesthetic profit, have forwarded CH a study* which claims to show that fat shaming doesn’t work as a method to persuade fatties to slim down. To that, I say, that’s not shaming! You want shaming, I’ll give you shaming. Real shaming, not this pussyfoot crap based on an amorphous concept like “discrimination” favorable to Narrative guidelines.

*There is a major flaw with the “fat shaming” study. Specifically, the researchers relied on self-reporting questionnaires that asked whether participants had experienced discrimination. Anyone who is familiar with the hamster rationalizing of assorted losers in life, such as fat grotesqueries and chisel-chinned feminists, will tell you how adept those people are at blaming anyone but themselves for their wretched wretchedness. So it should be no surprise that a bunch of fat shits waddled into a quiet study to fill out a form with cheetos-stained fingers blaming the equivalent of THE MAN for their love of wolfing down greasy fried food and pints of ice cream.

Now, if you want real shaming that actually BITES, try shaming fat shits with methods proven to work. Charge them more to use public transit. Laugh openly at them. Make a spectacle of them. Flay their souls for the mirth of the cheering, howling mob, a la Chateau Heartiste. Sneer at, belittle, and viciously mock them. Or, if you prefer the crueler, subtler art of soul shivving, converse with them in innuendo and sly entendre that lets them know, forever and ever, how repulsive they are to normal people.

If, after years of this psychological torture, most fatties don’t find the fortitude to push away from the table, then you may say that shaming doesn’t work. But I suspect, rather strongly based on real world observation, that many fatties would discover in themselves a hidden untapped well of willpower, and lose the weight. For those fatties who prefer to abandon all hope under the social shaming onslaught and retreat to a dank bedroom to eat until they explode, well, consider it culling the herd. Evolution in action. The untimely dispatch of a species’ deformed members gets a bad rap, but it’s a good thing for the species’ survival as a whole. And the slim phoenix that rises from the rendered ashes will be a good thing for lovers, such as CH, of truth and beauty and sexy babes who can inspire authentic boners.

Another Chick And The Wall

Over at Jizzebel, internet archipelago of misfit romantic rejects, a woman breaks the ogress omertá and bares her shiv-scarred soul for the world to leer at with morbid fascination. In a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark, ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood.

You will realize that getting older is not only NOT as terrible as you thought, but that it actually it confers untold advantages you couldn’t have even imagined when you were busy running around doing cartwheels staying up all night wearing miniskirts.

Ugly truth time: Old age is a horror show. The mind fogs, the body rots, the sex organs wither, the energy level plummets. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to avoid really shitty decay accelerants like heart disease or cancer. What about these facts of the toll of aging is not terrible? Old people have remarked to me that the only upside to their loss of youth was a growing sense of serenity, aka calm resignation to a total lack of power to do anything about one’s wretched deterioration. Here’s an easy question for platitude pusher Tracy Moore that will highlight the bankruptcy of her feminist feels: How many 80 year old women would instantly and painlessly shave 60 years of aging off their bodies with a snap of the finger if they could? My bet: A lot. About the same number as the number of parents-to-be who would instantly and painlessly cure a gay germ infection that was discovered in mommy’s fetus. (The following ‘heh’ directed at Andrew “Rawmuscleglutes” Sullivan:

Heh.)

Moore continues her psyche triage by quoting an advice seeker from an “Ask Polly” column:

“And so, the prospect of losing [my looks]—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread. I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop [the aging process]. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over. I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears.”

The fear of old people is real, because, of course, they aren’t a separate species, but a mirror of our future gnarly selves. This woman is expressing a real fear based on a real understanding about how the world, and the mating market, work, even if her worry borders on obsessively unhealthy. The correct advice to give her is not to impugn her character or chide her for her lack of faith in feminist boilerplate credentialism, but to tell her to stop worrying so much about something she has no control over and to get out and enjoy her boner-inspiring, beta-manipulating youth n beauty while she has it, because it is good. And then perhaps to recognize that, yes, the day will come, sooner rather than later, that her looks will be gone, and she should prepare for this eventuality by limiting her time on the cock carousel and extracting commitment from a worthy man before her carriage turns into a fatass pumpkin. A few tips about age-slowing eating and lifestyle habits wouldn’t hurt, either.

Tracy Moore, as is the wont of members of her subterranean sisterhood, imparts a distinctly uninspired take that vibrates with barely-concealed acknowledgement of biomechanical reality:

Obviously, we could make a lot of assumptions about where this advice-seeker has gone wrong — namely by being too caught up in her own appearance and the joy it brings her and others. But we would do better to remind ourselves of the double-edged sword beauty brings to those who posses it: great rewards, an often over-reliance on its door-opening magical powers to the exclusion of cultivating the self, an expiration date, being taken less seriously, etc.

An “expiration date”! A term so closely aligned with Chateau Heartiste that suspicions are aroused Moore is a secret reader.

Nevertheless, Moore’s laundry list of youthnbeauty downsides are feelgood pablum: There is not only no laboratory evidence that beautiful women don’t “cultivate the self” or that they are “taken less seriously”, there is hardly any real world evidence of these nostrums either. If anything, beautiful women are taken *too* seriously, and get a leg up in just about every aspect of life by obsequious men… until they hit the wall. And since beauty and IQ correlate, there is a better than random chance that a beautiful girl will be a more interesting personality than will be an ugly girl.

Sometimes the Thing You Notice About Aging Is Oddly Comforting

Even when these moments come — I can’t get drunk like I used to; What’s that popping sound in my hip every time I stand up? Must use more moisturizer — rather than feel bad, I actually feel good, good that I am alive and this age and still totally healthy, in spite of how much I wasted my youth, or rather, got wasted while young. Think about it: Your body says fuck you to gravity most days of its existence. Pretty amazing.

It’s only “oddly” comforting because Moore understands, past the confines of her well-manicured ego, that aging is not a comfort show at all. Yes, pretty amazing. You keep telling yourself that Tracy, because those wasted years not finding a beta husband to tenderly stroke your anvil mandible while you still had a semblance of sexual marketability are never coming back. May as well ease the pain with a stirring morning motivational that exults in your achievement of breathing air for another day.

Yes, There’s Regret, But Not Like You Think

Once I remember talking with a friend when we were in our late 20s, and she remarked casually that she wished she’d worn more cute clothes/risqué stuff when she was younger and had a “better body,” and I agreed reflexively, like, yeah, of course, who doesn’t. But then I realized that in order to have done that, I would have had to have been a completely different person. I have never really been the type of person to dress provocatively at any age.

Just like a feminist to wish she had been sluttier when she was younger. Hey Try-Hard, I got news for ya… younger women can wear a friggin potato sack and still look more bangable than a 40 year old in a cocktail dress.

What crazy person would trade that [life experience] for a slightly higher set of boobs?

False choice fallacy. But this is feminist-land, where logical fallacies are coin of the realm.

And if you so happen now be the sort of person who wants to wear a miniskirt, wear a fucking miniskirt and shut the fuck up about it!

This is not recommended for cougars and fatties, or does Moore believe that women should be exempt from feeling bad about any visual appraisals that aren’t sufficiently and simultaneously respectful and lascivious?

The Thing You Really Notice is How Little You Care

Sorry, I know it’s a bumper sticker at this point, but the hands-down, best motherfucking juice that comes from being older is how much better you know yourself, and what’s more, you like this person you’ve gotten to know, even when you accept her worst flaws. This is more liberating than all the fresh-faced ignorant bliss in the world.

You know what else would qualify as “liberating”? Admitting to yourself that you look shittier now than you did ten years ago. And then adjusting your man-sights accordingly.

Trying to appreciate where you are right now is the big triumph of life.

Feminism: The new tard olympics.

Knowing that wherever you are right now is where you are, and looking for the best thing in that, with an eye on how to keep it going toward wherever you want to be, is the point.

Has a sentence more devoid of substance and more burdened with vapid nonsense ever been written by a woman? It reads like a post-modern architectural shoebox of stacking “right now is where is right is now is point is where” clauses.

Your Looks Never Actually Bail

If so, where do they go? In the crawl space at your last apartment? Is there a dumpster in the sky where all the young, beautiful faces go, like some weirder, more mutant version of the movie Face Off? Duh, you always look like you! Because you are you! And you are an evolving thing, a thing that ages!

So Tracy, is the fact that this concluding paragraph of yours contradicts just about every stated and implied premise you made earlier in your article fill you with shame in your chosen career? Jes askin’.

So if you are young and terrified and reading this right now, I say, please, enjoy the shit out of what you’ve got, and spend the rest of your time building an exquisite bridge to the next phase of your life, so that you can enjoy the shit out of that, too. That is the secret to sheer magnetism, no matter how old you are.

Actually, men will be a lot less tolerant of your “sheer magnetism” when you’re old and ugly. But your fat feminist snarky BFFs will continue to lap up your runny shit, so there’s that.

Why else can we not stop drooling over Helen Mirren?

Newsflash: No one is drooling over Helen Mirren but deluded feminists fearing a crash impact with the wall, and their suck-up orbiter manboobs who secretly want to prematurely dribble a tepid spurt of their feeb seed all over your jungle bush.

PS: The following is *not* a valid example of an older woman having sexual market options:

PPS: One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.

Comment Of The Week: Game, Distilled

Commenter PA writes,

My red pill Game breakthrough was very simple: interact with women in ways that men would find annoying or even insulting: tease them, put them into defensive crouches, don’t give them straight answers. It works like magic, both in romantic relationships and in professional ones.

Of course, I’m not s sperg so I can do those things in a calibrated way.

This is about as pithy a description of the heart and guts of game (aka learned charisma) that you will read.

Last night, I had a beautiful dream. I dreamed a dream that all CH commenters were as insightful, succinct and coherent as PA. No homo. Then I woke up and saw an ASCII world of femx’s and thwacks. Le sigh.

Beta Male Move Of The Day

The Beta Male Move of the Day highlights a classic beta male “tell” that women subconsciously register and which then powers down any nascent attraction that they may feel toward the man betraying himself by his beta behavior. BMMOTDs (or, colloquially, “Beta Movements”), can be egregious or subtle; the end result, however, is always the same: more distance between you and the pussy.

Personal Real Life Detail Revealed:

I was in a pricey bar catering to young-ish professionals when I noticed the following Beta Movement.

End Personal Real Life Detail Transmission

That’s all you need to know to grasp the game lesson herein.

The Beta Movement is chicken pecking. Pecking of the head, or whole body pecking, it doesn’t matter; watching a man do this is akin to watching a reserve tank labeled “Alpha Male Attractiveness Fuel” superimposed on his body slowly draining to the flashing red “E”. It’s a neediness gesture that primally offends both women (resulting in lost attraction) and other men (resulting in lost respect). Naturally, no one is going to conspicuously make a look of disgust if you peck while listening to him or her. The more likely response is a slow backing out of the conversation and sideways glances for more powerfully interesting company. Human social interaction is not s series of nuclear bombs going off, but a vast network of sensation-seeking psychological tendrils alternately reaching outward and inward and elsewhere for a foothold on which to attach.

Many men peck. It’s probably a hard-wired instinct that evolved to signal goodwill and concord, and thus facilitate in-group social lubrication. But the fact that many men do it is only evidence that many men are betas. Alphas wouldn’t be alpha if they were numerically superior. (Such a phenomenon, were it to occur, would be very short-lived anyhow as bull-headed jousting for distinction would lead to attrition.) Try to focus on your body and head as you listen to someone of notable social worth (this could be a high ranking man or a hot woman). Self-awareness is vital; if you feel your head bobbing at the neck when you want to express agreement or consilience, make a sound effort to stop doing it. Same goes if you feel your body swaying rhythmically in a similar fashion.

If you find yourself in fulsome agreement with your company, resist the urge to nonverbally and obsequiously express it. Practice maintaining not just unswerving eye contact, but also head and body stillness, when listening to an alpha male or alpha female in conversation. You should be closer to an obelisk, not a chicken. Chicks dig the obelisk.

The Myth Of Effortful Game

Zombie Shane demurs,

Honestly, I don’t know that these “mindgame” chicks are worth the effort.

Unless maybe you’ve gone full-blown nihilist and you’re determined to tap EVERY SINGLE god-damned piece of ass which crosses your path – bar none.

But, again, in all honestly, I can think of a bazillion things I’d rather do than waste any calories pursuing a “mindgame” chick.

Life is just too damned short.

…to blow prospects because of bad game.

Chicks play mind games. This is what they do. It’s a part… of their bioengineered faaaantasy. Women employ these mind games to sort worthy alphas from feeble betas. They can’t help it any more than you can help staring at a firm ass and pert tits. So your choices are either get with the cosmic program and learn how to make reality work for you instead of against you, or drop out and become a sourpuss.

The very crux of your complaint is wrong. There really isn’t any effort expended in picking up chicks once you get the hang of it. It’s pretty much all upside to watch a girl’s face brighten with newfound desire because you successfully pulled her limbic strings. How long until you’ve got a smooth seducer’s rhythm going? Figure anywhere from three months to two years, depending on your innate suite of attractiveness traits.

The reason game sounds like a lot of effort has to do with the nature of describing subtle human interactions in print form. In the real world, these moves occur in millisecond bursts, and hardly take any energy at all. When you have internalized how to behave and speak with women, you spend no more energy seducing them than you would brushing your teeth. And it feels like even less energy expended, because you’re having fun.

But the human mind is complex and explaining its psychology and its interplay with other human minds in ways that can be easily digested by a lot of readers necessarily requires effort, which makes the act being described seem like effort. The typical 500-word post on this or that game technique distills to a few seconds worth of action in the field.

If you really want to contrast energy expenditures between different styles of courtship, you’ll find that game-adherents come out far ahead in the metabolic savings sweepstakes. For example, compare the familiar and oft-touted (by know-nothings) traditional beta male with the oft-ridiculed game-utilizing ladykiller.

Beta male:
Mentally struggles to approach one girl, Spends five hours talking to her before summoning courage to ask her out. Becomes exhausted trying not to say stupid shit, and trying to memorize every word girl says. Goes on seven dates and spends hundreds on drinks and meals and travel before getting her to his bedroom. Gets a make-out and goes on five more dates before getting a handjob. Sex comes three months in, but only after intimations of marriage worthiness.

Ladykiller:
Approaches are mentally simple because he does them all the time. Spends twenty minutes to one hour talking with a girl before getting a make-out. Speaks one third as much as the girl speaks. Goes on two dates and spends $20 on drinks. Picks her up for third date, has sex with her instead, then goes on date. Three months of orifice clobbering and he still hasn’t agreed to exclusivity. Marriage is but a distant abstraction.

Moral of the post: If game feels like “wasting calories” to you, then perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work.