Arjuna, You Magnificent Beta!

Between the time when the suffragettes subverted America and the rise of the dykes of feminism, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Arjuna, destined to bear the jeweled crown of Beta Overlord upon a pansy brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga. Let me tell you of the days of great emasculation…

The Beta of the Year contest is over, but the disease that atrophies the balls of the gender formerly known as men continues plaguing large swaths of modern manhood. If anything, the mass sack shrinkage has reached epic proportions. As soon as I read the title of this Huffpost piece — The Art of Worshiping Women — I knew I was about to be treated to a particularly appalling case of pedestalisus dwindling testicularisis.

Meet Arjuna Ardagh, a self-declared “awakening coach, writer, teacher and public speaker”. A few choice bits of his relationship advice follow. If you had to imagine what the polar opposite of the advice given on this blog would look like, he’s your… “man”.

I’d been out for a walk with Chameli, my wife, one evening. Overwhelmed with the feeling that it just couldn’t get any better than this, I popped a little update on Facebook in celebration of the goddess I’m married to.

Try to control your puke reflex, because it only gets worse from here. As if it needed to be noted, calling a woman a “goddess” is bad game. It’s best to think of obsequious flattery like this in terms of the handicap principle. Abject betaness can be, paradoxically, an indicator of alphaness, if you are high status in some way, or the woman of your cloying cheesiness already loves you. Arjuna Ardagh sells books full of new age claptrap, and speaks to rapt audiences hanging on his every word, and so he has cashed in his high social and presumably financial status for a non-ugly wife, despite his counterproductive relationship advice. And let’s not forget that there is a conspicuous minority of dippy hippie chicks that lap up this holistic chakra new age bullshit. Framing — something Arjuna would be familiar with but will never admit to using in his personal dealings with women — is apposite. You can safely call a woman a goddess if it is wrapped and bowtied in a shitstorm of goofy mysticism.

It reflected on the wisdom of being in worship of the feminine. Not just get along with, or tolerate, or befriend, or cooperate with. Yes, I said what I meant: to worship the feminine.

Worshiping women is the fast track to involuntary celibacy. Women are, on average, biologically higher value than men, so worshiping them will only exacerbate an already skewed value perception and violate their hypergamous impulse. This is why concepts like negs and qualification are so successful; they strip women of their inborn royal decree and raise the value of the man using them.

Anyway, alphas don’t worship. They admire. There’s a difference.

Whether [Romeo and Juliet] liked it or not, they were carrying the inheritance of a conflict that they had each done nothing personally to create.

The same thing would be true today if an Israeli fell in love with a Palestinian, or if a Tea Party member fell in love with a Muslim, or if a Roman Catholic from Dublin fell in love with a Protestant from Belfast.

One of these comparisons is not like the others.

None of these meetings happen in a bubble. They all sit within the context of conflicts that have been generated in the collective. This same is true whenever a man enters into relationship with a woman. Of course, the man himself has likely never raped anybody, or burned any woman as a witch, or denied anyone the right to vote, or forced a woman to hide her face, or barred her from religious or political office, or forced her to perform subservient chores. “No, no,” such a man might say, “I’m a conscious man. I’m respectful of the feminine. I’m fully supportive that you do your thing.” Whether he likes it or not, that man still carries within himself the echoes of the collective masculine and, like it or not, every woman is an incarnation of the collective feminine.

Ah, the age old “sins of the father” tripe. Nevermind that his list of masculine “sins” never really happened the way he says, or in the numbers he believes. Nevermind too that woman have committed equally noxious sins against men that don’t get front page treatment because women tend to execute their evil without the razzle dazzle of physical violence. Cuckoldry, for instance, is a gross injustice against men that rivals serial raping in the evil sweepstakes.

The man carries on cleaning his gun and watching football, waiting for his woman to bring his dinner and his beer. The woman, still locked into millennia of enforced subservience, acquiesces, but bitter all the time, and holding back the treasures of her real love.

Lemme guess, an Obama voter? In the progressive mentality, men are forever perpetrators, women and minorities forever victims. Any other perspective would be… cognitively dissonant.

He distances himself as far as possible from the brutish behavior of his father and his ancestors and bows sheepishly to the newly emerged feminine power. The woman, now rebounding in resentment of how her mother and ancestors have been treated, becomes dominating. She becomes militant, unforgiving, and even castrating. The sad thing is, no one really enjoys this game either.

This is the Iron John bone that slimy creeps like Arjuna throw to their male readers. Don’t be fooled. Those bongo drums in the woods and guttural chants aren’t going to get you laid.

We discover that masculine and feminine are energies, not just biological genders. Every man has some masculine and some feminine energy and so does every woman. The balance we seek is not only between men and women but between the masculine and feminine energy, which are to be found everywhere in life.

What he’s talking about here is vulnerability game. But you must first demonstrate masculine alphaness — either through “leader of men” social status and domination or through “sexy lover” aloofness and cockiness — before you can move to the stage of seduction where she is open to hearing about your feminine side. It should also be noted that this “masculine/feminine energy dichotomy” that books like “Way of the Superior Man” have popularized is a bit of sloppy BS. Couples in sexually polarized relationships are the most successful — and often the most physically beautiful — that we see in the state of nature. Women aren’t drawn to sensitive men; they are drawn to masculine men who display traditionally feminine virtues, such as nurturing and emotional closeness, in a distinctly masculine form.

The feminine way is neither inferior (as we had deemed it for thousands of years) nor is it superior (as some have claimed in the last decades), but it is different. Through a synergy of masculine and feminine strengths, we find the emergence of a whole that is far, far, far greater and the sum of it to individual parts.

Nah, fuck that wishy-washy noise. The feminine way is inferior at building and maintaining civilization. It’s superior at raising brats to weaning age.

The restoration of dignity to the feminine has happened in three stages over the last century. The first took place less than 100 years ago with suffragettes demanding the right to vote. At that time men moved from denial and ridicule, to violent opposition, to acquiescence and finally to support.

And soon, back to global financial and demographic crisis.

The next wave came in the 1970s when women stepped forward to fully participate in the world man had created on his own terms. Margaret Thatcher and Indira Gandhi became heads of state (both in a woman’s body but doing things in a very masculine way). Women became judges and politicians and engineers and doctors and lawyers and ministers and construction workers, all roles that had previously been mainly reserved for men. Again, men’s response began with ridicule in the ’50s and shifted to acquiescence and then awkward support.

Actually, women mostly became PR flacks, HR drones, and bitter single moms. Most engineers, doctors, pols and construction workers are still men. Not sure about the gender balance of lawyers, but just look at the decay that occupation is in. Didn’t Carly Fiorina run HP into the ground?

The third wave of the restoration of feminine dignity has really happened in the last few years. It is sometimes called “The Goddess Movement.” We are, all of us, recognizing that there is a feminine way of doing things just as valid as the masculine. Women are realizing that they don’t have to compete or even participate in the world that man has created on his terms. We realize that there is a feminine expression to spirituality, a feminine expression to ecology, a feminine expression to leadership, and each has a huge gift to offer.

National decline?

Women have been disenfranchised for thousands of years.

Maxim #198: Use of the word “disenfranchised” or other similar nomenclature of deconstructivist post-modern pablum automatically discredits an argument for serious consideration.

Feminine energy has been given very little respect, and we have all lost out as a result. Even if you’ve never disrespected the feminine yourself, the first step is still to say “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what we have done. I’m sorry for what my gender has done. And I come to you with a fresh start.”

“Please accept my application for position of eunuch beta orbiter to you and your girlfriends.”

This is not the stance of shame, but of honesty and self-respect. Please take our words for it, and that of thousands of our colleagues and students: women love to hear this being acknowledged.

What women claim to love to hear and what women actually love to hear from the men they are fucking are often, if not always, at complete opposites.

The second shift that today’s man can make is to fully experience and release the hurts that he has experienced in his relationship to women. It is those very hurts, both personally and collectively, that cause men to dishonor women, if they remain banished out of awareness.

Pussy stubble chafes my shaft. End the hurt ladies. Wax that shit.

The third shift is for man to recognize how much he really loves feminine energy: how much he loves her beauty, her capacity to love, her laughter, her freedom to feel and express emotion. In some senses, she brings vivid color to his world, which can easily become black and white.

All right, this is obviously true. But appreciating and loving feminine energy doesn’t mean you have to act or think like a self-flagellating dweeb with undescended testes.

Man can discover, and then learn to worship, the feminine face of the divine. People sometimes object when Gay and I use the word “worship.” They hear the hierarchy of a subservient relationship.

Paging Robin Hanson’s forager theory. So many self-flattering “progressives” cream their panties at the thought of returning the US to some imaginary edenic past where non-hierarchical foragers with their promiscuous, communal lifestyles free of jealousy, violence and sexual competition rule the day. Be careful what you wish for.

We use the word “worship” in a completely different way, one we found in our dictionary as: “to pay extravagant respect and admiration.”

Maybe menopausal middle-aged women with desiccated pussies like to be extravagantly respected and admired by their high status husbands who could step out with younger mistresses at any time, but a guy who pulls that weak shit on a hot babe in the prime of her fertility can expect a lifetime of aching involuntary celibacy. Even the underarm hair chicks won’t grease up for a blubbery Eastern mystic sycophant if he isn’t leading seminars of captivated audiences.

This kind of worship can easily be a two-way street. Gay and Kathlyn and Chameli and I endeavor to bring this quality of extreme respect and worship in both of our marriages, and it overflows into the rest of life.

Jesus Christ, they’re aging swingers. I’m sure the sex dungeon and vat of Viagra help compensate for their loss of desirability.

Arjuna Ardagh, congratulations! You are officially designated Supreme Universal ÜberBeta (SUUB). Your balls, and the balls of men who listen to you for relationship advice, are hereby tendered to Hillary Clinton where they will feel more at home.

Thank you, mewl again!

A Test Of Your Game

Scenario: You’ve been dating a girl for a month and she takes you out to a party at a local pub which lasts to the wee hours. There, she introduces you to some of her girl friends, a couple of whom you have met before.

People are drinking, but no one gets blitzed. The atmosphere is just tipsy enough for guards to be let down and bitch shields to lower. One of her friends, a caustic playette who is just as cute as your date but with bigger tits, spends an inordinate amount of time chatting you up. Other men in the venue are angling for her attention, but she always manages to slip away for precious moments of titillating conversation with you. Your date does not notice anything untoward.

Later, the playette tells everyone she is leaving. (Extrovert playettes absolutely must let everyone know the details of their comings and goings.) As she is wrapping up to leave, she prances (yes, prances) over to you, arms outstretched as if anticipating a big hug. Instead, she throws her arms over your shoulders and swoops in for a kiss, ostensibly aimed for one of your cheeks. Her vector is off and you don’t know which cheek she is aiming for, so your head does a little bobbing and weaving, which makes you feel retarded. Your head dancing is to no avail anyhow, because in the noisy confusion and the cramped space of the crowd her puckered mouth lands right smack on your lips. The kiss is firm, unhesitant. She pulls back almost immediately, blushes and makes a half-twirl, and says “Oh, wow, woops!”

She is turning to walk out the pub, smiling like a schoolgirl on a snow day. Your date is in the bathroom and saw nothing. You can’t be sure, but you think the kiss lingered a split second longer than would have been the case had it been an accidental smooch. You reflect for a bit and conclude that her kiss was no accident.

As a frequent guest of the Chateau, you have no moral scruples in the arena of love and sex. You pursue pleasure unapologetically and unremittingly. If a friend of your date has come-on to you, and you suspect a chance exists to convert subversive flirting into full-blown fornication at some later date, you will scheme accordingly. You understand that the loss of your date is a possible consequence, but the clarion call of the game sings to you like a choir of devilish imps.

What do you do?

Don’t bother with what you’ll do a week or a month later. What do you do beginning with the moment after the kiss is consummated? How do you advantage yourself so that the odds of a bang at some future date go up considerably, assuming you cannot get the bang that very night? (You’re not such a cad that you’ll leave your date alone in the pub.) Each second matters, so think quickly.

The Twinkies Diet Proves Fatty Fats Are Fat Because They Eat Too Much

I’m a cautious advocate of the Paleo diet. I’ve been doing it for a year now, and have no complaints. However, many Paleo gurus — as well as opportunistic fat apologists — have taken to claiming that the obesity plague disfiguring America’s women is, if not solely at least partially, the result of a mismanaged or even conspiratorial government-agribusiness alliance that shoves refined grains and sugars down our throats. In other words, fatties are fat because they’ve been eating what the government tells them to eat.

Eh, hold up. I ate a lot of the same crap when I was a kid that fatties eat, but I didn’t bloat up. The sugar-grains-vegetable oil trifecta of triglycerides and the concomitant omega 3 and 6 ratio imbalance isn’t the whole story. I’ve always felt it’s part of the story, but can’t be the sole explanation for the gross tonnage of shoggoths among us. That first law of thermodynamics looms large over everything. Calories in must equal calories out, or energy differentials lead to weight fluctuation. Ever see an overweight Ethiopian famine victim?

Nevertheless, the “fatties aren’t responsible for their grotesque appearance” crowd has been latching onto Paleo dietary theory as some sort of proof that their “condition” is the fault of someone else, like the government food pyramid, or genes, or advertising, or HFCS- and Canola-pushing globoagricorporate fat cats.

I smell a faint whiff of bullshit. And now some brave (or stupid) souls are experimenting on themselves to demonstrate the basic laws of weight gain.

Here’s a guy who went on a Twinkies diet for ten weeks and lost 27 pounds.

Twinkies. Nutty bars. Powdered donuts.

For 10 weeks, Mark Haub, a professor of human nutrition at Kansas State University, ate one of these sugary cakelets every three hours, instead of meals. To add variety in his steady stream of Hostess and Little Debbie snacks, Haub munched on Doritos chips, sugary cereals and Oreos, too.

His premise: That in weight loss, pure calorie counting is what matters most — not the nutritional value of the food.

The premise held up: On his “convenience store diet,” he shed 27 pounds in two months.

For a class project, Haub limited himself to less than 1,800 calories a day. A man of Haub’s pre-dieting size usually consumes about 2,600 calories daily. So he followed a basic principle of weight loss: He consumed significantly fewer calories than he burned.

His body mass index went from 28.8, considered overweight, to 24.9, which is normal. He now weighs 174 pounds.

But you might expect other indicators of health would have suffered. Not so.

Newsflash! You eat less, you lose weight, no matter what form the calories come in.

The most interesting result of Haub’s experiment in accelerated tooth decay was this:

Haub’s “bad” cholesterol, or LDL, dropped 20 percent and his “good” cholesterol, or HDL, increased by 20 percent. He reduced the level of triglycerides, which are a form of fat, by 39 percent.

“That’s where the head scratching comes,” Haub said. “What does that mean? Does that mean I’m healthier? Or does it mean how we define health from a biology standpoint, that we’re missing something?”

He did eat some vegetables, which might account for the unexpected lipid profile. Nonetheless, his measured lipid numbers are highly counterintuitive.

Two-thirds of his total intake came from junk food. He also took a multivitamin pill and drank a protein shake daily. And he ate vegetables, typically a can of green beans or three to four celery stalks.

Haub’s results suggest that the QUANTITY of calories ingested is at least as important as, and maybe more important than, the type of calories for maintaining a healthy weight.

Haub’s body fat dropped from 33.4 to 24.9 percent. This posed the question: What matters more for weight loss, the quantity or quality of calories? […]

Blatner, a spokeswoman for the American Dietetic Association, said she’s not surprised to hear Haub’s health markers improved even when he loaded up on processed snack cakes.

Being overweight is the central problem that leads to complications like high blood pressure, diabetes and high cholesterol, she said.

“When you lose weight, regardless of how you’re doing it — even if it’s with packaged foods, generally you will see these markers improve when weight loss has improved,” she said.

Big bottom line: Being fat itself is bad for your health. “Fat and fit” is a myth. The change that counts the most is losing the weight, which can only be done by PUSHING AWAY FROM THE TABLE.

Haub had tried other diets:

Before his Twinkie diet, he tried to eat a healthy diet that included whole grains, dietary fiber, berries and bananas, vegetables and occasional treats like pizza.

“There seems to be a disconnect between eating healthy and being healthy,” Haub said. “It may not be the same. I was eating healthier, but I wasn’t healthy. I was eating too much.”

Being healthy means not overeating. Overeating is the path to the bulbous side. Overeating leads to corpulence. Corpulence leads to self-hate. Self-hate leads to donuts and alone time with the dildo. The very frightened dildo.

Haub plans to add about 300 calories to his daily intake now that he’s done with the diet. But he’s not ditching snack cakes altogether. Despite his weight loss, Haub feels ambivalence.

“I wish I could say the outcomes are unhealthy. I wish I could say it’s healthy. I’m not confident enough in doing that. That frustrates a lot of people. One side says it’s irresponsible. It is unhealthy, but the data doesn’t say that.”

Don’t take this post as a rebuke of the Paleo lifestyle. The science behind Paleo eating, sugars, and lipid profiles is strong, and real world evidence seems to back tenets of the theory. But Paleo is not the whole picture. There is an interplay between types of calories and amount of calories, as well as degree and kind of exercise, that likely synergistically affects weight gain or loss and how hungry we feel. Beyond good calories and bad calories there are simply too many calories.

The calories are too damn high!

And too many calories not offset by increased physical activity leads to obesity. Get out of the car and off your office chair and walk around a mile each day, and you’ve won half the battle toward rebalancing your caloric energy throughputs.

And why are people eating so many more calories? Well, maybe because it’s gotten dirt cheap to stuff your face.

…according to researchers at the University of Washington, a thousand calories of nutritious food cost $18.16, while a thousand calories of junk food cost a mere $1.76. How do they keep junk-food costs so low? Pretty simple, actually: flavor enhancers and other chemical additives…

As always, obesity is a question of character more than an issue of bad foods. Fatties put on low calorie diets whose caloric intake was monitored under controlled conditions showed more weight loss than fatties on experimental diets who self-reported their food intake. Surprise surprise! Fat people lie about how much food they wolf down. Kind of like how sluts lie about their number of past partners.

Maxim #105: Where there’s incentive, there are lies.

Fat fucks lack the self-discipline to stop stuffing their piggy maws. The grotesquely obese should be shamed and tormented for the weak-willed degenerates they are. Making an example of them would serve an excellent purpose. Hurt a few souls now, save a few hundred later.

Cocktease Asks “What Am I Doing Wrong?”

I have this friend, a girl, who is a total attention whore. Fittingly, she would glow with pride at being called that. As a cute, young single girl without brat baggage and of slender proportions and flirtatious disposition, she usually has some beta or two wrapped around her finger at any given time. You could accurately describe her as an eternal ingenue. She is always complaining about meeting men, yet she hardly goes a day without a “date”, i.e. some man willing to do her a favor for the reward of a three minute makeout. But no sex. Never sex! Oh no, there is hardly a man good enough for THAT prize. One time, a bread pudding excuse of a man who had been on three dry dates with her over the course of six months drove an hour and a half from out of town to drive her to an appointment she had only a few blocks from where she lived. She didn’t want to spend the money on a cab. Naturally, when she called him she framed it as a “chance for me and you to get together and hang”. And just as naturally, he bit down on that stinky bait. I bet he furiously masturbated on the drive over with thoughts of what he fantasized would happen.

Yes, there really are girls like this, and yes there really are… ahem… “men” who fall for the shit girls like this pull.

If it isn’t obvious by now, this girl is the succubus that strikes fear, loathing and lust in the hearts of betas everywhere. She is your worst nightmare; the epitome of every self-entitled pedestaled princess bitch we talk about here at this exclusive Chateau. When Satan made the mold for the quintessential cockteasing attention whore, she poured out.

And yet I like her. She’s a lot of fun to be around. I dig her style. Since I’m not interested in her as a potential lover, her games have no effect on me. Her manipulations of men who chase after her is something I can observe from a third party distance, with raised eyebrow and gleeful smirk. She knows this, and of course it drives her to distraction around me. I may be the only man in her life, besides her long term ex-boyfriend, who calls her bluff and swats aside her shit tests. Thus, I have earned her trust and confidence.

While my instinctual sympathies lie with her smitten suckers suitors, I don’t blame her for playing them like puppets. If I were in her shoes, I would take advantage of those needy losers, too. I don’t care how cute a girl is, if she asks you to do some outrageous favor for her — like driving an hour and a half to chauffeur her to an appointment just because she asked — for no sex in return, you are a chump.

A mark.

A dupe.

A fool.

A beta.

In this day and age, it is amazing there are so many men who think that supplication is the magic key to her secret garden. The Chateau has been in business for over three years, and yet the tidal wave of betas who fail at the most elementary concepts of female sexual psychology continues rolling on, crushing hopes and dreams and blue balls like so many beachfront tiki bars.

So one day, Queen of the Cockteases asks me a question. She was hanging on my arm, partly drunk.

“I keep pushing men away. I find them, and go out with them, and then they disappear! Seriously, real question. What am I doing wrong?”

“I haven’t noticed any men disappearing. Didn’t some dude just buy you tickets to a play and invite you to his shore house?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, but that’s not something. I mean the guys I like.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Are you going to help me? I want so bad to be your friend. We can be good friends if you just try with me.”

“You’re a basketcase after a few Shirley Temples.” For a moment, I thought about going hardcore on her ego and edifying her with the lessons gleaned from evo psych and game, but I was tired and not in the mood to talk much. Plus, I doubted it would register. I kept it light instead. “Stop going up to men. Let them come to you.”

“Why? If I like a guy I want to meet him.”

“Yeah, that’s great, but guys like to chase. If you approach them first, they will downgrade you. We give more value to girls who play a little coy.”

“And if he doesn’t approach me?”

“Suck it up. You can’t have every man in the world. Look, most likely you are approaching the top guys, the ones you think are the best. A guy like that has options. All he sees is a chick who has just showed she really likes him, which means sex is only a few drinks away. But you’re a major cocktease, so when they realize that it isn’t happening, they bolt.”

“Hey, I’m not that kind of girl.”

“We all know that. But they don’t. If a guy comes up to you first, he’s more likely to stick around putting up with your bullshit. But then you have the problem of wanting guys to chase you, but only respecting guys who don’t. That’s why you go up to them first and flirt like crazy. If the guy approaches you, you think he’s not worthy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you only get horny for guys you have to chase. You’re the classic example of a girl who wants what she can’t have.”

“That’s not true. I don’t waste my time with guys who don’t like me.”

“I can tell you really need an asshole in your life.”

Communication on the subject was done by that point. On certain matters, a woman’s brain simply can’t process in any internally logical way the implications of the discussion. Her biosocial female imperative is one of those matters. Try it some time. Explain to a girl why she behaves the way she does with men and watch as her eyes glaze over with incomprehension or she lashes out in fury at you for rattling the peace of her inner hamster sanctum. You can get girls to nod in agreement with you, as long as you don’t make them the subject of your elucidation. Girls have a habit of perceiving conversations about abstractions personally, and won’t abide finger pointing in their direction. The solution is to explain human social dynamics in terms that will spare her ego.

A cocktease is an older term for an attention whore. They are one and the same psychologically; only the details of execution differ. The cocktease’s ideal man would be someone she approaches first, but who doesn’t flirt back. He just stands there being amused by her antics, making her work harder and harder for his attention, until his value is outsized in her mind. One step forward, two steps back, is his motto for dealing with cockteases. And then when the time is ripe, he pushes hard for the close, leaving her little head space to rationalize yet another coquettish escape.

Unfortunately, the Western world is full of chauffeuring betas pumping princess egos the land over. For men in the know, like you and me and hopefully the rest of the readers of this site, this means the girls we meet have been pre-primed to act like selfish, self-loving brats. These special snowflakes and their boot-licking beta enablers both are our insufferable foes. Chastise the one and you must chastise the other. Nothing of worth operates in a vacuum.

“There Was Good Sex With Him”

From the email wing of the Chateau:

I’m doing relationship game. How do I deal with comments from my girlfriend about her ex. Well, really he was just a friend with benefits. She recently told me “There was good sex with him.”

She definitely gets her world rocked with me in bed. The sex is hot and good. So, how do I deal with these kinds of comments?

See this post. Specifically, email #3. And the comments are good, too.

Is your girlfriend American? It would explain a lot. No woman of character and heart who is dating you, and presumably likes to be with you, would tell you about the sex she had with her ex. An alpha male would consider that grounds for dismissal. Betas would take that load of wet shit to the face and smile gamely. Which are you?

Should you choose to stay with her, (and incessant commenting about exes is a huge red flag that a dumping is imminent), you have three avenues of response, in ascending order of behavior correction efficacy:

Disregard (“Man, I’ve had the farts all day.”)

Humor (“Thanks for the slut report.”)

Acknowledge and Amplify (“Yeah I know what you mean about exes. Some leave a lasting impression. Still can’t forget that one who loved doing it in public.”)

A&A is particularly effective. If this girl of yours has any feeling for you, she will take the hint and auto-adjust her attitude and never talk about ex sex with you again. If she is a bitch, she will bristle like a prickly pube patch and try to out-compete you with additional ex stories, or she will hypocritically accuse you of immaturity. If the latter, dump her forthwith, or, if you’re in a generous mood, use her for rogering while surreptitiously staking your claim on other girls for the future transition to a better lover.

The Elusive 10: Found!

The votes have been tallied and the verdict is in:

Paulina Porizkova was the only babe (in her prime) who got a plurality of 10 votes. Zeta Prime (nee Catherine Zeta Jones) came in a close second with a bare plurality of 9 votes edging out her 10 votes. Here is a better photo of the young Paulina:

Great Zeus’ beard. Her body may be a little too lithe for some of you, uh… drum and bass butt lovers, but there’s no denying her face is perfection. It simply doesn’t get any better than her when she was young. There may be equally beautiful women, but you’d have to search high and low to find a woman objectively *better* looking. Ric Ocasek, inarguably one of the ugliest men in the world, got to bang this ethereal beauty during her prime. He continues monopolizing her pussy today.

Look at their properly polarized body language. She truly loves him. And he her.

From Wikipedia:

Ric has been married three times; he married early in life, but divorced and was married to his second wife, Suzanne Ocasek in 1984. Ric was still married to Suzanne when he made the acquaintance of model Paulina Porizkova during filming of the music video for The Cars’ song “Drive” (directed by Timothy Hutton). At that time, Porizkova was just 19 years old and Ocasek was 35.

Five years after meeting, in 1989, Ocasek and Porizkova married. This was Ocasek’s third marriage, and Porizkova’s first. In 2009, the couple celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary and their 25th anniversary since they first met. Ocasek has a total of six sons, two from each of his three marriages.

Ric Ocasek is a super alpha. He has spread his seed far and wide, and enjoys the love of a beautiful woman. His fame, voice and catchy pop tunes whisked away his ugliness. No ugly woman with talent and fame can claim the same compensating appeal to men. Kathy Bates, a great actress with an ugly face and a fat body, once went on Letterman and lamented the trouble she had meeting men despite the advantages of her money and fame.

Ocasek hit the jackpot with Porizkova, which is why their marriage endures today after 25 years together. He really can’t do much better. Although, as Porizkova ages — and admittedly Porizkova started off her aging trajectory with such an overabundance of beauty that it might take a decade or two longer than the average woman for her to hit the wall — Ric may start feeling that old feeling again and eyeing little sluts with bad intent. I doubt he’d need much more game than taking a chick home and popping in one of his circa 1980s music videos.

Let Ric’s and Paulina’s love be a lesson, ladies. If you want a shot at winning commitment from an ugly-ass rock star, you had better be a 10 with a heart of gold. And preferably foreign-born.

Speaking of Porizkova, she recently had this to say about the occasion of her 40th birthday:

Former supermodel Paulina Porizkova has described the pain and frustration of losing her looks in the ageing process – insisting she has felt “invisible” since she turned 40 years old.

Porizkova shot to fame in the 1980s and became one of the world’s highest paid models, gracing the covers of the most high profile fashion magazines and spending seven years as the face of cosmetics giant Estee Lauder.

The 45 year old has stepped away from modelling in recent years, turning to TV instead with a regular role as a judge on America’s Next Top Model and a stint on Dancing With The Stars.

Porizkova now admits she misses her days as a model and feels “sad” her beauty has faded.

She tells the New York Post, “Nothing ages as poorly as a beautiful woman’s ego. When you have used your beauty to get around, it’s like having extra cash in your pocket. I was so used to walking down the street and having the young guys passing by at least give me a flicker of a look. But once you’re over 40, you become invisible. You’re a brick in the building and it’s sad. It just feels like the sun went down a little bit. It got a little cloudy outside.”

But the former supermodel is adamant she would not consider cosmetic surgery to regain her youthful appearance, insisting her former catwalk pal Janice Dickinson looks worse since she went under the knife.

Porizkova adds, “She was one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen in your whole life. Now she looks like a transvestite.”

Another brick in the building. Any fat part of the bell curve women reading Paulina’s pained regret probably felt their hearts drop into their flabby stomachs. After all, if a ravishing beauty and former supermodel like Porizkova can suddenly become “invisible” to men at the age of 40, what hope do they have? Porizkova looks as good as a 45 year old woman can possibly look (she’s up there with Monica Bellucci for defying the hands of time), and yet even she has noticed the men’s eyes have stopped undressing her.

In comparison, this is where it is so much better to be a man. With an attractive lifestyle and a charming demeanor, a man can enjoy the lustful yearnings of younger women many more years than the average woman can expect to enjoy the pursuits of men, younger *or* older.

I have read that beautiful people suffer more psychologically from aging than plain-looking or ugly people, because they have more to lose. A twenty year deterioration can turn a hot babe into a barely recognizable hollow-eyed zombie of her former self, while an ugly MFer will still look pretty much like an ugly MFer twenty years later. The only thing unusual about Paulina’s observation of her rapidly declining sexual market value is her willingness to publicly acknowledge it. This marks her as a woman of excellent character.

Paulina is right about cosmetic surgery, too. The procedures aren’t good enough yet to slip past the quasi-tranny valley where aging broads surgically altered in the hopes of regaining their youthful glow instead resemble puffy bat-faced transvestites. Hopefully, science will advance on this front and true anti-aging breakthroughs will bless the world with more beautiful women for me to plunder.

***

Some other notes from the “Elusive 10” voting:

Lollygirl got the most 7 votes. The person who submitted her pic as an example of a 10 clearly has a jones for natural redheads. Truth be told, so do I. Unfortunately, Lollygirl was a little too skanky looking to compete with the exquisite beauties on display in that post. May her lolly forever shine on suggestively. Too bad redheads may disappear from the face of the earth.

Seven of the girls got rated a 9. This demonstrates that wide agreement exists on what constitutes 8s and 9s, but once you attempt to nail down feminine perfection, you run up against a dividing line of growing subjectivity past which men have individualistic tastes, and that this taste likely differs based on race. The reason for the boisterous disagreement probably arises from the fact that 10s are simply too rare in the state of nature to have exerted much of a selection effect on men’s mental beauty templates.

10s are not 10% of the population. Whoever claims that is living in a bubble. Female beauty isn’t on a linear scale. 10s are no more than 0.5% of all women. Probably more like 0.01%. You people need to get out in the world to reacquaint yourselves with the sad fact that most women walking around day to day are repulsive warthogs. If you limit your visual scope to non-obese women between the ages of 15 and 25, then you can plausibly claim a lot of women are bangable 6s and 7s, but you’d have to have laser-like focus to erase from your peripheral vision the aforementioned warthogs.

80% of the voters were white. (Voters and readers are not necessarily identical sets.) I suspect, though I cannot prove it, that white men are more transfixed by female facial beauty than are black men, who tend to focus more on the voluptuousness of the female body.

9% of voters were Asian, which far exceeds their proportion in the American population. Perhaps they boosted Hyori Lee’s rank? Of course, some of those self-identified Asians may be subcontinental Indians, in which case Aishwarya Rai got the boost.

The Finnish race represented 2.65% of the Chateau votes. Finns are 0.0008% of the world population. A fling I had with a Finn chick (you can see her arm in this post) was a twilight zone-ish experience. Pleasurable, but weird. She had incredibly soft skin.

Blacks accounted for 4% of the voters. The black girl got 6% of the 10 votes, which means there’s some jungle fever going on! The Finns, gotta be them.

Derisive Comment Of The Month

This one comes from a mischief maker named “Lexus Liberal” who commented on a Washington City Paper article about the poor performance of the Sidwell Friends’ football team. Sidwell Friends is a private school where Presidents send their kids to be fast tracked for future ruling class positions. The Obamas are the latest example.

I dare say, sport, you seem to have inflamed my upper NW chums more than a Bush/Cheney sticker on a Hummer 2!

The pursuit of sport is not something we put as much emphasis on here at Sidwell Friends – it’s such a vulgar enterprise. My own father wasn’t so enlightened – he loved baseball, hunting and other antiquated male pastimes, whereas I celebrate opera, gardening and appeasing my angry, Prius-driving wife.

While my passivity and latent homosexuality may negatively impact my son’s performance on the football field, I am confident it will prepare him well for a life of NPR, canvas totes, and garden parties featuring locavore cuisine.

Best,

L.L.

Pitch perfect. Maybe L.L. is a Chateau reader? Congratulations, L.L., you have earned a Key to the Chateau. Pick up your designated cat o’ nine tails at the door.

sapere flagellum.