Why I Left My Fat Wife

I’m about to reveal something of myself most of you don’t know.

A few years ago, my wife, Marie, and I were at one of those hip downtown restaurants sipping mangotinis and nibbling on injera bread when one of my bosses appeared with his thin trophy wife in tow and patted my shoulder. When I introduced him to Marie, he naturally looked her up and down. I froze.

Marie and my boss exchanged some small talk but I could see behind the polite chit chat that my boss’ eyes flickered with a hint of disgust. I noticed Marie hadn’t put down her fork, upon which was perched a wobbly chunk of eggplant.

“Well, it was good meeting you,” my boss said, cutting short the conversation.

Marie looked at me and shrugged. “He’s not a very friendly guy, huh?” she said, as my colleague walked off to his table.

“Um, yeah I suppose not,” I said, knowing that was a lie. My boss was actually one of the friendliest men I knew. I understood why he walked off so abruptly. My boss may be friendly, but he’s also a winner, and winners avoid fraternizing with losers. My boss took one look at my fat wife, and recoiled from the stench of loserness. Inside, I was mortified.

Technically, I had it all back then, including a gorgeous toddler and a cool job.

What I didn’t have was a wife I felt proud of.

God knows I wanted to be proud of her. Marie is smart and funny and the only person I know who gets off on explaining why the Twilight books are more feminist than vampiric. And if you asked me about somebody else’s stay-at-home wife, I’d be all over the subject, spouting statistics about how important the mother-daughter bond is to girls’ self-esteem and how limiting it is to expect men to mind the home front. But living with her as she became fatter and fatter was completely different.

Maybe it’s because the plan wasn’t for Marie to lose her looks so rapidly. I went to work when she started graduate school, thinking that I’d head back for my own Ph.D. once she was done. I envisioned us as hard-core SWPLs, reading passages from Joyce to each other while I put together a collection of sexy lingerie for her to wear as we reenacted every sex scene from Victorian era period films. Instead, I fell in love with my first job at a modeling agency, and eventually, after a few promotions, I found myself working as a photographer for a fashion magazine.

Things went less smoothly for Marie. By the time we found out she was pregnant – three years into our marriage – she’d been working at a job teaching film for six months and was beginning to gain weight from all the take-out she ate. She began packing on the pounds by the week, and it affected everything about her – her mood, job performance, health, sexiness. The lingerie I had bought her no longer fit, lost in the folds of her burgeoning ass. Still, the minute her pregnancy test flashed its double pink lines at me, I knew I needed to work even harder at my job to ensure my child had the best chance in life.

I worked late nights for six months after my daughter was born while Marie continued, yes, bloating up. In 18 months, she gained 40 pounds. Meanwhile, I was being pursued by the models I photographed. Eventually, I flirted with some of them.

I felt like myself again – flirting, feeling horny, loving the sight of beautiful women, doing the witty-banter thing in the halls with the models. But my marriage started to fall apart. I felt guilty about being glad to go back to work, and in my head, I made it Marie’s fault. Because she had gotten fat, I blamed her when I was working late and had to miss the baby’s bedtime; it was her fault I had to go in early every day, since the fact that she couldn’t stay slim meant that I couldn’t stop myself from checking out other women. And when I got home, I seethed. I couldn’t walk across the living room without tripping over a half-eaten apple pie or an ice cream scoop. The baby was in the same little nightgown she’d slept in the night before. There wasn’t a hint of food in the fridge; Marie had eaten it all. She was home all day-couldn’t she at least run a few laps on the freaking treadmill?

Eventually, communication between Marie and me deteriorated to the point where all we talked about was the baby. Had she gotten enough sleep? What had she eaten for lunch? How could she have run through an entire value pack of diapers in one weekend? “Wait till I tell you what she did,” she’d say every once in a while, as she gazed adoringly at the baby and I gazed around the room to avoid looking at my wife’s Pillsbury rolls. In those moments – watching Marie gently rock her to sleep while singing “Punk Rock Girl” – I was reminded why I had once thought Marie was the sexiest woman in the world. But our sex life was in ruins; I spent all my time in the computer den (AKA pornatorium) or at work-sponsored happy hours with the models. I chalked it up to the transition period all new parents go through. Then one day, I realized it had been almost a year since Marie and I had made love.

Sometimes she’d say, “I really think things would be better for us if we could just be intimate again.” Or she’d put the baby to bed early and come into the living room with two glasses of wine and a book of poetry – our classic recipe for seduction – but just the thought of me touching her cottage cheese thighs and lint-encrusted belly rolls made me recoil. “Maybe I’m just not a sexual person anymore,” I told her, and I honestly meant it. The truth is, I wasn’t attracted to her anymore. It wasn’t that she’d changed on the inside – she still had the same sense of humor, kind heart, and sharp intellect that had literally made me fall in love when I first met her. But in my heart and my head, I’d neutralized her as a sexual being. I wanted to be overwhelmed by the sheer power of her femininity in the bedroom, but I wasn’t. Because I felt like the dumpster diver in our relationship.

We went to see a therapist. “Don’t you think I resent you for how easy it is for you to stay thin?” Marie asked me during one session. “You have these great genes, and I’m home like a slave, running errands, taking care of your shit, and you can’t even spare me five minutes of sex at the end of the day.” I think it was the first time I’d actually listened to what she had to say in years. She said that she was angry with me for always staying out late and partying with slender models, and angry with herself for not being able to turn me on anymore. She said she didn’t appreciate being treated like a nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-fat disgusting crap to be ignored in favor of porn. But what alternatives was she offering? I had ever so gently suggested she would feel better and our marriage would be happier if she lost the weight she had gained and slimmed back down to the hot wife I knew when I first fell in love with her and married her, but instead all she did was get fatter. We separated a few months later.

In retrospect, I realized I had this preconceived idea of what a sexy, attractive woman should be like. I imagined being married to, well, a good-looking, thin wife with a shapely hourglass figure. Someone whose attractive womanly physique looks pleasant to other people as well as to me. Someone who walks out the door with a sexy dress on, high heels, and a tight ass. Someone who turns heads. Does that make me a sexist? “I always felt embarrassed and guilty – you had all these preconditions for me that I felt like I wasn’t living up to,” Marie said to me after our divorce.

So nobody was more surprised than I was when I went ahead and fell for another funny, bright, kind woman like Marie.

Here’s the difference, though: Magdalena knows what men want – and it’s not a poetry reading over bon bons sitting on the increasingly concave couch. She knows men want to make sweet love to sexy, slender women who can wear the hot lingerie he buys for her without looking like a walrus tangled in a ball of string. Playing with my daughter or painting or translating the writings of Pablo Neruda is fine, but it is only a garnish to the main marriage course – hot, steamy, passionate love with a physically attractive woman. There’s nothing food-obsessed or self-loathing about her. When Magdalena and I are cooking dinner together on Friday nights in a kitchen devoid of cheetos and tubs of Haagen Daz, or trying to drink coffee in bed on Sunday mornings while my daughter dances around us, I’m so attracted to her that it’s all I can do not to rip her clothes off then and there.

Put it this way: Whether it’s me or the sexy figure she’s keeping, I think it’s damn sexy.

This article was sent to various women’s magazines for publication.

Contraption

I didn’t bother unhooking her bra. I never do anymore. I pulled it off her like a t-shirt. As I’m squeezing her boobs (and taking a mental note of her remaining “years-to-sag” based on a complicated formula I devised involving underside crease length, armpit spillover when prone, and depth of press), I glance over at her bedside table and notice an unusual object illuminated by the thrift shop lamp. It was a huge, purple vibrator — the luxury model, by the looks of it — with ridges and nubs and hooks and multiple arms sticking out from it, like a saguaro cactus.

I’m pretty sure there was even a scrolling LED screen. It sat there nonchalantly like a potted plant, or a paperweight. Wow, this is embarrassing, I thought. She forgot to put it away. It was so large and ridiculous that I had to interrupt our foreplay to ask her about it.

“Um, that’s quite a contraption you have over there. Just… laying out.”

“Oh yeah, that’s my little toy.” She didn’t sound embarrassed. “I use it every Sunday to masturbate. I can cum ten times with that baby.”

“Ten times? Straight through, or spread out over the day?”

“Like, within an hour or so.”

“Yeah. Impressive.” I tried to figure why her naughty “secret” wasn’t more titillating to me. Back when I was 18 this sort of discovery would have been exciting. Oh, yeah, I would have thought, This chick is kinky! She’s gonna do all sorts of crazy shit in bed! Now that I’m older and more discerning of women I sleep with, a giant purple saguaro vibrator staring at me from across the room doesn’t make me more turned-on by the woman who uses it. In fact, just the opposite. I lower my estimation of her as a worthy girl in whom I would be happy to take out on creative, exciting dates. Ladies, this is what a man thinks of you when he notices your purple saguaro and you don’t seem fazed by him discovering it:

1. novelty seeking (slut)
2. sexually adventurous (slut)
3. horny all the time (slut)
4. unconcerned about men’s opinions of her (good god, what a slut)

Now 1 – 3 aren’t problems if the girl possesses reasonable degrees of those urges, or if you’re just looking for an uncomplicated fling. You don’t want to hitch your weenie wagon to a frigid ice queen. Number 4 is a flashing red light that she is a cheating whore at heart. Any girl who can’t be bothered to take the two seconds worth of effort to hide her absurd sex toys when a man comes over is a girl who won’t think twice about cheating on you. Even if most girls aren’t delicate, precious chaste creatures, you at least want the girl you are dating to pretend like she is and acknowledge your opinion of her matters — and one thing that matters very much to guys, even if they won’t admit it to the girl’s face, is that the girl he is with isn’t the town orifice. Men want their women, at a bare minimum, to take token stabs at modesty. It’s endearing to us and suggests you will be worth keeping around. We don’t want women to embrace their sluttiness as if it were a postmodern badge of honor. A good woman understands this and heeds a man’s romantic sensibilities.

The trick for men is finding a balance in women between unrepressed sexuality and faithful frigidity. Too much of the former = cumguzzling slut. Too much of the latter = blue balls. A proudly displayed purple saguaro says “I’m a slut, and you’ll like it.”

I’ve found that the more power I acquire over women, the pickier I’m becoming. I won’t call back a girl who has a purple saguaro on her nightstand. This choosiness has strengthened my character. I’m a better man for it.

Valentine’s Day Cleanup

Word on the street is…

Valentine’s Day is the new New Year’s Eve. Any single girls are feeling the sting of loneliness on this day in technicolor sensation, and of those fortitudinal enough to brave going out with their girlfriends and thereby announcing to the world their singledom, the horniness is strong in them.

Like shooting bitches in a barrel.

Great Scenes Of Game In The Movies

Back by popular demand…

In the last installment, I analyzed the game Rhett runs on Scarlett. This time it’s the game Paul Newman, in the character of Hud, uses to seduce Alma (Patricia Neal).

This scene is between Hud and Alma, his family’s housekeeper, and it’s the first time in the movie Hud makes a pass at her. Hud is a classic badboy in this movie, and Alma does a good job resisting his devilish charms. My comments are in bold.

***

HUD: Got a cigarette?

[alpha body language straight from the get-go. slow, heavy steps on the approach. both his arms up and hands leaning against the door frame. forceful tone of voice. this is the entrance of an alpha. a woman will know she’s not about to suffer the entreaties of a beta.]

ALMA: Yeah.

HUD: I wish you wouldn’t keep me hanging around on the front porch make me feel like I’m selling something.

[first qualification. with a dash of playful humor, he lets her know he’s unimpressed with her rudeness for not promptly inviting him into the room. really, any excuse will do to qualify a woman.]

ALMA: All right, come on in. They’re a little squashed.

HUD: It’s all right. They’ll do. I see you got things fixed up some.

[betas are overly attentive. alphas are distracted. hud glances around the room as he grabs the cigarettes from her.]

ALMA: I try.

HUD: Looks pretty good, except your sweet potato plant over here has got the blight.

[compliment, followed immediately by mild criticism. remember that formula.]

ALMA: I can’t seem to get one started.

HUD: They need a lot of tender loving care, honey, same as the rest of us.

[an alpha gets the conversation rolling in a sexual/sensual manner sooner rather than later.]

ALMA: I’ll keep it in mind. Could I have a match?

[notice he doesn’t rush to fulfill her request. she walks to him to get the match, and he almost flings it into her hand. DHV.]

HUD: Well, what have we got here? “Jiffy Portable Hairdryer.” “Triple screen.” Automatic toaster. So what’ve you been doin’, a little rustlin’ down at the five and dime?

[NEG #1. making fun of her stuff.]

ALMA: I go in for those prize contests. “How Shinette Shampoo changed my life,” in twenty words or less. They give free two week trips to Europe. But I end up with the fountain pens and the binoculars.

HUD: Won me a turkey raffle once, but it was fixed. I got to be pretty friendly with one of them gals picking the numbers.

[if you can’t physically demonstrate social proof and preselection by women, the next best thing is to offhandedly hint at it in conversation. the way to do this is to ground your verbalized social proof with a backstory so it sounds natural and unforced.]

ALMA: It figures.

HUD: How much you take the boys for tonight?

[notice the change of voice tone. hud lowered the volume and pitch of his voice while he’s distractedly (and seductively) fondling a flower. women are not the only ones who can flirt with the use of props. also: CONTRAST IS KING. playing with a flower is femme, but hud is dripping with so much masculinity that the flower intensifies his allure.]

ALMA: Twenty dollars and some change.

HUD: You’re a dangerous woman to have around.

ALMA: I’m a good poker player.

HUD: You’re a good housekeeper. You’re a good cook. You’re a good laundress. What else you good at?

[when alma says she’s a good poker player, the typical beta, because he is bereft of interesting things to say or the confidence with which to lead a conversation in new directions, would have jumped at the “beta bait” and attempted to capitalize on her measly offering by asking her about her poker skills. an alpha, otoh, uses what a woman says as a springboard to talk about whatever the fuck he feels like talking about. it’s the art of riffing. here, hud challenges her. the challenge is part of the stage of attraction known as “male to female” interest. instead of proving himself to her, he’s coaxing her to prove herself to him. and all with a sly smile.]

ALMA: At taking care of myself.

[nice IOD. this chick is not going to be steamrolled.]

HUD: Shouldn’t have to, a woman looks like you do.

[if you’re going to compliment a woman’s looks, this is a good way to do it — in context. and he’s got his lips on that flower like it’s a labia.]

ALMA: That’s what my ex-husband used to tell me, before he took my wallet, my gasoline credit card and left me stranded in a downtown motel in Albuquerque New Mexico.

HUD: What you do to make him take to the hills? You wear your curlers to bed or something?

[NEG #2. this could come across harsh, which is why it helps to say it with a shit eating grin, as hud does here.]

ALMA: Ed’s a gambler. He’s probably up at Vegas or Reno right now, dealing at night, losing it all back in the daytime.

HUD: A man like that sounds no better than a heel.

[ex-husband destroyer.]

ALMA: Aren’t you all?

[she plays the game well.]

HUD: Honey, don’t go shooting all the dogs ’cause one of ’em’s got fleas.

[nice. hud nips her pity ploy in the bud by turning it around on her with a mild rebuke. a beta would have vigorously agreed with her and given her a david alexander-style soft hug and a shoulder to cry on. btw, “honey” is a great way to address a woman when the moment is right. it’s a subtle dominance maneuver that chicks eat up.]

ALMA: I was married to Ed for six years. Only thing he was ever good for was to scratch my back where I couldn’t reach it.

[pause. hud looks her up and down. doesn’t matter if she notices or not. an alpha does these little behavioral things for himself as much as for the woman.]

HUD: You still got that itch?

ALMA: Off and on.

[hud: grin, draw on cig, flower sniff, grin more. nothing is rushed in alphaland.]

HUD: Well, let me know when it gets to bothering you.

[pause. pause. pause. tension. tension. unbroken eye contact. tension building up to the edge of discomfort. unwavering smile half-hidden provocatively by flower AKA labia petals, then… BOOM… hud lowers his smile and flower instantly and — this is important — EXITS FIRST. no lingering for a response. no needy anticipation for her reaction. no goodbye. just gets up off the bed and leaves her to be washed away in the cascading torrent of her lube deluge. that was the money shot. the killer move that greases the skids for a future seduction.]

Next week: How to game Cigstache.

All Lust Same

The results are in from yesterday’s post where I asked the readers to rank the beauty of ten randomly chosen women.

Woman                                             Readers’ Score            My Score
(a) tiaramouth                                            5,6                                  5
(b) mcdormandvsthewall                            3                                     3
(c) lovelysophie                                           9                                      9
(d) redscarf                                                  7                                      6
(e) themask                                                 2                                       2
(f) bridgegirl                                                 7                                       7
(g) alizee                                                      8                                       8
(h) cigstache                                                 1                                       1
(i) perfection                                                10                                    10
(j) morosemetrogirl                                     4,5                                    4

Not much daylight between the readers and myself. This wasn’t a perfect test, nor was it meant to be. Many of the critiques left in the comments were justified.

• High quality studio shots versus low quality snapshots will skew the results.
• So will distance from camera and partially concealed faces. Bridge girl and morose metro girl may have scores that are too low or high because of this.
• I made the mistake of choosing a McDormand shot where she is older. Since we’re comparing female beauty before the ravages of time have taken their cruel toll, a McDormand at her youthful peak would probably clock in a point or two higher.
• As commenter Agnostic mentioned, there isn’t adequate variability in the photos. It skews toward the higher range. I guess it’s more fun for me to search for hotties than slightly below average girls. (Searching for incendiary warpigs can be fun, like craning your neck to get a better glimpse of a mangled car accident.)
• People who are subtracting points because of inconsequential accoutrements like a tiara or flip flops are undermining the value of the 1 – 10 system. The 1-10 scale is sacrosanct. Don’t corrupt it with your nerdy pet peeves.
• Some people complained that I used a picture of Monica Bellucci when she was younger and hotter. Uh, no duh. When you judge Barack Obama’s alphaness, do you use his performance as a bowler for your criteria?
• Sophie Marceau may be one of the strikingly few women in the known universe who got better looking as she aged into her 20s. The teen pic of her posted in the comments, while certainly meeting the threshold of hottie bangability, shortchanges the breathtaking ethereal beauty that she acquired in her 20s. See: Braveheart. Today, though, she is 42 and not nearly as good looking as she was at her peak. Tragic. Oh well, that’s one way to cure a stalker-crush.
• You could go through one million 44 year old women before meeting one who could approach Bellucci’s beauty. That is how exceptional she is. Lesson: Don’t get your hopes up, ladies.

Nevertheless, despite the justifiable criticisms of the methodology listed above, and the specter of Arrow’s Impossibility Theorem, there was considerable agreement on each girl’s ranking. Plus or minus one point and a few wiseguy outliers, most men share the same opinions about where women fall on the 1 – 10 looks scale. Beauty is not an artifact of individual male minds. It is an objective reality. That this should be so and that men are wired with preferences for the more beautiful over the less, proves that men exercise some choosiness when deciding on a mate, just like women do. Pickiness is not gender specific, though women are pickier than men in general.

As I predicted, there was stronger agreement at the tails of the beauty distribution and more fussiness agreeing on the middle rankings. Every man knows a 3 and an 8 when he sees one, but one man’s marginal 6 could very well be another man’s solid 7. Looking at the bar graphs, this observation is confirmed by the wider spread (heh) of the votes for the 4-7 group.

Commenter twiceaday wrote:

What’s interesting, as de Tocqueville alluded to, is that while we don’t necessarily agree on the exact position for any particular woman, we all agree on the range. The bottom 3 (well, really bottom 1 and next 2) are quite clear, the top 3 are a quite clear, leaving the equally clear middle 4. I think it’s safe to say that any normal hetero man would bang the top 3, very few of us would bang the bottom 3 unless we were desperate and hammered, and the middle 4 would be various flavors of “it depends”.

These 3 tiers relate pretty clearly to the dating world. The top tier will attract alphas easily and ultimately be able to hold onto one. The middle tier will attract the occasional alpha, but not for very long, and will wind up with a beta. The bottom tier will attract no alphas, the occasional beta, and ultimately wind up with either cats or an omega (is there really any difference?).

This is mostly correct. I’d separate the middle tier into two subgroups: Lower middle (4,5) and Upper middle (6,7). The distinction is important, as there is a critical and abrupt change between the two groups that has important implications for how men treat these women.

This is how it breaks down:

Bottom tier = beta and omega pump and dump, invisible to alphas.
Lower middle tier = mix of beta pump and dump and beta commitment, still invisible to alphas unless really drunk.
Upper middle tier = beta commitment of the “profess my undying love” variety, alpha pump and dump.
Top tier = alpha commitment, occasional beta stroke of luck with tight game.

I enjoyed doing this exercise, so I plan to do another one in the future. Except next time, you, the readers, will offer photos of girls for judging. There will be a page at the top of the blog for you to leave a link in the comments to a pic of a woman, along with the ranking you give it, and I will choose from among the reader suggestions ten women representing 1 through 10 on the beauty scale for a reader vote, like I did in yesterday’s post. This way, you can see how your taste in women matches up with the general consensus. No celebrities allowed; I want to keep it to everyday girls. All races allowed.

Easter Egg

One of the girls in the photos is a former fling of mine. The perceptive among you (hi, PA, Seeking Alpha) may be able to figure out which.

To people who think I’m in the top photo: I’m not.

The Neg As Opener

I’m coming to the conclusion that the best opener is a neg straight out of the gate. In order to set the right tone as soon as you begin talking to a girl, you want to establish alpha cred immediately before any of her beta-sniffing circuits have had a chance to subconsciously dress you down. The quickest way to sear alpha grill lines in a woman’s heart is through the neg. 8s and above require a neg no matter what, 6s and 7s may require them depending on your relative attractiveness to your target, and 5s and below should not need them unless you are so hideous it’s all you can do to prevent her from dismissing you outright.

Here are four neg openers I regularly use, in descending order of proto-assholery.

1. “Bad hair” opener

This is an original.

ME: [looking disapprovingly at her head] Doing your hair like that is only going to attract the wrong kind of guy.
GIRL: [if she’s cool and witty] Are you saying you’re the wrong kind of guy?
ME: Since I noticed that hairstyle, I must be.

***

ME: Doing your hair like that is only going to attract the wrong kind of guy.
GIRL: [if she’s not cool or witty] What’s that supposed to mean?
ME: You hair covers half your face, like you’re trying to hide something. The wrong kind of guys love that. [turn my back]

2. “You suck” opener

Unless the environment is chock full of interesting goings-on that I can use as situational openers, I borrow openers from PUA material I read on the net or have heard from friends. The “You suck” opener is one of those.

ME: [walking up to girls after hanging back for a while] Do you know why you guys suck?
GIRLS: [usually looking shocked] Excuse me!?
ME: [smiling] Because you’ve been checking me out for ten minutes and you didn’t come over to say Hi. Bad manners. And a little creepy.

3. “If you wanted to meet me” opener

Another PUA classic.

ME: [after girl bumps into me] Whoa, if you wanted to meet me, you could just say Hi.

4. “Hi” opener

ME: Hi
GIRL: Hi

OK, this isn’t a neg. But I use it all the time as a fallback. Looking back over the years on my many cold approaches, the more asshole-y my opener, the likelier I was to get the girl into bed. There’s just no getting around it — bold, even offensive, openers work best for cold approaches in competitive mating environments. (Day Game needs a subtler touch.) While “Hi” is a safe, all-purpose opener, it’s not high impact like the others; you’ve got to climb uphill from “Hi” to prove to the girl you aren’t like every other boring guy. With an edgy asshole opener, you’ve proven it from the first words out of your mouth. After an asshole cluster bomb rattles her beaver bunker, she’ll be much more receptive to your game.

I found this Brad P opener on the net:

The Weird Horse Girl opener

YOU: “Hey do you like horses?”
GIRL: ”HUH? ummm yea i guess.”
YOU: “Hmm, I thought so. OK check this out, when I was in the 6th grade, there was this girl who loved horses. She used to run around the playground for an hour straight at lunchtime. She’d be galloping and making horse noises. We used to call her the weird horse girl.”
GIRL: “Yeah, so?”
YOU: “well…you look JUST LIKE HER!”

Then if she responds well you continue by saying you’re sorry about what you did back then, because you used to make fun of her but now you are older and more mature and feel bad about it, etc. etc.

I like it. What a mindfuck of a neg! Although this isn’t exactly my style (a bit too wordy for an opener), I’m going to give it a trial run. Many girls really do appreciate creativity, as long as it doesn’t sound like you’re trying too hard to impress her. Keep the obscure literary references to yourself, professor.

If I can get a girl into bed starting with just “Hi” then I know she’s a potential quality girl. I mentally bump her up into my Tier 1 girls. It says good things about a girl if she has enough control over her feral instincts that being a dick isn’t needed to capture her interest.

When I need to get in the right frame of mind for opening girls, I recall this scene from Bad Santa:

Billy Bob Thornton is sitting at a bar wearing his Santa outfit and drowning his misery.

Hot Chick Bartender: So Santa, do you have a real name?
Billy Bob: Yes.

He never tells her his name. All the right attitude conveyed in one word and one unspoken word.

Obama’s Women, Part 2

Here’s this link to a New York Beta Times story about SWPL perimenopausal women having dreams of Barack Obama — psychosexual fantasies and stalkerish glorifications of the Obama family. The NYBTimes has been churning out some truly vomitus copy as of late, but for sheer sickening nausea this story may very well spew the farthest.

One woman wrote that when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, she “lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.”

When, generations from now, our Islamic and Mexican overlords have gathered to discuss the exact moment the American empire fell to pieces and reverted to a pre-civilizational Mad Max tribal wasteland, someone will point to this quote in the ancient tablets of the New York Times, and heads will nod in agreement.

I’ve already written about Obama’s women, and the sexual mores of girls who voted for him, so there aren’t many new lessons to glean from this article that haven’t been discussed before. This story has made the rounds, and been roundly ridiculed by many other bloggers. If there were any remaining doubts that giving women the right to vote has been an unmitigated disaster for America, this article should dispel them. Most women, especially single SWPLers and undersexed hausfraus bitter about being married to quisling betas, are simply unserious creatures who will let their emotions guide them to vote away the political and social arrangements that created the modern yenta-fied culture that affords them the luxury of voting like vapid teenage girls. If history is any guide, and if fortune should shine upon the United States before the point of no return is reached, a cooperative, horizontally structured patriarchy will reemerge and supplant the suicidally insane matricentric sick culture and stateless citizen of the world globopuppeteer elites playing “let’s you and him fight” currently running the show. I think it will happen soon, perhaps within five years. It may be violent as the authoritarian sanctimonious Boomer pricks and Gen X lackeys are overthrown.

The other day a friend of mine confided that in the weeks leading up to the election, the Obamas’ apparent joy as a couple had made her just miserable. Their marriage looked so much happier than hers. Their life seemed so perfect. “I was at a place where I was tempted daily to throttle my husband,” she said. “This coincided with Michelle saying the most beautiful things about Barack. Each time I heard her speak about him I got tears in my eyes — because I felt so far away from that kind of bliss in my own life and perhaps even more, because I was so moved by her expressions of devotion to him.”

BOTY candidate right here. Imagine being this bitch’s husband and reading this quote from your wife in the paper. I bet she showed him the article, proudly pointing out where she was quoted publicly humiliating him. “Here, honey, check this out. I’m in the New York Times!” The poor, wretched beta would probably work double time to win his wife’s approval, when he should be doing just the opposite — kicking her cottage cheese ass to the curb.

Relatedly, I was talking to a typical urban slut machine and she asked who I voted for. I said I didn’t vote. She reeled back, shocked. “You didn’t VOTE?!?” “Nope,” I repeated. “Voting is a useless exercise.” She leaned over to her girlfriend and spoke in her ear. They made OMG faces. Both of them looked at me suspiciously, frowning. Their reaction was as if I had told them that I killed a pregnant woman and dumped the body in the Potomac. The Obama Age scales of moral opprobium are completely out of whack. She returned. “What are you registered as?” “Independent.” “Independent? Hmm.” Girls know that when a man says Independent he means “Non-Democrat”.

I got the bang and marked her number in my phone as a “Tier 2” number.

***

In other news, I nearly interrupted a mugging in progress. I was literally five feet away walking down an alley that serves as a makeshift parking lot when an early 20s black dude, thugged out to the max, stuck a gun in the gut of a 50ish well-dressed white man (soft target) walking in my direction, and barked at him “You know what to do”. The middle-aged guy yelped when he apprehended what was happening. I broke out into a half-run and turned a corner off the alley about a hundred feet from the scene. Since this was a city hood on a weekend night, I expected to see a cop car nearby I could flag down. No such luck. No cops anywhere to be found. Did they take the night off? Way to be available, guys. What are we paying you for, again?

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to locate a cop and dialed 911. As I’m standing on the street in the middle of the nightlife crowd giving the description to the lady on the phone, the mugger casually strolls right by me on the sidewalk. He’s walking with a buddy. He’s got bills in his hand that he’s flipping through, and his buddy is cackling with glee. I relayed this information.

I never saw cops arrive. No doubt the guy got away scot free. The US is heading for a meltdown if criminals feel they can act with such impunity and fearlessness that they can blithely walk away from the scene unconcerned about being caught. I wondered who the victim voted for.

As a friend of mine said, “After a certain amount of time living in the city, you either settle down or move to a new city.” He’s right. It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. A move is on the horizon.