An Interesting Conversation

It is hard to properly estimate the intelligence of the typical hack journalist. Evidence of the stupidity and humorlessness of these bozos becomes more evident with each passing day.

Today’s Random Example: My nigga Dr. Steven J Krune (fuck’n lol) has a candid metajournalistic conversation with Zachary Goldfarb, an editor for the Washington Post.

The original thread is here. The whole thing is worth perusing.

Driving Fathers to Suicide

A British Columbia man has been driven to kill himself by the crown, which represents the women of the province. This is his suicide note.

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This double whammy — a spouse making criminal allegations while custody and access applications are underway in family court — is known, Angie said, as “the silver bullet.”

 

B.C.’s Family Maintenance and Enforcement Program was chasing him, because while he always paid something in support, it wasn’t what the court had ordered, and FMEP was moving to take away his driver’s licence and passport for failing to meet his financial obligations, Angela said. His ex was going to get his pension, if and when he retired.

Much more here

Plutarch’s Parallel Lives

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From Plutarch’s Life of Alexander the Great (21)

7 But Alexander, as it would seem, considering the mastery of himself a more kingly thing than the conquest of his enemies, neither laid hands upon these women, nor did he know any other before marriage, except Barsiné.

8 This woman, Memnon’s widow, was taken prisoner at Damascus.

9 And since she had received a Greek education, and was of an agreeable disposition, and since her father, Artabazus, was son of a king’s daughter, Alexander determined (at Parmenio’s instigation, as Aristobulus says) to attach himself to a woman of such high birth and beauty.

10 But as for the other captive women, seeing that they were surpassingly stately and beautiful, he merely said jestingly that Persian women were torments to the eyes.

11 And displaying in rivalry with their fair looks the beauty of his own sobriety and self-control, he passed them by as though they were lifeless images for display.

Alexander, the greatest conqueror in human history, student of Aristotle: He only married after finding someone worthwhile, and he laughed at all the rest of the ho’s.

Be like Alexander.

Yes, All Women

I started banging skanky princess about six weeks ago. Almost immediately, after we coupled up for intimate fun, the fronting began. (Note, see No. 3 here for more on what fronting means). She had to point out that, at least by the standards of the world, she drives a better car than I do (true), has a better job than I do (true).

Of course, I bought my car with cash, when I moved here, and if I wrecked it this evening, I could buy a comparable one with cash tomorrow. She makes a lot more money than I do, but like all corporate shrews, she can be found endlessly bee-yatching about work’s stresses and unreasonable demands, whereas ya boy Boxer has zero stress at his job. Moreover, skanky princess had already alluded to the fact that she had high-five-figures in student loan debt, whereas I actually have more than that in a money market, that I could withdraw tomorrow if I wanted to blow it on whores and whiskey.

So, who’s the real asshole here?

In any event, the fronting was a strong tell that revealed the character of a jaded skank. It also betrayed a flaw in her thinking. This flaw is common among many childless women on the professional track, and usually increases proportionally with age. By fronting, skanky princess imagines that you will see her as a more desirable catch. This misconception is constellated in the complex that arises in response to ambiguous gender roles.

She thinks that she can take on the male role, and appeal to me as a provider. Never mind the fact that I’m a few years older than she is… and, of course, setting aside the fact that I’m a man.

The modern, empowered wimminz have apparently forgotten that men don’t really get impressed by how much money they make. I suppose many have bought into the nonsensical feminist delusion that femininity is some sort of “social construct.”

For any of you feminist wimminz who read my stuff, here’s the news: We don’t care whether you’re on a partnership track at a big law firm or whether you’re a waitress. We want you because you’re sexy. If we’re traditional or family minded, a career is actually a hindrance. Those men want to know you can cook and wash and be a competent mother.

Your yearly salary+bonus package is irrelevant. We can make our own dough.

Around a month in, princess decided to tell me that she wanted to get married. I laughed at her.

Since I was clearly “not man enough” to take the next step in “our relationship,” skanky princess announced that she wouldn’t be having sex any longer. It was the standard I’m not getting any younger speech, and she wanted me to know that if I didn’t man up then she would have to find someone who was a bit more manly.

It’s the same speech I’ve heard at least 100 times prior, and it had precisely the same effect on me as all the other ones did. I immediately lost all interest in her, and begin the cycle anew with a replacement.

The new chick doesn’t front like she’s some sort of great provider, but she does post high angle selfies to instagram every twenty minutes, usually showing everything but the nips. (Again, go here to get the lowdown).

Instagram Ho’ had been on the back burner for a couple of weeks at that point, and she was a convenient stand-in for that evening’s festivities. Skanky princess was immediately deprecated, and Instagram Ho’ took her place within hours.

While Skanky Princess continued to temper-tantrum, with the sex-strike, I politely pretended to be disappointed, and told her that I would accept the LJBF status. I couldn’t be friends any time soon, though, because I was busy fucking her replacement working on a huge professional project that was taking all of my time.

You know how it is, doll. You’ve got a much better job than I do. Work comes first. blah blah.

This morning, bright and early, skank-ho princess No. 1 sent me a what-up, after several days of radio silence. She made it clear that she was ready to get down. Here’s my reply.

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What is interesting about this message is, nothing. There is nothing interesting about this message. I’m not going to say that all women are like this, but all the women I have slept with, in the last five years, have used this same general push-pull script.

Note that skanky princess has done a couple of things here. The most obvious is re-writing her earlier demand for marriage with the meaningless catch-all word “relationship.”

I mean, technically I have a relationship with her right now. All that word really means is that we’re in each others’ icloud contact lists.

She’s also re-written something more significant. She’s reframed the whole thing as me LJBF’ing her. This is particularly amusing.

I wasn’t the one to demand all manner of favors in return for my company; nor was I the party who took-his-genitals-and-went-home when he didn’t get what he wanted. I was perfectly happy to enjoy the status quo. She was cute and not rude. I still have no real complaints with her. She just pushed too hard, too fast. I wish her well, and hope she finds a dude who is more stupid manly than I am, who will be masculine enough to wife her up, and who can whisk her away to happiness on wings of unicorns.

And back we come to the real point of all this. Not only is this script second nature to me, but I am a prophet (like Brigham Young, himself). I have an almost perfect prediction of what skanky princess will be doing next…

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This is the end result of female escalation, as demonstrated by someone who cycled through my life long before skanky princess. Let’s call her sex-machine.

I’m confident that sex-machine went on to complain about “that asshole [she] dated” to the next guy, before acting out precisely similar theater on him.

Skanky princess will give a similar performance within the next few hours, the same way they all do when we ignore them, and the light bulb goes on, and they realize that their bluffs aren’t working.

In the interim, Instagram ho’ is due to suggest we move in together within the next week or two.

The pattern will hold. It always does.

The Eternal Tourist

Years ago, when I was hanging out in a different town, thousands of miles away from where I am today, I fell in with a crowd of Muslims. For the racial purists, I should note that in this town, the local Islamic Center was 95% white folks, nearly all of them immigrants from the former countries of Yugoslavia and the USSR, along with a handful of local converts.

I should also be honest and cop to the fact that, at least at a subconscious level, I was expecting to find at least one chaste, marriagable girl who loved god and wanted to be a wife and mother. That illusion was dispelled rather quickly. If anything, the Muslim girls I met were even better at lying to their fathers about what they were up to on Friday evenings. I doubt any of the occasional visitors to chez Boxer will be surprised at this.

In any case, I found it all very interesting and philosophical. Muslims are much closer to Mormons, in that they don’t worry about stuff like the mystery of the trinity, though (also like Mormons) they hold that Jesus was a decent guy, who may or may not have existed, and we can learn from the literary character. There are no saints to venerate. Just pray to God and you’re good. Like Mormons, they frown on depictions of God. There is no iconography.

Qur’an, which is considerably harder to read than the New Testament, is supplemented by commentary, the details of which may or may not be taken seriously by one believer or the next, and is endlessly argued about on Friday evening by the old men.

My education was aided by the fact that everyone in the place was totally on board with me touristing through their community. I had done my undergraduate work at a Jesuit university, and had become used to being told that I couldn’t take communion, or dip my hand in the holy water, or any of the other stuff. That wasn’t the case here. “Yes, you can pray with us… what a dumb question… kneel by me and follow along…”

The preacher, a big blond Bosnian, who played basketball in the courts outside on the weekend, acted shocked when I casually mentioned I wasn’t a member. He had the idea that I had converted a long time before. “Have you ever thought about saying shahada? We’d love to have you officially.”

“I don’t believe in God,” I replied.

“So what?” This was his response, and just as quickly, “you can be a bad Muslim, like most of the rest of the people here.”

Today, I live in a Catholic town, so I’m back hanging out at vigil mass on Saturday evenings. Most of the people I chill with surely think I’m a Catholic; though, out of respect, I don’t go up and take the eucharist. I’ve got the moves down. I’ll never believe in God, but I enjoy the aesthetics of it all. Anyway, religion isn’t about believing in nonsense. It’s about doing things that make your life and your community better.