Best Interests of The Children

In Chechnya, they are putting the children first.

Authorities in Russia’s Chechnya Republic are claiming success in an unconventional, sweeping campaign to compel people who have divorced to reunite, for the sake of the children — and, they say, to help in the fight against terrorism.

Ramzan A. Kadyrov, the president of the Chechen Republic, has reintroduced the concepts of children’s rights and family values, by retroactively nullifying most of the divorces that happened in his country in the last generation.

Read more at Carlos Slim’s Blog.

Fun commentary here:

Advertisements

Joss Whedon: Lying Feminist Nutcase

Only a short time ago, we profiled degenerate male feminist Christopher John Goldberg, who became net-famous with his autistic rambling about male privilege, spewed into the faces of anyone in his general vicinity who was in any way normal or healthy (link). As we have already seen, Goldberg had two distinct personae. When he logged off of Twitter and Tumblr, he transitioned seamlessly from supposed feminist crusader into his private life, where he collected and traded volumes of revolting child pornography.

tumblr_nj87xfPHnH1s9rx9zo1_1280As though we needed yet another example of the pathology of feminism, a woman named Kai Cole has recently penned an article about her relationship with Joss Whedon. Whedon became famous for his role in creating trashy, lowbrow entertainment like “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” and is widely known as a male-feminist. Whedon met Cole around 1991, and they married in 1995.

A personal friend of such luminaries as Anita Sarkeesian and Meryl Streep, male-feminist Joss Whedon has championed things like rewriting nonsensical fairy tales with female protagonists, and pressuring tech and entertainment companies to hire more women (whether or not those women would actually do anything useful). My masochistic readers can watch a tedious example of his sanctimonious preening on youtube, deceptively entitled “Joss Whedon’s Equality Now Speech” (here).

Kai “Mrs. Whedon” Cole explains that her feminist husband spent several years lying to her, abusing her, and acting like a complete asshole, all while fucking countless third-rate skanks.

Joss admitted that [for a] decade and a half, he hid multiple affairs and a number of inappropriate emotional ones that he had with his actresses, co-workers, fans and friends, while he stayed married to me. He wrote me a letter when our marriage was falling apart, but I still didn’t know the whole truth…

Mrs. Whedon goes on to give us a glimpse of what really motivates male feminists to act out in public, namely: displacement, projection, and similar neurotic attempts at ego-defense.

Despite understanding, on some level, that what he was doing was wrong, he never conceded the hypocrisy of being out in the world preaching feminist ideals, while at the same time, taking away my right to make choices for my life and my body based on the truth. He deceived me for 15 years, so he could have everything he wanted. I believed, everyone believed, that he was one of the good guys, committed to fighting for women’s rights, committed to our marriage, and to the women he worked with. But I now see how he used his relationship with me as a shield, both during and after our marriage, so no one would question his relationships with other women or scrutinize his writing as anything other than feminist.

This is a very valuable insight that all men should internalize. When one sees a male feminist, he is generally looking at a deeply disturbed and degenerate person. Such a man is motivated to become a feminist nuisance not by lofty ideals of equality, but by repressed feelings of guilt and shame. The male feminist finds it easier to criticize others than to improve himself, and he lashes out at anyone around him as a result. It is a particularly pathetic form of escapist stagnation.

Unfortunately, in this case, while Joss Whedon was accusing all and sundry for doing those things that he did himself, he was also causing his wife (one of the few people he should have had some genuine concern for) serious psychological problems.

My entire reality changed overnight, and I went from being a strong, confident woman, to a confused, frightened mess. I was eventually diagnosed with Complex PTSD and for the last five years, I have worked hard to make sense of everything that happened and find my balance again. It has not been easy, because even though in my personal life I have been completely open about what happened, publicly people only know his superficial presentation of us: him as the lovable geek-feminist and me in the background, as his wife and supporter.

We can only extend our sympathies to Mrs. Whedon, for her poor choice in men, which led to the ordeal from which she is, only now, beginning to recover. It’s doubly important for any sisters who have stumbled into this blog to take her warning seriously. Do not date, fuck or marry any outspoken male-feminist. They are always driven to their zealotry by intractable personal problems.

The stories of trash like Schwyzer, Goldberg, Whedon and countless others convince us of an inescapable truth: Male feminists are unworthy of any decent man’s respect, and of any good woman’s time or attention.

Read the entire article by Mrs. Whedon here.

Special thanks to my nigga Anon, part of the award-winning Dalrock research team, for bringing Mrs. Whedon’s story to light. Show him some love here.

Avoiding the LJBF

Down below, Renee complains:

Screen Shot 2017-07-15 at 13.16.43

Astutely, she brings up the correlation between being a side bitch (or a side nigga) and being LJBF’d by someone. In the first case, a side nigga is someone who is used for sex and possibly emotional/financial support also. Such a person is strung along by the object of his desire, while she (or he) makes great plans for the future with her (or his) first choice — who isn’t the side nigga. In the second, the situation is precisely similar, though even the sexual contact is removed.

If someone pretends to like you, and manipulates you into meeting her (or his) needs, while not even deigning to have sex with you, then you’re a chump. My prescription is to dump that bitch (or that nigga) and quit wasting your time.

A good rule of thumb is to ask yourself, in any relationship, if you are benefitting. If you’re not even gaining a tiny advantage in return for your time invested, then you should cut your losses immediately.

The correlation between the side nigga and the LJBF certainly needs some further deconstruction. Look for a more serious article in the near future.

Happy Revolution Day

Public domain image, royalty free stock photo from www.public-domain-image.com

I’m currently on holiday, but wanted to pop online and wish my readers (all five of them) a happy season. I am, on paper at least, a Canadian, so we’ll roll Canada Day and Independence day into one glorious week of subversive anti-feminist celebrations. Whether you are going to go do as your forefathers did, and topple some infrastructure, or whether you’re just going to get drunk poolside, I trust you’ll make it memorable.

And now to some business. Earlier I wrote about Ariana Gonzalez (here), and while I thought I had an accurate picture of her argument, it’s now clear that I unfairly impugned an innocent woman. This is an apology and retraction to Mrs. Gonzalez, who is not a single mom, but is, in fact, married to a nice fellow, who fathered her youngest child.

While we don’t know the whole story, ya boy Boxer read the “pregnant at 15” part and assumed the usual, which wasn’t the case.

Mrs. Gonzalez is an example of the type of turnaround an individual can do, if one wants to work hard, quit acting like an idiot, and start living a meaningful life. I do wish she’d quit shilling for the abortion clinic on national media, but I suppose we can’t have everything.

Credit to Richard P., who did the fact checking that I was too lazy to do. I owe him a case of beer, payable on demand.

 

Seduction 101

1498658111950
Somewhere over the rainbow, a starry-eyed romantic writes…

My purpose for dating was for us to get to know each other, seek an emotional connection, build on that connection, leading to love, and finally marriage. Sex being only part of marriage, and not the most important part.

This sort of sentiment, plucked out of a 19th century novel, would be cute if it weren’t so dangerous. It’s also a mystery to behold a man, who has been exposed to 30 years of pop culture, which tells him in every song, theatrical performance, and Hollywood crap film, what the score is, yet he stubbornly continues in his delusions.

Let’s get this out of the way. Dating is not about meeting a nice girl for a soda after the dance. Dating is about having sex.

Before the date is the meeting. You meet women every day, in nearly every scenario. I have only a couple of rules restricting the domain of all the women I meet to women who I can have sex with. I don’t date (i.e. have sex with) anyone I work with. I teach, so I don’t have sex with other teachers at my institution, and I don’t have sex with any of my students. I also don’t have sex with chicks who are obviously married. Of course, I’ve probably had lots of sex with married chicks, but if I did, the ho’s hid their status well enough to fool me.

That’s it. Every woman I meet, in every other context, is fair game.

When I was younger, I used to go out clubbing to pick up women, but I always noted that there were gifts that just dropped into my lap in other contexts. At some point, without consciously planning it, I just started maximizing the productivity of these chance encounters. I’m at the point now that I often go months without going out to find cunt. I also don’t have active profiles on the dating sites.

I’ve had sex with women I met in the aisle at the grocery store. I’ve had sex with women I met in the laundromat (a surprisingly productive place to find sex partners, weirdly enough.) I’ve had sex with women I met in the waiting room at the dentist’s office.

You meet women every day, same as me. If a woman is talking to you, she’s likely down to fuck you.

The Meeting

We go through life interacting with people. Endless opportunities open up, even for dorky introverts like me. People are so shitty, these days, that just being a decent person is enough to make many women interested in you. About ten percent of the dates I go on are initiated by the woman, who invites me out. I instinctively respond with “are you buying?” If she balks or even hesitates, I know she’s fucking with me, and the date would have gone nowhere. Take such propositions as the jokes that they are. If she responds in the affirmative, you’re basically guaranteed sex if you want it.

The other ninety percent of dates I go on are dates that I initiate.

There is a certain look that women get in their faces when they want to fuck me. It’s very difficult to properly communicate exactly what this entails. I can only say that it’s nothing like any look that your mother ever gave you. Their eyes squint slightly as they smile, and these ho’s almost have a predatory look in their eyes. This look means they are down for whatever — including a quickie in the nearest public toilet. Making this face means you’re basically guaranteed sex if you want it.

If it’s convenient, and your standards are low enough, you can usually get sex in the nearest public toilet with such women. These ho’s are scandalous.

The Date

Repeat the mantra: dating is about sex. The only reason you are taking a woman out is to see if she qualifies to host your cock in one of her holes. That’s it.

About half the time I invite a ho’ to “meet for coffee”. The date proceeds exactly as I described, with no deviation. I bring stuff to read and work on, and show up at the coffee shop a half hour before the date is scheduled to begin.

Exactly three minutes after the specified time, if the ho’ isn’t there, I leave. This is not infrequent. I ignore the excuses these bitches send me via voicemail and text message. If a ho’ wanted to meet me, she would have been punctual.

When she does show up, I already have my coffee, and I’m working. I let her compete with my laptop for my attention. This gives the ho’ the illusion that I’m someone important (ho’s like to think they can land someone who has other interests) and inspires her to work a bit for my affection.

The other half of the time, I invite the ho’ to eat. I only do this when I would have gone out to eat on my own, anyway. I never invite a ho’ for anything fancier than a 20 dollar plate at a mom and pop restaurant, and I make the destination clear up front.

Now that this is out of the way, you have your date at your table, and you should be in the proper frame of mind to screen for nutcases. I can’t tell you what your own “fitness tests” should consist of, but I can share some of mine.

  • Get her talking about her family. If she talks shit about her mother or father, or is overly disrespectful to anyone else, I eject.
  • I eject if the ho’ is rude or condescending to the wait staff.
  • I eject if the ho’ is loud, curses in public, or is just overly coarse.

Your shit-tests will be based on your own whims and hangups, and they won’t necessarily intersect with mine. If you have screened your date well, you probably won’t have to eject before sex. Even so, it does happen.

I recently had a wall-hitting attorney across the table from me (i.e. someone who makes money stealing from better people). She made a big production of sneering at the waitress. It was amazing to see a human parasite look down her nose at a much hotter woman, who is working a productive job.

I pointed as much out to the ho’, before I beat feet out of Applebees and left her to pay her own bill. I tipped the waitress twenty dollars on the way out the door, and asked her to say good-bye to the ho’ for me. The look on her face was priceless.

Sex

I consider it a structural advantage to invite wimminz to my house. Again, this is my preference, which may or may not coincide with anyone else’s. When I’m at my house, I know where everything is. It also leaves no ambiguity in the ho’s mind as to what the next step is. If she comes to my house, she’s getting fucked, and if she doesn’t like that, then she can get the hell out.

I have a futon that I fuck women on. I roll it out on my living room floor. It does a number on bitches to tell them that my bedroom is off-limits.

The bedroom is for girlfriends, you’re just a common slut.

It also keeps the bitch from nesting, with the idea that she’s going to be spending the night snoring in my ear. I like to sleep alone.

That’s all, folks

In conclusion, I’d advise ignoring both incels and tradcons who bemoan the state of the sexual marketplace. It’s strange to note that the whiners on sites like Dalrock are functionally identical to the ones on Omega Virgin Revolt. All of them are wrong. Sex is easy to get. I’m a broke-ass schoolteacher with a pinky sized penis, and I seem to be able to win at this game on a consistent basis. You can too, once you know the rules.