Identity Politics and You

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The scroungy simp above is one of my cousins, and his dumb mug is a perfect illustration for a frank discussion about race and identity in contemporary America.

Over on some comment section, my insufficient loyalty to my fellow white people has just been pointed out, and for that crime, I am guilty. More than that: I will come right out and tell you that I give a shit about very few people. This is the case because my loyalty and allegiance is a very valuable commodity, and I don’t intend to waste it on ingrates or free-riders. I encourage all young men to adopt this posture, because it is the safest consistent pose one can take, when swimming in the hostile seas of the present.

My loyalty is not only selective. It is tiered as well, in what might be described as nested sets. I can tell you who I do care about, in descending order.

  1. Myself, and any future children (bio or adopted) I might have.
  2. My father, my sister, and my grandparents. If I ever have a wife, she’ll go here.
  3. Some of my cousins, my nieces and nephews, and close personal friends.
  4. My co-workers, my barber, my gardener, and the guy who shines my shoes.
  5. Members of my community. This means people who live in my neighborhood.

Some of you young brothers, who are less the asshole that I am, probably have different levels of charity, and different people occupying those levels. That’s O.K.. The point is that you are selectively loyal to solid people you can count on.

One will probably note that my mother isn’t included in any of these levels. That’s by design.

Biological relatives can be disowned for grievous misbehavior. My mother has been disowned because she divorced my father, and spent years alienating me from him. Some of my cousins are also not listed. Murderers, car thieves, feminists and troublemakers get cut out. That’s what that fag at the top of this post represents.

The threshold for ostracizing a biological/adopted relative might be higher than the one that’s applied to a stranger, but it still ought to exist. A man’s time is valuable, and he shouldn’t waste his energy on the undeserving.

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One will note that in my list, there is no national category. If a random Canadian came to my neighborhood, in the United States, and started stealing cars, I’d rat him out to the cops. If he stole my gardener’s truck, I’d help my gardener hunt him down and join in the ass kicking. Like most lawn-cutters, mine is a Mexican mestizo. That’s peripheral to the real issue. My loyalty is to the solid people I know and trust, and not to troublemaking strangers.

The world is full of scam artists, who prey upon the naïve and the unsuspecting. People who promote identity politics are among them. What these types want you to do is to leapfrog a bunch of strangers over the people you know and trust, and give them your allegiance, simply based on physical characteristics. It really doesn’t matter if the identity is “white” or “black” or “la raza,” because the scam is precisely similar at the level of structure.

White nationalists are, right now, claiming that they deserve to be in tier one or tier two on my list, when they’ve done nothing at all to earn my trust and loyalty. Not only this, but they claim that the bitch above ought to be catapulted ahead of the people in tier three, because she is of my particular ethnic group, and some of the people in tier three are not.

The people who belong in tier three are quite diverse. They’re people I’ve known and worked with for years. Some are white, and some are not. Some are Christians, and some are Mormons, and some are atheists. There are a couple of Jews in there. They’ve all earned their places in tier three, because at some point, I was in need, and for no discernible reason, they all helped me out, when there was nothing in it for them to do so (and sometimes, at considerable risk to themselves.)

Not only have the people pictured in this post never helped me out; but they’ve made destroying my society their life’s work. Everyone in the set of all the people I care about suffers, whether they know it or not, because that simp and that stupid bitch have helped promote corrosive ideas that make the world an uglier place. It’s true they’re related to me. It’s also true that they’re my deadly enemies. I look forward to the day when they’re properly brought to heel.

Feminist Journalism, Illustrated

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Invalidating the cherished images of transcendence by incorporating them into its omnipresent daily reality, this society testifies to the extent to which insoluble conflicts are becoming manageable–to which tragedy and romance, archetypal dreams and anxieties are being made susceptible to technical solution and dissolution. The psychiatrist takes care of the Don Juans, Romeos, Hamlets, Fausts, as he takes care of Oedipus — he cures them. The rulers of the world are losing their metaphysical features. Their appearance on television, at press conferences, in parliament, and at public hearings is hardly suitable for drama, beyond that of the advertisement, while the consequences of their actions surpass the scope of the drama.

(Herbert Marcuse, One Dimensional Man, New York: Routledge, 2002. p. 74)

The Coming Obsolescence of Wimminz

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For the last couple of decades, a device popularly known as an “artificial placenta” has been in development. Last time I checked, LG (maker of cheapo cellular telephones) was a part of the development, and Bayer (the aspirin company) was also involved. There are other players, and those are just the two I remember.

It turns out that the placenta is a very complicated organ, and given its nature, spontaneously appearing with a fetus, and turning quickly into a piece of meat after birth, it is very difficult to study. All logistical problems aside, technical solutions are continuing to develop.

In the Spring of 2017, a lamb fetus was brought to maturity in such an artificial placenta.

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Not being a biologist or physician, I don’t pretend to know all the finer details, but the procedure is broken down into simple terms in a recent paper. There are a few veins and arteries attaching the fetus to the placenta, and a rapid transfer to a filtration and oxygenation system is the basic idea.

Time-dated pregnant ewes were used at gestational ages of 104 to 135 days (term is ∼145 days). Animals were treated according to approved protocols by the institutional animal care and use committee of The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia Research Institute.

Ewes were anaesthetized with 15 mg kg−1 of intramuscular ketamine, with maintenance of general anaesthesia with inhaled isoflurane (2–4% in O2) and propofol (0.2–1.0 mg kg−1 min−1). Intraoperative haemodynamic monitoring included pulse oximetry, with a constant infusion of isotonic saline administered via a central venous line placed in a jugular vein to maintain maternal fluid balance. A lower midline laparotomy was created to expose the uterus, with a small hysterotomy performed to expose the fetal sheep head and neck (CA/JV) or umbilical cord (UA/UV). Experimental lambs undergoing cannulation of the neck vessels (CA/JV and CA/UV) underwent creation of a small right neck incision to expose the jugular vein and/or carotid artery. Fetuses received one intramuscular dose of buprenorphine (0.005 mg kg−1). After determination of the maximal cannula size accommodated by each vessel, ECMO cannulae were placed (8–12 Fr, Medtronic, Minneapolis, MN, USA), with stabilizing sutures placed along the external length of cannulae at the neck. Cannulas were customized with a silicone sleeve over the external portion of the cannulas to permit increased tension of the stabilizing sutures in CA/JV and CA/UV experiments. Experimental lambs undergoing cannulation of the umbilical vessels were positioned to expose the umbilical cord, with connective tissue sharply dissected to expose the umbilical arteries and veins. Umbilical cannulae were placed in one umbilical vein (CA/UV) as well as two umbilical arteries (UA/UV) (12 Fr, Medtronic, or modified 8–12 Fr custom-made cannulas), with stabilizing sutures placed at the insertion sites.

(nature dot com)

The article is interesting, and despite its overly-technical language, it’s already beginning to spin the benefits to wimminz themselves. The same wimminz who have run roughshod over our culture will likely be the first to embrace their own redundancy, by adopting this technology to help their wrinkly, 50-year old selves conceive the baby they were too stupid to have before graduate school.

One of the few assets women objectively have is the ability to conceive and bear children. This is about to be taken away from them… forever. How attractive do these shrieking feminists think they’ll be, when men have a functional alternative?

Given that we are interested in ethics, we should be somewhat concerned with the future ramifications of these developments. Human beings have always come to maturity with the help of a human mother. Some of our mothers are better than others, but our existence is predicated upon theirs. At some point in the future, this will change. We will have two populations: one grown in garbage bags, and the heirloom variety, carried to term in the traditional fashion. It’s easy to project a class-based divide between the two, and I honestly don’t know who will be considered the elite, in this scenario. The technical human will be born out of a labor-intensive, financially expensive procedure, and he’ll probably be the genetic offspring of wealthy individuals. These will likely be Asperger type incels who want a baby without a wimminz, and elderly feminist career girls who froze their eggs.

Consequences be damned, the artificial placenta appears to be the manifestation of the Heideggerian “saving power” of technology, appearing to shake shit up for we, who blindly stumble into the future, all unconcerned.

Bang British Columbia

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This is Christina Lake, in the West Kootenays. The photo is low-res, because it’s a blown-up shot which (mostly) excludes one of the bitches mentioned here.

Down below, Caspar writes…

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Caspar is making fun of me. The title of this article is also a joke, at Roosh V.’s expense.

Caveat: The young playa who reads this crap is advised to steer clear of B.C.’s boxy looking feminists. They’re overwhelmingly shapeless, and whether they’re the white or asiatic variety, they’re incredible bitches. The one thing the province did give me was confidence. Those of us who were stuck there, a decade ago, had to hustle to get our needs met. Sadly, even a seasoned pro wouldn’t tour B.C. to get cunt. The quality of the wimminz on offer there is so dismal that it makes the effort wasted. The beauty of British Columbia is truly offset by the inelegance of its wimminz.

Caspar alludes to scripts. People aren’t computers, and the memorization of a script isn’t useful, outside of telephone sales or the theatre. If you want to learn to be more socially fluent, then the script is only a guidepost. It works if it is internalized, and tweaked, so that it is only a prop, and the words you say are authentic to you.

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What I’m about to talk about in this poast may approach the phenomenon known as “day game.” Day game is an industry. There are plenty of scripts and scenarios which are available, for a fee, from men like Roosh and Heartiste. I have never bought any of the books, and I won’t ever write one, because (as Cane Caldo will tell you) I’m a Marxist-Leninist bolshevik, and I don’t believe this sort of knowledge ought to be commercialized. If you’re desperate enough to pay big dollaz for a seminar and texts and personal consulting, then you’re throwing your money away. Moreover, “game” implies meeting immoral sluts for no-strings sex, and the knowledge I’m about to impart is much more general. This is a poast about being a man without Aspergers or social anxiety, and it will work just as well for shy Christian dudes as it will for aspiring playaz.

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Many men operate under the delusion that women only seek after the top 20 percent, in looks, height, character, wealth… and these men believe this despite counterexamples, which constantly pop up on the horizon. Walk down any street and you’ll see a decent looking woman holding hands with a guy with missing teeth, with acne scars, and with pants that sag down to his ass. Read the paper, and you’ll find wimminz writing unsolicited love letters to prisoners. Violent neo-nazis, crips gang members, men arrested for mass murder — these scum can get wimminz to pay attention to them.  If these losers can find a girl to like them, then it’s really no great accomplishment for you to do so.

Women are not magic, and they’re not royalty, and they’re not goddesses, and the more women you meet personally, the more obvious this becomes. Women fart. Women fuck. Women suck dick. Women curse. Women shoplift. All the shameful things men do, are done by women. Many is the young brother I see, who averts his eyes from women, who mumbles when approached by them, and who scurries off like a rat when an attractive woman enters the room. This not only debases our brother, but it gives the sluts he’s afraid of an unearned ego boost.

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Don’t be afraid. I believe, in most cases, the fear of women is actually a fear of rejection by attractive women. The young brother who is so timid around hot girls is never that cowed around his little sister, or the fat girl behind the counter at the taco shack, or the old lady down the street, because these women aren’t potential mates.

Once we appreciate that potential mates are animals, even as we are, we can begin to overcome our fear of them. How do we do this? I am not a psychologist, and don’t pretend to be one, but there’s a lot of material available. One way of overcoming irrational fear is systematic desensitization. A man will have to be honest about the steps he takes to overcome his irrational fear, but we can reconstruct a general pattern to look something like:

Spend week one, for at least half an hour per day, on the street. Hold eye contact with every woman you find attractive.

Spend week two, for at least half an hour per day, speaking to women you find attractive. You don’t need to talk the bitches ears off. Just say “hello,” as you pass them. You’re already comfortable smiling at them, so this shouldn’t be an issue.

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Incorporation is your goal, and once a man practices these tricks for a while, he’ll naturally find the confidence to switch things up. I almost never say “hello,” to women. I always open with “how are you…” This puts the onus on her to respond, rather than just smile and walk away. Of course, that’s what works for me. What works best for you will likely be different — suited to your unique style. That’s as it should be.

The Good Woman

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I always try to be forthright about what I’m not qualified to write about. For example, I’m not an attorney, who practices in whatever town you live in. Laws vary from city to city. If you have a legal problem, then you need to go see a local pro. I do often comment on general legal trends, but I do so as an outside observer.

Other things I’m not qualified to give advice on include psychoanalysis, furry fandom, and having a happy marriage. I will often mention such stuff, but I have no training or professional experience in these disciplines, and if you need advice on any of it, you can wander off to make an appointment to talk to Jordan Peterson, or Derek, or some other qualified man, who can give you sound advice.

The advice I attempt to leave here is for America’s most underserved demographic: young men. I tell them the truth about the women they are after. One general truth is that women aren’t magic. The pouty-eyed brunette you’ve been obsessing over, who posts high angle selfies to instagram all day… she’s the female equivalent of the fat guy who spends all his free time playing World of Warcraft. Also, me and the boys have all fucked that bitch. She may have appeared sorta charming to me at first, too; but after I had sprayed her full of my cum, she seemed a lot less magical.

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The story above is an example of sour grapes, and it’s also a serious epistemology thought experiment. Unlike most of the other shit I’m wont to write about, I actually am familiar with this sort of thing.

The woman in this story married a man without disclosing a couple of important details. The first was her history as a professional prostitute. The second is the fact that she has crushing levels of financial debt. We see our brother approach a wimminz named “Ellie” for advice, in the feminist media. Ellie doles out the typical wimminz’ obfuscation, which turns out to be absolutely true… just not for the reasons “Ellie” thinks.

In the first place, we must note (with some amusement) that our subject rapidly went from being “on cloud nine” (at time t_0) to “angry and troubled” (at time t_1). What happened to make him that way was not any environmental factor. He blames his wife; but, between t_0 and t_1, his wife has not changed in any way. The only difference in the environment was the addition of a couple of pieces of information, in our brother’s head, which were as true at t_0, when he was ignorant of them, as they were at t_1, after he verified their correspondence to facts in the world, as such.

There are plenty of facts in the world which would make us uncomfortable if we knew them. Suppose the hiking trail I like to run up and down on is prone to flash-flooding. Suppose a couple of runners were just randomly killed there a few months back. Maybe I’d still go there every Saturday morning, in my futile attempt to keep from being a fatass, or maybe I wouldn’t. The issue isn’t how I’d respond. The issue is the knowledge of those facts, that would creep into my head. That knowledge allows me to make a rational choice, about what I want to do with my life.

Such is the knowledge of wimminz, that I try to impart here.

Let’s return to the story of our brother, above, who married a prostitute. He seems to feel he has ethical grounds to divorce this woman, despite the fact that nothing has changed about this wimminz, between t_0 and t_1. Does he?

The feminists would never discourage this man from frivolously filing for divorce. Neither would the Mormons, the Jews, or the Protestants. For all of those status groups, divorce is just fine. A serious Catholic might be critical of such a thing, which is why I would take advice from the old priest that I see a couple of times a month, before I’d ever listen to one of my own clergymen. To put it more plainly, the priest might give me good advice, which I don’t want to hear, whereas the typical Mormon bishop would tell me whatever he thinks might make me feel good, at that particular moment, in the hopes that I’ll return to the fold, start paying tithing, and commence obeying his orders.

The brother who is whining in the feminist media, about his choice, has said himself that his wife has not misbehaved during his marriage. It’s true she had debts he didn’t know about. Guess what? He had a responsibility to  due diligence before he entered into a legal and moral contract.

Every time I buy $1000 USD worth of new stock, I spend hours reading the prospectus. This man gambled his entire life’s produce on an investment, which has yet to turn sour for him, so I have a hard time crying tears on his behalf.

Just for fun, I went and looked up some traditional protestant wedding vows. Here’s a typical example:

“In the name of God, I, ______, take you, ______, to be my wife/husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

There is no possible way that a sane man would argue these vows to be retroactive. That’s what “from this day forward” means. This is why the young brothers need to approach the institution of marriage with a measure of gravity. A sensible, patriarchal society wouldn’t give a shit if your wife was a former prostitute. They wouldn’t care that your wife had bills. All those issues became yours, the minute you stood up and volunteered to be her husband. If he wanted a divorce in the good old days, he’d have to pony up evidence that she pulled that train after the vows were said.

Now, if you want some more painful realtalk about that girl you think is perfect, you can remember that she is part of a pool of women that I have some experience with. I have spent the last ten years on the carousel, and I can estimate some anecdotal figures (with a fairly large sample size) about the wimminz I have cycled through.

By the age of 25, about half of all wimminz have admitted being passed around at least once, in a group-sex orgy.

By the age of 25, about one third of all wimminz have admitted to having public sex.

By the age of 25, about one quarter of all wimminz have admitted to fucking a minor, under the age of consent.

Note that these are the things that wimminz boast about, and I don’t expect all the wimminz I bang to tell me all the details, so the figures are probably much higher. The first figure isn’t technically illegal. The next two would get any man a jail sentence, and a lifetime on the pervert’s registry. Let’s keep going, though…

By the age of 25, about half of all wimminz are on some form of psychiatric medication, either for depression, insomnia, or general craziness.

By the age of 25, over half of all wimminz have very large amounts of debt. This is especially true of wimminz I have fucked who have gone to law/business/medical/dental school. Those wimminz regularly admit to having over 100,000 USD worth of debt.

So, if you’re a young man, and you want to get married, you need to think carefully about the ramifications. It is quite possible that your wife will get you into trouble, break you financially, or otherwise make your life unpleasant. If you’re reading this blog, then it’s a safe assumption that you’re not a feminist. This entails accepting the responsibility of marriage for better and for worse, as the saying goes.

I titled this post The Good Woman for a reason. People have always criticized me for my bitterness and my generalities. It’s important to remember that there are good women in the world. In fact, as Derek has pointed out, despite all the incentives to divorce, over half the women who get married, stay married.

The woman at the top of this post, posing with her husband, is one such woman. Her name was Vivian Liberto. She had the misfortune to fall in love with one Johnny Cash. They married in St. Ann’s Cathedral, right off Fredericksburg Road, in San Antonio Texas, where Johnny was stationed in the U.S. Air Force, and where Vivian grew up.

Vivian was an African-American woman. You wouldn’t know that from the pop-culture portrayals, where she is depicted looking like this:

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Vivian is also depicted as being a raging bitch. There is zero historical evidence of that, also. As we have already seen, the feminist state likes to use its media to blacken the character of people who speak out against feminism and degeneracy. Michael Jackson was one. Vivian Liberto is another. Ya boy Boxer isn’t nearly as savvy as he thinks he is, because he swallowed the portrayal of both of these people, without any critical analysis, until just this summer.

Our sister Vivian made the mistake many young men fall into, by marrying someone without doing her own due diligence. Soon after the vows were said, Johnny told Vivian he was going on tour. He told her to keep her mouth shut about the fact that she was his wife. What he told her was that she needed to keep the secret because his fans wouldn’t buy his records if they knew he was married to a black chick.

I find it much more plausible to believe he was motivated by the desire to fuck other women when he was out on the road. Whatever his original reason, that’s exactly what he did.

Despite the fact that he was a drug addict, who fucked hundreds of sluts, his wife stuck by him. She was faithful, obedient, and doting. She gave him four children, and did most of the work of raising them, never saying a bad word about him, even when he was convicted of a string of ridiculous crimes, including starting forest fires, and smuggling drugs.

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Imagine how embarrassing this must have been for her. If ever there was a case where a run through the divorce courts was excusable, this has to be it. Yet, there she is, holding her husband’s hand, even as he publicly humiliates her entire family, for the umpteenth time.

Johnny eventually frivolously divorced Vivian, and only in our feminist utopia would such a thing be possible. He filed the papers after he’d run through all their money (how convenient) and she got no payout whatever. Despite this, she has never badmouthed him.

Oh, and this is the horsey wimminz Johnny dumped his good woman to chase…

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She’s no Reese Witherspoon. She was also a two time divorcée, who spent her own life “on the road.” As Anton LaVey might say, it’s a case of “water seeking its own level.”

In conclusion, there are a few basics we can learn from all this. The first is to be careful what you agree to. The second is to not pay any heed to the feminists or their media. The most important is to keep your promises, even if they turn out to be inconvenient.

There is a sucker born every minute, and the desire to take advantage of you isn’t restricted to wimminz; but in the current climate, they have the advantage. Ripping you off isn’t a conspiracy of wimminz, it’s a general conspiracy of people. Yes, I think getting married is foolish. No, I won’t tell you not to get married. I just hope you boys go into such a thing with both eyes open.

Why I Write

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Александр Николаевич Волков: Chaikhana with Portrait of Lenin (1928)

People speculate as to my underlying reasons for writing articles on this blog. Popular theories include:

  1. bitterness, caused by a very small penis,
  2. too much free time, and no spending money,
  3. lax personal hygiene, and,
  4. a limited intellect.

While all those observations are objectively true, they don’t approach my actual motivations for writing. I figured I’d take a few minutes and illustrate the reason for my strange compulsion.

By the spring of 2011, I had already mastered online dating, thanks to AfOR. At that point in my life, I was in a graduate program, while trying to patch things up with my father, a man who had been alienated from me, thanks to my mother and the divorce industry.

I was very, very busy, with important stuff; but, I somehow managed to make time for a lot of procrastination reading, and plenty of fucking strange wimminz, and going to Japan. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I managed it. I was spinning plates like nobody’s business.

At some point, I met Patricia on one of the dating sites. Patricia was cute, but not beautiful, and alluring, but not sexy. I suppose had more attractive options, and so she sat on the back burner for a while. We texted. We were noncommittal.

A few weeks after we had initially matched online, I was in a coffee house, listening to some stupid slut drone on, and on, and on, when Patricia texted me, all spontaneous and out of the blue. Coffee skank was objectively quite beautiful; but, I had plowed coffee slut in every hole, a number of different times, and my patience had worn out. When Patricia asked what was up, I copped to the fact that I was out with another girl.

“I wish it was me,” she replied.

I instantly asked…

“Want to go to the movies?”

An hour later, I had ghosted on coffee skank, and met Patricia at an old art deco cinema I liked. I believe I told coffee slut I was going to the men’s, and would be right back, and just walked out. It was something like that, because coffee slut blew up my phone for about twenty minutes, before I put her in the block list. It’s interesting to note that while I remember all sorts of details about Patricia, I don’t remember anything about coffee slut… not even her name.

Patricia was waiting for me when I walked into the cinema. She bought us the tickets, and I bought the popcorn. While I was talking to her, I realized that she was deaf. She didn’t wear hearing aids. She read lips so well that I could speak to her and she’d get what I was saying. For about one second, I was a bit put out, but then I saw the bright side. The realization that she had gone to the movies, when she couldn’t hear most of the dialogue, was sorta touching, and sweet, and all that.

We went back to her house that night. We fucked. She was a twenty-two year old virgin. It was a mess. She lied about it beforehand.

I should have known, at that moment, that this was a problem, but I was in love, and that was that. We became exclusive.

Things fall apart. It lasted about four months. It wasn’t entirely Patricia who fucked it up. I got tired of paying for most things, and I got tired of being lied to. If I’m honest, I’ll cop to the fact that I got tired of monogamy. One evening, her hot friend came on to me. Fucking the whore was fun. Before the whore even left my house, I knew what was coming, so I pre-emptively texted Patricia, told her that skank ho had come over, and politely broke up with her.

Her response was priceless. She told me that two weeks prior, she had met a Native American guy on PoF, and fucked the hell out of him.

Was it true? I haven’t any idea. She didn’t seem the type, but then, none of them do, and she certainly lied a lot.

The slutty friend and I remained attached at the genitals for several weeks. We went out as a group, a number of times, and Patricia was part of that group. Patricia was just as sweet to me in public as she ever had been. I have to believe, looking back, that she really didn’t care. Patricia and I remained connected on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, from the moment we had met, until I disabled all of those stupid social media accounts, last year.

Around 2014, Patricia invited me to her wedding. Had I got this from the typical skank-ho ex, I’d have assumed the sender was playing an emotional game with me: trying to make me jealous, or attempting to boast about how I’d missed my chance. I lived out of state at the time, but when the invitation came in the regular mail (and it was an invitation, and not an announcement) I felt like it had been genuinely sent. I sent her 40 dollars and a thank-you note, wishing her well.

In 2015, I was in town, and was invited out with this same social group. Patricia’s husband zeroed in on me, and we made small talk, alone, while his wife was on the dance floor, feeling the beat through her feet, dancing like she was listening, in perfect rhythm.

“How did you meet her?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied. “Probably through her slut friend…”

His face and his demeanor suggested disbelief, but acceptance, and I came away from that encounter feeling a little bit ashamed, and with a good deal of respect for this man, who had married the deaf girl, and loved her enough to go out socializing with one of the men she had banged in her misspent youth.

In early 2017, Patricia sent me a Facebook message. I was going to be passing through the town in which we had once met, and where she lives still. She wanted to see me, when I went through.

“I’ll buy you and your husband dinner,” I told her.

When the appointed day came around, Patricia picked me up, alone, in her new van. Her husband, she explained, was busy. Plausible, I thought, but I doubt it. Anyway, such is the way things go. A number of other manosphere stereotypes were confirmed, during the course of the next ninety minutes, including the propensity of married women to get a butch dyke hairdo, to gain 50 pounds, and to proposition old boyfriends for fucking and sucking. I tried not to embarrass her as I declined her generous offer. She didn’t seem offended, or even affected, by my rejection. I didn’t ghost out on the woman, but I did cut things short, and I got an uber back to my hotel, rather than letting her drive me.

Fast forward to last week. I had to re-activate my Facebook account to get a photograph. Not five minutes after everything came back online, Patricia appeared in my direct messages.

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Now, if you want to know why I’m compelled to write this blog, here’s an illustration.

I got incredibly lucky, as a young man, because I managed to keep from getting entangled with a slut just like this. I fucked the bitch, when she was young and cute. Another man — a much better man than I, in every conceivable way — did her the honor of making her his wife. This is his reward.

She says he knows she’s cucking him, and I believe her. Probably, he’s fucking other women too. It’s still a damned shame, and you had better believe that he is the one who will get the bill, the minute their marriage falls apart, and it will. The only possible upside to this mess is that these two don’t have kids. Not yet, anyway.

Ask yourself: Would you rather be in my position, or in his shoes?

This blog is a survival guide, for all the boys who are running around with their own Patricia. If you play your cards right, you’ll keep from getting cucked by one of these bitches.

Patricia is not an anomaly. My grandmother was Patricia. Maybe my grandmother didn’t act on her baser instincts (maybe…); but, if she didn’t, I believe that’s because she didn’t have Facebook and PoF to waste time on, rather than any difference in character.

They’re all Patricia.

If I can convince one young brother of that basic fact, then whatever work I’ve done on this blog will be worth the effort. That’s why I write, and it’s all the motivation I need.

Spinning On A Dime

Down below, Earl says:

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A few years ago, a skank fucked a random man named Muhammad. That is nothing new. She then — out of the blue — solicited him to murder her husband.

Muhammad beat feet into the local police station. In his initial interview, he expressed two different emotions. First came amazement, both that this whore was married, and that she had so easily convinced him she was single. At first, police didn’t believe him. Cops admit that this man started crying as he begged them to take him seriously. He told them that he knew someone was going to be killed otherwise.

Cops finally bought into the story, and found that it was all true. Dalia Dippolito was searching for a hit man to kill her husband, a man that she had only married six months before. Muhammad hooked the bitch up with a professional murderer, and the deal was on.

Someone else started crying tears a couple of months later…

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Skank-ho Dalia certainly put on a convincing performance as the distraught and grieving widow, as police broke the news that her husband had been killed.

Of course, her husband was still alive. The hit-man she hired looked like a scroungy street thug. In fact, he was an undercover officer for the state police, who usually worked narcotics cases, and needed to act the part of a skeezy doper.

When confronted with the obvious facts, the bitch did not apologize or express remorse. The opposite happened. She doubled down, blaming everyone from the man she was fucking (Muhammad) to the city’s police chief, for her shit behavior. Watch it here:

Skip to about 13:00 to see the bitch realize that she’s been had.