Popular Misconceptions

Certain meatspace friends of mine let themselves be treated like warmed-over shit, by whatever wimminz they happen to be plowing at any particular moment. We could take my pal x, who follows his ho’ y meekly through the supermarket, as she berates him in even tones, in front of me, his friend. Roosh would probably argue that she does so because she wants me to hit on her. It doesn’t work.

We can also look at the strange case of a, who lets his wife, b, make every decision. Last night, I was out for a beer with a. I don’t drink beer, so I had club soda.

I don’t drink beer, but don’t fault a for doing so, as his life seems so utterly miserable that it would drive any man to drink.

About an hour into our personal time, he interrupts me.

“I have to call my wife,” he says, fumbling around in his pockets for his phone.

I simply look at him blankly, as he rudely takes out his gay electronic device, and frantically starts dialing numbers.

“Hi honey, I’m gunna be a little bit late. Is that O.K.? Yeah the meeting is running a little bit longer than I expected. Oh. I’m sorry honey. Yeah. I’m sorry baby. O.K., I’ll make it up to you…”

“Wow!” He exclaims, as he slides his phone back into his jacket. “I musta lost track of time!”

Less than an hour after this silly ordeal, he ordered a 20 dollar dessert, to go, to take as a peace offering to his woman. Our server blandly slid a melted chocolate brownie across the bar in a styrofoam container.

It will interest the readers here to note that neither x nor a are the sorts of simps we’d expect. Both are athletic. Both are moderately successful.

My man x is an African-American business owner who has a very nice house in the suburbs. Of course, this isn’t enough for y. She truly believes that she can do better.

My brother a is a tall, slim, good-looking blond farm boy, from Iowa or Nebraska or one of those fucked up states. He just got tenure in the department he works at, at a big public research university. Of course, this isn’t good enough for b. She is sure she can do better.

The ladies are really not much to write home about. Neither is dog ugly. That’s about all I can say for them. They aren’t much alike. The first bitch is black, and the second bitch is white. The first bitch likes to berate her husband in public, and the second bitch keeps her man on a tight leash, just like a dog.

The men, for all their superficial differences, are almost precisely similar. They’re both far too compliant. They’re both far too devoted. They’re both prone to falling in love. This leads each, in his own way, to tolerate the intolerable.

The phenomenon is so inexplicable, that I had to play amateur psychoanalyst, and try to figure out the common motivations that underly this personality type. My first thoughts run toward a common delusion, shared by many men, about their individual wimminz. These delusions include…

• This cunt is the best cunt that has ever existed, from the beginning of humanity.
• No cunt will ever be as good as this.
• This is the hottest bitch I will ever get.
• If I don’t do what this bitch wants, no other wimminz will ever part her meatflaps for me again.

A number of collective memes also take root, and when combined with these silly ideals, make the conditioning difficult to break.

• Grandma and Grandpa were married for 50 years. If I can’t keep this silly ho’ interested in me, then I won’t measure up.
• Janice dumped me in High School. If I can’t keep this stupid cunt yapping at me, then Janice will be proved right.
• God expects me to be married and start pounding out little (Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Mormons, etc.) and I owe it to God to do His almighty will, and keep enduring this bitch’s humiliating taunts.

Earlier I noted that there were not too many similarities between these two wimminz, and these are only two of countless examples of lousy partners among North American hoez. Be that as it may, they all seem to have one thing in common.

They all hate me.

Every time these bitches see me, at work-related functions, around town, at the gym, they note that I am either alone, or I am with a brand new skank.

I am free. I have no wife. I have no girlfriend.

I get all my needs met without the use of a parasite, bleeding me dry of time and money.

I am not a compliant slave. I have left the plantation.

These bitches don’t hate me just for that reason. If these bitches were single themselves, then they’d either ignore me, or come on to me. They hate me because I am an existential threat to the scam they are running.

Earlier I mentioned that my brother a lied to his wife about where he was at. He was with me, at a low-key restaurant. He told her that he was in a faculty meeting, or busy with one of his dumbass committees, or some such nonsense. I said nothing to him about this. I politely pretended not to listen in. I said nothing about it when I recounted it, for all you brothers, either. Even so, it is the climax of this dumb tale.

Why did he lie? He lied because he knows that his wife doesn’t want him hanging out with Boxer, and especially without her loving guidance and supervision.

I know that these men don’t have to put up with the shit they regularly endure. Their wimminz, different as they may be, sense instinctively that I am demonstrating a way-of-life that would put either out of business, very quickly, the minute I convinced their men to dump their asses, and follow me into MGTOW.

They know this, and I know it, and they know I know it. Thus lies have to be told, and hatreds fester, and your boy Boxer goes home to a peaceful house, at the end of a quiet hour of bullshitting, with only a small interruption to prove the point.