Censored Material: My Wife Left Me

The following story was posted two days ago on Reddit, and it was censored within hours, but not before it was cached by the most evil wonderful corporation ever to have existed. Thanks to our revolutionary antifeminist comrades at Google, for saving this story!

The author is unknown. Is it fiction? I dunno. Personally I find it totally credible. Take it away, my brother…

Our brother has learned the hard way about treating wimminz the way one would like to be treated himself. Of course, he loved his wife, so he assumed (naïvely) that she loved him in exactly the same fashion.

It’s O.K. to send her to Maui for a week. She’d never cheat on you, right?

As for this man’s son, we respect the concept of adoption, as all men do. If I were him, I’d have a calm talk with this young brother, lay out all the details, and then make a decision on what the future brings. I can’t imagine any scenario in which our younger brother doesn’t end up hating his mother, though I suspect he has always hated that bitch. Kids aren’t nearly as stupid as their mothers assume them to be.

Of course, I’ve warned the married bros about assuming your wife was a man-with-tits, while simultaneously redpilling aspiring playaz about the dangers of being “the guy she really wants…”

That guy has just broken up a good brother’s family. At the same time, he has become the next sucker for this bitch to take advantage of. Be smart, and don’t let this be you.

Just say ‘no’ to the married ho’

That includes all these supposedly single bitches you find on Tinder who are “just here for the weekend from out of town,” and “looking for a fun time…”

Note our brother’s confusion over the phenomenological “change” he describes. One minute, he knew one set of facts, and the next, he knew another, so he perceives his bitch of a wife as a “different person.” In reality, the bitch has not changed one iota.

I truly sympathize with this man, and would never make light of his situation, but it bears repeating that this state-of-affairs would not have erupted had he not made some very serious mistakes.

What do you brothers think of this story? Sound off below.

And to the human garbage over at Reddit: May you be treated in the way you have treated our brother…

The Love of The Censor

Vox Day, seen above with his masculinized cougar wife, in drag at some gay-friendly party, is permitted to have a series of free blogs on Google’s blogspot platform. We have already seen the contrast between feminist thinkers like Dalrock, David Duke, Cane Caldo, and Vox Day, who have the full support of the feminist state apparatus as they spread their half-truths, and blogs like Heartiste, which get deleted from the very services they enrich.

I bring this up because someone wrote to me, excitedly reporting that Heartiste is back online.


I got excited because I enjoy having my content lifted (without attribution) for Roissy’s purposes. In return I get to make fun of the endless idiots he attracts to his comment section. It’s a good trade.

The Roissy resurrection site has been in operation for several weeks. It has years of archived articles, but it isn’t being updated, and I suspect it might be the work of a reader, rather than a continuation of the original. Either way it illustrates the difference between hosting your own content on a domain name you bought, and being a slave to the censors at Google and WordPress.

Feminist COINTELPRO agents like Dalrock, Cane Caldo, David Duke, and Vox Day are welcome to have twitter feeds and corporate-hosted blogs. Independent thinkers like Heartiste, Laura Loomer, Sam Hyde, and y’r humble narrator are permanently banned whenever they attempt the same. This is neither an accident nor a coincidence. At this point in history, having even a low-traffic blog on a WordPress or Blogspot domain is a sure sign that the author is collaborating with the feminist state.

Rock Concert With Jesus

Down below, our brother Jason sheds light on his recent loss of faith. I don’t want to make him (or anyone) feel like I’m putting his decisions under a microscope, but reading Jason’s prose often makes me introspective about my own life.

Some eight months ago, I moved to a new part of the country. One of the first things I tried to do was to find a suitable church. In my old area (at the opposite end of the continent) I was part of a tight-knit Catholic community. I have never been a Catholic, and am sure I wouldn’t be eligible for membership, but over the course of the past few years I did pretty much everything that the other people did in that congregation, including donate regular offerings, and volunteer for service work.

I think I didn’t fully understand exactly how much I was getting out of being a part of the whole thing until today, when it’s still tangible in my memory, and when I feel the pain of losing a community of people I came to rely upon to help me make sense of the world and my place in it. Weirdly enough, I feel a bit ashamed of the realization that I was using the rites in a crass whataya doin’ for me? fashion, but I think, like Jason, I was originally hungry for some authentic connection, and I was using communion for exactly the purpose which it was originally meant.

Since moving here, I’ve found a group of Catholics who have nothing of the solemn regard for tradition that was extant in the old place. They are a bunch of fat old slobs who sing weird folk songs and never make eye contact.

I started filling in as a high school teacher when I moved here, and one of my colleagues at the red brick schoolhouse recommended what he claimed was a fantastic place, full of the spirit of God and healthy communion with decent people. What it turned out to be was a protestant megachurch, and the service was more-or-less a bad rock concert, with a minimal amount of Jesus talk around the edges.

I suppose I was desperate, because after that I actually checked out a Zen center, and found it packed with a bunch of fossilized old boomers from the beat generation. At least one of these old coots smelled heavily of a mixture of marijuana and B.O..

I checked out a reform temple. Those guys, I thought, were monotheists, so while they aren’t my people, maybe I’ll have something in common with them. I entered to find the place crawling with loud, mannish dykes, and feminist “conscious-raising” seminars (for wimminz and their allies – lol) were advertised in the bulletin.

In every attempt, I have found zero opportunity to escape the mundane and commune with the divine. What people in all these communities (lol) are interested in is creating a gay, boring simulacrum of an actual religious ceremony, which allows them to go through some of the motions, without ever having to hear any criticism about their (possible or actual) bad conduct.

So, like Jason, I’m fairly disillusioned with the possibility of organized worship.

Like Jason, I’ve often considered myself an atheist, though it’d be more accurate to describe me as an agnostic. I’ve certainly never seen any evidence that there’s anything after this life. Like every man, I’ve done things, great and small, that can be counted as evils. It’s possible that I might be called to account for such things one day.

The greatest evil in my own tradition was always apostasy, or idolatry. This is seen as far worse than other grave sins, like fucking Black women, or drinking wine with dinner.

The Catholics were our eternal enemies, I was taught, because they worship statues, and they pray to their goddess Mary, and their god Jesus, neither of whom is our God. Mary and Jesus and all the saints were people, not God, and God counts prayers to statues of mortal men and women as grievous insults.

I used to be content with the conclusion that all the stories about God were fanciful fairy tales, and the ravings of lunatics. Now, I’m not nearly so certain. It’s possible that I might be judged and condemned for my bad deeds one day. One thing I became absolutely confident of, while I knelt below the crucifix, was that this God wasn’t the sort of petty, emotional tyrant that my teachers implied he was. The Mormon God created me with a nice Mormon brain, and with it I deduced that he wouldn’t actually mind if I honored him by venerating some old heroes in the text of the Bible. The time I spent in the enemy cathedral brought me closer to Him, rather than further away.

I don’t have anything else to say, other than to express my openness to the possibility of an authentic religious experience, because while I’m skeptical about all these supernatural stories, I’ve felt it myself.

And in closing, I’ll leave all you brothers with a song, that probably won’t mean shit to any of you. It’s a radical masculine song, written during the old days, when my people used to dream of living in a worker’s state. When I hear it, I feel the spirit and presence of my grandfathers, and I’m convinced that whatever hardships life might bring, I’ll be able to overcome.

Bearing My Testimony

I often express thanks, to God or chance, that I wasn’t born a Christian. As such, I am free of implicit association with the sort of (sub-)human garbage we scoff at in places like the Dalrock comment section. For example:

Premeditated dishonesty

False rape accusations

Harassment of children

Of course, this is the cue for men like Derek to appear and “rebuild the mound” with claims that all the thousands of scroungy Christians (who daily dance for my entertainment) aren’t actually Christians.

This makes no sense and can be immediately dismissed. The existence of “true Christians” would entail some of them showing up when the Christian scum behave badly, and shutting the miscreants up. Men are what they do, and when Dalrock and Cane Caldo behave in their typical fashion, they are illustrating Christian praxis on a minute-by-minute basis. The reality is that Dalrock, Cane Caldo and Deti are the “true Christians,” and normal, decent men reflexively reject them and their filthy religion.

Down below, our brother Jason points out some of the problems with Christian moral hygeine, and he comes to some of the same conclusions I do.

Heaven will be that place where I am not. Thankfully. I could not stand an eternity with the Christian man-o-sphere, and even IF I still was a christian….I would not be going according to 99% of them because some other made up rule, or interpeted verse of what jesus *really* meant to say. the modern christian heaven is a place for maybe 50 people and their families………

The Christian heaven will be a place for low men like Cane Caldo to indulge in endless lying and girly backbiting, usually involving stories of sodomy and pedophilia. It will be a place where halfmen like Dalrock incite his dozen brain-dead followers to harass the uninvolved children of whoever differed with him the day before. It will have Counselor Deti ready to excuse all this with laughable appeals to the moral rightness of bearing false-witness.

Jason apparently isn’t very excited about the prospect of spending eternity with these sorts of reprobates. I’m not either. He also makes two implicit claims that I find interesting. The first is about the metaphysical status of the holy books, which inspire people like Cane Caldo to wax on at length, in print, about fucking trannies in the ass. The second is about the existence of God himself.

I’m not going to convince you otherwise. It’s cool. According to the people who aspouse that “they are following and loving god more than anything” should read their own bible…….men like me will burn forever (I renounced the faith), I know I won’t because it’s all made up.

I’ve never seen sense in the idea that God wrote the self-contradictory books that Christians hold up as inspired. I think it’s more likely that men wrote those books, while they were trying to make sense of the world and their place in it. The books might then be cast as not the word of God, but rather the words of people who were interested in God.

the body doesn’t need anybody. it needs self-righteous smack talk, and these folks are STILL rewarded by god. No thanks. Sadistic jerk if he really existed. Yeah, I forgot I should be “rejoicing” for my mothers painful cancer and short life, my brothers downs syndrome, my dad taken who was more holy than most Sunday pew warmer……..yes, I know “god is teaching me a lesson”

There is a non-seqvitvr argument at work in the subtext that I find both common and troubling.

Normal people are rightly repulsed by Dalrock’s pathetic doxxing of his enemy’s children, and they are disgusted by his hiding behind the notion that his god endorses his shit behavior. It is reasonable to come to one of a number of related conclusions, including:

  • Dalrock’s god doesn’t exist, except as a creation by Dalrock to cover his continuous immoral behavior.
  • Dalrock’s god does exist, but he is an evil creature, and thus not worth a decent man’s worship.

I can readily identify with both of these propositions, based upon years of online scumbaggery I’ve regularly scoffed at. As such, I don’t blame Jason for his sentiments. I’ve often noted (and will repeat) that I’d be much more comfortable praying to and worshipping the Christian devil, given the behavior of trash like Cane Caldo.

Does it follow, then, that we don’t have a creator?

I don’t think it does. In fact, I could argue that Jason’s own frustrations imply an underlying moral order that supervenes across the behavior he finds so disgusting. The fact that none of us can directly intuit the moral framework he senses doesn’t mean that the norms for which he yearns aren’t meaningful.

In a more basic sense, I could ask the same question Heidegger did, namely:

Why is there something rather than nothing? 

We all find ourselves alive for some reason, and we have to wonder why it is that we exist, as we do, in this finite but notable sense. Heidegger called this thrownness (Geworfenheit).

There are two reasons why I find a creator plausible, and that’s the first one. The second is a consequence of the first, but it’s considerably more abstract. The world in which we’re thrown has certain features, regularities and patterns that recur, both temporally and spatially. We find sets and categories of things, and we tend to be able to order our sets and categories in a meaningful way.

Rather than asking why this is so (as Aristotle did), we just accept it, and it leads us to wonder about the greatest possible element in the set of all moral beings.

There is an ordered set we call ‘the natural numbers,’ and in that set, there is a greatest number. Not only do we know this to be true, we also know that we can never pick out the greatest natural number.

If Jason tells me that ‘the greatest natural number is n,‘ my immediate response is to posit a number, to the nth power, that’s greater, and the game can go on for ever.

So, when Jason tells me that the creator of humankind is Dalrock’s god, who condones all manner of unmanly dishonesty and moral degeneracy, I can raise up quite a few better conceivable images. Even then, though, I’d contend that we’re not going to approach the majesty of the creator. We’re just making feeble attempts to define the infinite.

Before I conclude, I’ll make a couple of general statements.

  1. I know that injustice happens. The best advice I got about this was from an old lady in British Columbia (a/k/a Western China) who paraphrased the Dao. She told me that “all the things that you find important… the universe doesn’t find those things important at all…”
  2. Freedom of conscience includes the notion that a man has the right to change his mind about spiritual propositions. A man has the right to adopt a religion, and change his religion, as it suits him.

Single Mother Extravaganza!

Occasionally I break my own rules, and when I do, I always come away from the experience with a good story. So it was a couple of weeks ago, when I did not properly vet a skank-ho barista slut I picked up.

In the first place, I did not properly grok all the details of this bitch’s life, beyond the shape of her ass (it was magnificent) and the obvious signals she was sending that she was down to fuck immediately. Further, when we met later that evening, I let her take me back to her place. Both of these things I clearly warn against here. Given that you boys are smarter than I am, I trust that you will not need to make such stupid mistakes yourselves, but will derive the appropriate lessons from my own foolishness.

Once I arrived at her house, I found (surprise!) that the bitch had two kids. While I sat, uncomfortably, on her sofa, little Janie (5?) and Tammy (3?) were on the floor, eating finger-food, not four feet away from me, glued to some trashy television show. Their reaction (specifically, the lack of any perceivable response) suggested that they had been privy to skank-ho mommy bringing strange men around many times in the past.

Before I could find the resolve to bolt out the door, skanky princess swiveled, in one smooth motion, onto my lap, and began grinding her cunt into my lower abdomen, simultaneously moving to take her top off. My response was laughter, and it didn’t go over well. When she feigned hurt feelings, I pointed out that I wasn’t inclined to perform live sex-acts for an audience without handsome compensation. Further, if I am the only person who objects to two little kids seeing depravity up close, then there is something seriously wrong with the home situation.

Bitch pretended to get all offended, at which point I scooted the fuck out of her domain.

There is a reason we should not date, fuck, or have anything to do with single mothers, and that reason is as simple as the cancer they are on our civilization.

Single mothers are far more corrosive to our social fabric than are neo-Nazi skinheads. They fuel more violence than ANTIFA. In fact, it would be easy to make the case that single mothers cost more money, and cause more problems, than natural disasters like hurricanes and earthquakes.

If you think you’re going to date one of these wimminz, just don’t. And don’t just take my word for it. Watch this video, and see what our brother thinks…

Clownworld News (23 August 2019)

Sam Hyde is back on twitter, making fun of self-important celebrities and evading the minute-by-minute pursuit by Jack Dorsey and his sanctimonious band of censors.

In other news, netkook Laura Loomer has filed a lawsuit against our self-appointed censors at Facebook, Google, Twitter and Amazon.

I bet you boys didn’t know about this, did you? That’s because the only anglophone press this is getting is from RT.

How free is our press if this is not being reported?

On a more personal note, a lot of you boys don’t like Laura Loomer because she’s a conspiracy nut. She’s also Jewish, which irks some of you. Ask yourself what she’s done to earn your ire? On one side is this chick who has never done anything to us, and on the other side are a bunch of trillionaire oligarchs who hate you, who steal your money daily, and who are tirelessly working to silence you in the country your own forefathers left you.

I don’t agree with Laura Loomer’s more colorful outbursts. I’m a member of a competing tribe (of self-appointed “chosen by god” people), and I’m a member of the opposing political party. None of that matters in the big-picture analysis of current events. I love Laura Loomer’s work in this regard, I support her one-hundred percent, and I am ready to help her in any way I can, as she continues to torment the humorless.

The fight for free speech is more important than republican v. democrat, or Jew v. Christian. It’s more important than abortion, or fag marriage, or gun control, or any of the other nonsense our masters would like us to occupy ourselves with. The people who are working to silence you are your deadly enemies. Grasp that basic truth, and the rest of the puzzle works itself out.

I Fucked Your Wife

I met your wife at a nightclub, a year before you tied the knot. She looked good to me, and I knew from the way she moved on the dance floor that she had been passed around. Picking her up was effortless. We had plans to stop by a late-night coffee shop, but instead, we went straight to my house.

“Take off your shoes,” I barked, the minute we got in the door. It’s not that I’m an Arab, and I’m not Japanese, either. It’s a little trick I learned. It gets a ho’ ready to take off the rest of her clothes, and she gets wet from having a man give her orders. From the moment she stepped over my threshold, your wife enjoyed being my slut.

I didn’t even let her into my bedroom. The message was subtle, subliminal: The bed is for a girlfriend — you’re a skank-ho prostitute… You’ll get fucked in the living room. 

One wall in my top-floor pad is glass, with a spectacular view. I fucked her with the lights on. She got excited knowing that the people far below us could look up and see her, on all fours, taking my cock in her cunt. Later I moved her to the deck. She got fucked from behind as she leaned over, looking at the cars and pedestrians eighty feet down.

Your wife may have been invited back a time or two, but she never got to sleep in my bed or take a shit in my master bathroom. She didn’t get any homemade meals or hand-pressed coffee. She got to kneel down and throat my cock on a rolled-out futon. She got fucked in her cunt and asshole, multiple times, and then at some point, I got bored of her, and she got kindly kicked out into the street.

Your wife had a fair bit of pain in her crotch as she sat down at desk the next day, and your wife may have called or texted me a few times.

Hey! What’s up?

How have you been?

Miss you!

I may have invited her back over a couple of times; but, I never played the chump.

She didn’t tell you about me when you met her, did she? I didn’t think so.

I bet you think that her little romp with me was anomalous. In fact, it was a lifestyle. There are hundreds of men who treated your wife in exactly the way I did. I’m just the one swingin’ dick that is telling it to you straight.

You wined and dined her. You bought her flowers. You opened the car door for her entry and exit. You were the perfect gentleman.

Sex was on her terms, and she kept you hanging for weeks before you got limited access to the playground I ran through. You were a tender lover. You understood when she told you “I don’t like oral or anal, and I don’t do doggy style…” You bought her roses the next day. You did her laundry. You let her shit in your master bathroom. You bought her a ring. You pledged your life, your love, all the produce of your masculine brain and brawn to this ho’ that I had earlier used and tossed in the gutter.

Did she thank you for your kindness and generosity? She did not. She treated you like a simp. She found me on facebook, only a few weeks after the wedding, and offered up her snatch. Don’t worry, I refused; but I doubt all the rest of the playaz she contacted that week were as judicious.

Now you’re sick of being married to a trifling ho’, who is fucking two or three men on the side, even as you work holiday weekends in order to keep her in spending cash.

Eventually, you went to marital and family therapists online. It was a short trip away from the dark end of the internet, where you found Roissy, and Roosh, and Rollo, and Dalrock, and Cane Caldo, and all of them told you that she’s an “alpha widow.”

The game gurus are selling you on the idea that I am inherently better than you, that I have more money, that I have a longer and thicker penis, and that I have “game.” They are also playing on your insecurities with the idea that your wife remains in thrall to me — all after I treated her far worse than I would have treated an animal — and that she endlessly dreams about me, misses me, and wishes she could get all her holes fucked out just one more time.

The reality is that your wife never thought about me. While I was fucking her she likely wasn’t thinking about me. When she texted me, her thoughts were limited to wondering if she could make me into her own personal piece-of-furniture. When I didn’t play along, she texted Joe, Brad, Chad, DeVonte, and then you, in that order. She stopped at you because you played along — but only temporarily. She’s still texting and meeting and fucking men.

I am not an “alpha” by any stretch of the imagination. Your wife is not in love with Boxer, and she was never in love with an idealized image of Boxer. She has never been in love with you, even after you’ve given her your wealth, your family name, and an aura of social respectability. She’s a skank-ho bitch, who has never had an authentic love for anyone but her narcissistic self.

Maybe you’ve bought a bunch of entertaining (but useless) books about how to run game. Maybe you’ve paid thousands of dollars for coaching and seminars and meet-greet-and-retreat conventions. No doubt, your pathetic leader or “guru” has sold you on the idea that you can make your wife fall in love with you if only you act in a certain way. Maybe you came to my blog because you were looking for tips on how to get your wife interested in you, in the way you thought she was interested in me. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is how it is.

You gave your wife everything, and she didn’t appreciate it. If you’re smart, you will now cut your losses. This is especially important if you don’t (yet) have children she can hold hostage. Take advantage of those nice feminist divorce laws. It’s too late for you to do what I did, and toss her out into the street after fucking, but you can still pay the bitch off and be done with her.

The Epistemic Cycle

I was gonna conclude my great debate with Earl about hypocrisy, by comparing deontology with virtue ethics.

In the first example, there are considered to be hard-and-fast rules against certain things that can’t be altered or minimized. I think Earl prefers this view of things. Thou shalt not divorce and remarry is closer to F=ma than it is to advice your granddaddy gave. It’s something one can’t get away from.

I prefer the position of Aristotle, who held out the hope of redemption by casting ethical rules as contextual and based in the situation. Don’t lie may be a good general rule to live by, but if ever there comes a time when Earl is hiding in my basement, and his incipient murderer is asking where he can be found, I’ll probably shrug my shoulders, and suggest the killer try the next block.