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, n 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.

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…

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 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.

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.

Looks like skank-ho mommy and skank-ho granny are in some trouble. Not to worry, though. I’m sure they’ll be cunt-passed through the system and cut loose to do it all again within a few days.

Yesterday I made a broad generalization of the people who denounce hypocrites. I pointed out that they tend to be lazy bastards who feel threatened by anyone who manages to escape the cycle of mediocrity and make some positive mark upon the world. It is, after all, very comfortable to keep doing whatever nonsense you have been doing, even though you’re not really improving your own lot in life by so doing. The one thing that the comfortable hate most is to see another man transcend the cycle through work and contemplation.

Earl came around to provide himself as a living, breathing, typing counterexample.

I tend to believe that Earl is who he says he is. He probably is a decent fellow who grew up grounded in Catholic morality. Earl has probably not gone out to the nightclub to fuck skank-ho wimminz, He’s probably a good man and he probably does stand all aghast at the stories I tell here.

Conceded.

While I’m not about to excuse all the hypocrite-bashers in the Dalrock insane asylum, I’ll modify my own thesis, in light of Earl’s point.

The few non-hypocrites who aren’t scumbags are saints.

I imagine that Earl, who says he believes in original sin, will agree with Boxer, who believes in the id. Based upon this, I further imagine that we’ll both admit that people aren’t born with the innate desire to be chaste, or functional, or to delay gratification.

Earl writes:

Well I don’t deride self-improvement or working class fathers…but divorce and then marrying another woman (regardless if she’s a single mother or not) is not something that self-improves a man.

What I’d like to know from people like Earl, is what people like Scott and Mrs. Scott are supposed to do, if they want to better themselves.

Say you’ve got a typical skank-ho slut, who goes out to the club one night, and meets the typical skank-ho male slut, and both commence to fucking.

Now say you’ve got said skank-ho sluts who decide that it’d be easier to fuck each other the next weekend, than to bother going out and meeting new sluts.

Now say you’ve got the same two skank-ho sluts who, fifty-two weekends in a row, make the similar choice, and say they have never once slipped up and fucked anyone else.

Now say you’ve got the same two skank-ho sluts who decide that, since they’ve been exclusively fucking for a year, they may as well just hold themselves out as belonging one with the other. Furthermore, they make these declarations in front of their families and communities.

Of course, one might begin objecting, all ship of Theseus like, that at some point these two people ceased to be skank-ho sluts. Now they’re a regular couple. The question then becomes whether they are or not, and if not, when they ceased to be.

In fact, one doesn’t need to wax all metaphysical. Let’s just do what our grandfathers did, and their grandfathers did, all the way back to the first civilization known to man, and call it what it is.

When a man speaks his wedding vows, everything changes. Suddenly, through that male skank-ho slut’s masculine authority, he has ceased to be a skank-ho slut. Moreover, the slut he met to fuck, a year prior, simultaneously ceases to be a skank-ho slut.

What have these people done that is blameworthy? They’ve both transcended their own earlier situation and continue in the process of becoming something greater.

I mean I don’t know if he would be in the same class as some other Dalrock posters who like to brag about how they got tons of cash and got the one woman who is the unicorn and have the most perfect daughters that any man should want (but will have to pass their father’s ‘high’ standards)…and then falls apart the minute people start questioning how that story just seems unreal……but I’d bet it’s not all that it seems.

So, both Scott and I are pretenders. We’re both skank-ho male sluts who warn younger bros about the inherent pitfalls in that lifestyle.

I frequently get on this blog to warn the young brothers about wasting time on good-lookin’ sluts. I warn my brothers about this because I wasted years of my youth on such nonsense. Had I not wasted time running hoez, I might be a millionaire businessman, with a chain of dry-cleaners, or maybe I’d be a pro golfer, with a shelf full of trophies. Who knows what I could have accomplished, if I’d have been more serious in my late teens and early twenties.

I’ve fucked hundreds of sluts, and I’m here to tell the young bros that it is a waste of time to make this the focus of your most productive years. I am a hypocrite, and I’m good with that. Older men, it’s said, ought not to dispense advice, lest they lose the ability to act poorly; but, I’ve had my fill of bad acting.

Moreover, in transcending the cycle of mediocrity which was my earlier wont, I’ve had to learn new habits. Aristotelians call this hexis. One doesn’t merely break out of the cycle of time-wasting all at once. It takes work and time, and there is backsliding along the way, all as one drags himself by the collar, kicking and screaming, into a better behavioral constellation. One doesn’t know virtue in the way he knows Shakespeare. One knows virtue in the way he knows how to ride a bicycle. Earl probably had a father to teach him. I had to teach myself. So, it seems, did Scott.

SirHamster’s Spinster Daughter: Doxxed!

I long ago grew weary of first-order interaction with Dalrock’s merry band of morons. Even so, their antics continue to amuse, entertain, and — albeit from a distance — inspire.

So it is that I wandered over this evening, completely devoid of good ideas for an article of my own, and found this gem.

I didn’t bother reading the whole thread, but I can imagine the catalyst. Back in the day, Scott was semi-regularly derided as a “cuck” for doing what men have done since Sumeria: transforming a common wimminz into an honorable wife. The people who criticize his choices, after the fact, would have been spat upon by their own grandfathers; and, by mouthing off this way, they reveal themselves to be the status-quo male feminist faggots.

Dalrock’s comment section remains a temple to the goddess, where fake Christians worship at the matriarchal altar.

When a man marries a woman, he transforms that woman from whatever she might have been one hour prior, into an honorable wife and the keeper of his own household. This alchemical process remains an eternal mystery, but it is one which every patriarch ought to accept without too much trouble. A good man and member of the community might choose to marry a prostitute, and all his friends may have spent the week prior attempting to talk him out of his choice, but once the deed is done, they all shut the fuck up, because civilization depends upon that man, and once the ring is in place, insulting her invites a grudge from him.

Cane Caldo’s Skank Sister: Doxxed!

Scott is a bit older and a bit more serious than I am, so I’ve never seen him laugh at the screechers in the Dalrock insane asylum, even as they fling their shit in his direction. Dalrock’s miscreants are safe, in their feminist paradise, free to insult their neighbor’s wife without fear of any natural consequences.

Scott’s wife was once a single mom, and Scott was once a playa. I don’t know the story. I assume they may have met in a nightclub and fucked.

Then they got married. He motivated her to have several more kids, keep a nice home, and wear dresses. She took care of things so well that he was able to go back to school and get some sort of headshrinker degree. Now they’re Dr. and Mrs. Scott, who write articles on the internet, encouraging people like their yesterdays to become their best selves, as they have aspired to do. This is labeled (even by the good doktor hisself) as hypocrisy.

I admire these two brazen hypocrites. If we examine what hypocrisy actually is, maybe you will, too.

What is hypocrisy, but a praxis of “fake it ’til you make it”?

The scum would feel empowered if you boys just sat around, wallowing in the squalor of your own hedonistic vices, rather than attempting to become your best selves. In this regard, they’re identical to the feminists, who endlessly attempt to tell your little sister that fucking strangers is a great idea, and that it’s totally normal to have Herpes and HPV. The minute you aspire to greatness, you’re derided as a hypocrite, by these people who desperately want to evade capture by their own useless morality.

The Christian scum on Dalrock rail against men like Scott because Scott’s mere presence reminds them of the patriarchal truths that they hate: that marriage is a means to transcending one’s past, that honor is a worthy indicator of human quality, and that a disciplined life pays material rewards. Deny your critics the ability to feel good about their own laziness. Embrace and extoll your hypocrisy at every opportunity! Greatness is impossible without some measure of it.

She never made me happy, but at the end, she holds out the promise of happiness in order to lure her mark back into her fishtrap.

I declined this drama queen’s generous offer. You should, too.

Note the spin on this story in our lying feminist press. Scumbag journalists describe the sadistic, slow, agonizing murder of a helpless little boy as succumbing to “burns after a bath.”

The real story centers around two disgusting, hateful bulldykes, who slowly and sadistically tortured a little boy to death. Naturally, no father was available for that little man to run to for protection. Men are superfluous, according to our masters in the ruling class, and thus the daddy who naturally would have defended our young brother was long ago bullied into fleeing the scene, by all the power of the feminist state.

Remember this, the next time you see a cop, a priest, a journalist or a bureaucrat. This is the job of our social and political institutions: to allow dykes to get together and torture children, and then to excuse their crimes, all while offloading all responsibility and punishment onto the very men who would naturally put a stop to the brutality.