Jamie L. Jones, seen below, has been arrested for murdering her 6-year old son, a boy named Carl Rice.
best interests of the children…
For some strange reason, this skank-ho single mother took the corpse on a train ride to see relatives. Family members were disturbed by the fact that this wimminz had brought the corpse of her little child to the family reunion, and ended up calling authorities.
In keeping with media protocol, no mention of the boy’s father (we can assume his surname is ‘Rice’ – that’s about it) appears in the news release. He is erased, disappeared. His pain and his grief means nothing.
There’s really almost nothing else I can say about this depressing story. No sane society would put an individual of this calibre in charge of a child’s welfare, yet there are hundreds of thousands of these idiots out in the general population, waiting to snap and produce more corpses. Miss Jones is now in the jailhouse, due to receive a much lighter sentence than she deserves. Tomorrow it will be someone else.
Thanks to our brother Oscar, who is part of the Dalrock research team. Show him some love (here). Visit his blog (here). Read the full article at the Chicago Sun-Times (here).
So much for all the phony statistics which purport the local university to be more dangerous than a Bosnian rape camp. In fact, working-class women are much more likely to be raped than entitled feminist college girls.
Thanks to our brother Honeycomb for finding this gem, and to Weekly Standard for original reporting. From the article:
After more than six years’ intense focus on a purported campus rape crisis, Axinn’s study exposes the Obama administration’s Title IX regime for the elitist and politically-motivated overcorrection it was. Axinn and his team analyzed data from the National Survey of Family Growth, which asks Americans between the ages of 15 and 44—among other awkward and sensitive things—whether they’ve experienced forced intercourse. And they found that the women most likely to be forced into unwanted sex are the least likely to set foot on campus.
Today in my twitter feed, I got an unsolicited, never-asked for advertisement from the establishment media outlet “Red State”. This is a CONservative Republican advocacy site, which masquerades as a news provider. As such the politics are red, but the journalism is yellow.
My readers can view the article in question (here), entitled
“Watch as Ted Cruz Gives Democrats One of the Best Verbal Beat Downs…”
It will surprise none of my readers to read the article, and find that the first issue this cuck raises is that of skank-ho single moms, who supposedly need yet more monies, redirected from productive, healthy families, to fuel their immoral, decadent lifestyles.
Like the clever scumbag lawyer he is, Cruz paints freebies as “cutting taxes” on single mothers. Not only a lie, Cruz’ statement is an absolute inversion of the truth. The vast majority of single mothers pay no taxes. They get unearned income, yearly, in tax credits, which is spent almost immediately. Typically, these monies line the pockets of big-box multinational corporate retailers, drug dealers, and liquor distributors (not necessarily in that order) well before the year is out.
Tax Day for most of us is a day we write a hefty check and put it in the mail to the revenuers; but, for the skank-ho single mom, it’s the day in which free money comes in the mail. Cruz wants to double their already generous allowance, funded by the rest of us.
Married brothers and sisters with children, particularly those who vote for these CONservative clowns, ought to ask themselves why Cruz isn’t concerned about their children. Why are these CONservative idiots so insistent upon stealing the hard earned money that ought to go for your kids, and giving it over to trashy single mothers?
Of course, the Democrats are right to refuse skank-ho single moms an increase in their allowance; and Cruz is partly correct, in that they aren’t doing so out of moral conscience or concern for long-term consequences. If there was any sanity in our society, there would be a bipartisan effort to end all these allowances immediately, and an institution of a single-mother tax, or perhaps a mandatory sentence to a work-camp for single mothers, in order to recoup the social services monies wasted on their bastards. There would also be an immediate end to the jurisdiction of the family courts.
Perhaps, in the style of Ramzan A. Kadyrov (a truly great man, and one who loves intact families and children’s rights) all frivolous divorces could be retroactively nullified, with skank-ho wimminz being ordered back into their ex-husbands’ homes, to perform as they originally promised to do. Read about Kadryov’s successes (here).
Solomon, the original playa, is credited with writing the following advice in Proverbs 7. Read it in side-by-side, Hebrew-English, (here). What I’m quoting is the King James Bible, which you can check (here).
Without further delay, let’s see what our symbolic father Solomon has to say about running married hoez…
1. My son, keep my words, and lay up my commandments with thee.
2. Keep my commandments, and live; and my law as the apple of thine eye.
3. Bind them upon thy fingers, write them upon the table of thine heart.
As your father loves you, he doesn’t want you to stumble into unnecessary trouble. Trouble will find you anyway. There’s no reason why you should get lured into more of it.
4. Say unto wisdom, Thou art my sister; and call understanding thy kinswoman:
5. That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger which flattereth with her words.
There are these women who suddenly “appear out of nowhere” to offer up the ass. Of course, to you, she’s a complete stranger. You might think this is some sort of good fortune. Don’t be fooled. You’re her prey, and she’s been stalking you around the club (or the gym, or the workplace) for a good while, now. She’s a stranger to you, but you’re no stranger to her. Even as she’s telling you how fine you look, she’s thinking of what she can get out of you.
6. For at the window of my house I looked through my casement,
7. And beheld among the simple ones, I discerned among the youths, a young man void of understanding,
8. Passing through the street near her corner; and he went the way to her house,
9. In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night:
There are always dummies in every crowd: suckers, looking to be separated from money and dignity. Our symbolic father, in the text, notices these types, and he feels sorry for them. They’re young. Perhaps they — like ya boy Boxer, and perhaps like you — didn’t have a close relationship with a natural father or elder brother to clue them in to the dangers of the world.
Solomon notes one, wandering around, looking for trouble. Perhaps this dolt was raised, as I was, by a divorcée, a skank-ho mommy, who led him to believe that women were safe, and that it is in the female nature never to lead a young man wrong.
10. And, behold, there met him a woman with the attire of an harlot, and subtil of heart.
Yup. Our father notes that this sucker is now being propositioned by an attractive but vacuous ho’. She’s been on the make all evening, looking for a simp just like him. Now she’s making her move, all while the poor dummy is imagining himself to have “lucked out.”
11. (She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house:
12. Now is she without, now in the streets, and lieth in wait at every corner.)
Solomon knows this ho’. She lives in his neighborhood. Bitch has a husband, but she causes so much trouble that he long ago gave up trying to keep her in line. He’s glad to be away from her, and only too happy to pawn her off on you. Now she’s out, looking for a chump… You’re the lucky winner.
13. So she caught him, and kissed him, and with an impudent face said unto him,
14 I have peace offerings with me; this day have I payed my vows.
15 Therefore came I forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.
It’s all very innocent. She doesn’t have a wedding ring on. She looks pretty fine. She starts spouting a lot of nonsense about “true love” and “fate” and new-age “soul mate” jargon. You’re just lapping it all up, right?
16 I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt.
17 I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.
18 Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.
As our brother Deti has already reminded us (here), she’s looking for something. She can call it “love,” but it’s more likely to be an ego boost, a neurotic search for novelty, a bit of validation. She wants to remind herself she’s still “got it,” even if “it” is just the ability to trick a young guy into giving up his dick for the night.
Alas, our young brother isn’t quite as stupid as the old bitch first assumed. Solomon hears him suddenly object:
“You’re married, right?”
She’s quick to answer…
19 For the goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey:
20 He hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed.
21 With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him.
Oh, Shit! His clever intuition was sadly short lived. She copped to it, but made it seem like a safe romp anyway. Like the idiot he is…
22 He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks;
23 Till a dart strike through his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it is for his life.
He thought maybe he was the first young brother to be with this ho’. Not the case. Now he has the AIDS, the Herpes, and the drug-resistant Chlamydia. Oh, did you know that her husband and uncles are involved in an organized crime gang? (I guess she forgot to mention.) If the STDs don’t get you, those evil men will. It might be a good idea to leave town.
24 Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth.
25 Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths.
26 For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her.
27 Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.
No matter how many women you’ve bagged with day game, no matter how well you know the fairer sex, no matter how skilled you might think you are in Heartiste’s “Venusian Arts,” Solomon was ahead of you. If you have any smarts or self-awareness, you’ll take him seriously.
Back when ya boy Boxer was just a young cad, he met a dark haired chickie at a Los Angeles night club, who happened to be considerably older than he was. Boxer was then twenty-three, and Michelle (of course it’s not her real name) was, on that very occasion, celebrating her thirty-first birthday. She was surrounded by her friends (mostly other women), at the other end of the club, and I was surrounded by my friends, and somehow we ended up dancing together.
No, scratch that. It wasn’t “somehow we ended up”. She moved in. The brilliance of the married ho’ is that she sees a young brother as prey, and treats him accordingly. With catlike stealth and womanly cunning, she arranges her entrance as a mystery.
Michelle was incredibly attractive, despite being a full decade older than the women I usually hunted. In fact, I don’t think I had ever gone out with any woman who was even a day older than I was, before I met her. She also seemed out of my league, with a diamond tennis bracelet and a designer outfit. In any event, nothing happened that evening except an exchange of phone numbers. I had a new phone, with a (coveted) 213 area code. Her phone number seemed to come from the San Jose area, hundreds of miles north.
Michelle left me a voice-mail message the very next day, telling me that meeting me had been the highlight of her birthday, and telling me that while she would love to see me again, she would “leave it up to me” as to whether that happened.
Young brothers ought to pay attention to this little tidbit, because I find it disturbingly common with married hoez. They are like vampires. You have to invite them in. I suppose this is an effort at ego-defense, so that when caught, she can excuse her crap behavior to her husband with the idea that you took the initiative. The married ho’ will always, always, always paint herself as the poor victim of her own moral mistakes.
Naturally, I didn’t waste too much time. I got back with her the day after her voice mail, and she invited me over.
I arrived at her house, knocked on the door, not having no idea of what the night had in store… like a dog in heat…
Her apartment was both cute and immaculate. It consisted of a house in a “trendy” part of town, that was split up into a number of different units. It was perfectly furnished, smelled good, and had a number of interesting upgrades. I had been working construction jobs to put myself through my undergraduate studies, so I was complimentary. We started on the couch, moved to the floor of the hallway, and finally ended up in the back bedroom. I fucked her in every conceivable position, without a condom, and we finally fell asleep together. All of this was incredibly unusual for me. I usually hit it and ran. As we were getting ready to head out the next day, we made plans to see each other again, a few days hence.
I had an African-American friend (call him Harvey) at the time, who was at the nightclub with me, on the night I met Michelle. The very day after my first tryst, he saw me again, and while I never breathed a word, he seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to smell her on me. He tried to give me some good advice.
I bet that you even ate the pussy, huh? Why you gots to be so damned dumb? She gots you under her control, nigga! You gots to get away from that bitch.
Naturally, all of this sound counsel went unheeded; and the rest of our peers simultaneously congratulated and mocked my aged conquest, and we went out and got drunk.
I was, at the time, fucking a couple of other women, in the 21-22 range. Their post-teenage antics and petty drama suddenly seemed trite and ridiculous. I gradually saw them less and less, as Michelle and I saw each other increasingly more often. I was blissfully unaware of the real nature of our relationship, and everything seemed perfect, as Michelle was on her very best behavior at all times during our meetings.
After a few rendezvous, a few things began to dawn on me.
Michelle’s apartment seemed curiously untouched between my visits. If I left one of my CDs in the tray of her old player, it’d still be there, days later, when I came by for the next romp
Michelle’s bathroom was conspicuously empty of even the most basic supplies. How many bitches you know don’t have tampons or aspirin in the bathroom?
Michelle never really mentioned any of her family members. She was “from Montana” … which was one of the reasons we first started talking. I was “from Alberta,” which is the equivalent to people in California talking about their childhoods in Louisiana and Mississippi. But, where? Montana is an awfully big place. Billings? Helena? Missoula? Bozeman? Butte? No info. She didn’t tell me, and didn’t want to.
Michelle told me two different stories about what she did. In the beginning, she was the live-in manager for the apartment house. This was true. Later, she told me she telecommuted for Apple Computer. When I asked what she did for Steve Jobs, she was incredibly vague. What I did know was that in the spare bedroom/office, there was an expensive Apple workstation set up, so it seemed plausible. Even so, she had tons of very expensive jewelry, and she drove a new model sports car. It just didn’t make sense that she’d be living where she was living.
Michelle had two different phone landlines installed in her apartment. Ostensibly, one was for the modem that went to the computer/fax. I was only ever allowed to have one number. The second line was not for human use. Even so, there was a nondescript phone that would theoretically ring when the second line got an incoming call.
Michelle politely declined all offers to spend any time at my apartment. To this day, I don’t believe she ever even knew where I lived.
Michelle never wanted to spend more than two consecutive nights together. She was busy, and so was I, but I found it strange that she never wanted to go on a weekend trip, or to venture out very far. Our relationship mainly consisted of meeting for sex, and leaving, with plans for another meeting.
I’m unclear on exactly when it happened, but I remember the situation well enough. It happened two or three months into our fling. I’m lounging around in bed, when Michelle gets a call on her second line. At the first ring, she jumped up from the bed and ran, naked, into the office.
“You have to leave, now!” she told me, with a panicked expression on her face; as she ran back in and began to move around the bedroom.
“Why? What’s up?” I asked.
“There’s no time! You have to go!” she insisted, as she was throwing my pants and socks at me. “Get up! Get dressed! Hurry up!”
And now, dear readers, you are getting a glimpse into the simple, dull mind of a youthful Boxer. That’s right. I never figured it out until three months in. Michelle was married. Her husband, who lived in Cupertino, was the Apple Computer bigshot. He had phoned from the Burbank airport, and was moments away from “surprising” her for dinner and a night out.
I did leave, just in the nick of time. I probably passed husband’s cab, on the way down the street. I went across town, to visit Rachel (not her real name). Naturally I didn’t tell her that I had just fucked Michelle, raw and without a condom. Rachel got a condom. Rachel was 22, sorta dumb, and cute but not pretty. She was, as I remember, currently working her way through an associates degree at community college. I fucked the hell out of her, at the same time Michelle was likely getting fucked by her husband, and only an hour after Michelle and I had been fucking and sucking each other with abandon.
Rachel is still my friend. As of today, Rachel has been faithfully married to a very nice guy (and a good earner), for many, many years; and she has several kids by him. She was no virgin when she married (and I wasn’t the guy that originally turned her out) but she seems very happy living an honorable and monogamous lifestyle. She is the type of example of what can happen when one decides to take life seriously and embrace discipline.
Michelle is now divorced.
But here I’m getting ahead of myself.
Fast forward, two or three weeks after my great escape, and subsequent radio silence from Michelle, I get a voicemail from her. She wanted to see me again, and told me that she’d explain everything if I’d meet her at her apartment.
Her first story was that her husband was her high-school boyfriend, and that she was married to him before he “discovered” that he was a flaming homosexual. She told me that her marriage was a sham, that she was actually in love with me, because I “made her feel alive for the first time” or some such nonsense.
I told her, flatly, that I didn’t believe that. If he was a fag, why would he have objected to me being in her apartment? I left, unimpressed, with her looking all weepy in the doorway as I walked to my car and pulled away. I hit up Stephanie (not her real name) five minutes later. Stephanie lived in Boyle Heights, with her father, who drove the city buses around L.A.. We went out to dinner that evening, and I contemplated the consequences of having had condomless sex with what someone who claimed to be married to a San Francisco faggot for the past four months. I didn’t tell Stephanie about my current predicament, but I also didn’t have sex with her that night, either. I was just glad to be in the company, for a while, of a decent girl who seemed to like me, and who had never lied to me about shit that was so outrageous it defied description.
The next day, ya boy Boxer went down to the Los Angeles AIDS Foundation clinic and had himself tested. The results took a week to return. It was one of the longest weeks of my life. When the results came back neg, I felt like I had won life’s lottery.
I won’t lie. I saw Michelle a few times after that. Always in public places, and never at her apartment. She tried to get me to buy her dinner at some cheeseball lowbrow place (The Olive Garden?), and I declined. She had some shirts of mine and some music CDs. I tried and failed to get them back. In the interim, here are a couple of other things she revealed.
She had been, off and on, under the care of a psychiatrist. She was suicidal, and had previously received electroshock therapy.
On at least two occasions, when I had wanted aspirin/tylenol/ibuprofen, she had given me Valium instead. She explained that she loved the fact that she could fuck me, while I was half-conscious, and insisted that my erections were better. (I didn’t bother to ask after the details of this odd claim.)
While she was with me, she had found out about Stephanie, and had made a frivolous complaint to the Los Angeles Metro Transit Authority about Stephanie’s father, in an attempt to get him fired. I suppose she thought that if he lost his job, Stephanie would be less attractive to me, or something. To the best of my knowledge, all that meddling came to nothing.
She insisted that her husband was indeed a homosexual, but admitted that he had sex with her also. She boasted that I had “tasted him” on multiple occasions. (That makes me want to vomit, all these years later.)
Her absences were due to her going back to her primary home, in Northern California. She made weekly excuses to “check on the rental property” in Los Angeles to justify her trips to see me. (I’m sure her husband was only too happy to be rid of this headcase, and was glad to see her go, every time).
At one point, early on, she had me practice signing different names in different handwriting. I didn’t know what she was getting at, and thought it was ridiculous, but I did it anyhow. Months after it was all over, she insisted that, during this early game, I had actually forged her husband’s signature on an application for credit. She claimed the credit card arrived at the Los Angeles house a few weeks later. She attempted to blackmail me with this idea, threatening to report me for credit fraud if I didn’t come back to her house for sex, there and then. I assumed she was bluffing and laughed at her, but, who knows? That was the last conversation I ended up having with this nutjob. I never heard anything about this after-the-fact, so I assume it was just another lie.
One of the people who I ended up telling all this nonsense to was Harvey. He had the predictable response.
Nigga I told you that bitch was crazy! Didn’t I tell you? Next time use your brain!
Yeah.
I left Los Angeles less than a year after seeing Michelle for the final time. I was, and am, glad to have escaped that maelstrom unscathed. It could have been much, much worse.
Brother Honeycomb has found a link to a story which is just too funny to pass up.
A group of low-class squabblers contains a male-female couple, who suddenly take center stage with a lovers quarrel. What’s a white-knighting faggot to do? Why, butt in, of course…
Credit to Associated Press and Yahoo News. Read more (here).
When you ask a woman, who is presently involved in a squabble with her man: “Are you OK?” you are directly challenging her man to combat. Any sensible person knows this instinctively, but white-knights never learn. They’re consumed by a sublimated desire to sniff at the crotch of whatever skank-ho is currently being “abused,” they throw caution to the wind, and too often they reap some unpleasant consequences.
Oh, and in case you were wondering what this prize catch of a wimminz looks like, here she is, on far right, courtesy of the Derby Connecticut Police Department…
Would you go into a street battle to win a trophy like that? Yeah, me neither. The whole crew looks the type of unsavory trash that any normal man, with healthy instincts, would steer clear of; but, the white-knight mentality overrides good sense, decorum, and discretion, and it does so far too often.
In this case, it appears the hero survived his 45 foot fall, and managed to swim to shore. He’s not getting much sympathy in the comments section.
Thanks again to Honeycomb for this priceless example of one of the most common manosphere generalizations. Truly, some people can not be helped.
We’ve been having a good time discussing the brutal realities of gaming and banging married hoez for a couple of days, and it’s become both productive and deep. I hope any younger brothers who stumble across this information (much of which has been provided, pro bono, by a qualified attorney) will take it seriously.
As a fun little diversion, before we get back to the heavy stuff, let’s take a moment to meet a powerful feminist who calls herself “Ms. Sex In The Valley” (not a super-original pseudonym, I must say).
You can follow our fearsome feminist heroine on Youtube, or you can head over to her blog, by parsing “dirty and thirty dot com” into a url. At the time of this writing, she’s having a detailed discussion about “bathroom sex”. Sounds enticing, no?
She’s also on twitter under her real name. Please feel free to look her up and thank her for this affirmative illustration of every possible manosphere generalization.
I’d be honored to be one of your scumbag friends in the legal profession.
As a scumbag academic, I think we’re both at about the same level of respectability. I’d bet you make a bit more money than I do, though my job is probably easier. Both of us are several strata beneath the average used-car salesman in terms of respectability. I can accept this, and it appears you can too; which is good, because I don’t want to give undue offense.
This is my cue to say that I am not qualified to give legal advice, do not have a law degree of any sort, have never been admitted to practice. Of course, I don’t know Deti personally, but I believe that he is a part of the profession (why would he lie about that?).
My personal interest began when I was a member of a forum called Happy Bachelors, and a casual reader of The Spearhead. I had never been married (though I came close once), and wanted to know just how bad things were. The guys who wrote articles on these sites told such terrible stories, and they seemed to mirror my father’s story. At the time, I was still working my way through a graduate program, at a bank. My hours were long, and my days off were valuable. At one point, around 2010, I bit the bullet. I made the excuse of a dentist’s appointment, wandered on down to the big courthouse downtown, rode the elevator up to the third floor, and sat through a few hours of the so-called “family courts.”
What I ended up seeing was so much worse than anything I had expected, that I left completely nonplussed. Not only could I not write about the things I had seen transpire, I couldn’t even speak or think too deeply about them.
I do take issue at least a little bit with the availability of court testimony. You can’t always look up trial testimony in a routine humdrum divorce on the internet, in fact most of the time you can’t do it. You would have to know one of the lawyers involved and get a copy of the trial transcript, or get it from the court by physically walking to the courthouse and getting the hard file out. Or if online, you have to subscribe to a service. And even then the testimony isn’t always transcribed, even if it is audio recorded or a court reporter takes it down.
Here is the name of a poor fellow who was added to the abstract of a divorce proceeding. I know he wasn’t a police officer or an attorney, because at the end of his name you’d see (LEO) or (ATY) if he were. I have no idea why he was a witness in a divorce trial, and this is a random trial I looked up and found in about ten minutes. To get the screenshot, I went back to the same county that gave me such a wonderful education (mentioned above) in 2010. I don’t live there any longer, but during that time I got fairly familiar with the court viewer. I don’t have any reason to disbelieve Deti if he tells me this is not the norm, but I ain’t lying about it being a possibility. I would be able to read this guy’s testimony if I mailed a letter, with the court case number on it, to the county in question. It would cost me very little (they suggest sending a blank check, inscribed with “not more than twenty dollars” to pay the copy fees).
I guess my point is that banging a married chick carries the potential for a lot of long-term consequences.
Then Brother Opus writes:
I thought Boxer, that no-fault, no-questions-asked divorce was now universal throughout the American states.
My understanding (I hope Deti will correct me if I’m wrong) is that the divorce will be granted regardless of what happens. However (and this is the detail which houses the devil) the amount of easy money that skank-ho princess will receive in the settlement is partly at the judge’s discretion. This makes divorce attorneys a lot of money, as they like to get the couple to air all the dirty laundry they possibly can in the process (while racking up billable hours). In theory, an innocent woman who had to deal with an unstable, violent, drunk of a husband will come out financially much better off, than a skank-ho wimminz, who put a nice man through hell. Of course, the paramour who had a good time with said wimminz will be called by both parties and their counsel, as he will be presented as instigator and witness to her depravity, in turn.
From Dalrock, an interesting mini-article by our nigga Trust (here). In the first place, he seems to be suggesting that he made a successful transition from the playa lifestyle to a monogamous marriage. For this miracle, he credits his faith. I have no reason to disbelieve him. However he did it, my hat is off.
He then writes some interesting stuff about being ensnared by the worst sort of hook-up, the married ho’. I have never discussed this in detail, but it is something the young bros need to watch out for.
Trust states:
a couple of my partners turned out to be married, unbeknownst to me, and I found out that they did things with me in a brief encounter that their husbands never experienced with them…
There’s a lot in the subtext here, and a natural thing to wonder is how our brother has the knowledge of what said ho’ did or didn’t do with her husband. Either she admitted it after the fact, in which case he can’t really claim the “unbeknownst to me” part, or he is personal friends with these men, who are married to these hoez, and they all discuss their sex lives together. That’s all peripheral, though.
Young brothers need to get some understanding about the true dangers of banging a married ho’. The comeuppance they face will almost never be violence (though that is a non-trivial possibility) from the spurned husband. It will, however, often be in the form of a subpoena, to the divorce trial, often delivered months after the deed is done. Go down to the divorce courts on any given Tuesday and you are not unlikely to see some poor playa, sweating under the hot lights, as the husband and wife’s attorneys ask some very uncomfortable questions, which he will be compelled to answer if he doesn’t want to sit in jail for contempt.
“Yes, sir, I did do that sex act with the respondent, usually described by a two-digit number”
“Yes, sir, she did tell me she was married, after the fact”
“Yes sir, I did continue to see her for sex. I don’t remember how many times.”
I am told by my scumbag friends in the legal profession that this is a favorite tactic of both parties in the divorce action, as the petitioner (i.e. husband who asks for divorce) wants to demonstrate what a piece of shit he married, and the respondent (i.e. married ho’ you banged) wants to project the blame for the affair on you.
After this humiliating spectacle is over, you will be released from the witness box, but the fun is just beginning for you. Everything you’ve talked about has been transcribed and recorded. You can be found on the internet as a witness, by anyone who searches. A quick request to the courts will vomit up your entire testimony, written down, to be used against you for years to come. If the ho’ you bang (or her family) is high-profile enough, you might even make the morning edition of the regional papers, at any time in the near or distant future, and you’ll get to relive your embarrassment anew, each time either party makes the news.
How about your father. Will he be proud to read the transcript of your testimony in this action? What if you meet a nice young girl like our Brother Trust did, and want to settle down into a blissful life of monogamy. Would she find you a good insurance risk, knowing your history? Will your boss’ wife read of your exploits, before the company dinner party? Will she be impressed?
So, some hot new bitch is coming on hard to you. What to do? I always assume any woman who comes on strong is married. Unmarried women approach differently (and specifically, they’re much more subtle). First I check her facebook and instagram profiles. Then I start asking a series of questions. Most importantly, I don’t fuck someone in the first fifteen minutes of meeting her. That’s something I learned long ago.
Aside from getting your ass kicked by her husband, or getting embarrassed in court, fucking a married ho’ is pathetic. The fact that you are so desperate as to sniff around for sexual scraps that falls off a married man’s table signifies your low status among both women and men.
There’s also a distinctly homosexual dimension to fucking married women. You can’t escape that the pussy you’re fucking hosted her husband’s schlong, just days (possibly moments) before you dived into it. Those lips you’re kissing just sucked him off. How does his dick taste?
In short, A married ho’ is always a terrible bargain. Just don’t do it.
best interests of the children…
