If you were linked to this page because you were asked to leave v5k2c2, then good news! There is another blog on the internet where you will be welcomed with open arms! You’ll find people with whom to openly commiserate, its comment section populated by people I’ve been 86ing since the first days I opened this blog to discussion.

Back in September of last year, an anonymous critic who calls himself ‘Jack’ dedicated several paragraphs to me, over on his ‘Sigma Frame’ blog. I didn’t intend to ever give Jack any publicity for his looney rant, but he continues to post here, so I suppose it’s time. Let’s see what he had to say:

Perverts and degenerates can’t express themselves without throwing a bunch of sexually-charged and infernal terms into their prose. (coven, speculum, etc.) Freud called this parapraxis, and it’s an amazingly stupid mode of writing to slip into, when you’re playing at rhetoric.

Continuing…

Aside from bastardizing and sexualizing his articles, Jack uses third-rate neologisms (churchianity, converged, etc.) which are little more than floating signifiers, and ultimately meaningless.

Jack’s overarching contention seems to be an attempt at a defense of his religion: Christianity. Jack is offended by my lack of faith, and my propensity to criticize Christianity when its adherents make fools of themselves. Jack is absolutely correct, that I consider the average Christian to be an immoral scumbag, and given that Jack has volunteered himself as a typical Christian, we can immediately segue into a list of his lies:

1. Jack suggests that I am an agent provocateur, who tries to get men in the manosphere into legal trouble.
2. Jack suggests that I am attempting to get Dalrock’s real-world contact information, for publication on the internet.
3. Jack claims that I have been banned from the Dalrock blog.
4. Jack claims that I resent people for their anonymity.

Given that no screenshots were forthcoming, it is easy enough to dismiss this nonsense out of hand. Even so, here are my answers:

1. I have always encouraged men to stay away from drugs and alcohol, shun organized crime, and eschew radical politics (including the pathetic antisemitism that is a regular feature on sigmaframe). A man’s general orders are to increase his net worth, his personal options, and his circle of friends.
2. Back in 2017, someone posted Cane Caldo’s legal name in a comment here. Posting real-world contact information has always been a violation of the comment policy of this blog, and that gentleman was immediately asked to leave. People occasionally write me private emails, and they do so with the confidence that I will zealously guard their details until I am dead.
3. I have never been banned, “ostracized”, or otherwise made unwelcome on Dalrock’s blog. Here’s a recent comment I left over there, less than two weeks ago.
   
4. I have always encouraged men to remain anonymous while they expore antifeminist content on the internet. I think that Dalrock exercised a very healthy level of prudence in keeping his blog separate from his real life.

Jack can continue to complain about my lack of respect for Christianity, even as he behaves as a typical Christian (i.e. a dishonest piece of shit.) He shouldn’t wonder about my distaste for the type, and neither should anyone else.

If you have been asked to leave my forum, please post the details of your eviction over on Sigma Frame. There you’ll find a number of unhinged whackjobs, ready to lend their shoulders to cry on, most of whom were already banned before you, and can never seem to get over this.

When boredom strikes, I typically open one of the British tabloids, where I’m sure to find some dirty, lying feminist jacking her jaws. So it was this morning, when I found some sage advice in the “Ask Mariella” column over at the grauniad.

Let’s read along and see what truths Mizz Frostrup can teach us, shall we?

I’m a 49-year-old woman. I work hard, own a home and live a fairly good life. My problem is that I can’t help but feel regretful that I never had children. I can’t quite believe this is how my life turned out. When I was younger I ached for my own child.

As dumb as this bitch has been, we can all be grateful she didn’t go the single mom route, and raise up some lawless hoez and thugs, who would right now be terrorizing law-abiding citizens.

I have a partner currently.

Which translates to: “I’m presently fucking a series of men, all of whom refuse to marry me.”

We don’t live together, he’s younger than I am and quite possibly the loveliest man I’ve been in a relationship with. It’s too late for me to conceive now and IVF isn’t an option as we don’t have the money. He says he doesn’t care, but he dotes on friends’ children and I fear that when he’s older he’ll feel regretful, too.

 

In previous relationships I’ve had two abortions and two miscarriages and I’m not sure I ever recovered emotionally. I somehow got my life back on track, though I suffered another miscarriage along the way. Those losses left me feeling numb and I pretend to others who ask that I made positive choices. I feel ashamed, guilty and cowardly.

As you should.

I want to know how to get through these next few years unscathed. I’m too serious, anxious about money, the environment, everything. I suppose I am a typical spinster cat-woman. I fear the emotional wrecking ball of the menopause and want to move on and to not think about what could have been – but it’s getting worse, not better.

Sisters take note: this could be you. You’ll never be more attractive than you are right now. Laser off the skank-ho tatts, Quit fucking random men, and start presenting yourself as a serious, marriage minded girl. Once you score your husband, don’t divorce him.

Now here’s Mariella’s response:

Don’t panic! It sounds like you are living through a full-blown midlife crisis. No one wants to think they are just a number, but sometimes it’s easier to navigate life’s difficulties when you know you’ve got company – and companions with similar concerns are one thing you won’t be short of as you hit 50, brimful of anxiety, regrets and melancholy. There’s no shame in seeking help and the best place to start is with your local GP, provided they have menopause experience, so they can sort hormonal bedlam from mental wear and tear.

 

You’ve reached the first age of reckoning and you’d be one in a million if there weren’t plenty of choices you’d love to rethink with the benefit of hindsight. I’m afraid that has to stop. There is no gain and a lot to lose in looking over your shoulder instead of keeping your gaze firmly forward-facing. The past is a place to mine for happy memories, not dwell on for those that are less so. It’s easier said than done, but it’s definitely possible. Dwelling on the many things I could have done better, some major, some minor, would definitely flatten me.

 

I’ve front-loaded on the negativity because, quite honestly, the future is far brighter than you envisage. I understand your regrets about not having children and agree the likelihood of getting pregnant now is extremely slim. You can sit around and mourn or consider the surfeit of opportunities offered by not being responsible for anyone but yourself. Whether it’s relocation or re-education, your bucket list is far more achievable than if you were a parent saddled with the cost of an umbilical connection you can’t shake off.

 

A close friend, like you, wanted children, but didn’t have them. Quite honestly, it’s her unfettered lifestyle I envy most when my teenagers make Harry Enfield’s best caricature of adolescent angst seem normal! Instead of rueing your misfortune, write a list of all the amazing things you can do now you’re mature and solvent, grab your younger man and start ticking them off.

 

What’s predictably human is that despite the much longer list of achievements you have to celebrate – a good job, trophy boyfriend, decent lifestyle, own home – you’ve zoomed in on the one ambition you have not succeeded with. They are not minor details to be shunted aside, but amount to the very things that most kids hope one day to achieve.

Mariella! You brainless cunt! Healthy women don’t want a “trophy boyfriend” at forty-nine freakin’ years old.

If, despite all my encouragement to count your blessings, you still feel your life requires a child, then there are around 6,000 children a year desperate for a secure home, and nearly 50% of them are school-age siblings, which means in adopting them you’d have a ready-made family. Bearing your own biological baby may be a natural impulse, but the enormous gift you can give a child who needs parenting is well worth considering, and not as a second choice. It sounds to me like you tick all the boxes for an acceptable adoption prospect so a life with children to rear and rage at you is in reach (contact gov.uk/child-adoption).

 

Whatever you choose, the life lesson remains the same. From now on it’s imperative to be grateful for what you’ve got, not preoccupied by what you haven’t. And finally, the menopause… well that’s a whole other conversation, but a good place to begin is on BBC iPlayer with my documentary The Truth About the Menopause. Reaching midlife is a time for contemplation, but also for positive action. With half your life left to live there are options aplenty and inspiring ways to move forward. You just need to review your perspective.

Far too long, empty headed, and useless, the feminist pretends to advise others, even as she makes excuses for her own wasted life.

Dalrock’s dramatic threats of departure caused me to go search up one of the memories I left on his blog, way back in 2012. It’s a good story, and I think it illustrates the sad state of affairs that exists in American Christianity.

I remember a bit of trepidation concerning the posting of details on Dalrock’s blog, which I continue to consider justified. At the time, I considered a few of the people who posted there to be friendly acquaintances, and I didn’t want to offend them.

One of the things I left out was the greasy sleaziness of the Christian priest at this megachurch, who was openly sending an obsequious sexual message to the women of the congregation. Specifically, this included my date, and her mother, who were seated on either side of me. I remember glancing over at my date’s father, and wondering how it was that he could tolerate the disrespect from this disgusting Cruxtoid grifter, day in and day out.

In any event, the story within this story is itself evocative of the sort of anti-masculine hatred, which is eternally displayed by the disgusting Christians whenever they open their stupid mouths.

“If You Are Missing Baby Jesus, Call 7162”
Jean Gietzen

 

When I was a child my father worked for an oil company in North Dakota. The company moved him around to different parts of the state, and at some point between one move and another, we lost our family Nativity set. Shortly before Christmas in 1943, my mother decided to replace it and was happy to find another at our local five and dime for only $3.99. When my brother Tom and I helped her unpack the set, we discovered two figures of the Baby Jesus.

 

“Someone must have packed this wrong,” my mother said, counting out the figures. “We have one Joseph, one Mary, three wise men, three shepherds, two lambs, a donkey, a cow, an angel, and two babies. Oh dear! I suppose some set down at the store is missing Baby Jesus.”

 

“Hey, that’s great, Mom,” my brother and I shouted. “We have twins!”

 

“You two run back down to the store and tell the manager that we have an extra Jesus. Tell him to put a sign on the remaining boxes saying that if a set is missing a Baby Jesus, call 7162,” my mother instructed. “I’ll give each of you a penny for some candy. And don’t forget your mufflers. It’s freezing cold out there.”

As we might expect, “mom” is both the head of the Christian household and the hero of the story.

The manager of the store copied down my mother’s message and the next time we were in the store we saw the cardboard sign that read, “If you’re missing Baby Jesus, call 7162.”

 

All week long we waited for the call to come. Surely, we thought, someone was missing the important figurine. Each time the phone rang, my mother would say, “I’ll bet that’s about Jesus,” but it never was. My father tried to explain that the figurine could be missing from a set in Walla Walla in Washington and that packing errors occur all the time. He suggested we just put the extra Jesus back in the box and forget about it.

 

“Back in the box!” I wailed. “What a terrible thing to do to the Baby Jesus. And at Christmastime, too.”

 

“Surely someone will call,” my mother said. “We’ll just keep them together in the manger until someone calls.”

 

When no call had come by five on Christmas Eve, my mother insisted that my father “just run down to the store” to see if there were any sets left. “You can see them right through the window, over on the counter,” she said. “If they are all gone, I’ll know someone is bound to call tonight.”

 

“Run down to the store?” my father thundered. “It’s fifteen degrees below zero out there!”

The Christians think that fathers are lazy and uncharitable oafs.

“Oh Daddy, we’ll go with you,” I said. “Tommy and I will bundle up good. And we can look at the decorations on the way.”

My father gave a long sigh and headed for the front closet. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “Each time the phone rings everybody yells at me to see if it’s about Jesus, and now I’m going off on the coldest night of the year to peek in a window to see if He’s there or not there.”

 

My father muttered all the way down the block, while my brother and I raced each other up to the window where the tiny lights flickered on and off around the frame. “They’re all gone, Daddy!” I shouted. “Every set must be sold.”

 

“Hooray, hooray!” my brother joined in, catching up with me. “The mystery will be solved tonight!”

 

My father, who had remained several steps behind us, turned on his heel and headed back home.

 

Inside the house once more, we saw the extra figurine had vanished from the set and my mother appeared to have vanished, too. “Someone must have called and she went out to deliver the figurine,” my father reasoned, pulling off his boots. “You kids get busy stringing popcorn strands for the tree and I’ll wrap your mother’s present.”

 

We had almost completed one strand when the phone rang. My father yelled for me to answer it. “Tell’m we found a home for Jesus,” he called down the steps. But the caller was not an inquirer. It was my mother with instructions for us to come to 205 Chestnut Street immediately and bring three blankets, a box of cookies, and some milk.

 

“Now what has she gotten us into?” my father groaned as we bundled up again.

Can “dad” get any more pathetic?

“205 Chestnut Street. Why, that’s about eight blocks away. Wrap that milk up good in the blankets or it will turn into ice by the time we get there. Why in the name of Heaven can’t we all just get on with Christmas? It’s probably twenty degrees below out there now. And the wind is picking up. Of all the crazy things to do on a night like this.”

 

Tommy and I sang Christmas songs all the way to Chestnut Street. My father carrying his bundle of blankets and milk looked for all the world like St. Nicholas himself with his arms full of goodies. Every now and then my brother would call back to him, “Let’s pretend we’re looking for a place to stay, Dad, just like Joseph and Mary.”

 

“Let’s pretend we are in Bethlehem where it is probably sixty-five degrees in the shade right now,” my father answered.

 

The house at 205 Chestnut Street turned out to be the darkest one in the block. One tiny light burned in the living room, and the moment we set foot on the porch step, my mother opened the door and shouted, “They’re here, they’re here. Oh, thank God you got here, Ray! You kids take those blankets into the living room and wrap up the little ones on the couch. I’ll take the milk and the cookies.”

 

“Would you mind telling me what is going on, Ethel?” my father asked.” We have just walked through below zero weather with the wind in our faces all the way. …”

 

“Never mind all that now,” my mother interrupted. “There is no heat in this house and this young mother is so upset she doesn’t know what to do. Her husband walked out on her and those poor children will have to spend a very bleak Christmas, so don’t you complain. I told her you could fix that oil furnace in a jiffy.”

 

My mother strode off to the kitchen to warm the milk while my brother and I wrapped up the five little children who were huddled together on the couch. The children’s mother explained to my father that her husband had run off, taking bedding, clothing, and almost every piece of furniture, but she had been doing all right until the furnace broke down.

The skank-ho single mom tells her tale of woe, about the man who abandoned her. We’ve never heard such stuff around here, have we?

“I been doin’ washin’ and ironin’ for people and cleaning the five and dime,” she said. “I saw your number every day there, on those boxes on the counter. When the furnace went out, that number kept goin’ through my mind: 7162. 7162.

 

“Said on the box that if a person was missin’ Jesus, they should call you. That’s how I knew you were good Christian people, willin’ to help folks. I figured that maybe you could help me, too. So I stopped at the grocery store tonight and I called your missus. I’m not missin’ Jesus, mister, because I sure love the Lord. But I’m missin’ heat.

 

“Me and the kids ain’t got no beddin’, no warm clothes. I got a few Christmas toys for them, but I got no money to fix that furnace.”

 

“Okay, okay,” my father said kindly. “You’ve come to the right place. Now let’s see. You’ve got a little oil burner over there in the dining room. Shouldn’t be too hard to fix. Probably just a clogged flue. I’ll look it over, see what it needs.”

 

My mother came into the living room carrying a plate of cookies and a tray with warm milk. As she set the cups down on the coffee table, I noticed the figure of Baby Jesus lying in the center of the table. It was the only sign of the Christmas season in the house. The children stared wide-eyed with wonder at the plate of cookies my mother set before them. One of the littlest ones woke up and crawled out from under the blanket. Seeing all the strangers in his house, he began to cry. My mother swooped him up in her arms and began to sing to him.

 

This, this, is Christ the King, Whom shepherds guard and angels sing, she crooned while the child wailed. Haste, haste to bring Him laud, the Babe, the son of Mary, she sang, oblivious to the child’s cries. She sang and danced the baby around the room until he settled down again.

 

“You hear that, Chester?” the young mother said to another child. “That woman is singin’ ‘bout the Lord Jesus. He ain’t ever gonna walk out on us. Why, He sent these people to us just to fix our furnace. And blankets we got now, too. Oh, we’ll be warm tonight.”

 

My father, finishing his work on the oil burner, wiped his hands on his muffler and said, “I’ve got it going, but you need more oil. I’ll make a few calls tonight when I get home and we’ll get you some oil. Yessir, you came to the right place,” he grinned.

 

When my father calculated that the furnace was going strong once more, our family bundled up and made our way home. My father didn’t say a thing about the cold weather and had barely set foot inside the front door when he was on the phone.

 

“Ed? Hey, how are ya, Ed?” I heard him say. “Yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Say, Ed, we have kind of an unusual situation here and I know you’ve got that pickup truck. I wonder if we could round up some of the boys and find a Christmas tree, you know, and a couple of things for …”

 

The rest of his conversation was lost in the blur of words as my brother and I ran to our rooms and began pulling clothes out of our closets and toys off of our shelves. My mother checked through our belongings for sizes and games she said “might do” and added some of her sweaters and slacks to our stack. We were up way past our bedtime that night wrapping our gifts. The men my father had called found oil for the furnace, bedding, two chairs, three lamps, and had made two trips to 205 Chestnut before the night was done. Our gifts were piled into the truck on the second trip, and even though it must have been thirty degrees below by then, my father let us ride along the back of the truck.

 

No one ever did call about the missing figurine in the Nativity set, but as I grow older I realize that it wasn’t a packing mistake at all.

I suppose if I had wondered why Christians all seem to hate fathers and healthy families, before Christmas of 2012, this was a good lesson to me.

 

These are the fruits of following the teachings of Jesus: Being cucked in public by your priest, who openly ogles your wife and daughter on the highest Christian holiday.

Down in the mosh pit, ys asks a question about the Dalrock blog. I hesitate to make another blog the focus of this one, but I think there are a number of important lessons in a general survey of what I’ve seen transpire over the last decade.

Boxer, you seem to have been reading him from nearly the beginning. In your estimation, when did he take off or become popular? Was it a post or two, or was it just a slow build over time?

About fifteen years ago, I was having a difficult time with a girl named Elise. I was fucking Elise, was largely monogamous, and I had convinced myself that Elise was “the one.” My background was sadly typical. I had grown up the child of divorced parents, and had convinced myself not only that a successful marriage was possible, but that I was the one man I knew, in current year, who would find one. At the time of my girlfriend hassles, I was working my way through a very rigorous graduate program, and I just couldn’t believe that I wasn’t able to juggle all the work and books and somehow manage to keep this wimminz happy.

The first self-help book I bought was Robert Glover‘s No More Mr. Nice Guy, which featured an internet self-help forum. It was not long after reading this book that I:

a. broke up with troublemaking girlfriend, and

b. reconnected with my own father.

I don’t know, in hindsight, which was more difficult to do, but I’m incredibly grateful to the advice I got from Glover’s book, which helped me do both.

Around this time I found a number of “game” fora, which seemed like a melange of snake-oil salesmanship coupled with things which I had found obvious since I was a teenager. It would be later that I’d realize I had stumbled into my own knowledge of picking up skanks through a series of happy accidents (combined with a don’t care attitude as a kid, which allowed for experimentation.)

Around 2009 I started becoming interested in Roissy, largely because I outgrew my childish narcissism, and came to sympathize with the brothers who were too shy or autistic to do what I had been doing, namely just putting some crude moves on whatever skank I found attractive at the moment. Such men were deeply unhappy, and their struggles seemed to mirror men I knew in my daily life. After Roissy, I found Welmer’s Spearhead blog, and after this, I found Dalrock.

It was some time after finding the Dalrock blog that I found his work trolling Yahoo! Answers. Back in the day, wimminz would post tone-deaf idiocy on this aggregator, and Dalrock had a knack of dogwhistling them into line.

The author is probably one of the best rhetoriticians we have on our side, which made his site a draw for me.

When Dalrock Became Popular

The original question ys asked had a temporal dimension which is difficult to parse. Dalrock is objectively unpopular, compared even to bit players in pop culture. I’d estimate his regular readers as maybe 200 people, and there are probably no more than a couple of thousand people, worldwide, who have ever read his work. Even so, it’s an interesting question, and I’ll attempt to answer.

Through 2012 or so, Dalrock regularly poached some of the best contributors to The Spearhead and A Voice for Men, who regged in his comments section. This was sort of a golden age, in which everyone more-or-less got along.

Between 2012 and 2015, Dalrock started trolling various wolves in sheep’s clothing, including my old friend Sheila Gregoire.

Kooky Canadian Feminist

At this point, his comment section began really taking off. It also started becoming something less interesting and more imbued with groupthink. That was about the point when Cane Caldo pronounced his impotent little jihaad against Lyn87, and after this, he started going off on anyone who dared disagree with him. Eventually, Dalrock’s comments were overloaded with bile, largely written by Christians against anyone who didn’t purity-spiral themselves to heaven.

That was, not coincidentally, the point when I started this blog. I had earlier seen the dysfunction on various red pill blogs like iSteve and Roissy, and began to appreciate the linear function which seems to take hold as a blog gets more popular, and its comments get filled up with rabid yes-men and asslickers, who want to ride the coattails of better writers and thinkers. Originally, I thought I’d find a way to abate or rechannel this process, but I don’t know how to. What I’ve done with this blog is to ruthlessly cull new commenters who didn’t seem like a good fit, along with playing devil’s advocate with some of the strongest voices here (Derek, Feministhater, Sharkly…) Even when I agree with the groupthink, I don’t necessarily think it’s healthy to allow a monoculture to develop.

There were other incidents which increased his relative popularity, and these generally coincided with the author squabbling with some new population of malcontents. Dalrock gained a large number of readers in 2014, from trolling the goons over in the Atheism+ (pronounced atheismpoz) movement. You can see ya boy in the comments here…

Adam Lee’s Hysterical Campaign

In any case, I hope the story of my dance with Dalrock clarifies some general truths about blogging and popularity.

A brother named Joshua has started a blog, with the goal of motivating men of the androsphere to get up off their asses and do stuff in the real world. Given that actual activism is something that seems to almost* never happen, make sure and pop in there and show him your support.

—

*I’m aware that there are outliers. There’s a bit of social monkeywrenching by Fathers 4 Justice, and URL posting by The Fifth Horseman’s crew, but I don’t know of any other organized efforts in this direction, and they’re sorely needed.

I believe I first started reading Dalrock around 2009, and I’m pretty sure I started actively posting there a couple of years later. It’s been a great run, but Dalrock is retiring. I’m hoping that he doesn’t pull a Welmer, and burn the library as he wanders out of town. Friend and foe alike should post some thanks, if they are able, for the man who sharpened our arguments even as he flicked feminist ears.

Today’s stronk, empowered, heroic single mom is Rachel Henry, age 22. Skank-ho Rachel was the mother of three little babies, age 3, 1, and 0.5. She is now in the Maricopa County (Arizona) jailhouse, after the father of one of her kids phoned police and asked for help.

Details are fuzzy, and the feminist mass media isn’t helping, but here’s what I think happened.

Background: Bitch flees Oklahoma after authorities get tired of jailing her for her chronic use of illegal drugs. She goes to Arizona, and is helped by the father of one of her oldest kids. She sets up house on the property of his landscaping business. A few months go by, bitch gets bored, and decides to ice all of her children for giggles.

Last night: Bitch kills her 1-year old daughter first, by clapping her hands over mouth and nose, and suffocating the poor child.

Bitch then encountered resistance from her 3-year old son, who (for some reason) objected to mommy murdering his sister. Son phoned his father, who lived nearby, who came over with another one of his relatives.

Bitch explains that she was merely putting the little girl to sleep. Bitch then takes son into another room to “put him to sleep,” as his own dad is in the next room.

Bitch then brings out her infant child (who may or may not be the child of Arizona daddy) and kills the baby right in front of her in-laws.

This morning: Bitch laughs as she confesses all to cops.

While all the gory details have yet to be publicized, the moral of this story is clear. Allowing a meth addled slut to bear your children is a very bad idea. Read more at:

arizona(anti)family

daily fail

POSTSCRIPT: Scooped by Daily Stormer

I must really be getting soft in the misogyny game, given that the neo-nazi site Daily Stormer, run by Weev and Andrew Anglin, actually had a write-up on this crazy slut before I even heard of her.

While I’m sure I disagree with them on many important matters, I will compliment the rogues over at our rival publication, who have (unlike most race fetishists) recognized the danger posed by single mothers. Remember that if you decide to go comment at DS, to be a good neighbor and obey their rules. Tell ’em Boxer sent you.

Down below, our man Honeycomb nominates a wimminz named Celeste T. Christian as single mother of the year.

Why does this bitch deserve such an award? Let’s see how we can best honor skank-ho princess, based on the write-up in our dishonest feminist press…

A 21-year-old woman has been charged with trying to drown her 3-year-old son, days after posting on social media that he was dead.

Of course, wimminz’ intuition told the bitch that her baby was “already dead” days before she decided to drown him like a rat in the bathtub. Naturally, being a web-enabled skank, she had to post baby’s death notice on Tinder and Facebook and Snatch dot Com…

Chicago police said Celeste Christian left her son alone in the bathtub for 5 to 10 minutes on Sunday at her home in the South Shore neighborhood. When she returned, she found him floating limply on top of the water.

The boy was taken to Comer Children’s Hospital, where he remains in critical condition with water in his lungs.

Her baby is brain-dead, and will almost certainly have to be cared for, for the rest of his life, by social services workers, while his attacker gets all the sympathy she can handle.

What is most interesting (and what will come as absolutely no surprise to the readers of this blog) is the erasure of the man who originally ratted this bitch out. It was that little boy’s father, and he is curiously mentioned only as an afterthought in most of the mainstream press which carried the story.

Based on social trends and countless personal experiences, we can reconstruct a likely picture of what actually happened. This dog ugly bitch (miraculously) found some man to marry (or at least impregnate) her. As soon as he became inconvenient, she dumped him to cruise for strange dick in Chicago’s worst dive bars and nightclubs. I’m sure some faggot CONservative divorce court judge told him that he was only useful insofar as he kept paying bitch her monthly allowance.

Said father did all he could to keep track of his little boy, even if that was only to try and stalk her on the social media sites. The notice of baby’s death was probably as shocking as the news that his son wasn’t actually dead, and he wasn’t dead at all when the news broke.

The conservative/Christian inspired government has conspired with the liberal/feminist media to push the lie that men are violent, and wimminz are nurturing, and that children must always be awarded to their mothers in any separation. In fact, the opposite is often true.

Single mothers are the most dreadful plague ever to be visited on any society. They kill far more people than tuberculosis, gun violence, terrorism, ANTIFA, Nazi Skinheads, tornadoes, earthquakes, or military action. Single moms pose a direct threat to western civilization itself. Our misfortune will continue for as long as we allow these wimminz to continue their degenerate lifestyle.

A month ago, I updated this blog on my old friend LaQuan’da. I first met this beauty back in the late spring of this year, and by July I had devolved into becoming something of an orbiter. As I earlier reported, LaQuan’da made contact with a generic “I miss youuu” message which is typical of bed-hopping skanks, and which surprised me, since she did a great job convincing my dumb ass that she was the one-in-a-billion NAWALT “not that kinda gurllll” who might actually make someone a competent wife.

So, I went to dinner, and the predictable story unfolded. LaQuan’da copped to the fact that when she ghosted out on me, back in August, she had already been dating multiple men, of which I was the only one. She ended up settling in to fuck a gent who was:

• married (but separated, really, fo’ sho’, and truly, ya right)
• fired from his job as a school bus driver for being…
• addicted to prescription painkillers
• fucking any number of other hoez on the side.

I found her final complaint about this guy to be sorta silly, given that she’s been doing the same things, so I interrupted my date to chuckle and point out that

“this is the man you rejected me for, is that not so?”

at which point the poor dear began to shed tears and pose a scene in the restaurant, so I quit making jokes, and just sat and listened to her spill her tales of woe.

While all wimminz are more skillful liars and manipulators than we can ever be, this particular wimminz is such a cunning actress that she strikes me as downright dangerous. Her theatrics are imbued with a wonderful authenticity, and woe be it to the brother who marries her, only to find himself at the end of a divorce action, complete with all manner of phony allegations of marital misconduct, delivered to the courts in such a convincing manner.

Now the reasons I took a month to post this article are varied, but mostly because I wanted to keep waxing that ass for a while. In the interim, I wanted to see and study all the various ways in which I was fooled by this bitch. I’ve learned a great deal, but there are a number of observations I can make many of which I’ve probably made before, but which bear repeating:

• Roissy’s tired maxim that orbiters never get the ass is not true, and this is a great example. The spirit of Roissy’s maxim, may be valuable all the same. It took me a great deal of effort to pluck this ripe fruit, and while I’ve had a very good time, the overall profit isn’t very large.
• Wimminz do not love evil men, but they do love weak men, who they can control and manipulate. Who is more easily controlled than a jobless drug addict whose wife is on this wimminz’ speed dial? This is the reason a wimminz will ignore a decent fella, in favor of writing erotica and sending it to death-row prisoners.
• The simp tendency is very powerful in a man, and it should never be underestimated. I have been regularly at war with myself for the past five weeks, resisting the temptation to let this unrepentant skank-ho bitch move in, just because the sex is so good, and because she says so many of the right things.

There are three things that help me keep things in context. The first is the fact that I’m presently fucking two other females. The second is the absolute knowledge that to her, I am a rebound, and this will end the minute she finds another weak man she can toy with. The last is the spectre of this blog, and the notion that I might have to be held accountable to all of you, my readers, for getting sucked beyond this woman’s fantastic, deplorable event-horizon, and going down to destruction.

I’ve fucked her, and the sex is absolutely as good as I ever dreamed it would be. I’ve kissed her thighs and sucked her nipples. I’ve licked her cunt and asshole. I can even say that I love her… in a way. She has that magical ability to morph into whatever I’ve always wished for in a lifelong mate, and to play the part to perfection. The red sun of desire (and decision) burns brightly, but it won’t burn forever.

Way back in The Virginity Fetish, Boxer made a few claims that relate to the recent series. His dislike of statistics notwithstanding, there are a number of points worth further consideration.

“If you take huge populations of people, there are bound to be differences. Those differences in character and attitude are notable only in aggregate.”

The first part of this statement is completely true, but feminism, bureaucracy, and gnu-atheist scientism^[1] cannot abide the notion that there are visible group differences at the genetic level^[2].

The second part is subtly incorrect.

In a normally distributed population, the average difference between random individuals is 2/√π, or ~1.13, standard deviations. For IQ, this is ~17 points. Even within families there is a high variability between siblings (~13 IQ points).^[3a] Given this variability, does this mean we cannot make any individual predictions? No, it does not.

We all know this is true intuitively, but have been trained by feminist blank-slatists to deny this. For example, everyone knows that men have greater physical ability than women. We should not have been surprised when, in soccer, under-15 boys beat the U.S. Women’s National Team or when 15 year-old boys beat the Australian Women’s National Team^[3b]:

Adult women simply cannot compete with 15 year-old boys at peak physicality.^[4]

“Suppose I, as an anglophone Mormon, descended entirely from New England WASP types, meets one African bushman in the wild. What do the statistics tell me? The answer is, not a god damned thing. The best I can surmise is that I have a slight probability of being a little smarter than that fucker, but that is in no wise guaranteed.”

No, statistics tell you that if your IQ is at least average, you have a very high probability of having greater intelligence. This is why if Harvard didn’t discriminate against the best students, its demographic makeup might change dramatically^[3c][3d][3e]:

When all of the seventy fastest marathoners of all time come from North and East African ancestry (2% of world population) and 97 out of 100 of the fastest sprinters of all time come from West African ancestry (5% of world population), you would be a fool to deny the predictive power of genetics.^[3f] There should be no shame in pointing this out.

Even with the variability in a random sample, the genetic racial differences between Asians and Blacks (~20 points) is greater than the average difference between two random individuals (~17 points). This is why race^[5] is highly predictive of factors strongly correlated with IQ, such as socioeconomic status, educational attainment, and likelihood of criminality.

Not everything is about genetics (“nature”) though:

“If I happen to meet him in Africa, then it’s in my interest to kiss his black behind in the hopes that he can teach me how to keep from becoming a lion’s dinner.”

You would be a fool to discount the importance of environment (“nurture”). No matter how intelligent your PhD-holding gender studies professor might be, she won’t help treat your cancer. This leads to the crux of the issue:

“Part of what I want to illustrate, with all this, is the absolute non-correlation between cognitive ability and wimminz’ well-established proclivity for whimsical self-destruction.”

The difficulty separating the genetic from the environmental makes it hard to evaluate this claim. It is highly complex. What the series endeavored to do was tease out feminism’s relationship to other factors, such as cognitive ability. While we can’t exactly determine the causal factors behind feminism, we can undoubtedly determine correlations.

So, we are not surprised to learn that valuing virginity is negatively correlated with destructive feminist-favored outcomes (e.g. divorce). We are also not surprised that, over time, general intelligence is negatively correlated with those same outcomes. Lastly, we are not surprised that, over time, devout religious observance is similarly negative correlated.

It is simply not true that “differences in character and attitude are notable only in aggregate.” Thus, if you select a random working-age man and woman from the population, you will be quite surprised if she beats him in arm wrestling. You will be even more shocked when he is overcome by emotion and bursts into tears. These defy your quite reasonable expectations.

Similarly, if you randomly select an Asian person and a Black person and the Asian person has higher intelligence and socioeconomic status or the Black person has a criminal record, these differences are largely predicted by genetic differences.^[7] If instead you get an Asian with a criminal record and a Black Fellow of economics, this is the reason:

The group differences are notable in the aggregate precisely because they represent real differences at the individual level. The existence of exceptions is both expected and irrelevant. More importantly, if you remove random selection, the individual differences often become even more notable.

Racist, white supremacist^[6] Henry Harpending of the University of Utah caught fire for stating that educational gaps were not closing, despite decades of attempts to do so. This is because the heritability of IQ is 0.8 to 0.9.^[3g] It is simply mathematically impossible for the gap to close through environmental intervention. Closing the gap could only be simulated by artificially lowering the opportunities and outcomes of the more successful groups, that is, enacting inequalities.^[3h] This is the feminist agenda.

Be warned: by reading this stuff, commenting on it, or worse agreeing with it, you become a racist, white supremacist yourself (regardless of your actual race or ethnic group, of course). It’s much better to embrace feminism, where you will be nice, safe, always have good feelings, and get a trophy.

The feminist imperative is to conflate amoral facts with moral (in)equality. If you have the rational ability to differentiate between facts and morality, you are, by social definition, a white supremacist.^[7]

Christianity has long taught that all persons are created in the image of God. No matter one’s race or socioeconomic status, all have value before God. At the same time, Christianity has never shied away from the notions that persons have differences and that certain ways of life (holy living) are superior to others (living in sin). Christianity balances amoral facts with human moral worth. Feminism cannot do this.

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^[1] Of the Richard Dawkins school.

^[2] Group differences are okay, as long as they are caused by environmental factors that support identity politics.

^[3] Twitter

^[a] @Scientific_Bird (2019). (link)
^[b] @Scientific_Bird (2019). (link)
^[c] @a_centrism (2019). (link)
^[d] @Steve_Sailer (2019). (link)
^[e] @epidomgoly (2019). (link)
^[f] @a_centrism (2019). (link)
^[g] @KirkegaardEmil (2019). (link)
^[h] @ThyRamMan (2019). (link)

^[4] They have a good chance of losing to a team of physically average 15 year-old boys.

^[5] Race here means genetically related groups, not specific traits like skin color. For example, African bushman, East Africans, and West Africans are all racially different each other in meaningful ways. Skin color is sometimes an okay approximation for race, but it’s not a perfect correlate: races have traits, traits do not have races.

^[6] That is, a typical anthropologist that studies intelligence and group genetic differences.

^[7] Pay no attention to the fact that average Asians and Jews have higher IQ and socioeconomic status than average Whites. Accusations of white supremacy don’t have to be logical or evidence-based. Feminism has no use for facts.