To be an action hero in pop culture a character either has to undergo intense, extensive combat training for years in seclusion…or they need to be born with a vagina. This was bad enough 30 years ago, but since then it’s become obligatory. It doesn’t matter the story being told or who it’s about–some excuse will be found to show a male-female fight scene, and the womyn will win every time.
A recent incident on a big city subway inspired me to see if there was any more video from the real world, and I found some. A lot of time can be wasted watching all the stuff out there, so I chose just a couple selections.
And below, even when the female is bigger and more experienced…
It’s no mistake that males and females don’t compete against each other in professional sports…because it wouldn’t be competition, unless it’s an exhibition match in which a womyn in peak condition is pitted against some wimpy couch potato.
Feminists had a collective orgasm around the globe when Billie-Jean King beat some old senior citizen at tennis. But even in that sport, the 203rd-ranked men’s tennis player, a decade and a half older, while smoking and drinking, spanked the two best female tennis champions in history.
But of course, the same people supposedly for equality, and buying into the female supremacy memes, scream bloody murder when men actually treat women as they would treat other men.
Watch this video first, then I’ll have a few words.
Funny, right? I laughed, too, but not at all of it. There’s something sort of disturbing beneath the surface, here.
First of all, I get it: the hotter the chick, the crazier she can be.
First point (and this is a minor one): what you’ve noticed is that the more physically attractive a woman is, the faster her rationalization hamster runs and the greater her sense of the feminine imperative. I guess you could call that a mental disorder; but I consider it more like programming. Like how a spoiled child (once she realizes she can get away with what others can’t) develops a superiority complex.
But what should disturb you is the punchline–this idea that you would rate a transvestite (or trans-whatever) an eight, nine, or ten.
Initially I was baffled. How could presumably heterosexual men (those in the video and the one who recommended it to me) even conceive of a she-male they would be so attracted to?
It didn’t take long to figure it out, though. And the answer is related to another baffling phenomenon among what seems to be the majority of men today, including among the red pill community.
That phenomenon has to do with the desired female body type.
Looking solely at faces, it makes some sense that a person of one gender could masquerade as another–there are boys born with soft facial features who could artfully apply eyelashes, makeup, and so forth. Rating them in the 8-10 range is still a stretch IMO, but I’ll accept it in theory. (Of course, judging by the actresses in a lot of movies and TV shows, plain-faced is the new beautiful, anyway.)
The problem for potential cross-dressers (at least in a culture with more traditional gender roles and tastes) is that healthy male and female bodies do not look alike.
But this is far from a problem in our society, where so many males are attracted to women built like teenage boys. The emaciated scarecrow look is currently en vogue: Broad shoulders, narrow hips, six-pack abs and visible ribs. The only female characteristics commonly desired are breasts and long hair. Anything failing that criteria is called “fat.”
Some guy the other day actually said Kim Kardashian is fat. And he didn’t mean when she was pregnant, either. I pointed out that women are supposed to have some meat on the hips. Not only do wide hips help with childbirth, but put a shapely woman in high heels (or if you run into one of those super-rare treasures that knows how to walk like a lady even without high heels… then even sneakers and tight jeans will work) and simply watching her move from Point A to Point B is better than watching the Superbowl halftime show. Yes, that’s right: including the one with Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction.”
“Yeah, alright,” the guy said, “she should have hips…but not that are wider than her shoulders!”
“So in other words,” I said, “what you’re looking for is a man.”
I heartily agree with red pill men that femininity makes a woman desirable. What I don’t understand is why they insist that feminine personality should occupy a masculine physique. At least one of the professors I remember from college would smugly accuse you all of being a bunch of closet cases. Add to that the desire for women with deeper voices and butch attitudes (at least among the blue pill male population) and the evidence mounts.
A lot of gay mafiosos and homophiles will opine that everyone has latent homosexual proclivities. I don’t believe that; but then I can’t explain these bizarre mate selection tendencies, either. My best guess is that it’s largely inspired by self-contradictory conditioning from pop culture absorbed during a boy’s formative years in our gender-confused society.
The French expression “Vive le difference!” makes a lot of sense to me. Men and women attract each other in large part not because we are biologically interchangeable, but because we are so different. We compliment each other, and that harmonious design is reflected right down to our body types.
Anybody can grow their hair long, or invest in fake boobs, guys.
I guess I understand the thrill of the unknown so far as some things go, but I can’t think of a more powerful boner-killer than not being sure what type of genitalia is inside a date’s panties (or whether they were born with it or not).
If you grew up with uncut Warner Brothers cartoons, maybe you remember that “Merry Melodies” outnumbered “Looney Toons.” Well, there’s a similar disparity in my Two-Fisted musical reviews.
Only because there’s a whole lot more songs written by or about(or from the perspective of) blue pill supplicating simps than anything else. Easily 75% of all popular music ever produced falls under the “love song” umbrella; and of course most of that is about elevating some precious snowflake to her rightful pedestal.
So in the vast wasteland of Mangina Melodies, I have to spread out the Alpha Anthems as best I can. Here’s the first one:
“Speedo” was recorded by The Cadilacs long before that word came into household use, and has nothing to do with Euro-stylish swimwear.
Speedo is the alpha dog’s nickname, derived allegedly from how fast he bumps, pumps and dumps. Locate’s ’em, loves ’em, leaves ’em. Finds ’em, feels ’em…you get the idea, I hope.
Although this is doo-wop, the lyrics borrow the A, A, B format of the blues.
Whether the lyricists of such songs truly were such big league pick up artists, or simply aspired to be (or cleverly marketed music to those who so aspired) I can’t say. But the hero of this song brags about how he games women and breezily overcomes their last minute resistance (“I’ve known some pretty women and have caused them to change their mind”). Also, the “I already have a boyfriend” defense is weak and easily brushed aside by this Don Juan (his reputation is for “takin’ other folks’s girls”).
What have we learned here, fellahs? I guess it comes down simply to “Don’t mess around with Speedo; he don’t ever take it slow.”
20th Century music by the male of the species is loaded with wimpy blue pill sentiments. No doubt it provided subconscious reinforcement to the message drilled into us from parents, sisters, and the culture overall.
So why am I picking on the King of the Slide Guitar today? Especially with so many more blatant examples to choose from. Well, you could accuse me of just wanting to hear that Delta slide one more time, and you’d be partially right. But there’s something to be learned from identifying such blue pill wussery in a musical genre that gave the world such over-the-top paragons of machismo as Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley.
What we have in these lyrics is a self-deluded beta orbiter, pissing his life away waiting to graduate from the Friend Zone while the object of his one-itus serves as a willing doormat for some alpha dog out sowing his oats.
What this guy has done is become the emotional dishrag for the slut on his pedestal. He cleans up the messes made by the alpha dog, and once her emotional wounds are healed, her hypergamy leads her right back to the player’s harem. And she “loves him more” every time he wrecks her self esteem.
This song reminds me of a depressing ’80s titty flick called The Last American Virgin. Classic alpha fux/beta bux story.
Y’know what’s even more depressing? The slut might finally marry this frustrated chump one day. That’s when his heartache will really begin.
I had to sit through a day-long corporate meeting and I’m taking my frustration out on you.
There is a certain personality type that just luuuuuuuuuuu-uuuuuvs meetings. In fact, they’d probably rather spend an entire work year having meetings than actually doing any work. It seems to be the same personality type obsessed with titles and glorified job descriptions (which serve as camouflage to disguise the fact that they get paid for shuffling papers and enforcing/generating bureaucratic red tape).
During these self-congratulatory orgies with the trappings of business meetings, a lot of time and money is spent, but nothing gets produced. The best of them may present 45 minutes of useful information while the remaining seven hours and 15 minutes are little more than mass mutual ego-stroking–an opportunity for the vain and self-important to dress up and receive awards for dubious accomplishments.
This last meeting only reinforced my opinion. In addition, the Random Seat Assignment gods were pissed at me that day. There were two top-tier babes and at least four second-tier who could have wound up beside me. Instead, the seat to my right was occupied (at the invitation of an obese woman at my table) by probably the last individual on the company roster I would have preferred.
I’ve seen this effiminate little character around before at smaller-scale meetings. Don’t know what department he’s in and not interested in knowing. But I made an effort to be friendly (by Two-Fisted standards, anyway). Maybe the guy was raised by a single mom and only had sisters, and thus was completely oblivious to how uncomfortable he makes men with all his mincing and such.
I had to scrap this benefit-of-the-doubt upon noticing how every female in the company he was acquainted with fawned all over him. Several embraced him and kissed his cheek like a long lost sister. That’s kind of a giveaway.
Okay, western women have been squirting for metrosexuals from Rudolf Valentino to Prince. I get that. (Sorry I can’t provide any more recent examples, but I intentionally avoid pop culture as best I can.) But there was no sexual tension in these greetings–quite the opposite. It was obvious they found him as unthreatening as a stuffed animal.
Going back to junior high, before I truly believed that homosexuals actually existed, I couldn’t help noticing this weird upperclassman who preferred to hang out with the girls. Not for the natural reasons, either. He was obviously much more interested in gossiping with them than any sort of romantic ambitions, and the girls in his circle were all protective of him. None looked at him or reacted to him the way they did me or the other jocks. Their demeanor changed around him in some other way, like he was a puppy with a broken leg or something.
This is a consistent phenomenon in our culture. I always thought that junior high situation was rare when I was a kid; maybe it was rare to find among adults…but not so anymore. When in college I discovered that (prior to the doubled-down media blitz to legitimize homosexuality in the mind of Joe Public) such women were commonly referred to as “fag hags,” even among homophiles.
Now it seems like every female is a fag hag. (A whole lot of males, too, come to think of it.)
I’ve heard women say things like, “I think that’s so cute!”
Let two males, behaving as if one were female, walk into a large group of women and listen to the collective “Awwwwwwww!” erupt as if scripted. You get the same thing in movie audiences after carefully manipulative homo-erotic scenes.
Once in the Bahamas, watching some comedy/musical/variety show put on by the resort staff, actors and actresses came out in various costumes, impersonationg different famous celebrities. The audience was international (though mostly from western nations) and the thespians were attractive. That seemed to be a requirement. There was very little applause for the hot babes–maybe because the men present had brought their dates, as I had. There was mildly enthusiastic applause from the gathered women for the bare-chested beefcake. But when one of the male actors appeared in drag, the hooting, cheering and applause was thunderous by comparison.
On another date a few years later, I watched a belly dancing demonstration. When it was over, the dancer instructed some kids how to dance and their parents all laughed and clapped. But after that she asked the crowd if they’d like to see a guy dressed in the costume and forced to dance. The question was asked like she already knew the answer, based on experience with other crowds. And sure enough, the crowd cheered its approval and some poor mangina was singled out to humiliate himself in front of everybody.
It’s all enough to make a man wonder: Is the same psychological compulsion driving women to invade male turf and ruin it also driving their collective desire to see men feminized (whether it be literally or superficially)?
Earth was destroyed in a nuclear war. Hundreds of people survived in space stations orbiting the planet. The space stations were sent up by different nations. They eventually found “unity” and combined all their stations into one impossibly gigantic station called “the Ark.” Cute, huh?
This multinational colony all speaks English. No biggie–we can accept that, as it makes it easier to tell a story. There is artificial gravity everywhere in the Ark, too–even the sections not spinning. The ace mechanic (a woman, of course) manages to fix heavy machinery on a regular basis without even getting her hands dirty, and while maintaining a perfect manicure. Because booty. (That’s right, this actress, though typically skinny, has the nicest rump you may see on TV, and she’s also smokin’ hot above the shoulders. But you’ll only get treated to the full package when she’s first introduced.)
So much for technical realism.
Air and resources are running out on the Ark, so they send 100 juvenile delinquents down to Earth to both get them out of the space station, and to serve as lab rats and demonstrate whether the environment is survivable. There are some legitimate criminal types mixed in, but most are just misunderstood teens.
It turns out the Earth is survivable (or there would be no series). In fact, the “Grounders” (a primitive society descended from survivors who never left the planet) are doing just fine, biologically. They also speak English with no dialectic variation from the multinational space station contingent.
So what we have here is potentially a TEOTWAWKI survival story with plenty of conflict within and without the “100” culture for a competent writer to work with and keep interesting.
PC Utopian tweaks:
Every single leader of import is either a woman or a minority–with occasional antagonistic exceptions like a white male who leads a sort of lynch mob. And of course the best leaders are the females. Even the Grounders–a hunter-gatherer society where survival depends on physical prowess–have a female leader and plenty of pixie ninja “warriors.”
There are a couple bad-boy types. One becomes the bleeding heart pacifist “voice of conscience” type after the ship lands. The other was a janitor on the Ark, and becomes co-leader with a Strong Female Character who is star of the show. Of course she is the stronger, wiser, more rational leader of the two. Bad Boy #1 has, as his girlfriend, the hottest chick on the show (the aforementioned “mechanic”), but, in a society where females are apparently in short supply, he ditches her for the plain-faced blonde protagonist with the body of a teenage boy.
In fact, within a couple episodes, the show began to resemble a soap opera. The question the audience is prompted to ask is not “How will they survive this catastrophe?” but “Who’s sleeping with who this week?”
Maybe that’s the root problem: Much like what feministas and SJWs want to do to video games (what #gamergate is all about), they have invaded genres like TEOTWAWKI/post-apocalypse and have twisted it into just another pop culture tool to sell their agenda and condition an audience that would rather just be entertained.
They weren’t content to have their own gynocentric gathering places and their own gynocentric entertainment. They have to take over what few male sanctuaries are left and ruin them, as well.
If you want to watch something in this kind of modern-people-dealing-with-prehistoric-challenges flavor, a much better choice would be Terra Nova. It only lasted one season, and is certainly not perfect, but is far superior to this flotsam.
Racial tensions aren’t going to go away just because I wish they would. In fact, for the first time in my life, I’m convinced they’re not going to go away at all. Peacefully anyway.
The turdstorm of lies, distortions and disinformation obviously is only getting worse, too. So here’s Bill Whittle saying what nobody else has the balls to say on camera:
I’ve come to like Truth Revolt, especially Firewall. They don’t recognize or won’t admit the disease destroying our form of government. They still use Newspeak and still believe the GOP is ideologically where it was 80 years ago (free market capitalism, national sovereignty, individual rights, etc.), but it’s hard to find anyone willing to be honest even about the symptoms anymore.
The glaring oversight in this video is how the press also covered up for Clinton (so effectively, in fact, that “conservatives” have been bamboozled into seeing his only crime as lying about a blowjob in the oval office). It’s still worth a watch.
You’re likely to hear all sorts of excuses and rationalizations about “net neutrality” in the coming days/weeks/months. The Marxists (“liberals;” ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, MSNBC, HuffPo, WaPo, NYT, ect. ad infinitum) and the NeoCons (Fox News, etc.) will debate about superficial aspects of the issue, perhaps even passionately.
Don’t buy the crap about connection speeds–that’s a smokescreen.
I’m gonna cut through the BS and just get right to the core of the issue: Censorship and coverups.
The globalist left has been herding policy makers in the USA for well over a century, and they’ve enjoyed a complete monopoly on the flow of information for nearly as long. Their mass media has become increasingly blatant about the agenda in recent decades, but then somebody let the genie out of the bottle.
That genie was the Internet. The Internet has completely saturated the culture, and is the ONLY medium of significant reach that the globalist left doesn’t control outright (NeoCon straw men notwithstanding). Understandably, they don’t like that.
Even the Internet is dominated by leftists and left-leaning voices. Only about 30% of the content is truly outside the good cop/bad cop political theater, and of that, most is garbage posted by legitimate crackpots and probably Establishment shills spreading disinformation (subscribe to Before It’s News and you’ll get more of this than you can stomach).
A tiny percentage actually reports truthfully on the disease (as opposed to only some of the symptoms, like Breitbart, the Blaze, or Fox). But even that tiny percentage, though ignored, dismissed or libelled, is too much for the Establishment’s liking. What’s even scarier to them is there are millions of quiet, unnoticed individuals on the web who might start thinking for themselves at any time, then asking questions outside the frame of acceptable debate.
That’s what “net neutrality” is really about.
And if they don’t ram it down our throats this time, watch for an epidemic of some sort of abuse or unfair business practice by providers to manifest, justifying regulation “for our own good.”
After Trayvon Martin and Ferguson, plus having my finger on the pulse of the Official Victim Class where I live and work, I’m removing my rose-tinted Ray-Bans: There will never be a post-racial America. Those who truly desire harmony (and I believe there’s not many who actually do) don’t have the power or influence to compete with those who are inflaming racial tensions in America.
The present occupant of the White House promised a “post-racial America.” But then he also promised you could keep your doctor and health plan if you liked it, and that he would cut the national debt in half or he wouldn’t run for a second term. Obviously he does exactly the opposite of what he promises…with one glaring exception: his mission statement of “fundamentally transforming” America.
Got a whole lotta’ that going on.
The Official Victim Class never cared how or why the fatal shooting in Ferguson occurred. All they needed to know was who is black, who is white, and their minds were made up, permanently.
Exactly their same attitude in the last two presidential elections, come to think of it. Ironic that they accuse whites of racism so often.
So anyway, Radical Times is about the first “race war” in America–the South during Reconstruction, when blacks truly were oppressed. The original cover was okay, but nothing special. I like this new one much better.
The novella is a quick read with action, lost history, and my first attempt at a romantic sub-plot.
And hopefully it’s much less depressing than what’s going on, now.
But now it’s come to his attention and it gave me a good laugh.
No wonder book sales are continuing to decline. Seriously, even the gamma males of science fiction aren’t going to read any of that equine ejectus.
This after he saw the lineup of Reader’s Choice books on Goodreads.
I was an avid reader from a young age, and window-shopping at bookstores was an enjoyable pastime for me until about the late 1980s, when the New York Publishing Cartel choked off pretty much everything I had a desire to read. I finally gave up going to retail bookstores altogether by the mid 1990s, realizing it would never get better.
And we are supposed to believe they’re honestly and truly going to make good, nay, even better, computer games. Really? To quote the Sports Guy: “The lesson, as always, is this: women ruin everything.”
Here is the primary difference between men and women. In the past, women would look at a male-dominated list of book awards and be struck by feelbad because she felt excluded. A man looks at that list, laughs, and thinks, do they really read that shit?
When was the last time men dominated the list of book awards–the ’60s? Well, whenever it was, he’s right.
Holy shit, is the future just a bunch of girls masturbating in public with cis-males trying to assist them? Cause that’s essentially what this is the literary equivalent of.
While Daniel said:
Oh Lord. In Memoir there’s a finalist titled “Redefining Realness.” About a trans woman*. His last name is Mock.
My tears of laughter are redefined real. Really redefined real.
*Technically, he’s a trans sister. I hope he’s got a show on the radio.
Then Waterboy asked:
Wait…Anne Rice is writing vampire novels, again? Did she redisunconvert again, or was she somehow able to reconcile glorification of evil with her “Christian” beliefs?
To which Stingray replied:
As I understand it, Ann Rice renounced her faith again. She couldn’t reconcile something or other. Some SJW talking point, I believe.
And Crude added:
Anne Rice’s Christian phase went a bit like this:
Anne: I’m a Christian now! Okay everyone, first order of business: Homosexual sex acts are A-OK. My son’s gay, so I know. Christ would approve of that, so get with the program!
Christianity at large: No.
Anne: This is a hateful religion! I can’t be part of a religion that doesn’t approve of sodomy! There’s no God after all, even if Christ was kind of nice! But Christ would dislike you!
What impresses me most about this exchange is that a dozen different commenters didn’t chime in to bleat: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that…”
Then Stillcho provided this insight:
8 different categories are listed, yet looking at the covers and titles one would be prone to suspect that they are all variations on a romance novel.
I threw my hat in the blogosphere a few years ago with the Quixotic notion I could stir up an interest among the average red-blooded American male to read again. Stuff like this drives home the point that it’s hopeless. Even if some average heterosexual dude gets a wild hair up his 4th-point to pause the video game and peruse some available books, when he sees a shelf full of bupkus like this he’ll back up faster than if he realized he just walked into a transgender bar.
And he’ll never bother again.
Red-Blooded American Men Examine Pop-Culture and the World