Category Archives: heartiste
One of the odder folk beliefs of the pickup artist subculture is that women become worn down and used up and even a bit addled if they have sex with too many men. Men, by contrast, are said to be able to handle an equal number of female lovers with grace and aplomb.
In a recent post, our old friend Heartiste offers what he sees as decisive photographic evidence illustrating the different effects of promiscuity on men and women. One bit of this evidence: a picture of a young woman used to advertise some sort of singles event. Reflections from the photographer’s lights obscure her pupils, an offputting effect that gives her a slightly deranged look.
I don’t usually bother to read the comments on Chateau Heartiste; making it through Heartiste’s own florid yet turgid prose is exhausting enough. But after skimming a recent post of his on the increasing historical fatness of British women, I happened to glance down at the comments, only to see a discussion of the comparative anatomy of female humans and deer that was so odd and creepy I felt obligated to bring it to you all.
Brace yourself, because the following might just ruin your breakfast:
I’m pretty sure that guy’s hunting license should be taken away from him. And if there were sex licenses for human beings, well, all three of these guys should lose those as well.
It’s rare that they come out and say it this explicitly, but here’s Heartiste, arguing that unless society treats women badly they won’t give him a boner. In a brief post about “Dread Game” — his term for manipulatively gaslighting women to prey on their insecurities — he offers up this bit of shitbag philosophy:
Dread game on a societal scale keeps women in line, always working hard to please men lest they be cast to the icy wastelands with the rest of the anti-feminine rejects. The opposite of Dread Game — Coddle Game — relaxes selective pressures on women to stay feminine and thin and agreeable. And so what you see now in the decadent, coddling West is what we get: Ballbusting fat feminist cunts and careerist androgynes.
So brave, Heartiste, so brave.
Heartiste hails great leap forward in sexbot technology. Bonus: anatomically improbable kissing and boob simulators!
Over on Chateau Heartiste, everyone’s favorite racist pickup artist gasbag Heartiste excitedly reports on the a giant leap forward in the ongoing “Sexbot Revolution” – a Japanese company has a new lifesize sex doll that looks slightly less creepy than the creepy sex dolls now on the market.
Heartiste quotes a Daily Mail article on the dramatic new development, because where else would you turn for important news in science and technology other than the Daily Mail?
Orient Industry say their new range of dolls, made from high quality silicon, are so realistic there is very little to distinguish them from a real girlfriend at first glance. …
[A]dverts in the media boast that anyone who buys one will never want a real girlfriend again.
Thoughts in my head respond that the potential girlfriends of the world will not be heartbroken at the news that dudes who can’t tell the difference between a giant rubber doll and a real woman will be leaving the dating market.
Heartiste, however, is delighted, writing:
The gender and racial makeovers of Thor and Captain America rustle jimmies at The Spearhead and Chateau Heartiste
So it turns out that Red Pill Redditors aren’t the only ones in a tizzy about Marvel comics’ plan to replace Thor (the superhero, not the actual Norse god, all praise him) with a woman. All over the manosphere, jimmies are rustling at the news.
The proudly racist, woman-hating pickup artist guru known as Heartiste is not only outraged by the “gelding” of Thor but also, and even more vehemently, by Marvel’s decision to make Captain America black, which he bizarrely describes as a kind of racial cuckolding:
Liberals are gloating over the recent editorial choices to geld Thor and race cuck Captain America. The former will become Whor, the female Thor, and the latter will become Captain Gibsmedat, the numinous negro who saves the right kinds of white people from the wrong kinds of white people.
“Gibsmedat” – I had to look it up – is a term that ridiculous racists like to use to describe welfare checks and other “goods, services, or material … given predominately to minorities, in exchange for their tacit agreement to reciprocate by not burning down America’s cities.” It’s short, you see, for “gibs me dat.”
Hilarious, huh? The term seems to be especially popular on Chimpmania.com, a site so ludicrously racist it makes Stormfront look tame.
Heartiste continues, lashing out at a “fat white liberal quasi-male named Devin Faraci” for publicly supporting Marvel’s decision to (at least temporarily) give the Captain America costume to The Falcon, another public-spirited superhero who happens to be black:
Can Sluts Fall in Love? Heartiste on “hard sluts” and the difference between emotional and “spermal bonding.”
Love is in the air at the Chateau Heartiste, the online home of the racist, woman-hating pickup artiste with an “he” at the start of his made up name. In a recent post, Heartiste responds to a reader with the plaintive question: Can sluts fall in love?
Heartiste takes the opportunity to drop some (pseudo)science on the questioner. By which I mean he plucks this nugget of not-quite-scientific nonsense from his posterior:
Absolutely. But they can also fall out of love. And they do both more easily than non-sluts.
Sluts are a strange amalgam of genetic, environmental, and “gray area” influences. Hormones are a good example of a gray area somewhere between the environment and genes which shapes character. While I’ve no hard evidence, I’d bet that sluts release less oxytocin than normal women do during lovemaking, which means the hard slut is less likely to emotionally bond when she’s spermally bonded.
Ah love, sweet ineffable love!
It’s not quite clear how Heartiste became an expert on love, since he seems to thoroughly hate the women he spends so much of his life obsessing about.
Elsewhere in the same “reader mailbag” post, for example, he urges another question-writer to gaslight a former girlfriend who is still showing interest in him in order to score some easy sex. I’ve bolded some of the more repugnant bits for those who’d rather skim than read Mr. H.
She wants the lines of communication open, because she still has hope you’ll give her what she needs. Reply, but only a fraction of the time she texts. Initially, keep it friendly and frivolous, but don’t allow yourself to get boxed into a “friends forever?” interrogation. If she starts down that road, first, know she doesn’t really mean it, and second, amputate that rotten limb of conversation promptly. “You’re so funny” is a reply that will light a fire under her hamster’s ass. Anytime she sends you one of those “just thinking about you” texts, reply “aw that’s sweet.” If she texts, “just got our hair done”, reply, “thanks! i needed to know this.”
The idea is that you are reinforcing your relative higher value by repeatedly and (some would say) sadistically mocking her eagerness to keep you in her life.
Allow for a few weeks of this empty banter, then maneuver her into your fornication zone with a disarming suggestion: “If you need to talk, you can swing by tomorrow (tonight’s no good)”. Through the expert deployment of ambiguous promises, you want her to believe you are warming to the idea of a committed, conventional long-term relationship. The goal is increasing perceptions of your “commitment attainability”, and that will require some feints to the beta side. Convinced of your good intentions, you can extract sexual goodies in this manner for another six months or so, before the process begins anew.
What a charmer!
Heartiste is fond of spinning out these sorts of sadistic fantasies, and his fans lap them up. It’s not clear if any of them have spoken to an actual human woman in years.
It’s the eternal question: do misogynists spend their entire lives looking for excuses to get mad at women, or are they so naturally enraged by any evidence of female autonomy that they can’t help but erupt in rage over the tiniest of things?
We may never know the answer to that question. What we do know: almost anything can provoke them, no matter how trivial it is, no matter how misguided their anger might seem to anyone who doesn’t actually, you know, hate women. Let’s look at some of the latest things to cause women-haters to lose their shit.
Heartiste takes on an “egotistic, attention starved, solipsistic, passive aggressive, perpetually aggrieved … manlet” who somehow isn’t him.
The We Hunted the Mammoth Pledge Drive continues! If you haven’t already, please consider sending some bucks my way. (And don’t worry that the PayPal page says Man Boobz.)
Thanks! (And thanks again to all who’ve already donated.) Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:
Well, the great minds of the manosphere have been going into overdrive trying to explain away the fact that a man who had a lot in common with them, ideology-wise, murdered six innocent people on Friday as part of a “Day of Retribution” that he had hoped would involve a lot more dead bodies, particularly of the blonde, female variety.
We had noted cultural commenter JudgyBitch (Janet Bloomfield) looking at Elliot Rodger, a man who wrote a 140-page manifesto detailing his hatred of women and girls, a manifesto that contained the following paragraph:
Women are like a plague. They don’t deserve to have any rights. Their wickedness must be contained in order prevent future generations from falling to degeneracy. Women are vicious, evil, barbaric animals, and they need to be treated as such.
.. and which ended with a fantasy of putting all the women in the world in concentration camps and starving them to death, while Rodger took a position in a giant tower built just for him “where I can oversee the entire concentration camp and gleefully watch them all die,” and suggesting that Rodger wasn’t actually a misogynist, because he wasn’t able to get into the sorority and murder all the “blonde sluts” he had hoped to murder and so ended up killing more men than women.
I‘m beginning to wonder if Chateau Heartiste isn’t so much a “Game” blog as it is an elaborate unannounced contest to see who can say the worst possible things about women in the most pretentiously incoherent prose. My evidence? Heartiste’s latest choice for “comment of the week” from an aspiring ladykiller (hopefully not literally) who calls himself burke.
Burke’s grand insight into the female of the species?
if you could grind a woman’s entire being to dust with your dick, like a mortar and pestle, that’s the oblivion she is searching for
Well, that’s pretty good, as far as pretentious douchebagginess goes, but it’s almost coherent. I mean, dicks are roughly the same basic shape as pestles, and it’s not hard to visualize one grinding away in a little stone bowl. Hell, there’s probably some porn video out there featuring just that.
But then Heartiste comes along and offers his own comment on the comment, and shows burke just how it’s done. And by “it” I mean “awful, pretentious, incoherent misogyny.”
Insight elevated to sheer poetry by the breezy lack of punctuation. Women secretly desire their oblivion at the insistence of an imperious man. As the vessel sex, they must be filled with the life force of another — a powerful man, or a child — to fully experience sublimation of their souls. Thus it is that surrender is encoded in the gristle of woman.
The gristle? It’s “encoded in the gristle?”
Gristle is cartilage. The tough stuff in meat that’s hard to chew. The stuff that sharks have instead of bone. Nothing is “encoded” in it. Animals don’t store all of their genetic material in their gristle.
The somewhat archaic phrase “in the gristle” means “not yet hardened into bone or strengthened into sinew” or, more broadly, “young, weak, and unformed.” It’s not a fancy synonym for “in the genes.”
Here’s the phrase in a sentence — that is, in a sentence written by someone who actually knew how to use language.
A people who are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood.
Well, come to think of it, that’s a sentence fragment, not a sentence. But at least Edmund Burke understood why that particular metaphoric phrase made sense in that context.
Heartiste, not even competently pretentious.