Masculine digit ratios, come-hither wickers and careerist shrike tankgrrl females: Heartiste weighs in on the Petraeus scandal

“So,” you’re probably thinking to yourself, “I’ve  heard a lot of pointless uninformed speculation on the Petraeus affair, but I haven’t yet heard what that PUA douchenozzle who calls himself Heartiste thinks about it all.”

Well, we’re going to rectify this tragic situation right now. Despite not understanding even the most basic facts about the scandal – he refers to “Generals Petraeus and Allen and their Lebanese immigrant, faintly masculine mistresses,” even though the only “mistress” involved in all this seems to be Paula Broadwell, who isn’t of Lebanese descent  — Heartiste has produced a 2500-word opus on the subject, with pictures and a graph. So let’s just take a look at the highlights.

Before getting into the details of the story, most of which he just makes up to match his predetermined notions, he sets the scene with some of his typically overheated prose:

Yes, the scent of an attractive, height-weight proportionate woman is strong, stronger still when her surroundings are populated by bloated pustules formerly known as women. Scent of a Womb, you could call it. Men sniff it in the air, like a wolf picking up the odor of prey animals, and they are sprung to action.

I assume that last bit is a reference to boners.

But it is useful to remember that as strong as that fertile pussy odor is to men, equally strong is the alpha male odor to women. Perhaps even stronger in women, since alpha males are so much rarer, and thus more exciting when discovered, than are young fertile women to men, who need only stroll around a SPWL neighborhood for a few minutes to ogle ten or fifty babes who can adequately stiffen the staff.

Well, that’s definitely a boner reference.

A woman in a room with a four star general is as overtaken by powerful urges to FUCK AND FUCK NOW as a man is when in the company of a pretty, young woman with suppleness in all the right places. …

Feminists can screech and shriek, manboobs can pule, white knights can huff and puff, but, like all of us, their knees too will bend to the cosmic prime directive.

I appreciate the plug, as always, but … their “knees will bend?” I mean, sure, knee-bending is involved in quite a few sex acts I can think of off the bat, but, you know, knee-bending is involved in pretty much everything that people with working knees do, from squat-thrusts to walks on the beach to sitting on a couch with a laptop, blogging.

Anyway, after Heartiste’s paean to the alphaness of four-star generals, he informs us that the generals involved here are actually “beta male[s] in alpha clothing.”

Petraeus’s (or was it Allen’s?) self-incriminating email avalanche is some proof that he harbors the soul of a beta. A real alpha male does not do the email equivalent of gushing like a lovestruck schoolgirl, unless he really was lovestruck. …

As for the archetype of Beta Males In Alpha Clothing, these types of men get action from women entranced by their status, but then quickly lose these women’s interest when their betaness reveals itself in manifesting clinginess. The leader of men can be just as blind to the nature of women as the celibate omega male or the cloying beta male.

Never mind that this is all baseless speculation, and that we still don’t know what was in Allen’s alleged “email avalanche” — or even if he was actually having an affair with Jill Kelley. Heartiste is willing to make up whatever details he wants in order to prove his foregone conclusions.

Heartiste then contrasts Petreaus’ wife with his alleged mistress, and seems most interested in … the relative lengths of Paula Broadwell’s various fingers:

Wow, notice that masculine digit ratio she has? That, plus the squared off, clenched jaw and forehead zit are leading indicators that this broad is well on her way to breaking a land speed record for cock gobbling the alpha males in her midst.

Apparently women with extra-long ring fingers are tigers in the sack. (Actually, we’ve discussed this weird theory before.)

How in tarnation is Petraeus’s potato sack poster wife for Puritan living supposed to compete with this fuel-injected sex machine? There isn’t a man alive who would pass up a chance at tapping that harlot if his only alternative was Miss Massachusetts 1687. You may as well dangle a chunk of raw meat in front of a starving lion’s maw and expect it to sit still for twenty years.

But lest anyone think that Heartiste would give a less-than-perfect-ten like Broadwell a second look, he quickly adds:

Look, I’m not claiming Broadwell is any raving beauty. She’s probably around a 7, adjusted for age. And she has that incipient manjaw going on, a classic tell of the late stage America, careerist shrike tankgrrl female with clit dick.

But in Heartiste’s New Math this 7 is also a 10.

But in relation to the wife, she’s a hard 10. Hard enough to cut diamond. If your wife — and I say this with the utmost clinical detachment — is utterly unbangable, then a 7 prancing around your office day in and day out, year after year, in high heels, pencil skirt and a sexpot squint will test the resolve of the most religiously indoctrinated or divorce theft-averse man. Every day you don’t expel yourself in the tramp’s come hither wicker …

Her what!?

Sorry, back to the quote:

Every day you don’t expel yourself in the tramp’s come hither wicker is one more day you drag yourself home to suffer in stark contrast the sad, depressing sight of the Michelin Ma’am dutifully holding down the home post. …

Petraeus had the equivalent of a thousand attractive men’s temptations thrown in his face every day. A choir of heavenly saints would have trouble keeping the Boner of Light in their pants under such circumstances. …

[O]nce the other woman crosses that threshold from “kind of prettier” to “yup, she makes my wife look like a duffel bag of laundry”, the infidelity is set in stone. And only those who loathe male desire will see fit to condemn such a man for his actions.

So it’s wrong to expect men in such situations to not, er, expel themselves in some conveniently placed woman’s “come hither wicker.”(Women who follow their supposed biological urges = evil. Men who do the same = they cant’ help it!)

The solution to workplace affairs, Heartiste explains, isn’t for men and women to keep it in their pants, but to segregate men and women in different jobs or, perhaps, to keep women out of the workforce entirely:

Tossing men and women together in the workplace is a recipe for dissolving marriages, sexually dispossessing beta males, and corraling women under the banner of a few industry captain alpha males. … The gender neutral workplace experiment has brought alpha males and fertile females together like no other arrangement yet devised by man.

Wouldn’t everything be easier if men and women were somehow magically kept apart from everyone but their spouses?

There is a reason why newly minted wives rush their husbands out to the suburbs, and it’s not just to get their kids into good white schools: it’s to sequester their men from the sea of luscious young pussy that swims the streets of the cities. Similarly, most husbands are much happier when their wives either stay at home or work in jobs where they are mostly surrounded by other women or beta males, like teaching or accounting.

This seems a strange solution to be proffered by someone whose entire blog is devoted to putatively helping dudes get it on with young urban women – sorry, with the “luscious young pussy that swims the streets of the cities.” But apparently Heartiste and his male readers are immune to his moralizing.

This is not the case with Holly Petraeus:

She did nothing “wrong”, in the Biblical or PC sense, but the fact that she obviously felt it reasonable to so fully let herself go is evidence that she cared not a whit for her husband’s animal desires, and was probably up to her ears in feminist ideology about the uselessness and evil of appealing to the visceral demands of men for physically attractive, slender lovers. Had she stayed thin (something which is entirely possible, barring very rare physiological ailments), she would have enjoyed more loving sexual attention from her husband.

After some ponderous reflections on love and lust, Heartiste ends the piece with a weird, disengenuous plea for the poor neglected betas of the world:

I predict that the cuckolded beta male hubbies, both of whom are “conventionally alpha” doctors, of Broadwell and Kelley will be the least examined aspect of this story by the media. Remeber, folks, men are expendable! And that goes triply for beta males. They are the forgotten lepers in the wilderness of unspoken tabulations of human worth. 

Wait, so the seemingly alpha generals are really betas, and the seemingly alpha husbands are also really betas? So betas are cuckolding other betas?

Is Heartiste the only real alpha in the world? Stay tuned.