Caulking in Her C*ck Vault: A New and Improved Chateau Heartiste Crib Sheet of Game

So our dear friend Heartiste, the white-supremacist woman-botherer, has assembled a little “Chateau Heartiste Crib Sheet of Game,” a compilation of some of his best pickup advice, boiled down to a few handy tips and clever one-liners that wannabe alpha males can use on the ladies during conversation in order to get their ginas tingling. (Sorry, that’s the way these guys talk.)

Looking at Heartiste’s list of “lines” I was struck by how generic and, well, frankly unoriginal most of them were, from standard issue negs like “nice shoes. Those are really popular now” and “is she always like this?” to old-school PUA cliches like “I don’t buy girls drinks but you can buy me one” and  “what else do you have going for you besides your looks?” both of which come straight from peacocking PUA pioneer Mystery, the guy with the fuzzy hat and the long-ago-cancelled VH1 show.

Indeed, a lot of Heartiste’s “lines” are as old and stale as he is:

Don’t get clingy

Miss me already?

Hey, hands off the merchandise

If i didn’t know any better i’d say you were trying to pick me up

So I thought I’d do Heartiste a little favor and write up some new lines for him and his fans that are both more original and a bit more honest. Next time you’re in “da club,” Heartiste, why don’t you try some of these out? Some of these I made up myself; some are taken, or adapted, from things you yourself wrote.

Hi, I spend most of my life on the internet trying to figure out how to manipulate drunk women half my age into bed.

People on the internet know me as Heartiste. No, not Fartiste. With an H. No, it’s not a joke. I thought it up myself.

I like to call black people “darkies.” No, not to their face. Anonymously, on the internet.

I’m an alluringly savvy man self-assuredly parrying the clit-hardened jousts of intrigued women.

Too much outbreeding decreases charitable kin-feeling and incentivizes a decadent ennui that severs the citizen’s sense of obligation to his nation and co-ethnics.

A gentlemanly selectiveness honed by years of experience and psychological nimbleness has proved adequate at filtering out women likely to lay like dead fish in my roiling sea of sperm.

If anyone can usurp the lawyercunt in cuntishness, it’s the Twittercunt.

The walls are closing in on the lords of lies and their feels army of emotabots.

Whether our ruling class knows it or they bumble along like drug addicts seeking the next pleasurable injection of power at any cost, their sex-swapping project will turn the West into matricentric, female forager Africa.

Every time we had sex over the following weeks, it ended with her tucking her knees under her chin naked on the bed to quietly cry into the wrapped bubble of her body.

The only bond that matters in a woman’s heart is the one you caulk in her cock vault.

The ruling elites despise whites, despise the concept of whiteness, and despise especially the idea that the territory and nation and culture from which they parasitically suck the lifeblood was created and sustained primarily by white men.

The id of the Like Me Generation is a furry suit wrapping a toddler.

Women should avoid trying to be funny altogether and stick to maximizing the return on their authentically valuable assets. That would be your tits, ass, face and pussy, in case you were wondering.

That last bit was pure Heartiste. (As were the previous ten.) Like the women of the world, I can’t hope to attain such pinnacles of wit.