An innately unsexy lady athlete somehow cons a dude into kissing her.
So over on Chateau Heartiste, the Dude Who Used to Call Himself Roissy seems personally affronted that the female athletes in the Olympics, by and large, didn’t live up to his wet dreams of Perfect Womanhood. In one post, he hails a Turkish newspaper columnist (yes, the same one we talked about here) who complained about the allegedly unwomanly bosoms of female Olympians, and offers his own less-than-complimentary assessment of their looks:
Who with the eyes to see hasn’t noticed the narrow hips, the grotesque six-pack abs (never a good look on women), the chest “stubs”, the linebacker shoulders, and the manjaws of an inordinate number of the female Olympians?
So why does it matter that Roissy/Heartiste couldn’t get a boner watching the Olympics? Apparently because these women are violating the PRIME DIRECTIVE, which forbids representatives of the United Federation of Planets from “intervene[ing] in matters which are essentially the domestic jurisdiction of any planetary social system.”
Chris Brown, who’s convinced that he’s apologized enough for what he calls his “mishap.”
Over on his little chateau, otherwise known as a blog, the pick-up Heartiste Formerly Known as Roissy suggests a rather unusual role model for young and not-so-young men hoping to impress women with their alphaness: Chris Brown. Not for being a charismatic singer, but for that time he nearly beat Rihanna to death.
Oh, you don’t have to literally beat up women to be an alpha. Just work on making them uncomfortable and insecure.
Maxim #19: Making a woman feel a little emotional pain will reward you a thousandfold in returned physical pleasure.
You don’t have to be fists-of-fury Chris Brown to pick up a Rihanna and make her fall in deep, profound love with you, but don’t let the lesson of their relationship be lost on you. If you are a beta male — and odds are you are — you can superglue your relationship bond by instilling in your woman a calculated level of discomfort and insecurity. You won’t feel bad about this, because you will know that the discomfort you create is subconsciously DESIRED by your girl. Despite her outward appearance of frustration and timorous appeasement, you will know that inside, she is lit up like a vagina tree, with a squirting orgasm shooting out of the star on top.
In addition to everything else that is horribly wrong with this quote, let me just say that “lit up like a vagina tree” is not a phrase that I hope works its way into the vernacular.
Always hilarious: painfully unfunny dudes explaining how women just aren’t funny. Over on Chateau Heartiste, the Heartiste formerly known as Roissy drops some (pseudo) SCIENCE on us all:
[C] hicks dig male status, dominance and personality as much as, or more than, they dig male looks. Men, on the other hand, dig beauty first and foremost, and a woman’s comedic timing, however it might make a man laugh, won’t stir his schnitzel if she’s a dog.
Since women don’t see a benefit from humor in the competition to attract men, their sex, on average when compared to men, has not evolved a strong cortical humor module. Women are better equipped to appreciate humor than they are to produce humor.
Apparently, if you use the same words that scientists use – like “cortical” and “module” – that makes it true!
But there is more to this Old Misogynist’s Tale. As Heartiste explains, it’s cruel humor that women appreciate most of all — in their lady regions. In other words, chicks like dicks:
[W]omen become sexually aroused by men who expertly wield the soulkilling shiv of sadism. …
Cruelty that is delivered with supreme confidence, bemused detachment, and eviscerating precision is catnip to women’s kitties.
Get it? Kitties = pussies = VAGINAS.
Ba-dump-tssh! Heartiste is on a roll.
So let’s see some examples of the sort of masterfully eviscerating humor that makes the ladies weak in their knees and gets their “kitties” excited. (Note: By kitties I am, like Heartiste, referring to vaginas. Exciting a woman’s actual kitties is better done with shiny objects and mouse-shaped toys.)
Anyway, here are some of Heartiste’s examples of cruel humor at its most exquisite, which he has helpfully rendered in dialogue form:
Me: Sweetcheeks, look. That bum just winked at you. He wants to take you back to his cardboard box. [waving at bum] Hi, bum!
Her: [struggling to conceal a grin] Shh, stop that. Stop waving. You’re horrible.
Truly, bum-mockery at its finest.
But he’s only getting started:
Me: You want to take a bus? Forget it. [nodding in direction of obese woman] She ate it.
Her: [looking heavenward] Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that.
Aw yeah. Suggesting that a fat person has just eaten something comically large: comedy gold!
After some further jests on the topics of male boobs (hmm), the size of black men’s cocks, and raping the disabled (yes, really), our hero is in like Flynn, well on his way to all-caps “TRIUMPHAL SEX.”
The way it will usually go down is like this: You revel in your cruelty. She reacts with manufactured disapproval, often stifling laughter. Her vagina moistens. A wave of hidden shame releases a continuous flow of blood to her vaginal walls, maintaining her in a semi-aroused state all day long. Later that night, the floodgates open and you slip in like a lubed eel.
Yipes. That is about as erotic as Gilbert Gottfried reading from 50 Shades of Grey.
I’m pretty sure the only reason Heartiste can maintain his belief that women can’t do cruel humor themselves is that he’s never heard what they say about him once he leaves the room.
