Saturday, October 20, 2018

Sexual Harresment is the Right of Every Gamma Male

That was supposed to be the deal wasn't it?

The winds of what the New York Post calls Pervnado continue to gather strength, carving a hole through the beta male worlds of NPR, PBS, Hollywood, the New Republic, Vox, the New York Times, and MSNBC, among others. What emerges from this storm of scandal is a clearer picture of a culture that trained men not to respect women but to respect feminism. In many ways, the Beta Male sexual harasser is the squalid offspring of the unhappy marriage between feminism and the sexual revolution, from whose chaotic household he learned virtue-signaling without virtue.

The growing pile of confession notes — which combine ostensible empathy and promises of sensitivity and submission with strategically placed, lawyerly denials — testifies to the grimly comic dishonesty of the Beta Male sexual harasser. He thought that he could continue to indulge his appetites as long as he adjusted his attitudes, a view that all of the prattle about “systemic change” confirms him in, insofar as it treats his misbehavior as an ideological problem rather than a moral one. Implied in many of the confession notes from the harassers is the ludicrous suggestion that with a little more “education,” with a few more training seminars, with a little more consciousness-raising, they would have behaved virtuously. This pose allows them to escape moral responsibility and painlessly join the “solution.” The sexual revolution’s massive crisis of unchastity is thus turned into a “problem of power” that can be remedied by the hiring of more female executives, the expansion of HR departments, and “better” education.

For sheer pomposity, perhaps nothing beats Richard Dreyfuss’s non-apology apology, chalking up his misbehavior to the “performative masculine man my father had modeled for me to be.” But, no worries, he is enlightened now: “I have had to redefine what it means to be a man, and an ethical man. I think every man on Earth has or will have to grapple with this question. But I am not an assaulter.”

Al Franken, trading in the therapeutic, I-stand-ready-to-listen babble of his SNL character Stuart Smalley, says he is going to commit himself anew to believing “women’s experiences.” Never mind that he denied his accuser’s experience. He doesn’t “remember the rehearsal for the skit as Leann does,” but women “deserve to be heard, and believed.” For this act of blatantly dishonest and contradictory atonement, he is receiving praise for his “honesty” and now — in a reminder that feminism will always put politics ahead of the protection of women — a concerted effort is underway to save his career. Thirty-six women from Saturday Night Live have penned a letter saying that his behavior “was stupid and foolish” but that shouldn’t detract from his status as “an honorable public servant.” Michelle Goldberg, writing in the New York Times, says that she is hedging on her call for the ouster of Franken, offering this look into the quality of her reasoning: “It’s easy to condemn morally worthless men like Trump; it’s much harder to figure out what should happen to men who make valuable political and cultural contributions, and whose alleged misdeeds fall far short of criminal.

File this one under SJWs always project.

I ran across an article not too long ago that featured a college professor offering up this nugget of bullshit

“From those four distal expectations come the proximal attitudes and behaviors, like ‘I deserve to have access to women’s bodies,’” he explains.

"Deserve." A rather interesting choice of word don't you think?  "Deserve," as in I have earned this. This is my right.

I said all the things I was supposed to say about how important feminism was.  I retweeted until my fingers bled.  I clapped along when I heard women chanting, "no means, no.  Whatever I wear, wherever I go!" I donated money to Planned Parenthood because feminists told me to.  I voted for women.  I made rude comments to men who said an attractive a women who had just walked by was indeed attractive.   I supported the right of women to have sex with whoever they want.  And now they are supposed to want me because of all that.  

I earned this.

The deal was that they are supposed to find me sexually attractive now and they don't!  It's not fair!  I've paid for my indulgence!  I've earned a right to sex with attractive women! I deserve access to women's bodies!

Gamma Males were told that if they supported feminism then straight women in their early twenties would behave like gay men in their late forties.  There was the implied promise that if they did their part some of that freely available sex would finally come their way.  They have paid for their indulgence, so they may sin without guilt.

The problem of course is that Gender's Studies Departments do not get a vote in what men or women find sexually attractive. 

The average SUCCESSFUL  pick up artist has much more respect for women than a Gamma Male Feminist is remotely capable of.  We accept women just as they are and will walk away if the chemistry isn't there.  None us feel that we deserve to have sex with them after all our hard work.  We would just like to and if it doesn't happen, it doesn't.  There is no frustration aimed at the entire sex because one of them said, "oh, I wish I could but I really don't want to."  We just shrug and move on* because that is how you play and win the Game.

But winning is impossible for a Feminist Gamma.  Their entire mindset is geared towards failing with women in the first place.  They did what they were told to do by feminists and they were supposed to succeed with women in consequence but it didn't work.  And the only thing left is intense frustration.

Those few Gammas who become powerful become even more frustrated because now they have both feminist credibility and rich guy toys.  Women are supposed to be throwing themselves at them and they still only go for dumb-jock-cavemen.  At that point they begin acting out, not to try to  actually get sex but to dominate and humiliate women.  Although occasionally this need to dominate and humiliate will escalate all the way to actual rape.

The horrifying thing is that this actually worked for as long as it did because feminists would circle the wagons around known perpetrators in order to preserve their lies.  And feminists would beat down any woman who tried to threaten their narrative.  This reinforced the belief of powerful Gammas that they indeed earned a right.

Then a few actual women decided they didn't care how much feminism was going to damage them afterward, they were going to speak up anyway.





*And maybe jot down a note if the shootdown line was clever because we might need it someday when it's time to NEXT a clingy but uninteresting girl.   

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

It Came From the Trash File: Dark Winter II

Snippet for the fans of Dark Winter.

This should keep the both of you happy for little bit, while I work on the "other project."


The janitor’s breakroom, smelled of decades long gone dead cigarettes and newly arrived dead feet.  The feet in question belonged to a man in late middle age who had spent a lifetime upon them. The breakroom had two major upsides as a field expedient berthing area.  One; it was completely windowless, so it could be blacked out with the flip of a light switch any time day or night. When you are on a four hour (at most sleep) cycle that matters a hell of a  lot.

Two it was located over the throbbing hum of an industrial air conditioner, the white noise overwhelmed everything else, it made sleep just barely possible.

General Shane Dillard, rolled off the Walmart grade sofa and on to his feet. Rubbed very red achy eyes and looked over at the cheap plastic alarm clock with red LED numbers.  

Seven hours!  They’d let him sleep for seven hours when he’d God damn good and well  told Burris to wake him after four. I have a God damn wife, to take care of me, God damn it.  I’ll have Burris’ balls on a stick!

He slammed open the door of the janitor’s break room and stormed down the hall.  Trying to make himself feel much more angry than he actually was. He’d been in the Marine Corps for forty years, half of that had been without any sleep.  I am not a new boot standing on the little yellow footprints on PI, he raged to himself. If I had wanted sleep I would have joined the Army!

“Major Burris!” he roared.    Burris is going to be wearing my boot so far up his ass, my heel will be massaging his prostate.  God help him if he’s asleep himself.  

Then Dillard got ahold of himself. Okay, okay fine, if he’s asleep.  I will still tear him a new one, that’s a given...but privately. It’s forgivable.  It honestly would be kind of flattering in its way, he admitted to himself, if the crusty old Marine is more on the ball then his twenty something Army aide de camp. Still, order, discipline, whatever and ooh-rah happy horseshit.

The pogues rose  when he erupted into the office. “Private,” he called out vaguely to the first Army clerk he saw, “find Major Burris.”

“Uh...” The private stammered, she wasn't’ used to dealing with a general in real life.  She’d been dragged up from a line company to fill the gaps that were developing.

“Now,” Dillard stated flatly.

“Be...uh...be advised, sir.  Major Burris is down sir,”

Dillard kept his face stock still.  Didn’t even swallow. Nothing to indicate the hairs on the back of neck were standing on end.  “Very well Private, carry on.”

He exited his office and went down the staircase, headed towards the COC.  

The J3 had moved himself from the Pentagon to the old Joint and Coalition Warfighting Center in Suffolk Virginia.  General Dillard was now effectively the commander of the Armed Forces of the United States.  Admiral Noel of course remained the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff but at the moment all that really meant was that Noel was keeping the heat from a rapidly disintegrating Washington off of Shane Dillard.

God, which one is the real President?

In the meantime; Dillard told himself, ‘Step it out Marine!”’

The Joint Warfare Center’s  COC looked like NASA’s mission control.  It was one of the few places in the U.S. Military that looked like the U.S. Military, you see in the movies.  Rows and rows of flatscreen monitors, in descending concentric semi circles. At the bottom was a Marine Lance Corporal manning a complex central monitoring station.  He had the best seat in the house and he couldn’t for the life of him do anything with it. On the wall behind him was a massive computer generated map of the world and it was so cluttered as to be absolutely worthless.  The kid had no idea what he was doing. He was a small system specialist and had had no training at all on operating a UNIX battle management system.  His M-4 however was resting on top of his station well within one arm’s reach.  Dillard was pretty sure the kid could operate that.

You never.  Absolutely never saw weaponry inside a Commanding General’s’ Command Operations Center.

It didn’t happen.  

It.  Was. Not. Done.

A few of the enlisted men had .357 magnums strapped gunslinger style on their thighs. Everyone else was carrying a service Beretta M-9 with slightly unauthorized, vaguely illegal, civilian anti-personnel ammo.  Dillard was carrying a MEU(soc) 1911, though his gun was strapped across his chest. Hip carry is convenient and the gun doesn’t move around so much. Thigh carry is fast on the draw, your hand is right there anyway but your pistol butt bumps into everything because your thigh moves all the time.  Chest carry. mostly keeps your gun out of the way. Which was why Dillard was using it. He hadn’t bothered with pistol qual in years and he rather doubted he could hit anything except at contact range. There was a chance that that subject could come up which was why he was favoring John Browning’s  big bore antique.

Admiral Sosa, who was also chest carrying, could barely keep from glaring at Dillard when he came loping up to him from the center of  the COC.

“Sorry Ed,” Dillard sotto sotto voce whispered. “My Aide Burris was supposed to...”

“We have a Flash Z from the Roosevelt,”  Sosa interrupted tersely. .

“Sitrep,”  Dillard said on automatic, his face going slack.

This was bad.  CVN-71 USS Theodore Roosevelt was a  Nimitz class supercarrier. One of only ten.  A one hundred thousand ton mobile air base hauling better than ninety aircraft and more fire power than WWII.  Wherever the Rough Rider went, the United States was.

“Confirmed SOD outbreak. Containment measures...weren’t implemented.”

“Who is skippering the TR these days?” Dillard wasn’t really asking a question so much as wanting  to know whose name to put on the death warrant.

“It was Marty Harris,” Sosa replied after a moment.

Containment measures were a euphemism for euthanasia.  Yeah it sucked. The world was getting very sucky. Very fast. Awkward  questions could be asked later. Was Captain Harris worried about the lives of his men who had gone down? Or what would happen to him when things were calm again and the usual suspects would be free to start publically wringing their hands?

“Apparently he tried locking infected crewmen in a berthing area.  Either they broke out when the crew was trying to toss a newly infected crewmen in or...or...who the fuck knows here?  I’m guessing Shane!

“Ease down Joe,”  Dillard soothed. “Ease down.  Stay frosty,” Dillard quoted a movie they had seen together slightly more than thirty years ago.


When it happened Captain Harris altered course and headed back for Norfolk.  Admiral Griggson transferred his flag to the USS Gravely. Containment measures were applied at that point but failed.

The situation on the USS Theodore Roosevelt had degraded fast. They have about one hundred crewmen at full level III.  Another two hundred at level II. The aviators seem as yet to be unafflicted. As soon as he gets within range he’s going to evac his aircraft and of course his aviators simultaneously.   He’s running low on ammo and he thinks he’s gone into stage I himself.

///interlude///
“Sitrep on the USS Roosevelt,”  General Dillard ordered.

“Junior Lieutenant Farrah Rasuol  appears to be the most senior officer still able to report.  She is locked in Admiral Grigson’s quarters, she and some sailors are using the admiral’s comms gear,”  Admiral Sosa said with dark and puffy eyes..

“She is not in control of the ship in anyway,” Sosa concluded.
There it was.  A major United States strategic asset was not in the control of the United States or anyone except a bunch a mindless walking murder machines.  The word unprecedented was technically accurate. But was completely, tragically and hilariously underpowered for what had happened in the space of one day.

A better word might be decimated.  Only the Romans would have come up with a specialized word that meant kill one out ten men.  The United States Navy had just been decimated. The United States of America was suddenly down to nine aircraft carriers.

And then final nail was driven home. “The Roosevelt is still underway.”

Don’t say, ‘what,’ Dillard thought to himself.  Even as his lips formed the word.

“The TR is headed for somewhere on the U.S. east coast at about thirty knots. “

A ship with eight nuclear reactors was going to crash headlong at full speed into the Eastern seaboard.

Shane rubbed his stubbly chin for comfort.  I need to shave he thought to himself distantly.  A general can’t be seen like this it’s bad for...

“Why the fuck didn’t anybody wake me, when this started?” He suddenly ground out between clenched teeth.

“Shane we didn’t know where you were.  You weren’t in your rack. We looked,” Admiral Sosa said rather defensively.

“Okay,” he breathed getting control of himself. “Okay. How long until she hits?” Dillard asked.

“About five hours if she stays on her current heading,” Sosa said coldly.

“What happens then?”

“Honestly,” Sosa sighed, “we don’t know.  Carriers have run aground before but never like this.  If she hits a sandbar. Maybe not much. If she hit’s rocks. She’ll probably break up.  Lots of jet fuel, lots of ammo, lots of radioactive stuff. Lots and lots of fire. Given the current situation she could burn for days”

“And she was headed for Norfolk,” Dillard stated.

“Actually she's headed a little north of that now,  Her course has been varying a bit.”

Dillard stopped rubbing his chin. North of Norfolk was Washington.

All right then, “Is she still over deep water?”

Sosa’s sleep deprived eyes went wide with horror.  “The Wasp is close by,” he said urgently, “and she has a big chunk of Two Six MEU aboard aboard her.”

Dillard considered. Two thousand two hundred combat ready Marines but how many can they helo in on at one time?  No more than...what sixty or so? Absolute max? Is the Roosevelt’s flight deck even clear? Assuming it is. Would the jarheads be able to find the bridge from there?  Maybe fast rope on to the top of the top of the tower from the Ospreys. Breach it. Clear it. Find the wheel and turn it north east. The op will take somewhere from two to four hours going from a dead start.  Then what? The ship is still out control.

Dillard finally shook his head. "Orders for the USS Seawolf..."

Who Doesn't Love Kittens?




UPDATE:

And cake

Yes, it was made in honor of Freddie Mercury's birthday.


UPDATE: 

Their creator has landed a show on Netflix


Saturday, October 13, 2018

Is NPC the New SJW?

Yes, SJW had the power to hurt...at one time.  But you can only get called the same thing so many times before it loses it's sting.

Maybe it's time to move on to a new rhetorical label that drives the Enemy batshit.  After all SJW is sooooooo 2015.

A while back someone on 4chan started calling them NPCs and it had the power of REEEEEEE

And last week LolKotaku just posted a very long winded piece on why it's wrong to call SJWs. NPCs.

It’s one thing to claim that a person’s strongly-held views are informed by nothing at all, but entirely another to imply that they’re completely on auto-pilot. That is dehumanization, a way of reconceiving your enemies as objects, pawns, strawmen, tools. At best, dismissing large swaths of people you disagree with this way betrays a lack of empathy for people whose experiences differ from yours, and an unwillingness to consider that if a vast number of people happen to agree over something, it may be good to examine why; at best, it is a great utility for spreading bogus conspiracy theories.

The complete and total lack of self awareness here is breath taking.

Friday, October 12, 2018

Blogs and Ends: The Oh My Crap Edition

Just checking in to make sure my blog hasn't been nuked...yet.

Good it's still here...for now.

First up:

Bleeding Cool published a fairly extensive and (shockingly) fair interview with Vox Day.   It's archived here, because you won't find it on Bleeding Cool.  The only reference to it there is a long winded and tartuffe-tastic apology for having run the interview in the first place.  No link provided because I'm not giving that drunken clown car pileup a single click if I can help it.

The sadly funny thing is that I think this was supposed to be Bleeding Cool's attempt to break out of the Marvel puff piece business and be an edgy and culturally significant online presence.  I suspect they viewed this piece in the same way that Playboy did Alex Haley's interview with Lincoln Rockwell.  Reporting hardly equaled endorsing back then and BC appears to have been under the hilarious delusion that those rules still apply.

They don't obviously.

Nobody is allowed to be a moderate anymore.  Nobody is allowed to be an impartial and principled observer of events.  If you are not openly propagandizing for SJWism then you are against it.  Bleeding Cool has now learned it's lesson.  They have now publicly sworn they will never indulge themselves in fair and balanced journalism ever again.

I don't know if this was natural timidity on their part or if they got threatened.  It is quite possibly the later because on the same day that this interview got zapped. Indiegogo canxed Arkhaven's crowd funder for Alt Hero Q.  That one, I definitely suspect was quashed due to Silicon Valley venture capital pressure.  Lately, they have been moving in the direction of leaning on or purging any company that allows the Rightwing to be "platformed."  This will eventually get them into major hot water with a Republican controlled Washington that is starting to lose it's timidity but if there is one thing that SJWs can't do, it is foresee the consequences of their own actions.

NEXT

  Oh My Crap!  It's Rover!






NEXT

Cataline Recommends: Scooby Doo Mystery Incorporated



"Oh my crap! It's Pebbles and Bam-Bam," said, Cataline the elder.

"Who?" said, Catalina the younger.



I just realized, belatedly, that I hadn't done any Halloween recommendations for the kids.  I am now rectifying that.

Scooby Doo Mystery Inc. season 1, was a $5 clearance bin find, that one of my kids snatched up right before a four hour road trip.  I ended up paying full price to get season 2 and I don't regret it in the least.

I'm not going to go into the history of Scooby Doo other than to say it's something of a Gen-X litmus test.  If you grew up watching it on Saturday mornings you are one us.

Scooby Doo Mystery Inc is a affectionately, hilarious send up of 1970s Hanna-Barbera cartoons in general and  the Scooby Gang in particular.

The individual episodes are still of fake monster of the week but the two season run is a self contained story line and over the course of that time period follows the three act play structure.   The individual episodes, kinda sorta allow the characters of the Gang to grow a little.  Though not too much.  After all, no one really wants them changing at all.  The show also answers a number of long standing questions that nobody ever asked in the place.

Crystal Cove, California or possibly Florida, I'm not sure which, was founded by Spanish Conquestadors who vanished mysteriously.  Then a Spanish mission was established on the site...until it vanished mysteriously.  Then Crystal Cove itself was established as a mining town and mostly hasn't vanished...yet.  Although it is the hub of many supernatural occurrences.  And time after time, through out the centuries, a group of four young people with a talking animal mascot band together to try and solve them.

This world is perpetually stuck in the 1970s, the poor bastards will never reach the Eighties.   Hilariously authentic Seventies Bossa Nova music is played at the local tiki bar.  Cameras with flash cubes are everywhere as is Don Knotts.  Honestly, the easter eggs are going to be the really selling point for any Gen-Xer couple watching this with their  kids.  However, that isn't the shows only selling point.  It's actually funny.  Deliberately and comically funny. Yet it still maintains the spirit of the original sereies.   The few guest stars it has are appropriate to the show's motiff.  Harlen Ellison was my favorite.

The art design and animation are both kind of impressive given the budget.  But the real selling point is the story of the Scooby Gang and their two season long quest to discover the fate of their predecessors, Mystery Incorporated and identity of their mysterious benefactor, Mister E.

Taken as a whole Scooby Doo Mystery Incorporated is a funny, charming and nostalgic show aimed at the Gen-Xer with kids.

Cataline Recommends with Enthusiasm.


UPDATE: