Fair warning: the invective in this link is ugly. It’s the kind of thing that shocks the conscience of any person of goodwill, although I get past the shock threshold pretty easily since I’ve looked through a lot of Roissy’s garbage over the past few years. I don’t believe in trigger warnings, since I find them infantilizing and censorious, but it seems fully in order to offer a barf warning to those of you who don’t frequent such moral cesspools. Pukie is in the neighborhood, and he may well pay you a visit. Ready the airsickness bag or the spare saucepan if you like.
It’s worth mentioning that I don’ t read Chateau Heartiste just for the shock value, although there are worse reasons to read it, sincere agreement with Roissy’s paranoid racism perhaps being the worst. A lot of losers in the CH peanut gallery do seem to read it earnestly and take its vile messages to heart. In my estimation, this makes it quite dangerous. It’s the stuff of Radio Mille Collines, but without the comforting distance that comes from the confinement of such hatred to Rwanda. Roissy, the only person who can be definitively linked to Chateau Heartiste (although by some accounts, which I tend not to believe, he has ceded operation of the site a group of writers under his loose direction), is apparently a a bar fly by the name of James Weidmann based in Adams Morgan, an affluent nightlife district in the Northwest sector of Washington, DC. So the Chateau is very much a homegrown threat.
What got Roissy foaming at the mouth in the link above was a sort of multimedia essay series (large parts of it since removed, but some of these preserved in screenshots) about a case of racially inflamed romantic treachery. A subtly dorky white guy took up with a zero-dork-factor white girlfriend who was sexually standoffish with him but turned out to be hooking up with multiple black men strange to her at night clubs. The lurid details of this woman’s promiscuity, the heartbreak of her official boyfriend, the coarse taunts from some of her hookups, her apparent reconciliation to her boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s saccharine, tendentious declarations of forgiveness have all been documented online; God bless DARPA for bestowing upon us this glorious infrastructure. Roissy proclaims his disgust with the boyfriend for forgiving his woman, seeing this forgiveness as nothing more than a wimpy manifestation of moral hazard, although he uses much nastier and more strident language for his denunciation.
It’s intellectually dishonest to insist that race isn’t a pertinent factor in this sordid tale. A white man doesn’t have to be a bigot to be especially upset that his girlfriend cheated on him with black men. It’s unfortunate that this is the case, but it is. Race is bound up with a lot of nasty matters pertaining to class and criminality, but it’s easier to identify at a glance and mentally process than some of the deeper cultural factors at play. It is what it is. It’s important to specify, however, that the girlfriend’s hookups were not the kind of dorky bougies who might fit in with her white official boyfriend. Judging from the picture and online messages that Roissy published, I’d say that these guys are probably thug life poseurs, not hardcore, genuine underclass. I can’t say for sure, but the guys don’t really look scary in the picture, more crass than anything, and absent serious threats or acts of violence, there’s no strong reason to believe that their online invective (“Dhats still ya girl? how my dick taste bitch”) is anything worse than semianonymous trash talk. A very similar mess could have unfolded involving the girlfriend cheating with white thug life flatbillers in San Diego or soi-disant Jersey Shore guidos from Staten Island (like many embarrassments, they usually are), and the sticking point would have been limited to the low class of her erstwhile paramours, not their race. Instead, she cheated on a dorky white guy with black bad boys, and it became about race. As Bruce Hornsby says, that’s just the way it is; some things will never change.
There’s no excuse for the vile racebaiting demagoguery that Roissy whipped up over this romantic donnybrook, but as my paternal grandfather liked to say about aggressive drivers, Chateau Heartiste is an accident looking for a place to happen. Roissy is driven by a Nixonian paranoia about race relations, or at least the affectation thereof, so any incident of white chicks taking up with black dudes that he comes across he quickly paints in the worst possible light. The same goes for any incident of sexually lax behavior on the part of women. (When dudes get slutty, on the other hand, it’s baller. Tight game, brah.) He misses the trees for, shall we say, the fwhorest.
Let’s start with the picture of the two lovers next to a backyard swimming pool. Homegirl is wearing a bra but no shirt and a pair of jean shorts shortened unto the dimensions of Mennonite undies. (Don’t hate; they get more action than you do.) Homeboy is topless in a pair of knee-length gym shorts. (Oh, was I supposed to say “shirtless?” Well, fuck me. Sauce for the goose, etc.: and that’s an all too relevant idiom, as one can unfortunately understand. One needn’t buy a turkey baster to baste the goose. Of course that went too far, but do I sound like I give a shit?) He’s giving her a sort of combination kiss, nose tweaking, and raspberry on the cheek while she does a Miley Cyrus/Rolling Stones logo tongue projection thang. She looks less into this scene than he does, but it’s a stretch to claim, as Roissy does, that her body language looks “as if she caught a whiff of dog shit.” She’s a bit more physically reserved than he is, but he isn’t awfully forward himself.
It took me a few seconds to notice that she’s clearly out of his league. Not flagrantly so, but enough. She looks like a cheerleader head-of-the-clique type; he looks like the kind of guy who is routinely given wedgies in the locker room. This is not the sort of thing that she’d totally not notice until he’s being dorky on camera next to the pool. These traits come through from across the hallway of any high school, especially for a girl as socially engaged and astute as the girlfriend appears. I’d be surprised if she isn’t socially savvier than her boyfriend.
There’s a Taylor Swift song about this young couple, and it isn’t the girlfriend that my Wyomissing homegirl is trying to poach. Yes, girls can get friendzoned, too. I can’t count the number of times I’ve avoided testing the romantic waters with some friend who would probably have been quite compatible with me, and whom I would have fucked in a heartbeat, in order to pursue some crush who had major shit wrong with her: trashy, bitchy, enjoyed fingernail-tickling my kneecaps way too much, manic-depressive and maybe a touch borderline with a philandering Jewish boyfriend by the name of Ben in Brooklyn, whatever. I’m not making any of this up. I think some of these chicks I forsook had crushes on me, but hell if I know. All I know is that I wasn’t so smart about these relationships. I shied away from some hella cool chicks because they didn’t provide the kind of hot mess that I apparently needed to assuage my Holden Caulfield-style ennui. And I’m not the only one. I’ve witnessed the Insurance Schmuck doing more or less the same thing, although he gets a lot more pussy out of the deal. If you take a look at the chicks who really mack it on the Pareto Distribution hump, you’ll probably find that they’re the crazy ones, and that they have slightly less pretty (or maybe prettier) friends who are less overtly wiggity-wack, often enough blatantly sane and emotionally engaged and morally grounded, but who have a much harder time landing boyfriends. As far as I can tell, this is because dudes are drawn magnetically to the crazies who clean up best, and weakly at best to peers who aren’t wacked-out, overly verbose ditzes with poor boundaries. The dudes won’t admit this, of course, because doing so would indicate pwnage by various non-bro influences. Being eccentric helps one admit to such weaknesses. This applies to the chicks, too.
What idiots forget about relationships involving parties of this airy flightiness is that they’re easy come, easy go. This is an r-strategic courtship model, not the most edifying or stabilizing model for human relationships, but at least the parties get some good nookie out of the deal. If you’re wringing your hands about the deleterious effects of this model on family formation, childrearing, demography, etc., etc., you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’d be less of a waste to make sure that there’s good day care at the local community college. If you hear people on the bus talking about their baby mammas and baby daddies, this is their way of saying that they’ve figured out functional coparenting arrangements without your help. It also means that you ride the bus, which is a lot more useful for non-deranged policy ideas than it is to be David Brooks. For certain tradcons, each of these related concepts is a sick burn. Anyway, standing between the youth of America and their rumpy-pumpy will only serve to get you thumped on the rump. That, and it’s good for a career in one of the reactionary policy shops or busybody church outfits, assuming that you have no scruples. C. S. Lewis won’t approve of your professional choices, but he won’t be the one writing your paycheck, now will he?
But, but, absent fathers, and the separation of the unitive and procreative functions of the marriage act, and the missing babies, and the fall of Christendom under the Muslim demographic tide–calm down. Have another glass of Chianti. Kids are gonna fuck and you aren’t in a position to stop them by being a bumptious, overbearing meddler, so there’s no point to even trying to be sober. I was foolish enough to buy an off-dry 17-proof Lambrusco last night when I could have gotten a drunk’s wine, but that was just because I didn’t look at the label. That, and it was hecka cheap. Look, these are just teenagers being teenagers. At least we aren’t putting them in charge of entire grand duchies and city-states, which helped explain the hundred years’ suck of the Middle Ages. Whatever else is wrong with kids these days, at least Western countries aren’t giving them command of armies. If you want to see a real teenage wasteland, send the Millennials back another millennium and see how they handle the glories of Charles Martel’s Christian army at a time when everybody in Paris is shitting in some kind of box.
This is roughly the status quo ante that Roissy and a number of his allies would like to restore. I guess they’d like to take surgical anesthesia and germ theory along for the trip, too. These were manly times and shit. They didn’t have the pill, and they also didn’t know that the earth was round or how to keep the Catholic Church from gouging out the eyes of heretics. Fine Christian values they all had before the goddamn secularists crashed their scene and put an end to the witch-burnings and the defenestrations. But at least they didn’t have sluts. I lie: they had lots of sluts. It was just that getting knocked up by a common-law husband at thirteen looked like a pretty good idea when only Old Gretel made it past thirty. And when the high-hat clergy finally made it to some of the remoter parts of rural England in the mid-nineteenth century and started shaming the local peasant kids into not going into the hay lofts to test the reproductive equipment prior to marriage, the kids looked at each other like, who the fuck do these buggers think they are? The peasant girls asked the same question when the prim bougie church ladies tried to concern-troll them about the whorehouses of London.
What we have today is a cohort of late teens having recreational sex, usually in fleeting relationships, and another cohort of late teens having reproductive sex, again often in fleeting relationships. If you’re looking for an American culture of life, that’s your culture of life right there, so love it or leave it. God knows a lot of bougies are waiting until their late thirties to bite that bullet. What part of more babies did these unwed mothers fail to deliver? No, the Christian marriage thing isn’t part of it; invite their little ones to youth ministry events or breed some more of your own two-parented Christian babies if you’re that sore about it. Anyway, Roissy, apparently a childless forty-something bachelor, is quite sore about all of this unsanctioned sexytime and the resulting progeny, especially when it involves white girls and black guys. The girlfriend I’ve been discussing, equally unreceptive to life, and it’s just as well that way, went all coalburning mudshark on her cuckolded boyfriend’s beta ass, as the gutter alt-right would have it. As I said, this stuff is fucking ugly. She’s out in the clubs giving blowjobs to black men strange to her, and these strange men in turn are taunting her official boyfriend using with barely literate references to their fuxkin black diick and the like. In fairness, the boyfriend is only marginally more literate. In the course of this spat, they post a picture of her in a semi-public three-way, her blouse pulled down while two guys feel her up and a third stands in front of them, pointing and smiling.
Once again, the girlfriend has her tongue out. She looks more at ease with these guys tag-teaming her tits than she did by the pool with her boyfriend. She also looks drunk in this photo, and can be inferred to be raging drunk; in the pool photo, she looks sober. Maybe she would have enjoyed this aggression sober, or maybe she would have had a bouncer put the guys in intensive care. There’s no way to know. The only thing that’s clear is that she’s disinhibited. Regardless of the applicable legal standards, I can’t concede that she was too drunk to consent, since she appears to be in anything but a state of duress at that moment. The citizenry has to be thoroughly infantilized by the law to allow a cut-and-dry legal threshold of incompetence by intoxication, because the intent of the nominal victims in these cases can be really ambiguous. Most people don’t want the same things when they’re drunk that they want when they’re sober. It’s one of the reasons that people drink.
But the tongue. This seems to have become an important cultural meme among young women thanks to their peer Miley Cyrus. Paradoxically, Cyrus is widely reputed to be asexual, but this makes sense when one considers that women with normal sexuality aren’t such ridiculous exhibitionists. Bizarrely, the only commonality in the girlfriend’s expression in the two photos is that she’s sticking out her tongue. I’d have a hard time getting drunk enough to do that when I know I’m on camera. There are a couple of inferences worth making here: first, that this is a rather tasteless young lady, and second, that she’s one who can’t express herself without resorting to hackneyed social memes. The corollary inference is that she lacks the constancy or maturity to maintain stable relationships.
In other words, her boyfriend had it coming. I don’t mean this in a karmic sense, but in the sense that he who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas. Or, as it was put on Sanford and Son, “he who liveth by the sword, shall be stucketh.” The details were unpredictable, but the rough trajectory of their relationship should have been easy enough to foresee. If anything, their relationship is probably stabler and more enduring than could reasonably be expected. This is certainly the case if they’re in fact back together and she’s showing him any degree of physical affection. She’s an exhibitionist drama queen and he’s a whiny, histrionic dork. These things are a matter of electronic record. If their relationship is a going concern at all, they aren’t nearly as fucked as one would expect.
Hot messes like this are always presented on PUA/MRA sites in terms of guys getting screwed over by treacherous women, usually because they won’t deploy the requisite combination of head games and brute aggression needed to tame a bitch. Rarely is it asked why these guys keep getting manipulated by crazy narcissists and keep trying to manipulate them right back on the expectation that they can be forced into submission. Return of Kings sometimes addresses these questions, albeit usually obliquely, but Chateau Heartiste? Never. It’s bad business for a demagogue to tell these guys that they’re playing a fool’s game. Not coincidentally, Return of Kings has published pieces offering advice on gaming black women (for what it’s worth) and asking the Stormfront elements of the manosphere to bury the hatchet. The stories of Roosh and Roissy feeling mutual antipathy are certainly plausible.
And why aren’t these scorned white boys out looking for available black girls? In a word, narcissism. Many black women are bitter that they can’t get a date and resentful as all hell that black men reject them in pursuit of white women. There’s no way that these women are all sexually repulsive to lonely white men. It doesn’t matter how much these guys prefer the white meat as a rule of thumb or how many individual black women they’d be unwilling to screw or date; the dating pool in question is large and fairly receptive, so there’s no way that these men won’t find women within it who turn them on. The problems are that they’ve been taught to regard black women as inherently inferior to white women, and yes, I mean taught, because they’re holding out for unattainable ideal honkies, or high yellows on an adventurous day, instead of loving the ones they’re with, and that they can’t get far enough outside the white bougie bubble to understand that black girls who date white boys aren’t obsessed with the same stupid bullshit as white girls who won’t give nerds the time of day. These guys have seriously limited perspectives. They can’t imagine how, as nerds or dorks, they could fail to win over rich white girls from CB East while winning over black girls from West Oak Lane. This doesn’t fit the narrative, because the narrative that they’ve been given doesn’t mention all the black escorts with “I heart white boys” decals in their Backpage ads. This narrative doesn’t mention one of the surviving members of TLC (“Don’t go chasing waterfalls”) calling David Greene “Big Sexy.” How does something so smooth happen to someone so white? Trying to understand inscrutable mysteries is madness. Just understand that it happens a lot more than a spergy nerd would expect.
If you’re wondering why so many of the hookers on Backpage are black, here’s a hint: it’s a job that requires keen social skills. Getting trashed and sucking off a bunch of randos in a nightclub on camera? Not so much. What that cheating girlfriend did was nothing like prostitution. It involved a totally different level of self-control (none), boundaries (none), common sense (none), and manners (none). She’s just another affluent kid being stupid. In Haddonfield, they do this by breaking into a neighbor’s house and shitting on the grand piano. I doubt that chick would last a day in the sex trades. She’s no whore.
Do you realize that some of the most demure and modestly dressed women in San Diego work in the massage parlors?
I’m not trying to get all Rodney King-kumbaya-why-can’t-we-be-friends on everybody’s ass. I’m just suggesting that branching out from the white meat might be a better idea than sitting around in mother and father’s basement, reading MRA garbage and whacking off to God knows what kind of internet porn, and blaming all of one’s troubles on the narrow, disordered cohort of dipshit princesses that one futilely insists on dating.
But I guess Judge Judy is right: you can’t fix stupid.