Saturday, November 10, 2012

Lying erodes Compassion

Most of us in the developed world live sheltered lives—sheltered by the privilege of self-absorption—and have no acquaintance with real suffering. Quiet desperation does not count, because most shit situations can be escaped with a willingness to pay a price of discomfort and sustained effort to improve one’s station. Instead, most people slip into patterns of stagnation and mediocrity and let the bastards get them down, because those patterns are easier to slip into than the hard uphill road of improvement paved with haters and personal struggle. Change is tough, but worth it. Whining is easier, and is worse than a waste of everyone’s time: it diminishes those who really have cause to complain. Spoiled by the comforts of modernity and the lack of real struggle it enables, protected by ego defense mechanisms that reframe criticisms as insults, the privileged wallow in the delusion that they’re strong and are entitled to whine endlessly because life hasn’t handed them nirvana.

Examples of superficial suffering:

your boyfriend is emotionally distant
your parents were too strict on you
you were spanked as a child
you were raised with hefty heapings of religious guilt

you’re chubby (tip: paleo diet)
your lover is boring the shit out of you
your sister is a meddling bitch
your friend makes more money than you
your girlfriend left you
you’re addicted to masturbation
your lecturer gave you a C
your parents are getting a divorce
you don’t respect or like your parents
your government won’t give you freebie contraceptives 

you’re not interested in the person who wants to be with you 
your lover slaps you around but you can’t help going back to him
your acquaintances and friends
are so annoying and stupid
you’re “bored” with life
you have ginger hair.

That stuff is part of life. Suffering is guaranteed from the moment you come sliding out of a snatch screaming into the world. Real suffering, though, is something most people are blessedly protected from. But hell is just around the corner.

Examples of real suffering:

you have chronic pain that shits on the quality of your life
your limbs were blown off by machinegun fire
you were brain injured in a car crash but not badly enough not to know it
you have been robbed of speech by a stroke

your kid is killed by a drunk driver 
you are sentenced to be stoned to death for refusing to marry some Muslim asshole
you fight every day to stave off death by malnutrition or starvation
your partner of 40 years dies suddenly without warning

you were born with HIV because the catholic church are a pack of retarded backwards cunts
you are mutilated for life by an acid attack
you have monstrous physical abnormalities
you are rotting from the inside by an incurable progressive disease like MS
you are getting assraped in prison for life for a crime you didn’t commit

Words lose their power when abused. Exaggeration, delusion and lies have in common a contempt for truth when it gets in the way of self-interest. Displays of weakness, lies, or exaggeration—such as being a malingering hypochondriac bouncing to the doctor's office at the first sign of a sniffle, or whining to a therapist when you're just a sheltered pissant who needs to sack up, or making false rape accusations for revenge or attention—makes the voices of people who truly suffer and need help vanish into the morass of self-absorbed whining and narcissistic soul spewing. Too many people are just whiny little pricks and make it harder to delve out compassion accurately and spontaneously; your compassion has to be earned, and it becomes harder to earn itcreating more false negativesthe more snotfaced poofs are out there making noise. The lies of the weak make us less compassionate towards the suffering of the strong.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Meeting Richard Dawkins

The scene: a darkened theatre. I'm sitting right at the front, bang up against the stage. The place is full, about 600 people. I chinwag with my friends beside me, anticipating the entrance of the Dark Lord. And then, in he strides, followed by his wife, Lalla (a beautiful and refined woman), to applause.

I gazed, like a horny or confused mongoloid, as the pair began to speak. "Magic is a slippery word", Dawkins began, "and has many different meanings". Over the next hour they delivered a brilliant back and forth reading based on The Magic of Reality, Dawkins' new book. They outlined the wonders of reason and science, above retardation and religion, in the pursuit of grasping truth. Though they were most likely preaching to the converted here, the talk was great. It was emboldening, moving at parts; everything they said was just so right that it's criminal that there are hordes of fellow primates out there choking on their own tard-bile in apoplectic rage at such reasoned ideas.

Later, Dawkins signed the book for me, in a medium-sized room with people casually standing around. "Thank you for the great talk" I heard myself say, noting how youthful he looks up close. "May I get a photo?" He said I could. (In the interests of anonymity, I won't post it here.) The girl who I entrusted the camera to (I live with her, lovely girl), snapped a shot.

A minute or so after, it became clear that she'd messed up and deleted it by accident! Filthy whore! Bag of cunts! Jew! "Oh that's a shame" I say, "let's try again later." I wasn't going without a photo, damn it. Dawkins was sitting there inches beside me; if I got a boner it would have poked him in the eye (or the back of the head, more accurately, then the eye, as he turned around). So we hung around. I had the faintly absurd and highly unoriginal thought that I could, in theory, be a covert Christian fundamentalist and could strangle Dawkins right now. So close.

The photo mishap was serendipitous, because we got to chat to Lalla and Dawkins alone in the room after, when everyone else had poured out. It was short and sweet but filled my soul with vital energy that fueled me in my mission to be a beacon of truth, whatever the costs. Most people are poseurs. Stop pretending, stop lying, stop stoking the flames of political correctness to feel warm and fuzzy from its glow; you're poisoning free speech and all that is good in the world. We briefly talked about how ridiculous it is that some people think it's a sign of weakness to change your mind ("flip flopping"), and how progress comes from updating our perspective as new evidence comes in, rather than "clinging to bollocks" (Lalla's phrase). I thanked them for a great talk. Dawkins was a gent, but I sensed he wanted to chill out. So, we said goodbye, and on the walk home with my flatmates I felt pretty fuckin stoked to have met Dick Dawks, one of the last reAl niggAz alive.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Bury my Boner in Wounded Wenches

I had just broken up with a girl. My heart and head were pretty fuckin mangled. To relieve my soul of the burden of intrusive thoughts and relieve my balls of pent up jizz, I strapped on a shirt, flexed my muscular pimp hand, and strutted to a college party. Didn't get very far. Towards the end of the night, I noticed a gaggle of women clucking about politics and feminism. I entered the fray. The mother hen was a short frumpily dressed bespectacled brunette, but decent looking beneath the dustymuffed attire. A disagreement about women's pay ensued. The argument escalated. All the motherhen talked about was "equality" and how she hated domineering men and patriarchal structures and female oppression in the West (gimme a fuckin break). I chopped down her bullshit arguments, calmly. She was getting flustered and tried to guilt some appeasement out of me. The closer I got to raping her lies with the cock of truth, the louder she shrieked. She huffed off home soon after. "Nice to meet everyone, except you" were her departing words, pointing at yours truly (many of us did not know each other before that).

The following week I met her again, at another party. "Oh it's that awful boy...". We talked, vibed....This time she seemed alright, she was touchy feely...and more demure, less cunty. I upped my charm; I wanted to bang her just to experience the tepid irony, and maybe a story (whey-hey), of coitally overcoming her initial loathing of me. By the end of the night, subtlety went out the window; she grabbed my ass and made it clear she was DTF. Her flaps were drooling for my meat. She looked me in the eyes and said "don't forget your coat". Fast forward a few minutes, I'm in her room, she's throwing her face on my cock like a woman rabidly determined to headbutt my pelvis if only the damn cock wasn't in the way. I shoved her ankles behind her shoulders, slid it in, and thrusted. "Don't stop fucking me!!" she gasps, seconds before I feel a jizz bomb begin its launch.

*
The feeling of mirth and power that overcomes a man's soul when he is momentarily untethered from the shackles of giving a fuck about a girl who had been previously haunting his mind, versus the feeling of intense warmth and desire for her, are two polarised states of mind, similar to the shift in consciousness experienced pre- and post-jizz, where lustful exuberance morphs into either disgusted regret or warm and cuddly affection, rarely anything in between. This was a case of the former, mixed with unwelcome longing thoughts of the girl I had just broken up with. The feminist was blabbing something. "Ohhh...you Irish boys are reeeally valued as notches y'know....", as she reclined on the bed, her pleasantly large and soft baps languidly splaying out. I was sweet to her, pillow talking perfunctorily, but exit strategies were on my mind.

Remembering what a hardcore feminist she is, I wanted to escape in a way that made her least likely to plausibly cry rape if she turned out to be truly insane and I ignite that insanity by treating her, in her mind, too much like a disposable hole. (She has a blog in which she constantly harps on about how threatened she feels about her bodily safety in a sexist world in which women are ostensibly treated like appendages to wet holes by the masses of rapey men). You never know. But then, to my delight, she said "alright I'm gonna kick you out soon, I've gotta get up early". Boom. Masculine sexual attitudes in a tossaway chick you just schtupped FTW.

I banged her a few more times. She loved being choked.

Demon

I've decided to relinquish any idea of making respectable posts on this blog, choosing instead to stay anonymous and write stuff that shouldn't ever be said in polite or public settings, because it's all true.

In that spirit, below is an email I sent to a pal a few years back, posted here for your amusement. Names changed to protect the innocent (me).

***


So, the scene: We were at a club. A group of us had come in together.
The usual nonsense - the place was full of drunk tards, shit music, shrieking bishes, blue-balled guys.

With me was a girl I knew vaguely from before, named Alice, who I had
been interested in rogering, and who knows, maybe getting to know. She always seemed to possess a beguiling self-awareness and witty charm, and she was sober. She seemed "there", as opposed to the semi-lobotomised zoned out ammaayygaawuuddd vibe of 99% of the drunk club skanks in my purview.
 

Anyway, we were chatting away about random shit and getting on pretty well. She actually listened well and seemed to want to ask questions about me rather than squawk about herself endlessly (a response I try to elicit in most girls, because it's a good flap moistener).

But then, the last person I wanted to see loomed right in our
trajectory: Claire, a mildly insane prolish chick--the type of girl who looked like she might chop your cock off if she suspected you cheated on her--rivaled in insanity by her behemoth tank of a quasi-female friend, who I'll call Trunchbull, the ultimate cockblocker and man-repellent. (I'm pretty certain she can slowly swivel her head around 180 degrees while maintaining a leering eye-bulging grin.)
 

Regrettably, a few months earlier I had drunkenly thrown one into Claire (*not* Trunchbull), in the most sorry excuse for a sexual performance you can imagine. Even the technique of holding and squeezing the base of my cock couldn't keep my schlong from fizzling out. I had given up trying to jizz and just rolled over, my burnt elbows aching. Unwanted memories came flooding back, molesting my mind with their filthy hue of remorse.

"Hey Claire, Trunchbull, good to see ye". 

"Hi"
"Blah blah blah"
"Blah blah"
Claire: "Come back to our apartment later, for drinks, if ye want."

Fastforward an hour or so: Outside, it's me, Alice, the crazy bitches Claire and Trunchbull,
a suspiciously out-of-it looking guy beside Trunchbull, and a couple of friends with them. They invited us back to their apartment, just 10 minutes walk away. I was down for it. So was Alice, the tumescence of whose vulva I was still working on.

To my horror, I noticed that the out-of-it guy was eating the face off
Trunchbull and groping her monstrous tits with hungry requited lust. Fuck me, they were going at it. Our walk to their apartment was interspersed with them stopping to face-eat against a wall every few minutes. (I stored the image vividly in my memory for any time in the future I may need to prevent premature ejaculation.)

We then noticed that one of the girls had disappeared from our group,
and Trunchbull, the cockblock queen, the hen mother, freaked the fuck out. She--admirably--detached herself from the guy and turned around to find the missing girl. I spoke to the guy for a minute.

"Hey, what's up man". 

Him: "hrrrrmrrgghghhhhhhhhh.....yuuuuhhhhh".

This guy was on shrooms, or was retarded. The dumb fuck started to wander randomly out onto the road, then towards an embankment by the river, and after some exhortations to come "this way", he came back once, staggered around, and then disappeared again, this time for good.

By the time we all got back to the apartment, Trunchbull was fuming. Pissed off and
clamblocked by another girl, oh karma. She stormed around the apartment, grabbed some beer, and went upstairs to her room where she slammed the door and blared Slipknot at full blast.

Fast forward three hours: I had blown my wad of witty talk and my
ability to feign interest in the now-inane conversation (and wanted to blow my actual wad into Alice, or at least plant the seed for future penis-in-vagina activity.) Claire momentarily left the group, maybe to see if Trunchbull was still alive. Then something like the following took place:

Loud, drunk bish: "So, UberApe! I take it you'll be staying here with Claire?"


Me: ...

Bish: "Let's be honest, you came here for her, right? How many times have you been with her?"
 

All I remember is the look of disappointment and disgust on Alice's face. Subtle but discernible.

The vibe between us changed. Her snatch coiled inward and snapped shut, CLLAPPPP. A while later --it was approaching 6 a.m.--she and some others left in a taxi.


So I rogered Claire, making up for the last pathetic performance. In
the morning, mid-way through rogering her again, we heard death metal being blared downstairs. Trunchbull was up. A few minutes later there's a sudden explosion of booming hoof-like clambering. Our room was on the top floor, and Trunchbull was exploding up the stairs, like a particularly fat and monstrous demon, barreling towards us. There's something seriously wrong with that bitch. I rapidly yanked myself off Claire--literally pulled my cock out of her, if it was in her ass there would have been a shit explosion everywhere-- and pulled some blankets over us.

Trunchbull crashed through the door, "UberApE, FUCK OFF! CLAIRE, GET UP!" 

"Good morning to you too, Trunchbull" I said.
"Claire, drive me to work! C'mon, up! We have time to have BREKKIE! You have 5 minutes to get up!"

She left. My cock had de-bonerised with extreme rapidity, like someone had burst a balloon and doused it in fire. Augmenting this I had a sudden flashback of Trunchbull eating the face off the mushroom-drugged guy, who was probably dead somewhere by the river, after he'd sobered up and realised what he'd done. But I was determined to finish the job. After fooling around a bit more, and shoving it back in, the booming thundering hoofsteps came again. *Boom-boom-boom, door crashes open.* Same shit. "Ye have five more minutes! Get the hell up! Lazy asses!" 

CHRIST. And five minutes later it happened again – I half expected her to bring a kitchen knife up with her and butcher us in a frenzy of sublimated sexual repression.

In between the intervals, I managed to finish the job, and like a
tard I left my watch in her apartment, as I discovered later. (The old technique girls use).

Downstairs, when alone for a moment with Trunchbull, she said "Listen to me, about you and Claire. If ya hurt her...I'll kill ya, alright?"
 

Stay tuned for part 2, when she inevitably calls over to give the watch back to me, I fuck her, she grows attached, I ignore her, she weeps to Trunchbull, who then brutally murders me.

(Hasn't happened, I'm in the clear. I never got my watch back).

Russian Cougar

The smell of shit intermittently blasted our nostrils as we chinwagged in the pub. I scoped the bantering primates around us. Mostly old geezas and middle-aged women. The stench wafted by every 5-10 minutes, interrupting the feast of reason. The mystery flatulator slid craftily among us. I was mid-sentence when another blast of shit assaulted us, this one particularly soul-withering. My buddy asks, “the fuck?”

“Not me”.

We moved to the back of the pub to the jukebox and put on some vintage Springsteen.

A few women follow us. Two off-duty bargirls—a Lithuanian stick-thin hottie and a dirty-blond Pole who’s starting to hit the wall—and an eastern european cougar in her late 40s (generous assessment) with dark-purple hair.

Dirty blonde says, in a hushed voice, “I know there’s been a bad smell here—sorry!”

After accusing her of being the secret farter and weathering the pseudoindignation, we learned one of the barmen had a “stomach issue”. Unfortunate. So the ladies, suffering in silence all day, came to our safe haven away from the maddening fumes.

The cougar chirps in Russian to one of the girls. I have some retard-level Russian—and very rusty at that—and used this opportunity to practice on her. Basic conversation ensued. After the pleasantries were shared I moved on to the swear words (charming expressions such as “a dick to your mother’s mouth”, and “your mother is the queen of the whores”). She threw her head back and bellylaughed. I tried more elaborate phrases, pastiches of profanity, and she thought it was hilarious.

A bit later, my buddy asks, quietly, “you gonna bang that one, or what?” My dick-tinted brain assessed the cougar’s looks. The signs of post-40s jowls were settled in, as were crows feet and myriad other miniscule droops and sags that quietly rob beauty from the heart of the world. Something would have to be very wrong with me.

Later the bargirls traipsed across the road to grab a takeaway. The cougar stayed put, and my buddy, knowingly, took off. So it’s just us me and her at the table.

It was tough breaking through that barrier of russglish, but I enjoyed the practice. She talked about her love of travel and that she loves her independence ("I love free"). (Major tell that she loves more than that, said my cock.) Earlier we'd been scribbling in Russian on the coasters; she was showing me how Russian handwriting looked. After a silence she says "you vrote down your name on coaster, but you vorgot most important bit".

Ballsy. I wrote down my number, knowing I'd be changing it soon anyways. I wasn't committed to banging her. She looked at me with heavy-lidded dickhungry eyes. I assessed, right there, that I wasn't sufficiently interested to use plausible deniability or charm or effort, so for the fuck of it, so to speak, I went semi-nuclear. "Shame for the night to end now. What are you doing later?"

"Nothing much...bed maybe" she replies, shooting me the look again. Hmm. My cock shoulder-nudged my brain and said “fuck out the way, son”. My brain took a back seat, and the cock slowly began climbing into the driver's seat, grinning like a mongoloid. Once it takes the wheel, the brain is a passenger watching in bewilderment as the cock—a retarded dribbling beast— steers the bus into danger zones and hits the accelerator.

She was hesitant. I prompted her: "do you want some company tonight?"

A mental battle goes on in her head between desire and the spectre of looking slutty, and out from the melee came "how about we meet at the weekend, at club X?" (Club X being a local shithole club).

Realism is not her strong point. But I say “cool” and tell her that I have to go. She says "I'll come too".

It's a nice night. I point to the stars and ask her how to say stars in Russian. Zvesdi. When we get to the turn for my place, we stop....I move in and (slowly) lob the gob. And then I ask if she fancies coming in for a bit. She nods, dickhungrily. Moments later I'm making out with her in my bedroom. I don't want to grab her tits, because the tits of an older woman are never pleasant. (Older being defined as anything above 35. Sorry. It's a cruel world). But usually the ass stays reasonably shapely into the 30s and 40s so I focused on assessing her body that way. Soft...very little flab, but uninspiring. She was inspired though. Annoyingly—but not for the reasons she might think—she pretended to slowly zip down her blouse and then zip it back up at the last second, as though to tempt and taunt me with her coquettishness and drive me wild for this prize. I make her grab my dick. She says: "I can't....I should go....but I really vant to see you again". She heads off home and says "text me!"

The next night I porked her. I left her top on. She arched her hips and back expertly to hit my dick pistoning, and came three times, her body shuddering spastically each time. Her snatch didn’t feel particularly loose or different from a younger girls', but in hindsight this was only moderately more pleasurable than having a tug. And I had to deal with the post-jizz situation...

I recline back and close my eyes. I begin pillow talking. She tells me she was a former gymist and she spends two hours each day in the gym. It was noticeable. I’d estimate her age around the late forties, and probably it will stay there for a long time. For her age, and from the neck down, she looked good. But the penis—the delivery system for the primal and life-emanating ballsack— is fine-tuned by millions of years of evolution to find a fertile home for its loads. If it's not fertile, the cock is deeply unimpressed. I started to wonder what the fuck I'd just done and whether I had deep psychological issues.

I close my eyes and mutter something about having to work tomorrow. When she replies, her voice sounds too near. I open an eye: she’s gazing right into my face. In the dimness of the room and by the fall of light on her face, her eyes look black.

“Hi” I say. She smiles, and continues gazing. I close my eyes. An eternity seems to pass. I open my eyes. She seems to have gotten closer, like that ninja cat on youtube. “I have secret to tell” she says. Generally this is not what you want to hear post-coitis. It’s up there with “you have a small dick” and “I have AIDS”, or both at the same time (hasn't happened yet).
“Oh?”
Silence. Her eyes, Sauron-like, are burning into my soul.
“You are second man I ever be with, besides husband”.
Oh fuck.
“Oh...”
Silence.
“And I vant to see you tomorrow,” she says, stroking my hair, and then reclining on the bed. At least she didn’t eat my soul.
“Uh...tomorrow....We’ll work something out”

I went through some perfunctory pillow talk for about 20 seconds, then stopped, hoping she’d take the cue of silence to de-glom herself from me and leave. She finally did, about an hour later, wishing me goodnight in Russian. Spakoinoi nochi. It gets weird the next day.

to be continued...

Random thoughts, a continuing series

Sexist truth of the day: female novelists just churn out tawdy emotional masturbation. Wuthering Heights is a prime example. This is the female equivalent of long wads of jizz strewn over neatly arranged bounded tissues.

The exceptions, good female novelists, are usually men with vaginas.

The thing about getting hate for honest assessments of human nature is that the haters are the flawed ones— nothing enrages the self-deluded more than the exposure of their weakness, shittiness, seflishness, myopic stupidity, status-posturing, and all the other flaws born from the crucible of the ego; attack the flaws and you attack the ego, and the first instinct of the ego is self-preservation so they lash out like a stuck pig at the messenger.

Nothing is more hellish to read than the circle twiddling of quacking feminists getting high on insipid indignation and massaging sloppy feel-good pablum into each other.


Games do work, that’s why people hate them so much.

Reflexive butthurt disables critical thinking and that's the point: it's a defense mechanism against ideas that would, if true, undercut the edifice of self-delusion and piety that sustains ideologues with a sense of self-righteous purpose.

The level of a person’s idiocy is strongly correlated with their level of eagerness to get offended on someone else’s behalf. Displays of Butthurt Offense fill them a little rush and have little to do with moral rectitude.

Women have a hard time attaching reality and words. Their closer innate connection to language is offset by a looser connection to reality.

Ideal girl: soft, cute, delicate, small-boned, shy and sweet. The only girl I know who was loud and a borderline heifir who got away with it did so because her core was sweet: she had a soft heart and the ability to feel intense sadness, absent in retards.

Extracting lessons from the past to use today is the only worthwhile reason for dwelling on the past.

“Do you feel like you need attention right now”--good way to defuse a loud cunt.

Words like retard, cunt, and so on, reflect the inherent conflicts of interest that govern all social activity. The best humour is usually always at someone else's expense. Managing those conflicts is a big part of the game. Boldly not giving a fuck shows you can take it.

Women recoil in absolute horror at the spectre of being sexually rejected by a man. Few things are as primally disempowering and ego molesting to her. When it happens, they melt down—or wallow in self-medicating self-delusion and defense mechanisms such as calling the guy gay, or a loser, etc. Relatedly, if they sense they have no chance with a guy they will preemptively “reject” him.

Women are the biologically superior sex, ultimately by virtue of the possession of larger gametes and proximately by virtue of the possession of a much desired conduit to those gametes called a pussy. They fully embrace the superiority that comes with having expensive eggs (suffusing their language and thoughts, “I’d give him a chance”, “If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best
, lyrics: “us girls we are so magical”), and rightly so. They’re set up by nature to be the choosers and they enjoy the role of carefully vetting the drooling slabs of men-meat lined up to kiss their sweetly-contoured asses. They want to be, they MUST BE, desired; this need is the basis of their sexual arousalnothing moistens her snatch more than narcissistic self-love consummated, that is, a man who can't control his desire for her (that's why banging the shit out of her like an enraged gorilla is so important) and will move heaven and earth to give her the world. That’s why they loathe the idea of being judged by men for their lifestyle choices (such as sleeping around, or having an acrid personality); judgement detracts from their power to act freely, as superior creatures, in the pursuit of their self-interest without consequence. That explains much of feminism, and much of the history of female subjugation: there is danger in untrammeled female desire. And it’s why women lack the capacity for accountability and real self-criticism (as opposed to ersatz self-criticism centered around self-esteem), which are superfluous activities for the biologically superior sex. They expertly rationalise away their poor behaviour. Think back on your dealings with the fairer sex; most of their talk about themselves is, underneath it all, self-regarding and exculpatory. They fault themselves for being hard on themselves, not for acting like spoiled self-absorbed brats. But they are so magical....at least for a while.

Time is the most important thing. Take this to heart: you may never waste time, or your life will suck. You truly don’t have time for watching daytime tv or dealing with wasters or endlessly posting on facebook or getting wrapped up in timesucking activities that add no value to your life. Most of your time should be spent on advancing your personal success—moving towards the goals and states that make you a better, more interesting, less fucked up, more fulfilled person

'Merica, Obama, and the Insipid Swarms

Most people lack the ability to think for themselves and will parrot what they hear if it loosely vibes with their emotional convictions and self-interest. I keep hearing the same regurgitated propaganda from snarky drones such as the idea that Romney supports paying women less than men. The gender wage gap is one of the great feminist fabrications of our time and playing to this myth is a great way to get votes.

The 77-cents-for-every-dollar gap vanishes when you statistically control for lifestyle choices, productivity, experience, and time spent away from the office. Some pockets of discrimination exist, such as in hiring female scientists, but across the board women are making a killing and preferential treatment for women is pretty much everywhere in business, including de facto affirmative action policies, but entitled feminists are still bitching.

There's a lot Romney's wrong on--his retarded mormon religion, anti-evolution stance, abortion, siphoning money away from science and into the military--but people's image of him is painted mostly by the strawmen churned out by the mainstream media, alongside their own shortsightedness about Obama's overregulation of the economy (free enterprise is what will allow the economy to heal, not government--but most people are too economically illiterate to know this and it's very counterintuitive, and Obama knows that voters are drawn to the idea of a powerful competent government saving the day), and their own willingness to be taken in by Obama's beautiful and rousing rhetoric, reality be damned, rather than taking a cold hard look at the policies he's setting in motion and their long term impact. Obama appeals to a self-interested gimme-dat generation who think the world owes them everything.

Listening to his supporters is a fascinating glimpse at confirmation bias in action. They're disturbingly homogenous and interchangeable, so petulant when challenged, prone to ad hominems, so pro-"diversity" and anti-judgementalism to a masochistic extent--guaranteeing their own marginalisation when the orc hordes swarm in protected by their shields of political correctness--and so incapable of thinking in a systemic way about the economy. They're the "wow just wow" generation of intellectually shallow lefties so blinded by the emotions of their self-serving and status-posturing values that they can't think long-term or entertain ideas that challenge their worldviews. Almost none of them criticise anything Obama does; the discrepancies between his words are his actions are glossed over, and Obama projects an expediently vague image into which people of various political slants can pour their projections and hopes. But his actions are what matter, not the merit of his character. Not his fine words, but the consequences of his deeds. I admire him, he's a brilliant politician. Not much of what's happening is his fault; he's just part of a tide that a good man can't reverse.