There’s no escaping the stampede of fat, bitchy, American women. They’re everywhere you look, and everywhere you’re trying not to look. They’re at the grocery store, the mall, the workplace, the bar. They have become so common at this point, I would start a business selling them out of giant gumball machines if it weren’t for the fact that nobody would pay a fucking quarter for them. And worst of all, this fat is generally piled onto a very sizable portion of the single women out there who are available to date.
Over 160 million out of the 320 million people who make up the population of the United States are enormous blobs of bloated shit, and some estimates are showing that three out of every four Americans will be overweight by the year 2020—an overwhelming 75 percent.
One of the most common thoughts that will pop into your head when you’re out and about is, “If that chick would just drop 20-30 pounds, she would be a total smoke show.” It’s one of the saddest things to witness because you can really see the potential hiding beneath the blubber on so many of these women.
So, what does a man do when he’s surrounded by a bunch of waddling fat-fucks and things aren’t looking up? He looks down, and what does he find when he looks down? The dreaded single female over the age of 30. As a rule, I typically view the vast majority of single women over 30 in the same way I view those little gnats that fly around horse cocks when it’s hot outside: they’re annoying, worthless, and probably have dick-breath.
However, exceptions can and will be made for the better pecker gnats among us. A woman over 30 who goes the extra mile to take care of herself and possesses a physique that resembles a female human being certainly scores more points than some 250-pound warthog in her early to mid-twenties. But dating these older women is a depressing concession to make because they are—without question—the most fucked-up group of people you’ll ever have the misfortune of interacting with:
- Mental illness with an emphasis on Cluster B Personality Disorders? Check—and they’ve got the prescriptions and dead, soulless eyes to prove it.
- Alcoholism? Double check—but don’t worry, “It’s only wine, and I only have a couple of glasses to help me sleep and ‘take the edge off’ after a hard day.” (Everyday is a hard day spent on the razor’s edge, apparently.)
- Grotesque, degenerate pasts that would make prostitutes from previous generations seem like wife material? Check—Jimmy Dean hasn’t seen as much sausage as these beat to hell, cock snot receptacles.
- Pathological lying? Big check—these women don’t have a clue as to who the hell they truly are or what they’re all about. And since they don’t know, neither will you.
- Delusional or completely oblivious to all of these things and still think a jacked and shredded, six-foot-five space shuttle commander who moonlights as a hedge fund manager and has the magical ability to shoot two-month-long yachting excursions to the Côte d’Azur out of his 11-inch cock is waiting just around the corner to sweep them off their tatted-up, 30-year-old, dick-stained asses? Check—in La La Land, only the absolute best will do.
But it’s not all bad news: at least they’re easy to get into bed. Not that you should be excited about that, because you shouldn’t. And based off my sampling of single women over 30 in recent months—all of whom were white, I will add—here are the top five reasons why you should check your enthusiasm at the door when pounding out these societal dregs.
They Say Distracting Try-Hard Bullshit That Ruins The Mood
“Get it, Daddy!”
“Fuck that pussy good!”
“Oh my God, that feels sooooooooo fucking AMAZING!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Ah! Ah! Don’t stop, Daddy!”
Jesus Christ—shut up. Women over 30 have called me “daddy” so many damn times that I’m beginning to wonder if I owe back child support to the single mothers who raised them so poorly. But it’s not just what they say that gets on my nerves: it’s the trite theatrics that is the most irritating.
I’m sure some guys get off when a woman howls like a strangled cat in the bedroom, but experience has shown this to be salesmanship more than anything else. They’re trying to inflate your ego, to make you feel like you’re “the man,” and that none of the other two dozen “daddies” who came before you fucked with such dick-wielding precision. The idea is if they can get you to buy into their bullshit, then you’re much more likely to commit and stick around.
But the truth comes to the surface when you end things. Once you send the “I think this little thing of ours has run its course and it’s time to move on” text, you suddenly morph from a master cock slinger into a guy who can’t fuck for shit and has no idea how to “satisfy a woman.” Just a week ago you were an orgasm dispensing machine of vaginal destruction, but now you’re an impotent no-dick-having loser who doesn’t know what the hell you’re doing—it’s hilarious. You’ll seldom see younger women behaving this way when a relationship ends.
Now, despite the obnoxious sounds and transparent platitudes that come out of these aging creatures, the sex itself will be decent to above average in many cases—they’re trying to reel you in, after all. But it’s important not to conflate good mechanical sex skills with passion, desire, or—God forbid—love, because those things aren’t truly there. You’re only getting the illusion of those things, and it’s all by design.
It’s just good pussy: it was good for all of those other motherfuckers, too. You’re not getting anything that everyone else hasn’t gotten already. These women didn’t spend their late teens and early twenties learning how to cook or developing the skills that would make them good wives and mothers: they were learning how to suck a mean dick and becoming top-tier leg spreaders.
When the only thing you have going for you is sex, it stands to reason that you would be pretty good at it. So use these women for that one thing while disregarding their loudmouthed, ego stroking bedroom antics, and save your commitment for a younger, less tainted woman who will display genuine passion and affection during your intimate times together (if you can find one, of course).
The Dissipating Scent Of Youth
Women in their twenties, especially early twenties, have a certain scent to them. It’s the scent of fertility and youthful exuberance; it’s the scent of a woman in her prime. A woman over 30 has a smell that says, “Knock this one up, and the kid will pop out with a nipple where one of his eyeballs should be.” All of the soaps, perfumes, and lotions in the world cannot change this—it’s the natural scent of the “seasoned” woman, and it’s not a bug, it’s a feature.
This is one of nature’s ways of telling a man when a woman is over the hill. The chances of miscarriage go up drastically once a woman passes 30. The chances for birth defects—autism especially—all go up significantly as well. All pregnancies past the age of 35 are considered “high risk,” and that’s if these women can conceive children at all.
Hard living is normal living for the vast majority of women nowadays. A body that has consumed massive quantities of alcohol, recreational/prescription drugs, birth control pills and cocks, all combined with father time, is a body that is completely corrupted and polluted; it’s a body that is not suitable for motherhood. Your olfactory receptors can pick up on all of this, and you’ll more than likely notice yourself being slightly turned off whenever you catch a whiff of a woman whose better days are behind her.
They Feel “Different”
Not only do these women smell different, but they feel different as well. They are squishier, softer, and less firm due to their advancing age, but harder at the same time; it’s a strange sensation. Sluts always seem to have a rigid, inflexible feel to them. This is true regardless of age, but it gets worse with time and “experience.”
It sort of resembles a permanent “clinched” feeling, as if the muscles are constantly contracted or flexed—a case of rigor mortis in the undead, so to speak. Some may argue that perhaps this hardness is due to an inability on my part to make these women feel comfortable or relaxed, but I contest it’s due to their inability to feel comfortable or relaxed with themselves.
Imagine making life decisions that always result in unnecessary drama, calamity, and hardship as opposed to ones that would be ideal for you, your family, and your community. Imagine having an abortion or two after sleeping with a string of men whose first names you can’t remember, and whose last names you never knew. Imagine always taking the road most traveled: the road that leads to Xanax bars and empty bottles of cheap pinot noir.
Imagine doing all of these things from the time you’re a teenager all the way up until you’re on the wrong side of 30, and then try to come away from it all as a soft, lovable, well-adjusted human being who’s comfortable in your own skin—good fucking luck. These women feel hardened for a reason, and that reason is them.
If you were to describe the “thousand cock stare” or sociopathic/Cluster B gaze, you would typically use words like “empty” or “dead inside.” But if you really look at these women, you can see the tension stemming from their inner turmoil. You can see the pent-up contempt and self-loathing that consumes them. The aggression, the anger, the malice—it’s all lurking just beneath the surface, ready to unleash itself once the thin threads of sanity and civility snap for whatever reason.
All of this is not only present in the eyes, it’s on the body as well. You can truly feel the damage, antipathy, and tension when you’re in physical contact with these women. It’s not a pleasant experience, and it’s not something you should ignore. We have instincts for a reason, and one of the perils of living in a modern liberal society is that we’ve been brainwashed from a young age to ignore these instincts.
Women over 30 prey upon this brainwashing by using words like “judgmental” or “paranoid” in an attempt to elicit shame, which is why these words should always viewed as unofficial synonyms for “gut feelings” and “intuition.” Pay attention to these gut feelings—they will be amplified when you’re in the hardened, unloving embrace of a declining older woman who has been through far too much to retain her humanity.
Tattoos That Look Like a Freeway Overpass in a Bad Neighborhood
Are you a fan of boat anchors, punctuation marks, or winged insects? Does your dick get hard when you see a raccoon’s footprints, a horoscope sign, or Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh? If so, then I’ve got some news that will make your day: on single women over 30, you’ll get to look at these things constantly, seeing as most of them have deemed it prudent to have some high school dropout with shaky hands and a drug problem permanently scrawl this kind of retarded shit all over their bodies.
And to make matters worse, looking at this “artwork” is just the tip of the iceberg, because if you’ve made it to the point where you’re looking at it, then at least you’ve made it on to phase two in most cases: the point where you’re getting laid. Phase one is much worse. This is when you get to sit, listen, and pretend like you could give two shits and a greasy fart about the stories that come along with their perma-doodles. An example:
Girl: “Yeah, so I decided to get a lion tattoo because I’m a Leo, and, I’m like, pretty ferocious, too.” (Lifts shirt to reveal jailhouse quality lion tattoo.)
Me: “That’s a male lion, though.”
Girl: “Yeah… so?”
Me: “You’d think you would have gone with a female. If I got a lion tattoo, it would be a male, not a female, you know, because I’m a dude.”
Girl: “What? Why not? What’s wrong with female lions? Besides, the Leo sign is a male.”
Me: “The females are total pussies compared to the males.”
Girl: “What? You can’t be serious! The females do all the hunting while the males just sit around all day!”
Me: “Sounds like a great gig if you can get it. If things work out between us I’ll quit my job and hang out at home all day while you do all the money hunting, deal?”
Girl: “Ha! Dream on!”
Me: “Why not? I’ll give you an allowance. The male lion shares his food with the females. I don’t see a problem with giving you a small cut of the money you earn. But really, though, you should be ashamed of that tattoo—just sayin’.”
Girl: “What? Never! Why?”
Me: “Because when a male lion takes over a new pride, he kills the cubs of his predecessor. The king of the jungle doesn’t date single moms and he ain’t no cuck. You have a child murderer tattooed on your body. You’re a terrible person, and you’re going to hell.”
Girl: “You’re fucking ridiculous! Haha, oh my god…”
As you can see, it’s a painful experience conversing with these empty-headed morons. And this was actually one of the more pleasant interactions because at least she knew something about lions, which was kind of nice. The worst one I’ve encountered so far was a chick with a semicolon tattoo, which, come to find out, represents when somebody has attempted suicide in the past. She was a real bundle of fucking joy to be around.
Look, here’s the deal with women and their tattoos: whatever reason they give you for having one, that reason exists just the same as it would without it. That idiot in the above exchange was born between July 23rd and August 22nd—she’s a Leo with or without the king of the jungle etched into her skin. If a relative or close friend has passed away, then getting a tattoo doesn’t somehow intensify one’s love for that individual, and it certainly doesn’t change the fact that they’re gone. If someone has accomplished something that makes them proud, a tattoo won’t make the accomplishment any more—or any less—significant.
When a woman gets a tattoo to serve as a reminder to be “strong” or to “persevere,” what’s she’s truly conveying is that she’s a weak-willed, simple-minded dumbass. Every human being who has ever existed has had to be strong and persevere on some level, and well over 99 percent of them managed to pull it off without some lame-ass motivational quote or Bible verse (Leviticus 19:28, anyone?) scrawled all over their bodies.
“But-but-but tattoos are common in many cultures and have been for centuries!” argues the 32-year-old strumpet who got a meaningless butterfly tramp stamp back in ’04 during one of her many alcohol and pecker fueled evenings at college, but says it’s to honor the dead grandma that she never called or visited at the nursing home located just down the street from her house. Correct, whore, tattoos are common in many cultures: savage, third world, haven’t-accomplished-shit cultures.
Heard of any groundbreaking technological breakthroughs or feats of engineering coming out of Western Samoa or Papua New Guinea recently? Yeah, me neither, but I’m sure they’ll get around to it—as soon as they’re done building houses out of doo-doo, and chucking rocks at coconut trees to knock down their fucking dinner.
Primitive people do primitive shit, which is why tatted up women have become so common in degenerate modern America. They’re doing what feral, uncivilized people have been doing all along: going backwards, not forward, and this is the direction things will continue heading for the foreseeable future.
A single woman over 30—or any woman, for that matter—with tattoos is showcasing the fact that she makes bad decisions. Not only are these rapidly fading out symbols of sucking at life an eyesore, they’re also a clear and definitive indicator of when a woman is to serve strictly as a warm slab of meat for a man to temporarily stick his dick inside. As for any single women over 30 who are thinking about getting a new tattoo, allow me to make a recommendation:
The Dark Holes
If you were to look through Ray Charles’ eyes at a piece of sunburnt licorice trapped inside a smoke-filled car with tinted windows at midnight, then you would be well on your way to replicating the pitch black abyss that is the dookie dispenser of the average white woman over 30. It’s absolutely disgusting.
You’re probably wondering, “How the hell did you find out this information?” The fucking hard way—that’s how. Now, I always practice safe sex with aging skanks: with the lights out, or, worse case scenario, very dim. This is so I don’t see something I don’t want to see. Taking this precaution has served me well for the most part, and has gone a long way in concealing all of the unsavory features that unfortunately exist in stronger lighting.
However, one day I met up with one of the chicks I was seeing for an afternoon sex session. She was acting a bit insecure and even said that she didn’t want me to see her naked in the light. I took her hand and placed it on my semi-hard dick so she could feel it through my pants. I find doing this coupled with saying something like, “See what you do to me?” really diffuses these kinds of insecure moments when older females come to the realization that there are no Instagram filters or angle tricks to disguise the fact that they pretty much suck in real life.
Anyway, we started going at it. Everything is moving along as expected and I decided to finish things up doggy-style. I get her flipped over and start doing the “pronated two-handed grabber” on the ass-cheeks and spread ’em open a bit as I’m nailing her. And that’s when I saw it for the first time: The Darkness. I slammed her ass-cheeks shut like they were my front door when a battalion of Watchtower wielding Jehovah’s Witnesses show up looking for a new convert.
“Dear God… that wasn’t shit, was it? Please tell me that wasn’t shit,” I thought as I closed my eyes while continuing to pound away. I did a few quick sniffs but didn’t smell anything other than number four on this list in the air. At this point, I had to take a few seconds and calm down because I knew I would lose it if I looked again and discovered this woman hadn’t showered or at least wiped her ass before inviting me over. After about a minute had passed, and after some additional mental preparation and feeling sorry for myself, I decided to take another peak at The Darkness.
I slowly parted her ass-cheeks again, my thrusting now reduced to a snail’s pace…
“What are you doing back there?” inquired the owner of The Darkness.
“Uh, nothing, just fucking you…” I replied while staring in bewilderment at her diesel smoke tinted anus.
“You’re looking at my ass aren’t you… Mmmmm… it’s all yours if you want it,” she said while cocking her head to the side so she could see me through her peripheral vision. A mischievous looking grin emanated from her face.
“Not right now,” I said while attempting to look like I would love the opportunity to bang her char-grilled, chewed-up bubble gum looking asshole at some point in the future.
“Mmmmm, well, whenever you want it, you got it, Daddy.”
“Well that’s just fucking great,” I thought. I gave her a slightly sardonic grin in response, closed her ass-cheeks, and continued banging her with severely diminished avidity. Eventually, I finished. Afterward, we chilled on the bed and discussed the possibility of doing something together in the evening, but I was distracted: I just couldn’t stop thinking about The Darkness…
“What the hell was going on there?”
“Well, it wasn’t shit, so that was a plus… I guess.”
“I can’t believe she wanted me to stick my dick in there… Bitch is out of her mind.”
“God… there’s no way that was normal.”
“How is something like that even possible?”
As you can see, I had a lot of questions, and, at the time, no real answers. But later on in the evening, it hit me: all the anal sex this woman experienced throughout the years had more than likely darkened her sphincter. After all, she thought nothing of letting me just “stick it in” if I wanted to, so it certainly wasn’t her first rodeo.
The type of women discussed here all think they’re “great catches.” Don’t believe me? Just ask them—they’ll be more than happy to tell you how great they are. And you know what? The truth is they’ll all end up married if that’s what they want. They’ll all end up with men who truly love them and worship the ground they walk on. This is the case for any marginally attractive female over 30, not just the ones I’ve dealt with directly. So, in reality, I guess they really are great catches because the majority of men out there are willing to prove them right.
This isn’t to say these men will be dreams come true (they won’t be), but if you’re clinging to the notion that these women will hit “the wall”—that there will be abject loneliness, cats, and dildos with (really dark) butthole ticklers serving as the only things keeping them company, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The wall is nothing more than a chain-link fence at this point, and there are desperate and clueless men sitting at the ready with bolt cutters in hand, just waiting for the opportunity to cut out a nice hole for these low-rent skanks to pass through.
This can be extremely frustrating. If men won’t hold these women to any kind of standards, then what incentive is there for them to become something that resembles decent human beings? Things will never get better until men collectively tell these women that they’re straight-up not fucking good enough—because they’re not. When I see men rewarding these women with committed relationships, or, worse yet, moving in together and marrying them, I often find myself thinking of this quote from Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four:
He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one… But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him; the horror was that he might also be wrong…
Chances are this will strike a chord with you because often, out in the real world, you’ll be the only person you know who actually thinks about anything beyond the topical and the frivolous. You’ll see men shacking up with society’s unflushable turds and find that you’re the only one saying, “What the hell is wrong with all of these guys, what are they thinking?”
The fact of the matter is they aren’t thinking. Much like Winston Smith lamented how he was possibly the only man to see the Party for the sham it truly was—that only he possessed the common sense and clairvoyance necessary to see deep into the truth of things—you may also find yourself feeling similarly isolated and disillusioned. You’ll be “a minority of one,” an army you, and you alone.
This is not something that should cause consternation, however; it’s something that should be cherished and held dear. I used to be of the opinion that happiness was an emotional luxury afforded only to those with an inability to cogitate—that the more a man thinks, the less happy he will be. This is not the case at all, provided you equate truth with happiness. It can be easy to assume a negative outlook when you’re the only man not playing the game. But take solace in the fact that all of those other guys aren’t playing the game, either—it’s playing them, and there are very few winners when it’s all said and done.
The men who marry these degenerate women and prop them up don’t have the truth, and, therefore, they don’t have true happiness. They’re living through a carefully constructed ruse, an act where the female is the star and director, and only she decides when, where, and how the curtain will fall—and fall it will. Never covet the lie, and never feel despondent when observing those men who buy into the lie displaying their mock happiness: their emotional currency is counterfeit, and their time is borrowed.
You will never be one of those men so long as you choose the truth. The truth serves as a shield against the machinations of the malefactors and the interlopers: you can’t be fucked with when the truth is in your corner. And a man who can’t be with fucked is a man who has all he needs to make it through this hell called the modern dating scene while still living a happy, fulfilling life. Whether he’s perceived as a lunatic by the bystanders doesn’t mean shit—because the bystanders don’t mean shit.
And that’s the truth.