My Ex-Girlfriend Was A Beauty Pageant Winner

I use the photo routine to display higher value via preselection to a girl I’m gaming. I’ll pull out the camera to show a girl pics of my last vacation, and stuffed in the middle of beach shots and party shots there will be semi-erotic photos of hot ex-girlfriends and myself. I act like I’m surprised they are there.

“Woops, let’s just skip right over that. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Naturally, this will intrigue my target, even though she will never say so aloud. But the seed of tingles will have been planted.

My favorite “random” photo of an ex is the beauty pageant winner I used to date. I have a pic of her in her gown and winner’s sash. When girls see that, my mate value rockets through the roof. To avoid overwhelming the girl, I usually downplay it by explaining that beauty pageant winners are more trouble than they’re worth.

“Yeah, you’d think this is every man’s dream, to date a beauty pageant winner. But it’s not what it’s cracked up to be. They have huge egos and think the world owes them something. But then they’re also really insecure about their looks. They are always fishing for compliments. “Does my ass look fat in this?” It’s enough to drive a man crazy! They have body conscious issues, too. Taking my ex out to dinner was an ordeal. She was so particular about what she ate, and how much of it she ate. Then afterwards, to alleviate the guilt, she would say “It’s ok, because I know you love me for me.”

Since I know you’re curious, here is a pic of my beauty pageant winner ex-girlfriend:

She’s the second from the left. I picked the dress out for her. It really flatters her Rubenesque curves.

So far, I haven’t yet closed the deal using the beauty pageant winner ex-girlfriend photo routine, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. I mean, how much more socially proofed can a man get? I think girls are just intimidated by the quality of woman I’m used to getting.

******

Defining deviancy down.

The rabid cultural compulsion to make the deviant normal has got to be one of the signal developments of an empire in decline. When historians look back on the once-great USA twenty years from now, wondering why the country fell into ruin and disrepute, the Miss Plus America pageant will have to figure prominently in the list of peculiarities heralding the fall from grace.

The elevation of the deviant (gay marriage), the ugly (fat chicks), the expedient (cheap peasant labor), the primitive (Univision), the unwise (libertarianism) and the crass (Chelsea “choppers” Clinton’s lavish recession-era wedding) to exalted status and dressed in the poison garnish of equalism are sure signs of the last days of a superpower wheezing its final raspy breaths, losing confidence in itself and its place in the world. Perhaps it is inevitable, like the turning of seasons. Humans — or maybe more specifically Northwest Europeans — can’t tolerate prosperity for long before they itch to undermine the labors of their ancestors and the philosophies bequeathed them by their betters. Even if inevitable, it’s still sad. The Chateau has a small, engraved motto nailed just above the wrought-iron lion knocker on its heavy oak doors.

When the beautiful
yields to the ugly
then shall lies
in the guise of truth
plant its flag of victory

I’ll do my part to save America from dribbling its tepid beta spooge ignominiously down the wide load ass crevasse of self-satisfied fat chicks by mocking their fatness cruelly at every opportunity. Dudes of America, now it’s your turn to contribute to the war effort. Punish our women for their fat ways. Don’t flirt with them. Refuse to date them. Stop fucking them. And for fuck’s sake, stop having kids by them. Failing this, you will only continue feeding the beast, literally and figuratively. Have some fucking standards. What are you, animals, rutting with anything that moves? Our nation of fat women must know, absolutely MUST understand in no uncertain terms, that their fatness is costing them a chance at love and sex.

There

must

be

consequences.

If on the other hand, you don’t have a problem sticking your dick in an undulating walrus hide, then there is no hope left for beauty in America. As long as there are Miss Plus America pageants, East Europe shines like a beacon on the horizon for ex-patriots like myself. I don’t want to live in a country where women think it’s OK to bloat into whales, *and* to celebrate their whaleness with princess crowns and sashes like it’s some sort of hard-won accomplishment.

Dante had the ninth circle all wrong. It’s sitting at the bottom of a bowl of pork rinds.

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