Oh, poor Tim the ostler! The humble stable buck hopelessly in love with his boss’s gorgeous, red lipped daughter. Like that was ever gonna happen, and she’s in love with the bad boy Highwayman anyway, a dapper thief with a taste for the high-life; the ostler never had a chance. So, what does our scorned, low-born, beta-male do? The only thing he can- Tim calls the police, another group of men more masculine than he, to properly dispose of the Highwayman.

Thus is the premise of Alfred Noyes’s narrative poem “The Highwayman” (1906). You may have guessed that our poor, law-abiding ostler isn’t quite the hero of the story- that role is more closely filled by the titular scoundrel, with the lesson being that we don’t judge the morality of actions as much as we judge the value of those committing them.

And Tim, as a poor stable-hand, doesn’t have much in the way of value- he’s disposable and invisible. In modern terminology, which is ironically also Old English terminology, Tim is a cuck– and if you want any chance at sexual success, you can’t be a cuck.

A common misconception for those newly introduced to the reality of how men and women interact is thinking that this understanding is a product of modernity- perhaps an outgrowth of psychology, or an unintended side-effect of the social sciences. While the internet certainly provides a forum for discussion, the basics of what we know as the red pill have been spread in hushed whispers and over chilled ale at men’s clubs throughout the course of western civilization. And while there was certainly a higher tolerance for discussing the reality of the world the way it really is, as opposed to our hilariously heavy-handed modern tropes painting women as brilliant warriors and benevolent scientists, it still wasn’t considered polite conversation. Even if you were treating women like children in the Eighteenth Century, you probably still wanted to pretend like you weren’t.

These lessons were peppered through our history and literature- as long as you know what to look for, as I do. Take Curley, son of a wealthy land-owner, in John Steinbeck’s dustbowl classic “Of Mice and Men” (1937). To the uninitiated, or the majority of high school English teachers, it’s easy to write Curley off as a one-dimensional antagonist- an entitled bully lording his privilege over the wage-cuck farm hands. While that isn’t exactly untrue, why Curley has such a nasty attitude is never addressed, which becomes a lesson onto itself. Culturally, we don’t allow disposable men to have such depth, we don’t rationalize their actions, with the belief that being an asshole is an end in itself. Hitler was just an asshole– nothing more to see here, folks.

But Curley’s problem was the same thing types like Harvey Weinstein and Louie C.K. are finding out the hard way (okay, maybe not exactly the same)- money and power aren’t a substitute for being attractive, a quality which can’t be bought. Sure Curley was able to snatch up a budget starlet for marriage, his kind of wealth was a rare find in the depression, but that still didn’t mean she wanted to fuck him. That privilege, true privilege- the genetic kind- was reserved for resident alpha-male cowboy Slim. And while that pissed off poor, old, beta-boy Curley- just like Tim the ostler- he was rather impotent in his ability to take on the ranch’s dominant male. And, so, he was a prick to everyone else. As the Manosphere saying goes, “alpha fucks, beta bucks”; the poor bastard was sexually frustrated.

“Of Mice and Men” is littered with red pilled realities, from alpha-male Slim getting sexual access to Curley’s Wife, as cucked Curley foots the bill, to proto-MGTOW George Milton who thinks women are more trouble than they’re worth; “You give me a good whore house every time. A guy can go in an’ get drunk and get ever’thing outa his system all at once, an’ no messes.”

Modern black magic is understanding human nature. In a world of unreality where people are unconscious of the invisible currents that guide them, having the ability to identify these forces can allow you to tell a tremendous amount about someone from a few scant details. Street hustlers and psychics have exploited this idea for years, because it works; we are not unique snow-flakes, we are predictable animals.

As you develop a greater understanding for the quirks of human nature, you end up feeling more connected to our shared history of being rather nasty human animals. TLDR: Men want to fuck, and women want to get fucked by someone better than you. Your best bet is hoping she’ll settle.

While it’s tempting to believe that modern women are wildly off the mark- pouting at their iPhones in Snapchat selfies- compared to their Victorian counterparts, it’s really more or less all the same. Women take what they were given genetically, and make up for any deficiencies with manipulation. Reality is only the foundation, the rest is smoke and mirrors. And just like professional wrestling, only the most naive are clapping wildly thinking it’s all real.

But what would we have done before the internet? How could we have spread the word most effectively?! By writing a poem, obviously, and Jonathan Swift did just that with “The Lady’s Dressing Room” (1732)- reminding us that women wear tons of make-up, and take big smelly dumps.

The naive Stephron bumbles his way into his girlfriend’s bathroom and is shocked to find that it’s fucking disgusting, a fact that any man who’s cohabited with a woman can certainly attest. Tons of make-up, and Stephron thought she was a natural beauty, dirty towels soaked in sweat, and a chamber pot filled with shit- a revelation indeed: “Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!”

So, quite a day for Stephron. Swift takes us home at the poem’s end by reminding us that even tulips can grow in dung- and what a feat that is. Even if it’s deceptive, it isn’t malicious- despite late night Manosphere message board conspiracy theories. A woman’s role is to attract the highest quality of man to ensure the best genetics for the continuation of our species. Men want the big show, they want the smoke and mirrors- they want to clap wildly for the unrealistic, partial reality of female beauty. It’s such beauty that push men to be their best, and build civilizations- just don’t get too caught up in thinking it’s all real, or you’ll look like an asshole.

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