Originally Posted on May 2 at 11:01 AM as a gift to you from Professor Mentu
This article is a part of the Shame the Beta Month series.
Three decades ago my Granddad watched as a burglar pulled out a window air conditioner in an attempt to crawl through the opening and rob the house. He sat there quietly sipping Jack Daniels with my father at his side. When the burglar was half way through the window, Granddad blew him back out into the front lawn with a shotgun. When the shot rang out and woke me up, Grandma came in my room and said “Go back to sleep, little pup. Your Granddad is just handling some business.”
Several years later I watched my father take his bare hands, lift a man off his feet, and dangle him over the side of our second-story balcony for accusing him of lying about the rack size of a buck he saw walking through the back yard. When the man later told my dad “I thought you were a Christian?!” my dad responded “I am, but you’re looking at one Christian who will whip your ass.”
To this day, it’s the only time I’ve ever heard a swear word come out of that man’s mouth.
Beta traits were openly mocked in my family, even by the women folk. I can’t recall the incident that led to it, but I distinctly remember my mother telling me regarding one of my friends in the neighborhood “Now honey, be mindful not to play with him too much. He’s a sissy.”
I was Alpha born and Alpha bred, and when I die I’ll be Alpha dead. My road to Alpha was a short one, but I recognize I can’t brag too much about crossing home plate so quickly since I was basically born on 3rd base.
Like many sons raised by Alpha fathers, I mistakenly believed that if I followed in my father’s footsteps, I’d end up at his destination: Having a good job where I called the shots, being respected by my friends and feared by my enemies, enjoying the mutual respect and companionship of a loving and faithful wife, and producing children who I would raise in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.
Though I have a great job, loyal friends, and a small handful of unusually dedicated enemies, I fall a little short of my father’s success in the wife and kids department.
Like my father in his younger years, I never had trouble meeting women. I never studied or even heard of Game, never went more than two weeks without a girlfriend, and I could always command a room. I instinctively knew when to speak up, when to quietly influence, and when to let my silence speak volumes. I learned from the best: The strong men and resilient women of the Mentu family.
Ah, but modern women are like a drop of water that seeps deep down into the hairline cracks of a rock and eventually splits it in half. The hairline crack in my solid Alpha rock was my Christian upbringing. I had a bad case of Marital Commitment Transposition Syndrome (MCTS) throughout my young adult life. When a young man suffers from MCTS, he looks at his girlfriend as a wife. I didn’t put up with bitching, and I didn’t succumb to shaming language, but I had an unbelievably deep-seated desire to keep a relationship together as if I was legally married to my girlfriend.
As stupid as it sounds, I honestly had no idea that I could break up with a girlfriend. Go ahead and laugh if you will, but with my hand on a stack of Bibles I swear to God I was completely unaware that I could bounce a bitch for stepping out of line. Though I never White Knighted or became a continuous softsoap pink tea and lemonade beta, my principles led me to love my girlfriend as Christ loved the church. Too often I crawled up on the relationship cross and said “Father, forgive her, for she knows not what she does.” That statement is only Alpha if you say it while you’re dying for the sins of all mankind. If you’re saying it while listening to a woman bitch about you leaving the toilet seat up in your own goddamn apartment, well, that’s the definition of a beta moment.
Can you imagine what torture it was for me to be way too Alpha to put up with a woman’s shit, but still feeling the need to “work it out” no matter what? My beta tendency to keep a relationship together at almost any cost was not born of a silly Disney love story or some beta fear that I’d be alone forever – it was out of a sheer sense of Christian duty instilled in me since birth. Once my girlfriend of three loooonnng years realized her chances of being tossed out on her little princess ass was nil, she punished me for taking the excitement of the unknown, the potential drama, and the fantasy of someday embracing her hypergamous nature away from her.
One day as I was navigating yet another quarrel with my girlfriend of three loooonnng years, I decided to put an end to the argument by being my usual Alpha dick self.
“Why won’t you ever take me seriously? You’re just like your father.”
“Thanks! You should shut the fuck up and be more like my mother so we can end this discussion with a home cooked meal.”
“You’d like to marry your mother, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m NOT your mother!!!”
“Understatement of the century. Why are you such a bitch? Maybe I’ll do a Google search on you and find out why. There’s gotta be an answer here somewhere.”
“Whatever. Make sure you type in ‘asshole’ so your name comes up too.”
“Ok, lets see here… [typing]…my…girlfriend…is…a…stupid…bitch…[ENTER]”
A post by Dick Masterson at menarebetterthanwomen.com came up. I can’t remember the title because I was still in the middle of a fight with my girlfriend of three loooonnng years, but I remember being shocked that something relevant actually came up.
Without reading the article, I quickly saved it to my favorites, then shut the computer off. It wasn’t until months later while transferring files to a new laptop that I came across the link again and actually read the article.
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I spent nearly every free minute I had for two solid weeks reading Dick Masterson’s posts and doing Google searches for similar topics. I even took my personal laptop and a wireless internet card to work so I could read during lunch without getting busted by the IT Nazis for looking at objectionable material. Somehow I stumbled into the small corner of teh interwebz known as the Manosphere. Roissy was the first true manoshpere writer I found, then Roosh. I can’t remember if it was ‘08 or ‘09, but somewhere along the line I found an In Mala Fide “Linkage is good for you” post, and that was the slingshot that propelled me deep into the manosphere. I started clicking through blogrolls, and the rest is history. To this day, every time I score a spot on Ferd’s “Linkage” post, I’m honored to be listed among the men who had so much to do with my Red Pill development.
After about 3 months of reading (give or take – honestly can’t remember), my girlfriend of three loooonnng years was shown the door much to her surprise. Within two weeks, I was banging her replacement.
The Red Pill changed my life, but not in the way that it did for Professor Ashur. I didn’t need help picking up attractive women, I really didn’t need that much help keeping women – I actually needed help learning how to get rid of women. Despite my Alpha inoculation, the Marital Commitment Transposition Syndrome (MCTS) had become a chronic infection, and it was slowing me down. The Red Pill fixed me up right as rain, and I never looked back.
Every Alpha has a cancerous vagina-shaped beta tumor that threatens his Masculine Frame unless it’s kept in check by Red Pill chemotherapy. I’m a beta cancer survivor, and you can be too. We’re here to shame the bitchpiss out of betas, give free Alpha checkups, and have a little irreverent fun along the way.
Betas, you better hang on to your fallopian tubes, because this ride is about to get bumpy.