How To Break Through Male Beta Conditioning – Return Of Kings

How To Break Through Male Beta Conditioning – Return Of Kings

I’m alpha like any fucking bitch, thanks for giving me the chance to say it – ironic that I’m even here considering how these articles have been fagot lately, throwing all my pearls at these whores of dirty pigs going straight for slaughter – for how much time and effort i put into this porn site and building its answer sections and for how many conversations i started and lit i have to say im disappointed with the shit this porn site has become – even 2-3 years ago there were some legit ass articles but it’s all clickbait shit now – well, leaving as alpha self-proclaimed and legend among men is a good outing, good luck making sense of the deep resources of knowledge I’ve contributed here, get out there and experience shit rather than jerk off. If you learn anything from this site, it should be patriotism or die.

Cheers

Patton’s speech:

“Be sitting.

Gentlemen, all you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of war, is a lot of bullshit. Americans like to fight. All true Americans love the sting and shock of battle. When you were kids, you all looked up to champion marbles, fastest runner, major league ballplayers, and toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. This is why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. The very idea of ​​losing is abhorrent to Americans. Battle is the most important competition a man can engage in. It brings out all the best and it takes away all the low.

You’re not all going to die. Only two percent of you here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is afraid in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a fucking liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even if he is afraid. Some men will overcome their fear in a minute under fire, some will take an hour, and for some it will take days. But the real man never lets his fear of death outweigh his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.

Throughout your career in the military, you’ve bitched about what you call “that chicken shit exercise.” All for one purpose: to ensure instantaneous obedience to orders and create constant vigilance. This must be instilled in every soldier. I don’t care about a man who isn’t always on his guard. But the drilling made you all veterans. Are you ready! A man must be alert all the time if he expects to keep breathing. Otherwise, a German son of a bitch will sneak up on him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit. There are four hundred well-marked graves in Sicily, all because a man fell asleep at work – but these are German graves, because we caught the sleeping bastard before his officer.

An army is a team. He lives, eats, sleeps and fights as a team. This individual hero thing is bullshit. The bilious bastards who write this stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know any more about real battle than fucking. And we have the best team – we have the best food and the best equipment, the best spirit and the best men in the world. Why, by God, do I really pity these poor bastards that we’re up against.

Not all true heroes are storybook fighters. Every man in the military plays a vital role. So don’t give up. Never think your job is unimportant. What if every truck driver decided they didn’t like the whine of shells and turned yellow and jumped headlong into a ditch? That cowardly bastard might think, “Damn, they won’t miss me, just one man out of thousands.” What if everyone said that? Where the hell would we be then? No, thank God Americans don’t say that. Every man does his job. Every man is important. We need orderlies to provide the guns, we need the steward to bring us food and clothing because where we’re going, there’s not much to steal. Every damn man in the dining room, even the one who boils the water to keep us from getting GI shit, has a job to do.

Every man must not only think of himself, but think of his buddy who is fighting alongside him. We don’t want yellow cowards in the army. They must be killed like flies. Otherwise, they will go home after the war, fucking cowards, and breed even more cowards. Brave men will beget braver men. Kill those damned cowards and we’ll have a nation of brave men.

One of the bravest men I have seen in the African campaign was on a telegraph pole in the midst of raging fire as we headed for Tunis. I stopped and asked him what he was doing up there. He replied, ‘Fixing the thread, sir.’ ‘Isn’t it a bit unhealthy up there right now?’ I asked. “Yes, sir, but that fucking wire needs to be fixed. I asked, ‘Aren’t those planes strafing the road bothering you?’ And he said, “No, sir, but you’re sure of that.” Well, there was a real soldier. A real man. A man who devoted everything he had to his duty, no matter how great the odds, no matter how insignificant his duty seemed at the time.

And you should have seen the trucks on the road to Gabes. These pilots were magnificent. All day and all night they crawled on these son of a bitch roads, never stopping, never straying from their course with shells bursting all around them. Many men have driven more than 40 consecutive hours. We made do with good old American guts. They weren’t fighters. But they were soldiers who had a job to do. They were part of a team. Without them, the fight would have been lost.

Of course, we all want to go home. We want to end this war. But you can’t win a war by lying down. The fastest way to end this is to catch the bastards who started it. We want to get the hell out there and clean the fuck up, then go after those purple pissing Japs. The faster they are whipped, the sooner we get home. The shortest way home is via Berlin and Tokyo. So keep moving. And when we get to Berlin, I’m personally going to shoot Hitler, that son of a bitch hanging from the paper.

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he stays there all day, a Boche will eventually catch him. The hell with that. My men don’t dig burrows. Foxholes only slow down an offensive. Keep moving. We will win this war, but we will only win it by fighting and showing the Germans that we have more courage than they have or will ever have. We’re not just going to shoot these bastards, we’re going to rip their living fucking guts out and use them to grease our tank tracks. We’re gonna murder those lousy Hun fuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket.

Some of you are wondering whether or not you’re going to chicken out under fire. Do not worry. I can assure you that you will all do your duty. War is bloody business, murderous business. The Nazis are the enemy. Dive in, spill their blood or they’ll spill yours. Shoot them in the gut. Rip their bellies. When the shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and realize it’s not dirt, it’s the blood and guts of what was once your best friend, you’ll know what to do.

I do not want messages saying “I maintain my position”. We hold nothing. We are constantly advancing and we are not interested in holding anything but enemy bullets. We’re gonna grab him by the balls and we’re gonna kick his ass; twist his balls and kick his living shit all the time. Our plan of operation is to move forward and keep moving forward. We’ll go through the enemy like shit through a tinhorn.

Some will complain that we push our people too much. I don’t care about these complaints. I believe an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder we push, the more Germans we kill. The more Germans we kill, the less our men will be killed. Pushing harder means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that. My men don’t surrender. I don’t want to hear about a soldier under my command being captured unless he’s been hit. Even if you get hit, you can still fight. It’s not just bullshit either. I want men like that lieutenant in Libya who, with a Luger to his chest, swept the rifle away with one hand, ripped off his helmet with the other, and fucked the Boche with the helmet. Then he picked up the weapon and he killed another German. All the while, the man had a bullet in his lung. He’s a man for you!

Remember, you have no idea I’m here. No word of this fact should be mentioned in any letter. The world isn’t supposed to know what they did to me. I’m not supposed to command this army. I’m not even supposed to be in England. May the first bastards to find out are the fucking Germans. One day I want them to stand up on their piss-soaked hind legs and scream ‘Ach! It’s the damned Third Army again and that son of a bitch Patton!

So there’s one thing you can say when this war is over and you go home. Thirty years from now, when you’re sitting by the fire with your grandson on your lap and he asks you, “What did you do in the great Second World War?” You won’t have to cough and say, “Well, your grandpa shoveled shit in Louisiana.” No, sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say, “Son, your grandpa rode with the awesome Third Army and some fucking son of a bitch named George Patton!”

All right, son of a bitch. You know how I feel. I will be proud to guide you into battle anytime, anywhere. That’s all.”

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