M
I made a trip to irrelevant Portugal in 2016 with my family when I was a 22 mentalcel (I'm 32 now and ten fold uglier with dry, straggled hair, and a neurodegenerative disease due to pesticides and infection) and at 5'5 short (frauding to 5'6.5") I noticed almost everyone was short, and the foids, mostly good looking, were noticeably shorter than me but hairy. In the sun you tend to notice the light shimmer on their arm hair. I remember staring at this 9/10 Stacey at a restaurant after she came in from the rain, not because I found her attractive, I did, but because she was glistening due to all the droplets of rain accumulating on her thick thistle like arm hair. A decade later I can confirm that the new generation of women are just as hairy but dress far sluttier. There's a clear dividing line of women in Portugal with no gray area. Abominations and Staceys (the rare Becky straggler). That's Portugal. Poor rural areas are slightly different, I'll come back to that point.
In 2025, the nightlife in Porto is suifuel. It's party city 24/7. Walking the streets I came face to face with many short native Portuguese hags who wore see through shirts displaying their nipple piercings rubbing against 5'10-6' Germanics who perhaps weren't able to find the opposite sex in Germania due to the hypergamous nature of Krautesess. There were also many tall Russian girls who dressed in more sophisticated and formal clothing.
On my first night in Porto we ate at a renown restaurant seated facing two 9/10 nordic/Russian couples and their tall Tyrone friend. I had to listen to their entire life stories which mogged mine in comparison. They were the quintessential couples you'd find on the cover of a fashion or celebrity magazine. Their presence enraged me because of the opportunities they were afforded in life that they took for granted that I could never have. Both men were in finance, the tall Tyrone worked for a firm in marketing. I felt kind of worthless sitting there listening to them and was itching to leave. All I really wanted was solitude at this point.
And then the waiter arrives. He owns the restaurant. He's Indian, maybe 5'8. I immediately notice he's an incel. Throughout our meal he showed up and asked us how the food tasted, never sure of himself. My mother, curious, asked him where he's from.
"India," he replied.
"Will you ever take a trip back?"
"No, why would I?"
"Do you have family there?"
Recoiling, he replied, "not really."
Mind you, while this awkward conversation is going on between my mother and this hardworking Indian incel who will get no pussy in life, pampering Chad and his harem of women with good food and fine dining, my auditory processing disorder makes it nearly impossible to make out what is going on, which further enrages me. I'd tell the Indian to go back to India and find a women there, but India's goblinessess are even more heightist and hypergamous than white western women.
The next night we're walking below the Dom Luis I Bridge and a tall India cat calls our family over. He wants us to try his spice slop at his open flame restaurant — apparently world renown.
Unfortunately he tells us that "we're closed," but "you can go next door to our open kitchen." I'm adamant we try the Portuguese restaurant next door instead, but my mother is easily swayed by the allure of tall, confidant ethnics, and to convince her, he grabs a random Indian walking among the crowded street and asks him if his place is the best restaurant in Porto. Clearly he's never been. But he raises his two thumbs and says "yum, the best." There's no changing her mind.
I'm not even sure how this restaurant was still open and thriving, but when I tell you it was the worst slop I've ever eaten, I'd rather have grubs and grasshoppers for the rest of my life than go back. We had three waiters for whatever reason. An older women, maybe 60 years old, who kept barking the words, "chicky, chick, chicky, chicky, chick, chick" at me after I ordered their dry, overcooked, under-seasoned rubber chicken with MonSanto rice, and the confidant, drunk manager who introduces himself by placing a handgun on the table, which was kind of hilarious. He knew we were American, so he assumed that would make us laugh. Now and then he returns to our table and asks me if I like the food. Before I can answer, he looks down at the gun spinning it between his fingers.
Our third waiter is this decent looking Becky, who was being continuously pushed and yelled at by the manager. She looked like she hated working there, and was interrupted at least a dozen times by him which made her lose her train of thought when writing in the tickets. I kind of felt bad and wanted to give her a tip, which you should never do
In Portugal apparently. They pool all the money together like communists anyway, so It made me look like a retarded simp.
Beside us was a German family with a retarded 25 year old child, bluepilled with low functioiing autism. The father is drunk and the mother asks Becky where her son can meet knew people around Porto. She gives him a list of places and is really nice about it. The autist then tells his mother in German that he really likes the waiter and wants to get to know her, so the drunk tallfag father yells over to her and says, "my son think your hot," and I just watch the whole ordeal go down. The father gets up and bangs into the high powered fan whoch breaks open and metal falls all over the floor. Not one worker picks it up. Becky laughs, says nice meeting you and walks away. I get up and put the fan back together because at this point I want to occupy myself.
When we leave, having vulcan hearing, I see in my periphery Becky with two other waitresses. She looks over at me and in Portuguese, which I'm slightly profient, implies that that guy over there, me, not the tetarded, he left, is esquisito, that is, strange or a freak.
I actually have no fucking idea what I did to give off that vibe. Their entire restaurant was a freak show and all I did was try to give her a tip for enduring the wrath of her manager and fixed their fan too.
I will never simp for anyone ever again. There was a begging women who brushed up against me and I pushed her off me. Gross
Part 1 was tame. Part 2 will prove that decent to good looking talls are enemies of shortcels with anecdotal case study, me. And how even your cloestedt family members will betray you if a tall confidant man is speaking.
In 2025, the nightlife in Porto is suifuel. It's party city 24/7. Walking the streets I came face to face with many short native Portuguese hags who wore see through shirts displaying their nipple piercings rubbing against 5'10-6' Germanics who perhaps weren't able to find the opposite sex in Germania due to the hypergamous nature of Krautesess. There were also many tall Russian girls who dressed in more sophisticated and formal clothing.
On my first night in Porto we ate at a renown restaurant seated facing two 9/10 nordic/Russian couples and their tall Tyrone friend. I had to listen to their entire life stories which mogged mine in comparison. They were the quintessential couples you'd find on the cover of a fashion or celebrity magazine. Their presence enraged me because of the opportunities they were afforded in life that they took for granted that I could never have. Both men were in finance, the tall Tyrone worked for a firm in marketing. I felt kind of worthless sitting there listening to them and was itching to leave. All I really wanted was solitude at this point.
And then the waiter arrives. He owns the restaurant. He's Indian, maybe 5'8. I immediately notice he's an incel. Throughout our meal he showed up and asked us how the food tasted, never sure of himself. My mother, curious, asked him where he's from.
"India," he replied.
"Will you ever take a trip back?"
"No, why would I?"
"Do you have family there?"
Recoiling, he replied, "not really."
Mind you, while this awkward conversation is going on between my mother and this hardworking Indian incel who will get no pussy in life, pampering Chad and his harem of women with good food and fine dining, my auditory processing disorder makes it nearly impossible to make out what is going on, which further enrages me. I'd tell the Indian to go back to India and find a women there, but India's goblinessess are even more heightist and hypergamous than white western women.
The next night we're walking below the Dom Luis I Bridge and a tall India cat calls our family over. He wants us to try his spice slop at his open flame restaurant — apparently world renown.
Unfortunately he tells us that "we're closed," but "you can go next door to our open kitchen." I'm adamant we try the Portuguese restaurant next door instead, but my mother is easily swayed by the allure of tall, confidant ethnics, and to convince her, he grabs a random Indian walking among the crowded street and asks him if his place is the best restaurant in Porto. Clearly he's never been. But he raises his two thumbs and says "yum, the best." There's no changing her mind.
I'm not even sure how this restaurant was still open and thriving, but when I tell you it was the worst slop I've ever eaten, I'd rather have grubs and grasshoppers for the rest of my life than go back. We had three waiters for whatever reason. An older women, maybe 60 years old, who kept barking the words, "chicky, chick, chicky, chicky, chick, chick" at me after I ordered their dry, overcooked, under-seasoned rubber chicken with MonSanto rice, and the confidant, drunk manager who introduces himself by placing a handgun on the table, which was kind of hilarious. He knew we were American, so he assumed that would make us laugh. Now and then he returns to our table and asks me if I like the food. Before I can answer, he looks down at the gun spinning it between his fingers.
Our third waiter is this decent looking Becky, who was being continuously pushed and yelled at by the manager. She looked like she hated working there, and was interrupted at least a dozen times by him which made her lose her train of thought when writing in the tickets. I kind of felt bad and wanted to give her a tip, which you should never do
In Portugal apparently. They pool all the money together like communists anyway, so It made me look like a retarded simp.
Beside us was a German family with a retarded 25 year old child, bluepilled with low functioiing autism. The father is drunk and the mother asks Becky where her son can meet knew people around Porto. She gives him a list of places and is really nice about it. The autist then tells his mother in German that he really likes the waiter and wants to get to know her, so the drunk tallfag father yells over to her and says, "my son think your hot," and I just watch the whole ordeal go down. The father gets up and bangs into the high powered fan whoch breaks open and metal falls all over the floor. Not one worker picks it up. Becky laughs, says nice meeting you and walks away. I get up and put the fan back together because at this point I want to occupy myself.
When we leave, having vulcan hearing, I see in my periphery Becky with two other waitresses. She looks over at me and in Portuguese, which I'm slightly profient, implies that that guy over there, me, not the tetarded, he left, is esquisito, that is, strange or a freak.
I actually have no fucking idea what I did to give off that vibe. Their entire restaurant was a freak show and all I did was try to give her a tip for enduring the wrath of her manager and fixed their fan too.
I will never simp for anyone ever again. There was a begging women who brushed up against me and I pushed her off me. Gross
Part 1 was tame. Part 2 will prove that decent to good looking talls are enemies of shortcels with anecdotal case study, me. And how even your cloestedt family members will betray you if a tall confidant man is speaking.
