On privilege

There is a subset of girls in Minneapolis, usually 25 or thereabouts, which one often sees downtown on winter nights wearing skimpy dresses and heels. It is difficult to communicate how extraordinary this is without understanding how cold it gets here. I am not especially weak-willed, but there have been nights I couldn’t stay outside for an entire hour in full ninja-eskimo garb. For reference, my eyebrows freeze after about fifteen minutes in such weather, my eyes being the only exposed part of my body.

What I am getting at is that it not just cold. It is very cold. There are places in Minnesota that make Siberia look like a welcoming Spring Break vacation destination.

Imagine that on such a night, you see a small group of three highly fertile-looking women stumbling through a snowbank in Stilettos and scandalously short skirts, falling down drunk, porcelain arms and necklines bare to the elements, nary a jacket among them, nor a chaperone, muttering about how cold it is, and trying to figure out roughly where in the city they are. “Where’s your bathroom?” they demand, obviously attempting to get out of the cold without suffering the indignity of asking a lesser Alpha or greater Beta male to buy them drinks. Such would be beneath them. After dutifully informing them that the bathroom is for paying customers, like every other establishment within fifteen city blocks, they screech their outrage before turning around three or four times uncertainly, settling on a random direction, and stumbling off to find new adventures. Or more specifically, the exact same adventure in a different place.

Now imagine this happens several times per night, totalling a few hundred such groups per winter. You might begin to believe Darwin was a bit optimistic, but just a moment.

Such a girl understands at a very basic biological level that, of course, she will not be allowed to die from her own foolishness. If she does not get up after one of her many slips on the ice, and her friends blissfully wander elsewhere, she knows that even the most deplorable specimens of manhood will drag her to warmth, comfort, and safety, if only for the opportunity to rape her a few times before she wakes up. She understands she is in no real danger (nor is her non-existent virginity, at that). Someone will always be there to help, because her vagina is a precious commodity. The reason we rarely see men succumb to such impressive displays of idiocy is that they only get to do so once.

For the illustrative purpose of cisgendered contrast, I once saw a similarly incapacitated male retard attempt to navigate the three-foot drop from a light-rail boarding area to the rails below. Failing, he cracked his head spectacularly and was out like a light. In a touching show of racial solidarity, three “brothers” robbed him with lightning speed before I chased them off. General Custer would not have approved, but niggers aren’t really the stand-and-fight type. I dragged the retard inside the door and into a hall kind of out of the way, where he could either sleep it off or die in relative comfort, and went back to my work.

I have never gotten in so much trouble at that job, or any other. The manager was livid, the boss was called in to give me a special lecture about liability, and the owner was informed. The general consensus was that dying retards are better left outside, because we are not a hospital and we can’t save every dumb-dumb who’s got it in his head to get himself dead. A narrative was formed, which was communicated to the EMTs and police. The authorities agreed that negative fifteen degrees is probably a bad place to leave someone who is comatose, and that because we were all ignorant of liability law, it could probably be ignored.

Now imagine I’d left a blond beauty to die on the same set of rails. Would it fail to get a spot on the local news? More likely, I bet we’d have made cable news. If she were pretty enough, we’d get 24-hour coverage and speculation on “what went wrong”. Her mother would get a book deal and cry on Oprah about how all her daughter ever wanted was to finish her biology degree, although she’d mentioned she might switch to communications. Investigatory committees would form like psilocybins on cow dung; memorial pages would blossom on Facebook like psychopathic Sumerian empires in the fertile crescent.

What I’m getting at is that girls actually have it pretty good. They have it very good. Really, their only job in life is to stay thin.