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Archive for the ‘The Good Life’ Category

There’s a theory floating around alt-blogs that human IQ in the developed world has been steadily decreasing since about the dawn of agriculture. The working hypothesis is that agriculture enabled dense urban life to develop, and cities are known population sinks (lack of space/high cost/disease vectors all contribute to lower fertility rates in cities).

The thinking goes that cities attract smarter people, who upon settling into urban mimosavilles promptly forget the Darwinian Prime Directive and fail to reproduce themselves in sufficient numbers. 1.5 sprog per hipster village yenta is a recipe for extinction. (Which is not necessarily a bad thing.)

I don’t know if I buy this theory of decreasing IQ in total, but if true, I can suggest another plausible mechanism that is far more pertinent today, now that disease threat and high child mortality have largely been eliminated. This mechanism is far darker than disease or child mortality, once you get to peering at it closely in your skull ham.

You could call this the CH-ian “The Pill, The Rubber, and Abortion, Oh My!” theory of dysgenia.

The speculative specs: Evolution has slowly, and sometimes quickly, produced human populations with great intelligence (on average). As these population groups gained smarts, they reconfigured their environment so powerfully that their cultures began to exert more influence than the natural world did on how their progeny would evolve.

Gene-culture co-evolution became the order of the day. Civilization sprouted and flourished. And it was good. Until…

These groups of humans became so smart that they outwitted — for a time — the second evolutionary guiding principle of reproduction. They invented Pills and Rubbers and safe and cheap Abortions, thus allowing themselves the joy of sex without the joylessness of changing diapers.

Smarter people, having by their inherent mental dispositions a lower threshold for the tedious and boring tasks of infant care, stopped having so many babies. But smarter people USED to have more babies than dumber people! What happened since then? Well, when pre-20th Century smart people had sex — which they never found boring — they were often stuck with the consequences. Most of them simply accepted the boredom of child-rearing as a necessary component of life.

Once the Era of The Pill, Rubber, and Abortion began in earnest, smart people saw the wisdom, from their own personal hedonistic perspectives, of using these smarthuman-created tools to separate the consequences of boring child-rearing from the titillation of sex. End result: Fewer smarties having kids, more dummies taking up the slack, dysgenia in full black lotus bloom.

For the first time, perhaps, on a large scale, humans had made an end run around a Darwinian First Principle. Humans — some humans, anyway — had become TOO SMART and invented pregnancy-thwarting tech that also thwarted the cosmic, and divine, imperatives. The Pill, The Rubber, and Abortion may be making us dumber!

Hard double-blind, metabolically-controlled ¡SCIENCE! evidence for this “PRA” theory is sparse and mostly circumstantial, but it is out there. For instance, in a study of German parents, having a child lowered their happiness more than any other life change, including death of a spouse!

And of course there are the oft-cited stats of later age of first marriage and lowered fertility plaguing almost the entire Pan Western developed world.

There are countercurrents pushing against the PRA theory of dumbing down humanity. The Pill seems to alter women’s sexual preferences so strongly that they choose less masculine beta males as partners if they were on the Pill during the time of choosing. This would imply that these women would have more kids, Pill-disposed as they are to settling into family life with a beta provider. However, it could conceivably run the other way: Once married and thinking about having kids, women who get off the Pill might suddenly become repulsed by their babyfatted betahubbies as their ovulatory machine revs up again after a hiatus of many years. This could lead to an increase in divorce (which in fact has been happening throughout the West since the 1960s) and consequently a decrease in children (or a decrease in children born in wedlock).

Is the evolution of human intelligence self-limiting? If it is, will societies respond by banning the Pill, the Rubber, and the Abortion? Or will we just have to ride this one out for a few millennia, until the fitness maximizer pendulum swings back to the smart set? Either way, going on the way the West is going now, something’s gonna give.

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It used to be that a father’s job was clear and understood by all: To guard his daughters’ chastity and to teach his sons to stand up for themselves. For all his kids, a father’s duty also encompassed control and guidance over their peer groups, assuring that his kids wouldn’t wind up with “the wrong crowd”.

But times have changed. We are in the Post-White America Era, and a father’s number one job now is to defend his children’s minds from infection by the poz (shorthand for degenerate leftoid culture) and anti-White indoctrination. Reader and father Corvo explains by way of example from his own life:

My 8 year-old son and I were at the library this morning. He picks out several books to borrow and shows them to me: 2 of them were some variant of “Shaneequa has to sit in the back of the bus” / “Darflavius wanted to vote” libtrash propaganda.

I told him to put those two back because they’re full of lies and half-truths all about making white people look bad; when he finds one that shows that without white people Darflavius would be living in a mud hut and shitting himself to death of cholera in Africa or living as a slave to some black slavemaster in the Congo, then he can read about how bad that seat in the back of the bus is by comparison.

Hard truths need to be introduced early if we’re going to inoculate our kids against the anti white hate out there.

The stream of anti-White filth has gushed into a torrent, washing away the edifice of America like limestone under assault from the ocean surf. I know it’s tempting for parents to pacify their kids by hooking them up to iPhones, iPads, and the TV, but this “plug and pray” method of lackadaisical parenting is a surefire way to fill their heads with lies and equalist antiracism garbage. Parents who want to instill self-pride in their charges, to cultivate in them a strong identity that, yes, includes pride in their racial pedigree, will have no choice but to take a more active role policing how their kids entertain themselves.

Parents may have to lead by example. Trash your TV and limit your cell use. Ban the tentacles of social media from your household. Tell the race cucks of the predominant culture to go fuck themselves, in other words. Hey, here’s a suggestion: substitute all that electronic memetic warfare with some blood and soil activities. Go outside and toss a ball around with your kids. You’ll shed a few flabbo pounds in the process.

Why not involve mothers in this? Well, practically, I don’t see mothers having it in them to do this job. This is one which fathers are temperamentally equipped to handle. How many mothers do you know who seem ready and willing to ditch their access to 24/7 gossip generators? Certainly, there are exceptions, and if you happen to know a mother who takes seriously the job of protecting her children from anti-White cultural messages, then by all means compliment her for her foresight, because in the social sphere women need and thrive on words of encouragement that enable them to defy the womanly herd.

PA adds,

Well done. If you had a country of your own, you could be hands-off and let society help you shape your children. That’s what countries and cultures are for. It does take a village.

But under an occupant, parents have to be proactive and vigilant. Every occupied nation in history had understood that, and “the hand that rocked the cradle” quietly told the child who he is. The tragedy of Murka is that many parents do not know that they are a conquered nation under an enemy occupant.

“A country of your own”. This is the tragedy of Post-America. There was a time you could hand your kids off — to other kids, to other parents, to schoolteachers, to the bosom of mother earth and her bounty of adventures — and rest easy knowing that they would receive a real life education that would meet your approval.

We no longer have a country of our own, haven’t had for a while, but many parents are still unaware of how entrenched the official anti-White narrative has become, and they allow, blindly, fruitlessly, another hand to rock their children’s cradles.

There is always when observing massive cultural shifts a peculiar lag time between the establishment of the new paradigm and the recognition of the existence of that paradigm by the masses, and during this period of ignorance malevolent forces run wild with the zeal of revolutionaries. But they always overreach, and the masses always wake up. When the awakening happens, the brutality of the vengeance meted upon the enemy will be commensurate with the length of delay between the onset of hostilities and the acceptance by the targets of those hostilities that they are indeed under attack.

Corvo continues,

I noticed that the anti-white indoctrination has started even in elementary school. We haven’t hit the haul-my-cost yet but I’m sure it won’t be long.

Last year, in second grade, my son was happy he could skip doing one of his assigned December homework worksheets when he learned that our family’s position is that “Kwanza is not a real holiday.”

Small, individual acts of defiance embolden the anti-White enemy to stamp out rebel agitators, which they do with glee and awful effectiveness. Small acts of defiance multiplied by a million.. and then a million more… now you’re cooking (the Hivemind) with gas.

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Thumping, throbbing, pulsing… a sinuous dolphinoid stroke through crisscrossing waves of briny, grinding flesh, arrive at destination: a ramshackle tropic-themed auxiliary bar. I wave, regally, in the vicinity of the bartendress, to order a stiff one. To my left, propped lordotically on a stool, a slim blonde in slimmer dress squeezes a lime wedge into her love potion. She thinks (incorrectly) a stray sour squirt hit me; I feign injury.

Blondie: “Oh, I’m sorry about that!”

Left hand up to left eye, I execute a grimace with great gusto. “Aagh! My eye! It burns.”

She gawks for a beat, I spread two fingers slowly apart, revealing the abstractly-afflicted eye, peering at her with my miraculously and expediently cured vision through the finger gap, smiling with same orb a reprieve from a personal injury lawsuit. I leave the scene, pressed in equal measure by physiological necessity and the advantages of calculated absence. Her friend, almost as attractive, says “bye” loudly as I set off.

The right inflection can flip a “bye” into a “why not stay for a longer ‘hi'”?

Re-trace my dolphin migration, arrive at bathroom to discharge the blowhole. Too many pissers. The walls bulge, Matrix-like, with the teem of testosterone. Zipping and careful to avoid slipping in the slosh of urine accumulating on the floor, I contort my return way through the crowd to the bathroom exit, as a crescendo of primate chest beatings alerts my early warning detection system. A stygian mutant standing in the doorway prognathously bellows, “That’s rude, man. That kinda rude can get a man killed”, at a retreating Topper pretending to ignore the taunt. He repeats his threat in staccato bursts of gumfire three or four (thousand) times, a menacing series of war cries intended to evoke the fear of an inevitable eruption of normalcy into sudden, violent, pitched battle. I raise my arms into a preparatory garrison as I snake around the rapidly intensifying black hole of gravitational incivility.

Escape velocity achieved. One hundred paces between chaos and rapture. Back at dryland Bar Tiki, the blonde, still seated, still smoldering, shifts to make room for my adjacent insertion. I accost her.

“You know I’m practically blind in my right eye now.”

“You mean, your left eye?”

“Oh, yeah, my left eye. Blind as a bat. At least your right side looks good. I hope your left side makes the grade.”

Her face energizes for gratifying combat. She sparkles, I toggle. Everything is gonna be alright.

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This photo taken by a reader is a whimsical foray into the world of the stalkerati, but the reasons for posting it here are flattering, so I believe the subject matter wouldn’t object too strongly.

Slayer tee?

The reader, Manic 5, explains,

So I saw Mystery walking around the other day. Here is a man in his mid 40s clutching hands with a woman a decade plus his junior.

Male SMV definitely ages well if maintained.

The window of male SMV viability is, on average, about a decade longer than the window of female SMV viability. The SMV viability sex difference becomes truly pronounced as we approach the extremes of SMV upkeep — for example, in the form of a Mystery who doesn’t get fat and still cultivates a charming, negging persona — where we find men who can enjoy twenty or even up to forty extra years over and above what women can enjoy of prime romantic experiences.

Game isn’t just for college students or post-college barflies. It’s for all men, at all ages. I bet Mystery, as nerdy and prone to algorithmic reductionism as he is, has enjoyed the company of more hotter younger tighter babes than a roomful of tut-tutting tradcons and sneering tough guys who think themselves naturals.

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Ah, dat jerkboy charisma. Chicks dig it. If you’ve been a regular guest of the Chateau, you’ll know why chicks dig jerks, and you’ll know why cultivating your inner jerkboy is a pillar of Game teachings.

For a long time, CH was out there, a retreat in the deep wood willing to preach the Rude Word to any lost and yearning soul stumbling along the stony path leading to the ancient oak doors. Few knew of our secretive hideaway, fewer still could grasp the revolutionary nature of our message.

But our mischievous proselytizing has finally breached the sound barrier of the mainstream information gatekeepers (and from the reaction to their first line of defense crumbling, they don’t like it). As one reader who forwarded the following article wrote,

The substance of this article will present no surprises.  The tone of the author, apologetic and disturbed by the findings, will also present no surprises.

Not at all. The Atlantic is the latest Hivemind organ to hate itself for falling in love with Le Chateau.

Why It Pays to Be a Jerk

New research confirms what they say about nice guys.

The suspense is killing me! I hope it lasts.

At the University of Amsterdam, researchers have found that semi-obnoxious behavior not only can make a person seem more powerful, but can make them more powerful, period. The same goes for overconfidence. Act like you’re the smartest person [ed: or sexiest man] in the room, a series of striking studies demonstrates, and you’ll up your chances of running the show.

The Atlantic agrees with CH that overconfidence is the heart of game.

People will even pay to be treated shabbily: snobbish, condescending salespeople at luxury retailers extract more money from shoppers than their more agreeable counterparts do.

Seduction is the art of selling yourself to women. And just as it is in the realm of business sales, snobbish, entitled jerkboys are the most successful at selling their promise of pleasures to women.

“We believe we want people who are modest, authentic, and all the things we rate positively” to be our leaders, says Jeffrey Pfeffer, a business professor at Stanford. “But we find it’s all the things we rate negatively”—like immodesty—“that are the best predictors of higher salaries or getting chosen for a leadership position.”

Humans aren’t a rational species; they’re a rationalizing species.

“What happens if you put a python and a chicken in a cage together?,” Pfeffer asked him. The former student looked lost. “Does the python ask what kind of chicken it is? No. The python eats the chicken.”

“You’re like a big bear with claws and with fangs…and she’s just like this little bunny, who’s just kinda cowering in the corner.”

But, careful… all jerk and no softie makes Jack a d-bag.

In Grant’s framework, the mentor in this story would be classified as a “taker,” which brings us to a major complexity in his findings. Givers dominate not only the top of the success ladder but the bottom, too, precisely because they risk exploitation by takers.

All well and good. You can’t expect to lord it over all the people all the time without attention given to your reception. However… if you HAD to choose between being a niceguy and a 24/7 asshole…

ALWAYS CHOOSE ASSHOLE. To wit:

Consider the following two scenes. In the first, a man takes a seat at an outdoor café in Amsterdam, carefully examines the menu before returning it to its holder, and lights a cigarette. When the waiter arrives to take his order, he looks up and nods hello. “May I have a vegetarian sandwich and a sweet coffee, please?” he asks. “Thank you.”

In the second, the same man takes the same seat at the same outdoor café in Amsterdam. He puts his feet up on an adjoining seat, taps his cigarette ashes onto the ground, and doesn’t bother putting the menu back into its holder. “Uh, bring me a vegetarian sandwich and a sweet coffee,” he grunts, staring past the waiter into space. He crushes the cigarette under his shoe.

Dutch researchers staged and filmed each scene as part of a 2011 study designed to examine “norm violations.” Research stretching back to at least 1972 had shown that power corrupts, or at least disinhibits. High-powered people are more likely to take an extra cookie from a common plate, chew with their mouths open, spread crumbs, stereotype, patronize, interrupt, ignore the feelings of others, invade their personal space, and claim credit for their contributions. “But we also thought it could be the other way around,” Gerben van Kleef, the study’s lead author, told me. He wanted to know whether breaking rules could help people ascend to power in the first place.

Yes, he found. The norm-violating version of the man in the video was, in the eyes of viewers, more likely to wield power than his politer self. And in a series of follow-up studies involving different pairs of videos, participants, responding to prompts, made statements such as “I would like this person as my boss” and “I would give this person a promotion.”

“I would open my legs for this jerk.”

Ok, if being a jerkboy is so personally rewarding, the inevitable question follows,

Instead of asking why some people bully or violate norms, researchers are asking: Why doesn’t everyone? […]

“That’s a complexity of humans,” Faris says: it was not until after the human-chimpanzee split that Homo sapiens developed a newer, uniquely human path to power. Scholars call it “prestige.”

There are different kinds of ways to project power (and consequently arouse women). “Prestige” is better-known to students of Game as Demonstrating Higher Value.

The Atlantic even goes so far to wonder if the Game axiom “Fake it till you create it” is a real thing:

I did wonder, though: Could the apprentice actors [tasked with acting irrationally confident], given enough time, come to inhabit their roles more fully? Anderson noted that self-delusion among his study’s participants could have been the product of earlier behaviors. “Maybe they faked it until they made it and that became them.” We are what we repeatedly do, as Aristotle observed.

Ripped from the Chateau headlines.

In fact, it’s easy to see how an initial advantage derived from a lack of self-awareness, or from a deliberate attempt to fake competence, or from a variety of other, similar heelish behaviors could become permanent. Once a hierarchy emerges, the literature shows, people tend to construct after-the-fact rationalizations about why those in charge should be in charge.

“Once a woman falls hard for a charming jerkboy, she tends to construct after-the-fact rationalizations about why the jerk she loves should be her soulmate.”

Likewise, the experience of power leads people to exhibit yet more power-signaling behaviors (displaying aggressive body language, taking extra cookies from the common plate).

Success with women breeds more success with women.

It is possible, of course, to reframe Anderson’s conclusions so that, for instance, initiative is itself a competence, in which case groups would be selecting their leaders more rationally than he supposes. But is a loudmouth the same thing as a leader?

aka the “bustamove” theory of Game.

So what is that special sauce that jerkboys have which flavors a woman’s life? Or anyone’s life?

When I thought about whether I had friends or associates who fit Aaron James’s definition of an asshole, I could come up with two. I couldn’t pinpoint why I spent time with them, other than the fact that life seemed larger, grander—like the world was a little more at your feet—when they were around.

“I want more LIFE, fucker!”

Then I thought of the water skis.

Some friends had rented a powerboat. We had already taken it out on the water when someone remarked, above the engine noise, that it was too bad we didn’t have any water skis. That would have been fun.

Within a few minutes, an acquaintance I will call Jordan had the boat pulled up to a dock where a boy of maybe 8 or 9 was alone. Do you have any water skis?

The boy seemed unprepared for the question. Not really, he said. There might be some in storage, but only his parents would know. Well, would you be a champ and run back to the house and ask them? The boy did not look like he wanted to. But he did.

The rest of us in the boat shared the boy’s astonishment (Who asks that sort of question?), his reluctance to turn a nominally polite encounter into a disagreeable one, and perhaps the same paralysis: no one said anything to stop the exchange. But that’s the thing. Spend time with the Jordans of the world and you’re apt to get things you are not entitled to—the choice table at the overbooked restaurant, the courtside tickets you’d never ask for yourself—without ever having to be the bad guy. The transgression was Jordan’s. The spoils were the group’s.

The transgression is the jerkboy’s. The romantic spoils are the women’s.

Isolating the effects of taker behavior on group welfare is exactly what van Kleef, the Dutch social psychologist, and fellow researchers set out to do in their coffee-pot study of 2012.

At first blush, the study seems simple. Two people are told a cover story about a task they’re going to perform. One of them—a male confederate used in each pair throughout the study—steals coffee from a pot on a researcher’s desk. What effect does his stealing have on the other person’s willingness to put him in charge?

The answer: It depends. If he simply steals one cup of coffee for himself, his power affordance shrinks slightly. If, on the other hand, he steals the pot and pours cups for himself and the other person, his power affordance spikes sharply. People want this man as their leader.

Women want to join a jerk’s world because they want to be taken on a mutually satisfying adventure.

I related this to Adam Grant. “What about the person who gets resources for the group without stealing coffee?” he asked. “That’s a comparison I would like to see.”

It was a comparison, actually, that van Kleef had run. When the man did just that—poured coffee for the other person without stealing it—his ratings collapsed. Massively. He became less suited for leadership, in the eyes of others, than any other version of himself.

If you’re nothing but a niceguy, people will come to despise you because you will be giving away your generosity as if it was worthless.

[C]ould rudeness cause other people to open their wallets too?

The answer was a qualified yes. When it came to “aspirational” brands like Gucci, Burberry, and Louis Vuitton, participants were willing to pay more in a scenario in which they felt rejected. But the qualifications were major. A customer had to feel a longing for the brand, and if the salesperson did not look the image the brand was trying to project, condescension backfired. For mass-market retailers like the Gap, American Eagle, and H&M, rejection backfired regardless.

This qualification exists in the field of pickup too. Acting like an egotistic jerk while hitting on fatties projects an incongruence. Hotties will scorn you, and the fatties will feel even more “devalidated” than they did before you leveled your very special attention on them. Interestingly, this aspect of jerkitude verifies the game technique of peacocking. If you stand out in a little way from the crowd of betas, your jerky charisma will be better received because you’ll be projecting a “brand image” of a man who breaks norms.

Luxury retail is a very specific realm. But the study also points toward a bigger and more general qualification of the advantage to being a jerk: should something go wrong, jerks don’t have a reserve of goodwill to fall back on.

This is why you’ve gotta mix up your jerkballs with some slow pitches, especially if you want a long-term relationship with a girl. A jerkboy can keep a woman spinning in a dizzying drama orbit for a long time, but eventually, should a major fault line erupt, she’ll come back down to earth, and if you haven’t provided at least a little padding for her landing the crash could be spectacular.

([Being a jerk] is also marginally more likely to fail you, several studies suggest, if you’re a woman.)

Contrary popular but embittered feminist belief, men don’t dig bitches (unless they’re smoking hot).

Yet in at least three situations, a touch of jerkiness can be helpful. […] The third—not fully explored here, but worth mentioning—is when the group’s survival is in question, speed is essential, and a paralyzing existential doubt is in the air.

Jerkitude is really helpful to your game right at that precarious decision-making point of your first meeting with a girl. When she’s wondering if you’re an interesting man she’d like to get to know is when being a jerk will nudge her in the direction of wanting more of you.

But can you become the jerk women love? There’s an anecdote in the article about an entrepreneur whose life changed after he joined the Marine Corp. His time in the Marines made him more aggressive. He learned how “to go from 15 to 95 real quick”. He did this so often that his personality permanently changed to a new, jerky valence, and it carried over later into business success.

Learning to become a jerk is just like learning Game,

Without that kind of modulation—without getting a little outside our comfort zone, at least some of the time—we’re all probably less likely to reach our goals, whether we’re prickly or pleasant by disposition.

You have to get outside your comfort zone. Not a lot. Just a little push against your comfy boundaries is enough to mold you into a better man.

He believes that the most effective people are “disagreeable givers”—that is, people willing to use thorny behavior to further the well-being and success of others.

No man is a jerk store unto himself. Speaking of “disagreeable givers”, that appellation fits a lot of natural players I’ve known. They are rude and shocking and arrogant, but are also sometimes surprisingly generous, and the recipients of the jerks’ generosity value it so much more than they would from a niceguy because they are preconditioned to assume the jerk had to sacrifice a lot more “character capital” to be generous with them. It’s like getting a pat on the back from the CEO versus getting slavish praise from the mailroom grunt.

Smile at the customer. Take the initiative. Tweak a few rules. Steal cookies for your colleagues. Don’t puncture the impression that you know what you’re doing. Let the other person fill the silence. Get comfortable with discomfort. Don’t privilege your own feelings. Ask who you’re really protecting. Be tough and humane. Challenge ideas, not the people who hold them. Don’t be a slave to type.

Game 101.

And above all, don’t affix nasty, scatological labels to people.

I dunno about this one. I’ve found that girls love my occasional streaks of sadistic cruelty. Ever play the “marry fuck kill” game with a girl you’ve just met?

It’s a jerk move.

And…

wait for it…

chicks dig it!

(this post was very meta-jerk.)

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Summertime Gine

Reader Waffles tastes the rainbow,

In honor of great scenes of game in the movies I have to give a special shout out to the official start of the summer of game, Memorial Day Weekend. Summer offers the promise of endless possibilities and is a game reset button. I am sure many in the Chateau can speak to the experience of arguably the most exciting arena of game, the coed summer shore house. In the car with the windows down, music up, that giddy flash of anxiety that hits the moment you smell the salty air, it’s too late now. Here it comes.

Evocative. Who didn’t get a tingle up their legs reading this and envisioning that romantic rush of summersun fun?

I offer a game tip, Waffles. When you meet a girl at the shore this weekend, and you will, at an opportune moment tell her this story exactly as you wrote it here. Not necessarily with her as the subject of your story; instead, told as a bodywide feeling that carries you aloft. Then sit back and slip your sunglasses on, because her sparkling eyes will blind you like the glittering midday surf. If your car is a convertible, bonus storytelling points.

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Besides a wispy thatch of blonde pubes cresting a slow wave of inflamed pink, this might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all week.

Early this morning, an anonymous person or persons put up posters around Columbia University—in the 116th Street subway station, outside of Tom’s Restaurant, on stoplights and construction walls—emblazoned with the image of student Emma Sulkowicz and her now-iconic mattress. Since September 2014, Sulkowicz has been dragging the mattress around campus as a protest against the school’s handling of her rape allegations against another student. (That student, Paul Nungesser, has since sued the university.) This morning’s posters accuse Sulkowicz of making it all up, dismissing her as “Pretty Little Liar” with the caption “Emma Sulkowitz” [sic] and “RapeHoax.”

A new Twitter account, @FakeRape, has been tweeting pictures of the posters for the last five hours. Another poster, picturing Lena Dunham sticking her tongue out, is clearly part of the series, emblazoned “Big Fat Liar,” with the same #RapeHoax hashtag.

A graduating army of Chateau Heartiste shock troops likes the feel of their heavy scrota, and the joy of placing their stones on the chins of malicious feminist cuntrags. For this reason, the Columbia University anonymous Realtalker™ earns this edition of Shiv of the Week.

Shame, mortify, and ostracize feminists until they slither away to their dank bedrooms in solidarity with their bruised egos, or they self-deliver in the gloom of their despair. Cantankerous and cancerous feminist attention whores fear nothing more than total social expulsion. When the tide finally turns, and it will, even their closest sistren will betray them for the mercy of the cool mean girls.

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