The Small Matter Of The Bar Tab (2)

Bless you, madam. May your toilet paper perforations always work as intended.

May you find long-forgotten gems in your list of Sky TV recordings.

Don’t you people have anything better to do?
No refunds. Credit note only.

PING!
Thanks, David. I quite like this place; a little oasis of sanity where we can gawk at the bedlamites marching by.

And “gawk at the bedlamites” should go in the brochure.

May your grapes always be seedless, and your raspberries never soften to a disagreeable degree.

Bless you, madam. May you never perspire more than is seemly.

Shop like the wind.

May you never know the sickening horror of a 9% phone battery level.

Been laughing (in disbelief) at your ‘Year Reheated’ recap.
Yes, when you put a year’s worth of wokeness in a pile, like a snapshot of the bedlamite demographic, it’s quite boggling.
May the Wi-Fi always reach all corners of your home.

I spent over an hour trying researching how to combine all my prepaid gift card balances and send that but gave up.
So I rolled to the store and got another gift card. Incoming pleasant ping noise.
PS Shouldn’t this be under ‘Busking’ rather than ‘Basking’?

Been laughing (in disbelief) at your ‘Year Reheated’ recap.
Don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

May your grill pan never require more than the lightest of soaks.

SJW controllers: Harnessing and weaponizing ego-gratification and (possibly also creating) personality disorders for over 30 years!

Just to start the day…
Australia is not real, “It’s a coverup [sic] for one of the greatest mass murders in history.”

Michael Moore hearts Marx.
Marx was also an obnoxious, dishonest, delusional hypocrite. So I suppose they would have had something in common.

Suggesting one might need to lock their doors when parking south of USC is racist, ignorant and problematic, and especially troubling when brought up by someone who is white
Michael Lewis on the Columbia School of Journalism

A few weeks ago, toward the end of the first semester of classes, about thirty journalism students assembled in the third-floor student lounge to compile a list of complaints about the school, which they eventually presented to Dean Joan Konner. They were busily agreeing that the school needed more Hispanics, more scholarship money for African Americans, a more culturally sensitive faculty and more awareness about aids, when a stranger crept in and took a seat. The stranger must have liked what he saw: all these prosperous-looking youths so preoccupied with their problems that they were blind to the events right in front of their eyes. Unnoticed, the stranger rifled through a student’s purse. The lounge wasn’t much bigger than a squash court, so he deserves some sort of prize for audacity.
It was only when the stranger made for the door that one of the students—the woman who’d been robbed—finally noticed him and shouted. The stranger raced out the door, down the stairwell, past the bronze plaque, past the bronze busts of Joseph Pulitzer, past the stucco reliefs of the Gods of Journalism and out into the night, chased by a dozen or so less swift journalism students. Standing near the fateful spot in the lounge where she and her classmates had been sitting, Kaue Noel Kelch-Mattox related the story to me. “We were literally ten to fifteen seconds behind him, but then he just disappeared,” she said. “I never would have thought this sort of thing could happen in my own student lounge.”
“Who wrote the story?” I asked. The students were required to hand in homework articles each week. The student newspaper was also sorely in need of material.
“No one,” she said. “There wasn’t a story.”

And which is now quite possibly the most thoroughly painted four feet of wall in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps you should take up being decoratively bold and fearless, and paint it black.
Better yet, assess the angle of repeatedly thrown liquids, and repeat one last time with a double quantity of black paint—the double quantity should cover any variations in angle of subsequent spills.

Perhaps you should take up being decoratively bold and fearless, and paint it black.
I now work on the assumption that the section of wall in question is basically cursed. Or houses some kind of gravitational anomaly.

https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/i-swear-make-patriarchy-uncomfortable-i-m-proud-it-ncna870736
Wouldn’t you love to see these dumb cows in a real patriarchy? Heck, I’d even spring for a get-well card after the razor-blade surgery. And what is a major news organization doing posting foolishness like this?

Why Johnny doesn’t science.

Mona Eltahawy is a feminist writer
Hence, I suppose, the severe, perhaps terminal, departure from reality.

Tip jar has been hit of course.
May your hangers never tangle.
And thanks to all who’ve chipped in so far, including those much too shy to comment. It’s what keeps this place here and is much appreciated.

Switch to white wine AND paint the wall coffee-color.
Or let the stains collect and call it modern art.

Also ping.