Friday Ephemera (669)
I don’t want to rush you, but the ground is approaching. || Dissonant vibes. || Gritty crime drama. || Suboptimal scenario. (h/t, pst314) || A soap manufacturer speaks. || For those who dislike dusting. || Today’s word is inadvisable. || Throws like a girl. || How menfolk pass the time. || Crashing into the Moon. || With 47,000 amps and quite a big magnet. || You know, I’m not entirely sure what the plan was. || I didn’t know this was a job. || Also a job, it seems. || This is more of a hobby, possibly a sport. || Attention, all landlords, the tenant of your dreams. || Attention, all black men, a tempting offer. || Seen from inside. || Assorted rotating sandwiches. || And finally, good news for the big-footed transsexual.
Should you be tempted, you can follow me on Twitter.
Um, just testing the comment function…
You know, I’m not entirely sure what the plan was.
A commenter downthread there says (and gives a link that’s supposed to go to a documentary about it, though it seems to be some kind of spam site) that she’s a deaf-mute woman from a rural village, who had no idea how an elevator works.
I need to know what that’s from. 🙂
Morning, all.
It’s episode two of Pui Pui Molcar, a Japanese children’s stop-motion anime about, er, cars that are guinea pigs. Or guinea pigs that are cars: “Crisp eyes. Big, round buttocks. Short limbs running around.” Obviously.
Thanks. Just seen it’s on Netflix.
Why isn’t it automated?
I didn’t know this was a job.
C’mon, who wanted to just put their mouth under the nozzle?
[ Moves Julia’s bar stool closer to the gents. ]
For anyone who hasn’t seen this yet, a PSA of sorts.
“This is my shocked face” and etc.
[ Hands out tiny crutches to prop up fallen jaws. ]
Er, what?
Well, indeed. It’s hard to see how any significant change could occur, beyond what might be expected from, say, a diet. I was poking through some trans discussion boards and lost count of the dysmorphic men claiming to have had their feet shrink dramatically, by three shoe sizes. But then, these are, by definition, people whose perceptions of themselves are… somewhat unreliable.
Not entirely unrelated, a juxtaposition of note.
Band name or album title?
For some reason, it brought to mind those 1970s paperback ‘novelisations’ of Doctor Who stories – Doctor Who and the Planet of the Spiders; Doctor Who and the Terror of the Autons; that kind of thing.
Doctor Who and the Big-Footed Transsexual.
‘Band name or album title?’
New Harry Potter novel..?
But which Doctor?
Well, at first I thought Jon Pertwee. The dandy out-dandied, as it were. Also, that’s around the time the books were everywhere. But then there’s… William Hartnell.
Oh come on.
It’s not without… possibilities.
Or from a slightly older generation:-
Tintin and the adventure of the Big-Footed Transsexual.
Tempting offer
Thanking the gods I’m white
It’s hard to see how any significant change could occur…
It can’t, the only way those foot size dysphoria can have their identified foot size affirmed is the same way most every thing else is “affirmed”, bright lights and cold steel.
Over at Matt Walsh’s twits on the same video, it is hard to tell (as usual) if comments such as…
…are piss takes.
Many such cases.
A new unit of measurement.
It was a little through-the-looking-glass, seeing dysmorphic men assuring each other, quite emphatically, that a chap with size 11 feet could, thanks to heavy drugging with oestrogen and some ladylike walking, develop dainty size 8s.
Because that’s how feet work, apparently.
Is that like a small boulder the size of a large boulder?
It is, everywhere else. Funny, tho…
You know what they say about big feet….
(wait for it)
Must be a clown.
(looks down at size 12s. Channels Pagliacci)
Throwing things: one of the big leaps in human evolution was the change in our shoulder to allow throwing. Apes can’t really throw, just fling. In S Africa they found piles of round rocks that had been brought from elsewhere, near the coast, and associated with very old human remains. Not suitable for tools. Probably for throwing at seabird colonies. Little boys spend hours throwing rocks (in the good old days when they were let outside).
Menfolk passing the time: hilarious. I would play that.
It’s a bit silly, but I could immediately understand doing it. I’m now trying to think of a female equivalent. Maybe the ladies can shed some light.
trans having periods: a period occurs when the uterus sloughs off the lining because pregnancy did not occur. No uterus, no period. It is the uterus contracting to expel tissue that causes cramps. No uterus, no cramping. To say you get either of these symptoms is an admission of mendacity or delusion. Or both. Feet have bones, your feet cannot shrink due to hormones. Again, delusion.
As regards the hammer and beam sport – layers of hearing protection strongly recommended. It only takes once and you’ve got crickets chirping in your ears 24/7/365 for the rest of your life.
Assorted rotating sandwiches.
I’m hungry now…
For anyone who hasn’t seen this yet, a PSA of sorts.
I guess it’s a commentary on how much the culture has changed that “over-the-top flamboyant gay man” is no longer the attention-getting and/or controversial spectacle it once was. This is why I’m not convinced that any of the alphabet activist crowd actually want acceptance. Once the first bunch of letters mostly got acceptance the T’s strapped on their jackboots and the whole mess started accruing letters like a snowball rolling downhill.
No uterus, no period.
But but but … I’ve been told that a “period” is more than just bleeding and cuz women+ are on hormones they go through the EXACT SAME emotional swings as people with a uterus.
They don’t actually expect us to believe it … they expect us to shut up and act like it’s true
[ Slides free napkin, slightly used, to Darleen. ]
Also, maybe Darleen can tell us the ladies’ equivalent of the menfolk-filling-the-glass game, above.
Because the womenfolk appear to be guarding their secrets.
Submission, not agreement, it’s all about power with the left. You can tell by the fact that they are satisfied with submission even when they know there is no agreement.
The difference between mere delusion and hostile ambition.
The bra thing, kissing the wearer takes away the urgency of popping them out.
I didn’t know this was a job.
I see an opportunity for a modern, updated Lucy and Ethel working in the chocolate factory.
Also a job, it seems.
Sexist employer. I didn’t see a woman in that crew.
Will this be on the test…?
[ Fetches pencil, spiral-bound notepad. ]
I was blithely scrolling down the queue of sandwiches when I was TRIGGERED by the WRONG DIRECTION sandwich. I had to meditate for five minutes. But then, a few sandwiches later, there were more! !!!!!
Stunned, I staggered to the chaise longue to see if cuddling my puppy could recover my equilibrium.
It did not.
Now what?
Also ( since I live in California) I’m gonna sue.
I’ll bet that in most factories it is automated.
But here is a thought: There are people for whom that job matches their aptitude. We don’t want them all on the dole, right?
That’s perseverance.
I want to know what fraction of black Americans support this.
I’m not sure where this quote originated, but it’s apt, “Reparations are payments made by those who never owned slaves to those who never were slaves.”
Time for the Egyptians to do right by the Jews, the Romans (Italians?) to make good to the Greeks, the Barbary muslims to recompense coastal Britons and Europeans, the indigenous tribes to compensate other indigenous tribes, etc, etc, etc.
Why isn’t it automated?
Without knowing more, I can only guess this might be a small, independent ice cream maker. I know a couple very old candy shops that still create all their confections by hand.
Water glass: a game we played as teens was similar. Take a glass of water. Wet the rim and put a napkin over the glass–the water wets the napkin and holds it on. Put a penny in the middle. Take turns burning a hole with a cigarette. Eventually the penny falls in and you lose. (of course no one smokes anymore…) No girls played this game.
Jenga is similar and girls do play that.
Pitching pennies against a wall, similar. (do I date myself?) no girls play this
Scrolled right past the hotdog without a thought, eh? Racist.
In my day, we passed the time with traditional British fun-time activities, like Whose Shoes Are These?, Rattle The Box, and Jigger-Ma-Hoop.
*actual snort*
I’ve never understood the appeal of Neapolitan ice cream. My mother would buy it, likely because it was on sale, and perhaps it was because she was buying cheap stuff that the flavors never tasted right to me. Especially the chocolate. While I never cared for chocolate ice cream itself, the chocolate in Neapolitan always seemed especially bad.
Ah, simpler times…
If memory serves, last time I mentioned these fun-time activities, one of you actually Googled them, just to check.
Which made me laugh.
Yes, as a wee seedling, it all seemed very exciting. ALL THE FLAVOURS IN ONE BOWL. In hindsight, it was a bit of a rip.
The bastards.
reparations: Thomas Sowell pointed out long ago that if you could not have personally prevented a crime or injustice you cannot be guilty of it. He also notes that every group of people everywhere have, over history, been awful to other groups (some thereby exterminated). No innocents except by weakness. Untangling all the historical injustice is impossible. Blaming people for what other people who look like them did in the past is itself an injustice. Every single human has ancestors who murdered, for example.
Yes, this.
https://reduxx.info/canadian-cancer-society-recommends-cervical-cancer-screening-for-men-who-identify-as-women/
O, Canada…
Well, David?
Cervical cancer screening (pap test) for trans women with no cervix. ??? How? Do they charge the same for an imaginary test?
the chocolate in Neapolitan always seemed especially bad.
The only thing worse than the chocolate in Neapolitan is the fake pistachio in cheap Spumoni.
Do they charge the same for an imaginary test?
Did you ever have emissions testing in your jurisdiction? Same thing.
Pistachio, or anything nut-based, in ice cream is often a risk because the nuts are often not fresh. But if it’s a well respected, high-end ice cream parlor the reward is worth it. Yet I don’t think I have ever had chocolate ice cream that was very good. But the Neapolitan chocolate was the absolute worst.
Ignoring the hotdog makes me racist? Sheeeesh. Get in line. That’s, like, 36th in the queue.
Oh god. Now I have to go to Berkeley (ack!) to eat pistachio gelato at Caravaggio. You bastards.
The closest cheap spumoni gets to real nuts is when it flys by the QC guy on the line.
[ ba dum tss ]
WTP: “But the Neapolitan chocolate was the absolute worst.“
Thank goodness over here, someone invented Vienetta.
…
What..?
There is certainly some highly enriched weapons-grade trolling coming out of that “Yorkie dog lovers” account, isn’t there?
In reply to someone saying “She? It’s a bloke!” the account responds:
When someone else reasonably asks what on Earth the account poster means by that:
Distinct Minnow vibes from that account [ shudders involuntarily ]
Tilly and the Fire Engines – a recently recolourised short film from 1911.
Not only is it the most charming thing you are likely to have seen in a while, but it also raises a number of distinctly awkward questions for latter-day devotees of Betty Friedan and her ilk.
“What’s explained by doctors.”
“Professionals.”
Because in NHS hospitals, female patients can’t wait to be cared for, intimately, by mentally ill men.
Julia M made me think of General Foods International Coffee, now no longer sold under that name as far as I can tell.
“Feel luxurious” with “orange cappuccino Italian style instant coffee beverage.”
in NHS hospitals
Implying they had a choice.
No. Just no.
But madam, do you not feel an urge to affirm…? After all, you’re only the patient and, obviously, he’s the one whose comfort matters.
Now lift that nightie, bigot.
Sounds like a convenient revenue-enhancing strategy. They might as well offer aura-readings to assess our individual vulnerabilities to being hit by a dinosaur-killer-size asteroid.
Possible factor: One carton of ice cream can please kids with different flavor preferences.
Citrus flavoring in coffee sounds…odd. But that’s what I thought about mole sauce before I tried it.
Millions in the UK are endangered by Extreme Heat.
Extreme heat? In the proverbially mild and rainy UK?
It’s goat harvesting time!
[ Checks postcode. ]
“Potential hazard score: 1” Out of five. So I can sleep easy tonight.
[ Checks readiness status of ice-cube tray. ]
Extreme heat: to be fair to the brits, many older homes are not built for letting air circulate and do not have AC. On the other hand, from places I have lived that get to be 110 F, hahahah
Remember, dear reader, there are people who boast of having written for Buzzfeed.
[ Added: ]
Following quite a bit of correction and mockery, and in familiar Buzzfeed style, the article has subsequently been stealth-edited. Now, it merely complains that the film “downplays the severity of the situation and lightly edits with [sic] history.”
@pst314
Citrus flavoring in coffee sounds…odd
Back in the 1960s I spent some time in Malta. The crew of the car ferry between the islands of Malta and Gozo would, on request, provide well-brewed black coffee flavoured with orange-flower water. A delightful restorative after the night before.
”…but I don’t think this was actually left out of The Sound of Music, if you watch very closely.”
Don’t even have to watch closely.
They even use a still from the film where the family is actually TRYING TO ESCAPE FROM NAZIS.
*bangs head on desk*
Also amusing: The same article faults James Cameron’s Titanic for focusing too much on a love story and not spending enough time telling us about the 1,500 people who died. Oh well, if it weren’t for finding fault they would have no purpose in life.
The icing on the cake.
Wouldn’t it be better to bang *their* heads on a desk?
Dog loves vacuum cleaners. Cats, on the other hand, hate and fear them.
THIS is the way to handle scum activists.
After all, you’re only the patient and, obviously, irrelevant to what our pharmaceutical masters and bureaucrats tell us to do. Not to mention where we doctors get our kibble. And sports cars. And mortgage payments on our 5000+ sq ft homes. And international vacations. And pretty things for our wives…and mistresses. And anything else that is “relevant” to our situation. Excepting of course you and your health.
Last week our doctor informed my wife that vitamin D deficiency is not a concern. This a few years after a previous doctor was concerned enough by her bloodwork to recommend Vitamin D supplements. Which did get her just a bit above the Mendoza Line of acceptability. She also wanted to ask, since I have been razzing her for a while now for not knowing this, that the blood test that was taken also tell her what her blood type is. No. No dear stupid patient. You have no need for that information. Of course you can go get a separate test done, with extra expense, to determine it if you really, really want.
This.
tell her what her blood type is.
Weird. IIRC, when you donate blood, they’re happy to let you know your blood type. I think I first learned mine when I had my first prenatal workups, consequently learning I’m O-neg, the negative being critical information for an expectant mother.
Just what were these creepy creatures hoping to accomplish?
Yes. While I donate quite regularly, my wife has a significant fear of needles. Which makes a second blood draw even more of an issue. It’s all so bloody stupid. The medical profession is about where the education idiots were 40 years ago. But the denial is thick. Likely thicker. And I don’t have another 30 years to wait for them to wake TF up.
Complete lack of self-awareness.
Narcissism and self-awareness go together like cheese and broken glass.