Only the carpet was hurt. || The thrill of modern romance. || How to use your arms. || Hair crisis of note. || It’s called My Neighbour’s Car Alarm. || Dinosaur migration. || When you fancy a relaxing stroll. || Cooking utensil of note. || Playdough surgery, an educational series. || When teeth explode. || Sleep well, dear reader. || A pixelated journey to the centre of the Earth. || “Simulates the texture, elasticity and feel of a real nipple.” || Why aren’t you keeping track of my tedious pretensions? || Playing dress-up, the modern way. || Babysitting scenes. || A basis for deportation. || The body snatcher of Los Alamos, a Twentieth Century horror story. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || Airbag jeans, $499. || And finally, and because you’re all thinking it, does it throb?

Should you feel the urge, you can follow me on Twitter. And yes, of course, feel free to use the tip jar on the right.

For newcomers and the nostalgic, some items from the archives:

His Skin Just Won’t Come Off.

Academic of pallor denounces “whiteness,” flaps his scented handkerchief.

Crumbs Made Her Unhappy.

Atlantic senior editor Honor Jones dislikes crumbs. And so, she got divorced.

Daddy’s Baggage.

Two-year-old boy likes footballs and tractors. Progressive father twitches.

Come, let us peek at progressive academia:

Lower those eyebrows, you cynical bigots.

Stop it at once.

See, multiple art degrees. And moon sessions. And – and – “intuitive energy work.” Why, she’s the fourth emergency service.

Ms Schenandoah, it turns out, is a Faithkeeper of the Wolf Clan, and skilled in ways of healing “negative energy,” with tuning forks and smudging – that’s burning tobacco and sage, obviously:

Apparently, it’s also a tool for enhancing self-awareness.

Though such bleeding-edge healthcare works best in conjunction with other indigenous technologies:

It’s called health-conscious cooking, darling. || Modern dating. And yes, she’s a Guardian contributor. || You know, I’m no expert but I’m not sure it’s meant to do that. || Same deal here. || Today’s word is suddenly. || Classroom scenes. Well, at least it’s keeping the kids quiet. || Incoming. || Look, I’ll tell you when to stop. || “Is mine normal?” she asked. (NSFW) || Neighbourhood of note. || Signalling detected. || Moral conundrum: gum or matches? || More joys of public transport. || It will tock again. || Waiting room scenes. (h/t, Julia) || She was wearing strange clothing and carrying a box. || Zoomable tree of life. || As a lair, this baby has potential. (h/t, Things) || I’m not familiar with the kind of thing I’m seeing. || And finally, not quite a force-field, but I suppose it’s a start.

You can, should you wish, follow me on Twitter.

Well, this is awkward:

Update, via the comments:

Readers are invited to ponder the thought process here. I mean, when you’re an attention-seeking public figure, an activist and a supposedly “genderfluid” being, and the deputy assistant secretary of the Department of Energy’s Office of Spent Fuel and Waste Disposition, and you keep nicking random women’s luggage and then wearing their clothes in public…

Did Mr Brinton assume no-one would notice? Or was noticing his transgression precisely the point? Or was he so lost in his transvestite kleptomania, his narcissistic fantasy, that there simply wasn’t room for any thoughts about real-world consequences? Answers on a postcard, please.

Consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.