I expect to be busy for a few days. However, being a gracious host, I’ll leave you with some items from the archives:
Marking Their Territory.
Two radical identity groups struggle for toilet dominion.
Naturally, the first task was to give the toilets a makeover via the uplifting medium of graffiti, thereby communicating the life-enhancing qualities of prostitution: “Less abolitionism, more whoring,” and “less TERFs, more sex.” Needless to say, the conflict has escalated… With the facilities now being used by rival tribes, all gorged on intersectional compassion – and with so much graffiti to be written and responded to indignantly – students are reporting queues and “lengthy wait times.”
You’re Reading The Comments, Right?
When wokeness is ascendant and apparently quite stupefying.
Pst314 and Mr Muldoon point us to an “analysis” piece in
Scientific American, in which we’re urged to fret about “the violence Black men experience in [American] football,” and in which we’re told that the physicality of the sport “disproportionately affects black men.” This is framed in the article so as to imply some systemic racial wrongdoing – “anti-Black practices” that are “inescapable” – rather than, say, being an unremarkable reflection of the sport’s demographics, in which, at professional levels, black players are a majority.
Or to put it another, no less scientific, way – the risk of injury while playing a contact sport disproportionately affects those who actually play it.
No evidence is offered, at all, to establish that injuries are more frequent among black players compared to their white peers – which is pretty much the article’s premise – or to support the conceit that any such disparity, should it exist, must be driven by racism. And yet we’re told, with an air of satisfaction, “These playing fields… are never theoretically far from plantation fields.” Albeit a plantation with fan mail, lucrative endorsements, and an average salary of around $2.7 million.
The D-Words.
On supposedly racist traffic cameras.
Those presented as victims of injustice, of “racial inequity,” include Mr Rodney Perry, whose photograph accompanies the piece, and who, in a single year, has received eight tickets for speeding and three for running red lights. The article appears not to have had room to include the views of those injured or bereaved by Chicago’s law-breaking motorists, despite an eye-widening spike in accidents, fatalities, and hit-and-run crashes. Nor, it seems, was there room to consider the possible effect of endless, widespread excuse-making for antisocial behaviour, and its role in making such behaviour more likely, not less.
No Relation.
“Diverse identities” and euphemistic convolutions.
I can understand the reluctance to appear indelicate or to cause needless offence; and in some situations, there may be scope for polite fudging. But pretending-as-default, or worse, pretending-as-law, can lead to unhappy farce and a kind of collective derangement. And the media presenting the reader with an obvious distortion of reality, and seemingly an expectation that we should all pretend too, is also rather offensive.
Hard To Tell If It’s Going Well.
I bring you art. And atomised dairy products.
The mighty talent featured in the following video is artist, educator and “community organiser” Alex Romania, whose work teeters on the edge of profundity, as will doubtless become clear, via juddering and convulsion, and the strategic deployment of 25 pounds of powdered cheese. Come, sup ye at the teats of creativity.
Consider this an open thread.
Goodness. Buttons. I wonder what they do.
See also,
And if you disagree with her or provide statistical evidence to the contrary, then you’re a “white supremacist.”
Wokeness, ladies and gentlemen. See how it shines.
Hmmm, no Ephemera. David must be busy hiding squirrel eggs.
Didn’t have time this week to cobble together a batch I was happy with. And contrary to rumour, and all appearances, I do make an attempt at quality control.
There were nine of them this morning. I must remember to use my new powers for good. Once I figure out a crime-fighting application.
You could say that this weeks’ offering is maximally ephemeral.
A possibly useful translation guide.
It’s the Weimeranas I feel sorry for 😪
[ Hides from Stephanie. ]
In the spirit of WWII motivational posters, we’ll all just have to Do Our Part.
I should have posted this as “Urban transit experience #549”.
That’s the spirit. I mean, how hard can it be?
Ooh, I’m being taken out for lunch in the Peak District. Score.
[ Grabs coat, checks hair, buggers off. ]
For who’s lunch?
*ducks*
[ Hasty internet search. ]
Looks beautiful. And not an urban experience for many miles.
The urban transit experience, statistics division.
It’s the mucus.
124 of the people arrested in the NYC subway system last year “have been arrested over 7,500 times in their lifetimes.”
Sure, but were any of those for “parading, demonstrating, or picketing”?
Quite.
124 of the people arrested in the NYC subway system last year “have been arrested over 7,500 times in their lifetimes.”
I think I see the problem right there–and this doesn’t even count the times they were arrested while not on transit.
There is an observation I have heard but cannot verify that black moms raise their girls but love their boys–ie every son is a good boy, can do no wrong, and is never disciplined. Cute when they are 4 but not so cute when they are 22 and swinging fists around on the train.
It has turned into a romcom, or a romdram or whatever the term is when a Roman mystery series is beset by whinging women and lots of emotional introspection
That definitely comes and goes in the books. I’ve not listened to the BBC radio production, but I have a copy somewhere.
All cultures are equal.™
♪♫A pretty girl, is like a melody…♪♫
Witnesses were arrested for misgendering.
[ Returns from Peak District, gorged on steak pie and beef dripping chips. ]
[ Adds to database. Draws more red driving range circles on wall map ]
Slowly but steadily we close in on the Lair of Evil.
Band name.
He’s got a point.
The vile Cathy Newman has been proposed for membership.
Wonder how they’re going to deal with men pretending to be women.
Note the boneheaded error in the headline: Jordan Peterson is Canadian, not British.
That falls under this purpose of the original club rules:
What could be more tiresome and boring than a tranny?
Well, maybe a Marxist vegan.
New realms of wankery.
The pretending about trans etc has real-world consequences. These days in many US jurisdictions the only way to find out the race of a suspected rapist or murderer is if they do NOT say white, but you still don’t know which non-white this dangerous person is. For trans criminals, you are left confused as to who this dangerous person is even more. Thus you cannot take precautions. Showing vids of porch thieves might violate their privacy. Some places can’t show mugshots any more. It is clear who has more rights.
Not that new.
Don’t they know they’re supposed to throw more than their voices into the volcano?
Demanding that people lie, and even punishing them if they don’t, doesn’t strike me as an unalloyed virtue. It is, however, an assault on probity and psychological realism. And as noted here many times, not without its dangers.
This came to mind.
As EmC quipped in reply, “8 uses of ‘she’ and not a woman in sight.”
It is The Atlantic.
Child abuse if nothing else.
Yes, but you were supposed to make a dig at ignorant ‘Muricans.
Granted, it’s not fair to judge all Americans by what journalists get up to.
Excepting the child it’s unlikely there’s anyone virgin-adjacent in that lot.
Looks more like a tribble to me.
Larcenous cow.
“Whoosh bottle”
Possibly related.
I’m not entirely sure what is happening here, but it seems like we have a new nadir with what may be transincest.
A palate cleansing baby race. Via Not The Bee. Not pallet. Nor palette. Stupid french.
This being Easter weekend, I feel I must share my renewed faith in Christ. We met my sister in law and her hubs for lunch today in a nearby little mountain town. After lunch, walking about the square, my sister in law spied a store called Beyond Pink and insisted we go in there. Well at that moment, the local Catholic (Hispanic) church was having a Holy Week procession complete with Roman soldiers, Christ carrying His rugged cross whilst being whipped, the other two guys, etc. As they were passing twixt us and the store the idea of going to that store was abandoned. The procession of a couple hundred followers were headed up to where our cars were parked. It was clear we might be there a while. My wife spied a rooftop cigar lounge just at the tail end of where the crowd was passing. We went. We saw. I smoked. The Lord works in mysterious ways. It’s not like we didn’t already have plans and a church picked out for Sunday, so…Feeling doubly blessed.
They’re does seem something distinctly end-of-timesey about it.
Just in time, Joy Reid chimes in to display her madness. (Via Scott Adams.)
Somebody posts this every year during Holy Week: