From the fun-time world of the sexually dysmorphic:

Wise words, as Transgender Reddit goes, from the replies to this:

According to our height-conscious chappie, it’s all about “just being myself.” And his self is apparently a shorter person than the person he actually is:

And hey, who wouldn’t want a “controlled breaking” of their legs? Which is how his idea of ladylike shortness would be achieved. A procedure that entails an exciting range of possible complications, including limited mobility, nerve damage, chronic pain, and deformity, and for which the success rate is, intriguingly, “not known,” according to the people offering the service.

Update, via the comments:

Twin Cities Teegan adds,

And yet in some quarters, among certain activists and their ‘allies’, anyone suggesting this might find themselves assailed with indignant name-calling. Something I’ve said many times is that it seems we’re not supposed to tease apart the various phenomena currently bundled together as “trans”:

Regarding this undefined upper limit, commenter [+] adds,

But here’s the thing. If observable reality is no longer the measure of things, and if observable reality must actively be shunned in order to be affirming, in order to be an “ally,” – as seen, for instance, here – then where is the threshold? Where’s the point at which it all becomes too bonkers, too big an ask?

When a shirtless, deranged man – a man attacking a breastfeeding mother and her four-month-old baby – is referred to by the Vancouver Police Department, and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and the Vancouver Sun, as a woman – despite all video and photographic evidence – then we’re in surreal territory. And the mismatch of claim and reality is not neutral or benign. It is corrosive. Not least to any trust in the Vancouver Police Department, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and the Vancouver Sun – the probity of which is, necessarily, called into question.

Because the public, including witnesses to the assault above, don’t generally appreciate being lied to about the identity of dangerously deranged criminals.

As I said at the time,

And if you follow the link above, you’ll see this example, this feat of incongruous pretending, is but one of many.

Lifted from the comments, a spot of anthropology. In which, a progressive woman seeks irritation, some cause for concern – and, with effort, finds it:

What’s amusing about these displays of woke piety is, I think, the eerie uniformity, the contrivance, the same weird psychology.

Ms Jeffery, the editor-in-chief of Mother Jones, is not only ostentatiously vexed by an unremarkable expression of politeness and goodwill – such that she feels a need to alert her 134,000 likeminded followers to the imminent Christian Nationalist uprising – but we’re also expected to believe that her account of events is entirely true. That her peculiar disapproval was shared, audibly, by many other passengers, which, frankly, seems unlikely.

Oh, and she’s also revealed in the subsequent thread to be something of a hypocrite, and a repeated user of the same, supposedly offensive term. The latest instance being a mere three days earlier. I’m sure you’re all shocked. Do take a moment to steady yourselves.

As Clam adds in the comments,

It does suggest being accustomed to getting away with it. An expectation of mutual dishonesty, in which no-one pulls at the obvious threads, lest the favour be repaid and their own pronouncements receive an unwelcome scrutiny.

I suppose we could see the dubious story above – in which an innocuous expression of politeness is proof of “creeping Christian nationalism” – as a new spin on the woke eight-year-old phenomenon from 2016, in which countless progressives, including MSNBC “analysts” and editors of leftist magazines – and including Ms Jeffery herself – started tweeting, competitively, about their small children, all aged eight, supposedly saying Oddly Precocious And Terribly Progressive Things:

As I said at the time,

The phenomenon was seemingly contagious and quite bizarre, a collective fit of transparent fabrication, and soon became a mocking meme. But I think we’re seeing much the same psychology. The same telling of tall tales in order to assert status and to fuel some progressive psychodrama.

For grown adults, our supposed moral betters, this is… odd behaviour.

Update, via the comments:

Rafi quips,

The urge to inflate grievances, and indeed to fabricate them, to balance umbrage and chest-puffing on the merest mote, is a progressive credential. Theirs is a hamster-wheel world of competitive indignation. But when you’re very publicly complaining about a flight attendant using the word blessed, as if this one word signalled some impending theocracy – and when you’re using your eight-year-old child as a political ventriloquist’s doll – then we’re in the land of make-believe. And possibly, anti-psychotic medication.

Ms Jeffery seems oblivious to how petty, presumptuous and mean-spirited she sounds. As if complaining about a commonplace word of kindness, a courtesy, and construing it as offensive and vaguely sinister, were what righteous, well-adjusted people do. As if it were something one should boast about, publicly, while waiting for applause.

Ms Jeffery goes on to complain about disrespect – as if she had been violated by someone wishing her well – and she depicts herself as being oppressed by some “dominant culture.” In which flight attendants say nice things to passengers.

Readers are invited to imagine what it must be like to publicly mouth some bizarrely implausible claim, for no discernibly pressing reason, knowing that the bullshit-like properties of your claim, and your own hypocrisy, can easily be discovered, in a matter of seconds, and to mouth it anyway. And then, when challenged, to double down on the implausible and bizarre. Again, it strikes me as an odd compulsion.

Ms Jeffery is now calling those mocking her “so, so, so dumb.”

At last, the ever-changing pronoun pin you’ve always wanted. || Loud chomping, heard from below. || The thrill of personal airbags. || Suboptimal situation. || Still a bear, madam. || Man cave, not bear cave. || He was not entirely cooperative, and then there was the business with the machete. || How to remove those whale skeletons from your ceiling. || Milky loveliness. || From 1963, a laboratory of smells and some educated noses. || She “felt God’s presence,” you know. || Unwell woman, one of many. || When you’re a little too into yourself. || A cunning use of cardboard. || At least the ducks were unharmed. || Odd dog. || Further to last week, more thrills of frog venom. || Big horse fart. The fart, I mean, not the horse. || Moths and butterflies. || And finally, in case you didn’t know, they unfold.

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With the nights drawing in – and with bills for renewing hosting, domain registration, security, and so forth all upcoming – it’s time to remind patrons that this rickety barge is kept afloat by the kindness of strangers. If you’d like to help it remain buoyant a while longer, and remain ad-free, there are three buttons below the fold with which to monetise any love. Debit and credit cards are accepted. If what happens here is of value, this is a chance to show it.

If one-click haste is called for, there’s a QR code in the sidebar, at which you point your phone, and my PayPal.Me page can be found here. As requested, I’ve added SubscribeStar and Ko-Fi accounts, via which love may also be monetised, whether as one-off donations or monthly subscriptions.

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For newcomers wishing to know more about what’s been going on here for the last seventeen years, in over 3,000 posts and 200,000 comments, the reheated series is a pretty good place to start – in particular, the end-of-year summaries, which convey the fullest flavour of what it is we do. A sort of blog concentrate. If you like what you find there… well, there’s lots more of that.

Do take a moment to poke through the discussion threads too. The posts are intended as starting points, not full stops, and the comments are where much of the good stuff is waiting to be found. And do please join in.

As always, thanks for the support, the comments, and the company.

By all means consider this an open thread.

Oh yes. The buttons:

Further to our lively rumblings on crime and recidivism, including recent comments, Inquisitive Bird has some relevant data:

That would be this incident here. The gentlemen in question met their maker after colliding head-on with a lorry, while driving down the N7, at more than twice the speed limit, in the wrong direction. Their car, a stolen BMW 3 series, promptly burst into flames, making the identification of their remains a time-consuming endeavour.

Happily, the driver of the lorry survived.

Readers with an interest in the subject are advised to read the whole thing, in which eye-widening statistics abound, along with some rather sensible – and therefore terribly unfashionable – policy suggestions.

Update, via the comments:

Regarding the burglars’ demise, what catches the eye are the gushing tributes from friends and relatives, claiming, rather improbably, that the gleefully malevolent creatures were “too good for this stupid shitty world.”

As if the trio – whose activities included habitual burglary on a prodigious scale, and assaulting and mugging elderly couples and bedridden cancer patients – were somehow deserving of public sympathy. Not the numerous victims of their predations, mind, but the predators themselves. It does rather tell us something about the quality of those friends and relatives, their moral orientation.

Again, I miss the concept of shame.

Oh, and consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

At last, a walking coffee table. And how to build your own. || Incoming. || Close enough, buddy. || Close enough 2. || 70s cop show. || Tongue action. || Nommy nommy nom. || Attention, peasants, I bring thee art. || Rob Henderson on wokeness, the media, and luxury beliefs. || Hey, it’s a job. || Hey, it’s a job 2. || A pressing question from 1981: Who are the New Romantics? || The progressive retail experience, parts 578, 579, 580, 581, and 582. || Paid $136,000. || Another professor struggles with logic and reality. || A project for the weekend. || Hot water. || Hey, you wanted it immersive. || It’s raining men. || This is one of these. || Fifth wheel for tight parking. || ‘Fess up, it was the first thing you noticed. || And finally, a tale of harvesting psychedelic frog secretions, parts 1 and 2 and 3.

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Or, The Wig Is Doing A Lot Of Heavy Lifting.

In the clip below, Calgary trans activist Victoria Bucholtz, aka Karla Marx, has words – deep, manly words – with Jennifer Johnson, a conservative politician.

Ms Johnson had previously upset activists, and much of the Canadian media, by describing the classroom propagation of trans activist ideology – specifically, setting children on a path to mutilation and castration – as a blemish and contaminant, akin to “poop” in cookies.

I think it’s fair to say the exchange that follows is not a triumph of reconciliation. It may, however, prove instructive – indeed, telling – though possibly not in ways that Mr Bucholtz intended.

Trans activism in a nutshell.

An aggressive, bullying man attempts to intimidate a woman into submission, demanding that she say something she knows isn’t true.

And he’s loving every minute of it. pic.twitter.com/CY0Fa3Wp34

— Mia (@_CryMiaRiver) September 17, 2024

Readers will note how “listening to the community” is conceived by Mr Bucholtz as deference and prostration, and regurgitating things that are obviously untrue. If it sounds like a struggle session, hold that thought:

Readers may likewise wish to ponder the chutzpah of a gaslighting bedlamite demanding “respect” while simultaneously demanding that everyone else surrender their probity and become dishonest and absurd, mouthing lies as and when instructed.

Ms Johnson had also expressed concern about the use by activists, in schools, of pornographic material. Concerns that much of the subsequent media coverage sneered at or dismissed as unfounded.

I’m assuming that Ms Johnson was referring to things like this.

Because, apparently, “vagina slime,” fellatio, and “strap-on hotness” are topics of urgent moral importance for middle-school children. Children who need to know about the joys of masturbating while driving.

But ssshh, don’t tell Mom and Dad.

Mr Bucholtz – “(She/Her)” – is an “LGBTQ+ facilitator,” an “activist,” and “currently teaches at Mount Royal University.” His areas of expertise include “the history of emotions.” When not demanding that people tell lies repeatedly and in public, he is “an avid mountaineer,” a drag queen, and a “dog mom.”

Mr Bucholtz’ educational chops can be witnessed here.

One more time:

Because it’s a “basic foundational principle.”

Via Mia Hughes.

Update, via the comments, where Rafi asks, not unreasonably,

Alas, I fear that if we pull at that thread, the whole sweater may come unravelled. I mean, if, as we’ve been told, quite emphatically, women can’t be transwomen, on account of being, you know, women, then surely only a man can be a transwoman. Which sounds like another way of saying, a transwoman can only be a man.

But hey, pile of yarn.

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

And in unrepentant pervert news:

And other modern dramas.

First, from the comments, where Clam warns,

Regarding this:

What grates, I think, is the routine overstepping of boundaries, the casual insult. Judging by the transgressive sandwiches, to which the note is attached, it seems the child was prevented from eating and, presumably, publicly embarrassed.

A while ago, one of my nieces received a snotty note scolding her for sending her son to school with a packed lunch consisting of a banana and a peanut butter sandwich, an occasional treat. Apparently, peanut butter, like jam, is a verboten foodstuff. And so, as a result, someone is employed to poke through children’s lunch boxes and to then write snotty notes to parents. A function doubtless enjoyed.

But here’s the thing. If you aren’t paying for something directly, even if you’re still paying indirectly, via taxes, you won’t by default be regarded as a customer, for whom some minimal regard might be shown, and whose boundaries should be respected. Instead, it’s quite likely you’ll be treated as an inconvenience, an irritation, someone who can be insulted and subjected to condescension.

See also, our glorious NHS.

The item linked above recounts, in abbreviated form, my attempt to return a set of crutches to the local NHS hospital – and how an ostensibly simple task became a 45-minute ordeal with farcical overtones. Entailing a trek of a half a mile or so, down endless corridors on multiple floors, from one department to another, then another, then another. An odyssey enlivened by encounters with bizarrely rude and unhelpful staff, and while walking past posters stressing the moral imperative of patients returning their crutches. An undertaking made as impractical, as maddening, and as absurdly complicated, as would seem humanly possible.

And it’s not entirely heartening to realise, as you trek down yet another corridor, that you’re entrusting your wellbeing, perhaps even your life, to an institution that can’t organise a practical system for the returning of crutches.

Oh, and while I have your attention, I bring dating instructions from the land of the badly tattooed and terminally self-involved:

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Also, open thread.

You want one and you know it. || I have questions. || A question of manners. || So, do you come here often? || Down to a dribble. || Another everyday cleaning complication. || Jiggling was seen and pondered. || Perhaps larger breasts would draw attention away from the hands. || Arctic research projects, some atomic. || Plot twist. || For lovers of cassette tape. || Customer service at an emotional moment. || Maw. || Swiss mechanical dolls that draw. || 1920s coin-operated automata of note. || Tread carefully, there may be traces of rust. || Today’s word is eyeliner. || At last. || Installation. || He brought friends. || And finally, via Things, an extensive archive of sound effects. From submarine sonar blips and assorted swooshes to fires, flamethrowers, and burning fuses.

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