For newcomers, some items from the archives:
Powder Room Scenes.
He’s a transgender activist, so there’s nothing to worry about.
And remember, ladies, when a male bedlamite pushes his phone camera under an occupied bathroom stall in order to livestream to his admirers a woman who is unhappy about a male bedlamite’s presence in a ladies’ toilets – and when said bedlamite’s phone is kicked away and he then claims victimhood, specifically injury to his penis, which he mentions quite a lot – this is totally normal and nothing to worry about. It’s just how things are now.
The Kind Of Creature You’ve Chosen To Be.
An “independent thinker” applies make-up, smashes patriarchy.
Apparently, it’s outdated and oppressive for a young woman to be walked down the aisle at her wedding by her father. And so she can insult him and embarrass him by taking away that role. But of course it’s not outdated or oppressive for that same father to be expected to pay all of the bills for the wedding at which he’s being so pointedly sidelined and insulted.
Let’s Do It, But In A Way That’s Less Likely To Work.
Guardian columnist plans to “redefine the family unit.” Complications ensue.
Providing the sperm. A joyous and maternal turn of phrase. Also of note, the idea of wanting a baby, but with only a third or a quarter of the responsibility. A kind of low-commitment parenting. Bodes well.
Readers are invited to ponder the appeal, for any gentleman with fatherhood in mind, of effectively becoming a sperm donor who is also expected to perform household chores, for many years, and to pay child maintenance. In a sexless relationship with random lesbians who may find him barely tolerable, a necessary complication. But this, it seems, is “the ideal parenting setup.”
Just Let Me Check Who I Am.
Banking and mental illness, together at last.
The NatWest bank, we learn, “allows staff to identify as men and women on different days. The bank offers double-sided lanyards to non-binary employees so they can alternate between personas when they please.” This is part of an “LGBT-friendly diversity measure,” endorsed by Stonewall, the cutting edge of corrected thought. And employees who aren’t sure who or what they are at any given time must be encouraged to enact their “masculine and feminine” personas according to mood and medication. Hence the double-sided lanyards, obviously.
Tongue Action.
A tale of erotic mollusc-gobbling.
This goes on for quite a while, longer than seems strictly necessary. Droplets on chins, alluring eyebrows, lemon wedges being
squeezed. Yes, the situation was “hot and vulnerable,” and “profoundly intimate,” with the object of intrigue covering her face, leaving her
breathless and
gasping. She was “performing the act for the first time” – and in public, no less.
Should readers need a moment to steady themselves, I quite understand.
“My memory of that first time,” writes Ms Maratha, “echoes that special frisson of noticing your femininity.” You see, “Something about the discovery of the oyster’s flesh, the patience needed to harvest it from its shell, and the fortitude required to enjoy it, feels intrinsically feminine.” We’re told, by an obliging editor, that Ms Maratha’s “love of oysters grew alongside her queer identity.” And that, “For her, the act of eating an oyster uniquely and intimately expresses her queerness.”
Consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.
I’m seeing things I wasn’t previously aware of.
It’s an old film-industry term to refer to unfortunate views of human crotches. The idea is to avoid them, edit them out, fix them in post.
They use the term frequently on Mystery Science Theater 3000. That’s how I learned it.
[ Dicentra puts on shades, leather jacket, rides away on motorbike. ]
I learn so much from our little chats.
ARGH!
Eye cleanser!
Eye cleanser!
Eye cleanser!
By the way, in garden-squirrel news, one of the critters has realised that if he sits on the very end of a particular tree branch, it will bend in such a way that it bounces gently about two metres from the living room window, thereby allowing him to study the human occupants.
Glancing out of the window to discover that you’re being watched by a gently bobbing squirrel was, at first, slightly disconcerting. But being all manly and fearless, I’m getting used to it.
[ Checks supply of peanuts. ]
Rodents who stay outside are no problem. Me, I’ve got a pair of mice in my house, and I discovered their nest this morning.
The rotten things are wise to the traps so far (though I did catch one last week), so I’ve purchased some new traps along with nitrile gloves, and this time maybe I’ll set them out without covering them with my scent.
I’d really rather rent out a rat snake for a week. Let it loose in the house so it can slither into the little crevasses.
Unfortunately I’ll probably have to hire an exterminator. Stupid rapscallions. Just my luck I’ll catch hantavirus or leptospirosis.
Sadly, my uncanny wildlife-taming powers seem to extend only to squirrels, which I can conjure from the trees, much to my neighbour’s amusement.
Oh, and the cat from two doors down.
A fatal blow to flat-eartherism.
The Other Half finds perverse amusement in watching flat-earther conspiracy videos on YouTube. I just find them vaguely aggravating. I’d assumed they must all be trolling, but apparently not.
[ Orders more peanuts, just in case. ]
So you can’t link to sources any more? Sounds mad.
You can, but if you include a link to an external source – say, a relevant blog post – that X post’s visibility will be limited, quite severely, by the X algorithm. The suggested solution is to include the link in a reply, but that also reduces the likelihood of it being seen or followed. If there’s no immediately visible link to a source, most users will continue scrolling.
Again, the idea is to keep users scrolling endlessly on X:
But if X is supposed to be “the media,” your go-to news source, as Mr Musk claims, then you need external links. Being able to verify a claim or find relevant examples, and being able to do it quickly, is how you establish trust. It’s effectively punishing users who do their homework.
Of course this lot could donate themselves to a body farm […]
I looked into that, what with living in Knoxville, and it seems like a good deal.
Free pickup if you die within 100 miles of the farm.
After you have been skeletonized by God knows what means (shallwo grave, car trunk, encased in cement, etc.) your bones are stored by the Department of Anthropology to be used in forensic cases (unidentified remains found but, say, skull is similar to yours so they have a base for facial reconstruction however imperfect to help identification).
Family can even arrange to come and visit, then presumably go have a nice lunch.
They used to store the bones beneath Neyland Stadium but have since built a new spot, alas, which means no more season pass in perpetuity to Vol homegames. But at least still within earshot, which isn’t hard when you’ve got 100k+ people singing “Rocky Top” (for Europeans who might not know, Neyland Stadium is one of the largest in American college sports and seats in excess of 102,000 people; football games there are known for the tremendous volume of the fans singing many, many times during the course of play the university’s fight song).
Are they given a nice stick with which to poke your mortal remains?
Are they given a nice stick with which to poke your mortal remains?
I would be hugely disappointed if they weren’t handed latex gloves such that my children could hold my skull and gaze lovingly at it.
Oh, well played, madam.
Do help yourself to the egg. It’s partially cooked.
Banking is about lending very large sums of your money at interest to very large organizations and governments. Banks don’t care about individual customers.
Zoroastrianism has a very interesting moral philosophy. It’s allegedly the source of Gnostic Dualism: Ahura-Mazda and Ahrimanes are equally matched and in a struggle for dominance for all eternity, so every single thing you personally do can tip the balance of the universe towards good or evil in a meaningful way.
As for the Towers of Silence: Ahura-Mazda’s Holy Flame is so holy it’s a sin to defile it by using it on human corpses, so cremation is right out. Fuck those birds, though, apparently.
[ Looks at blog, weighs options. ]
I’ve always known this place would have cosmic implications.
San Francisco hires the best and brightest to tackle their most pressing and weightiest problem.
If Ms Tovar looks familiar, you may be thinking of this.
So remember, taking selfies from above, to minimise double chins, is a form of “fatphobia” and a diabolical crushing of the self-esteem of fat people. And restaurants failing to provide widened, armless, reinforced chairs in order to accommodate their more girthful customers, such as Ms Tovar, is also an act of unspeakable wickedness.
I seem to recall someone saying that this is also true of Facebook.
Hopefully Musk will reevaluate this, given his interest in better dissemination of accurate news.
You also have the right to smoke ten packs of cigarettes a day, drink a gallon of whiskey, cover yourself with repulsive tattoos, and never bathe.
How about fatties breaking expensive Danish Modern chairs?
[ Recalls how heirloom furniture was damaged. Grits teeth. ]
Get her in a room with Mike Bloomberg and we might solve our energy issues. Why do these polar opposite lefties rarely find each other? BlueSky may resolve this.
Is that the same egg you put out last time?
Best not to pull on that thread.
[ Slides egg towards Jen. ]
[ Makes runny white jiggle. ]
LOL. Hard pass.
Someone had a moment of inspiration.
Steel worker: I’m paying 40% taxes.
Feminist: Homina, homina, homina. You got the donuts? Excellent.
An AWFL at it again – no ethnic food jokes allowed.
[ Adjusts lighting, resumes egg-white jiggling. ]
By the way, for those interested, I’ve posted on X about the external link suppression.
…resumes egg-white jiggling…
Is that another game like Jigga-ma-hoop?
but that infringed on Mafia territory.
Ah, t’will soon be the season of those traditional British fun-time activities, like Whose Shoes Are These?, Rattle The Box, and of course Jigger-Ma-Hoop.
[ Devises rules for game of runny egg-white jiggling. ]
I’m just going to leave this here. Not laughing, I promise.
“This means war.” —Bugs Bunny
One detail I omitted at the time was that, while thinking of possible game names, I actually did a search just in case Jigger-Ma-Hoop was actually a thing.
So there’s comfort to be had in that, I suppose.
Trash tattoos for garbage people.
The trouble with physiognomic stereotypes, is that they are true.
I should also add that other readers and commenters may have done a crafty search for the same thing, but chose to keep quiet about it.
THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING TRUSTING AND HONEST.
I believe Dermestidae are involved.
[ Invents cream called Dimodunol. ]
This looks like something to bookmark.
For the purpose of nostalgia?
I would be hugely disappointed if they weren’t handed latex gloves such that my children could hold my skull and gaze lovingly at it.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.
[ Leaves prototype tube of Dimodunol cream on bar. ]
Again, the idea is to keep users scrolling endlessly on X:
I wonder too, if it isn’t a big F-you to the jurisdictions like Canada that are trying to shake down social media companies to support their lame-stream media.
Ah, t’will soon be the season of those traditional British fun-time activities, like Whose Shoes Are These?, Rattle The Box, and of course Jigger-Ma-Hoop.
Christmas in Leutonia with the Schmenge Brothers and time for the exchanging of the socks.
did a search just in case Jigger-Ma-Hoop was actually a thing.
Change a couple of letters and it becomes quite a thing
[ Falls down rabbit hole, finds self listening to lyrics of Jigga My Nigga. ]
There’s a whole world of lobe-dulling shite of which I know almost nothing.
Though I was reminded of this.
[ Falls down rabbit hole, finds self listening to lyrics of Jigga My Nigga. ]
No refunds.
There’s a whole world of lobe-dulling shite of which I know almost nothing.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
[ Indignant spluttering. ]
@David: Saw this at Samizdata. Will the UK’s new Online Safety Act affect this fine establishment? Or are blogs exempt?
This place is my favorite hangout, both for the content and the comment, and I’d miss it like hell were it gone (yes, even those links/posts that require eye/brain bleach afterwards. On that note I think I dodged a bullet with the one linked at the top of page 2…whew!).
Does it go on the runny egg or has it gone on the runny egg?
I don’t expect it to disappear. And while I favour a fair amount of leeway in the comments, that’s rarely, if ever, been abused. Offhand, I can only think of a couple of comments I felt obliged to remove. That’s in close to 18 years.
It sounds like something that ought to exist on the shelves of the local pharmacy. Or possibly behind the counter.
Can’t quite decide what Dimodunol is supposed to do. It could regrow hair, or remove hair, or reduce swelling, or increase swelling.
[ Peers over spectacles. ]
David doesn’t even “correct” my spelling of “aluminum”!
A proper medicine show snake oil will do all those things…and more!
Damn you, Thompson. Damn you. This is all your fault. Because I related your story while sitting here at this park picnic bench, wife has been paying the Danegeld.
Heh. Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.
I’m seeing things I wasn’t previously aware of.
I somehow missed that first time through the comments. I watched it with the sound muted. Homer Simpson singing Spider Pig was playing in my head.
Can’t have that sort of thing going on. Call the king’s horses. Call the king’s men.
They’re quite fond of cashews. And walnut halves. Don’t skimp on the quality.
Thank God. I knew if I just waited a little on that one…
So far I’ve been able to limit the offerings to walnuts and almonds in the shell. Can’t vouch for the quality of the bag as I have yet to enjoy one myself.
If you recall this video from the other day, the inevitable reaction from the loon squad.
A bonus! The Real Flat Earth Map! Click the pic to embiggenify!
Dicentra: Resident rodents? I do sympathize…but before trying RentaRatsnake, do bear in mind that unlike Doyle’s Speckled Band, they usually don’t come when called, meaning you have a new permanent resident and the prospect of providing David with an all-new entry for that unofficial series he’s been running which I have described to the Spousal Unit as “Viper Surprise!”
You might consider borrowing a ferret. Endless hours of fun and a lifetime’s occupation searching out where the critter hid every small ferret-portable item in your household.
Perhaps S Weasel can offer advice.
Betcha this reform was designed to fail. Link from CWB.
They can’t hide as neatly as mice, so it would eventually be catchable.
Ferrets poop in all the corners. A college roommate got one (against the rules), and the thing smelled awful even after a bath. They chew all the shoes.
I’ve set out new traps without my scent and with different bait, so we’ll see.
Turns out the 15-yr-old girl who shot up a school recently was deep into evil, nihilist corners of the internet.
Her parents married and divorced three times. I’m gonna guess they’re both Cluster B. What a tragic story!
I’ve set out new traps without my scent and with different bait, so we’ll see.
I’ve always used peanut butter as bait. Doesn’t seem to matter about scent. The trap could be covered in cat hair…if there’s peanut butter in the bait well, they’re going for it and it usually gets the big ones first.
I caught them in the live trap that way, but I neglected to take them far away, and now they’ve returned. They are completely wise to the live trap and haven’t gone near it since.
When I set the killing trap with peanut butter, I returned from Thanksgiving holiday to find that the peanut butter had been very delicately licked off the trap without springing it. I touched the platform to test its spring and found it was very much operative.
These new killing traps are a different color, and I’m putting them in different places with different bait. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t.
I contemplated getting the sticky traps, but then I’d have to manually kill the mouse after capture, and I’m not sure I want to do that. Yet.
the peanut butter had been very delicately licked off the trap without springing it.
Sounds like you’ve got some savvy mice. We lived on a wooded ravine and would meet with multiple waves of newcomers. Not much time for them to learn anything. Good luck!
If you can tell where they’re getting in (breaks in brickwork or siding) you can cram those spaces with stainless steel wool. It will stop a lot of them. Even blocking some of the internal places they’re moving around in this way will discourage them.
The stainless steel wool won’t rust. Brass steel wool also works. Don’t use the regular stuff or it will discolour when it gets wet.
Already bought it, but I can’t tell where they’re getting in yet. One obvious hole in the bathroom I stuffed with toilet paper, and it hasn’t been disturbed. Lots of my exterior walls are covered in vines — the deciduous vine has lost its leaves, but the English ivy is evergreen. I despair at finding anything there.
I obsessively look up information on hantavirus and leptospirosis. I came in contact with the mice’s nesting materials, so maybe in a few weeks I’ll be in the hospital getting treated for a terrible disease.
More of Ms Tovar’s deep wisdom here. On “cake-related fatphobic incidents.”
Oh, my.
First, she’s right that women get performative about the cake slice, and that they’re doing it because they’re afraid that a big slice makes them look bad.
She might even be right that it’s done to “police” other women. However, I never picked up on that cue. I used to say “YES! KAKE! Gimme the corner piece! Gimme one of them roses! Yeah!”
Now, when I ask for a smaller piece, it’s because I’m not supposed to have sugar AT ALL (insulin resistance), but I’d like to cheat just a bit. If I had a larger slice, my glucose would rocket up, then plummet, and I’d be at minimum insufferably testy and at worst suicidal.
So Ms. Tovar can completely step off with her feminist narrative about sexism and other pomo nonsense.
Also, it’s highly likely that she acquired an overeating disorder in response to trauma, so she’s hypersensitive to any suggestion that she’s got a problem. This is yet another example of why we shouldn’t let the crazy Cluster B people make the rules.
Dude explains the recent algo changes on X that help boost your posts’ rankings.
[ Recalls Poul Anderson’s novel Brain Wave. ]
Like someone telling her she’s an insufferable cow?
This is the first time I’ve encountered the term “Satanic accelerationist”.