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Apparently, it’s outdated and oppressive for a young woman to be walked down the aisle at her wedding by her father.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 But of course it’s not outdated or oppressive for that same father to be expected to pay all of the bills for the wedding at which he’s being so pointedly sidelined and insulted.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