This Shimmering Oasis
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For newcomers wishing to know more about what’s been going on here for the last eighteen 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.
Oh, and consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.
Token of appreciation, barkeep. Keep up the good work.
*ping!*
Bless you, sirs. May you know the feeling of doing something impressive entirely by accident.
Incoming.
An interesting use of bolt-cutters.
Not thinking it through, is he?
And ping!
I think that “shimmering” is actually a glow from the jar of pickled eggs.
The assumption seems to be that the device’s premature and unauthorised removal won’t be detected or have consequences at some point. But then, I’d guess that the kinds of people who find themselves with ankle monitors bolted to their person aren’t known for their foresight or impulse control.
At which point, the previous post comes to mind.
Bless you, sir. My your enemies be cursed with protracted, public hiccups.
For reasons likely bizarre and Byzantine “camps” for Alphabet People seem to be a thing of late. Who goes on which team is might get a bit confusing.
In other preference news, her orientation is bot.
Poor impulse control and low IQ.
What to do with people who cannot be rehabilitated? /rhetorical question
“I was in a really bad place…”
As opposed to now, of course.
What does he have against dolphins?
Don’t do drugs, kids, mkay?
Ping. 🍷
It’s a small price to pay for the the culturally enriching benefits of open borders.
Cheers, barkeep. Tip jar pinged.
This blog *is* an oasis. Some British quids incoming.
Bless you, sirs. May your enemies discover that a favourite game, played for many years, and at which they’ve grown immensely proficient, has now been removed from the Play Store, obliging them to try a crappy version on Steam.
#TrueStory
A veritable Hammurabi in North Carolina.
“It’s an experience”. Portland, to no ones surprise, I guess if they elected normal people they wouldn’t have “experiences. I have to wonder if the differently colored shoe laces are so she can tell left from right.
Pronouns are *beep*/*boop*.
Blimey. “And what was your first clue…?”
It’s quite odd, living at a time when that – that there – would presumably be considered self-expression, yet we aren’t supposed to register what that self-expression is telling us.
See also, this and this.
Location of note.
The conversation did not go smoothly.
That would be a no.
Also ping.
Bless you, madam. May you have pleasing fingernails.
And thanks to all who’ve chipped in so far, or subscribed, or done shopping via the Amazon link – including all those much too shy to say hello. I sometimes forget how many of you are lurking in the bushes, being very, very quiet.
It’s much appreciated and is what keeps this place here.
Woman who doesn’t know things but wants to be in charge anyway.
The rude madwoman, above, is Tracey Mallagan of Insulate Britain, one of the groups of psychologically marginal people who enjoy blocking roads, trapping people for hours, supposedly in the name of piety.
Ear grommets are never a good sign.
Not entirely unrelated:
Again, the weird conceit that the particulars of a person’s self-expression should not be registered, as if there were no signal, no informational content.
He’s stepped into alignment with himself.
Smeagol lives.
“Nasty tricksy cis-hets. We hates them, we hates them for ever!”
They gather.
A boob is elevated.
Now that’s creepy. Paging Mr. Hitchcock…
A
murdergenocide of crows.Sofa for sale.
I think this counts as fine print.
Nasty things, grackles. Unfortunately protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act.
My parents “hated” them because they created a mess: They’d perch on the bird feeder and sweep all the seeds off and onto the ground.
A boob is elevated.
A moob does not a woman make.
Have you tried squinting, or standing further back?
That’s just one of their many endearing traits.
Long time lurker, one time commentator, and *ping*
Ker-ching!
Bless you, sirs. May your store-bought pizza not require an additional tonnage of grated cheese.