Reheated (140)
Because some things bear repeating, a few items from the archives:
A tale of utopia and human faeces.
Readers will doubtless be intrigued by the “foraged” food – i.e., carrots and leaves, served repeatedly – plus the unheated rooms, the lack of running water, and the whole shitting-in-a-barrel thing. For a mere £900 a night, one can’t expect luxuries like plumbing, protein, or the prospect of heat.
And for those inclined to squint, there may be a rustic charm to things being a loose approximation of what is claimed. And so, just as unheated fishing huts with no plumbing or sanitation are framed as “luxury,” seemingly random objects on a plate are hailed as meals, as “artisanal” and “delicious.”
Guardian columnist bemoans dislike of cyclists, suggests changing word.
Well, courtesy towards other road users is a necessary social lubricant and, generally speaking, something to be encouraged. Readers are of course welcome to speculate as to whether changing the word cyclist to people who cycle for some particular purpose about which I’m supposed to care will make anyone’s journey more fragrant, harmonious and morally uplifted.
It may also be worth noting Ms Laker’s tacit assumption that only drivers are in need of behavioural correction, as if cyclists were faultless and incapable of being inconsiderate. Which in turn hints at what may be a factor in some motorists’ limited sympathy for People Of The Pedal.
Progressive women unlock secrets of eternal happiness.
As if you should be applauded – and financially compensated – for the thirty-second task of adding a birthday to the calendar on your phone.
The attitude implied by the above would, I think, explain many failures on the progressive partner-finding front and the consequent “stepping away from dating altogether.” Though possibly not in ways the author intended.
Before we go further, it’s perhaps worth pondering how the conceit of “emotional labour” is typically deployed by a certain type of woman. Say, the kind who complains, in print and at great length, about the “emotional labour” of hiring a servant to clean her multiple bathrooms. Or writing a shopping list.
Or brushing her daughter’s hair.
The kind of woman who would bitch about the chore of choosing a holiday that her husband is paying for. And for whom explaining to her husband the concept of “emotional labour” is itself bemoaned as “emotional labour.” The final indignity.
The territorial struggles of weird, cross-dressing men.
For those craving more, this is a pretty good place to start.
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Carrots + leaves + hollandaise ≠ meal.
Wheeled out frequently, mind. A staple dish. And you’d never tire of that.
I don’t wish to sound overly picky or impossibly high-maintenance, but for £900 a night I’d be hoping for luxuries like plumbing of some sort and the prospect of heat. When holidaying in Sweden.
I remember the first story. Shades of the Fyre Festival. They’re lucky it didn’t turn into Camp Dysentery.
Still laughing at the efforts, in the comments, to calculate the precise quantity of human faeces left behind. And the fact that, being a gracious host, I then went searching for photos of the barrels.
I’m too good to you people.
I know just how to dispose of the barrels. Send them over Niagara Falls (the Canadian falls).
A holiday to remember!
I don’t camp. I camped in the Army, that was enough. When the kids were young, my husband and I had a tent camper and would head up to the Eastern Sierras – that was made tolerable with the inclusion of bourbon.
“But, what if . . .?” What if society all goes to hell in a handbasket? Then I guess I’ll die. I’m old enough. Why the hell would I want to stay alive in a dystopia featuring foraged food and primitive shelters, especially at my age?
I, too, would struggle to see the alleged benefits of canvas and discomfort. Or indeed of shitting in a barrel.
[ Turns up heating, enjoys lack of flies. ]
Weirdly and much to my ongoing surprise, my sister-in-law enjoys camping of a sort. They have a fairly posh mobile home thing, which they put to use during their visits to France and Spain and such. We refer to it as a camper van just to annoy them.
I should add that the photos they share with us via WhatsApp don’t feature much in the way of exotic scenery. But we have seen just about every wine bar in Europe.
Hydration being important, obviously.
We all know that none of those influencers and reviewers actually visited the site; they merely waxed poetical for clicks (and maybe payback). Whores and grifters, all of them.
More vital research sure to improve the lot of humanity.
Underfunded at a mere 27 large if you ask me, but one wouldn’t want to squander precious research dollars on just one project.
It’s like watching someone with a weird, rather grotesque twitch. A kind of intersectional Tourette’s.
I called this a few years ago, there is never a Rosetta Stone around when you need one.
Meanwhile, parenting.
I mean, you sometimes feel like saying, “Why are you like this…?”
See? That’s where you’re missing the point. You’re supposed to find some bear scat and shit on top of that. Announce your presence with authority.
It ain’t camping if you bring along your own loo. See, all these things tie together…
I hear the voice of expertise.
They’re huts.
E-tool, don’t leave home without it.
To those that observe today’s anniversary – pour one out for the 29 men this Fitzgeraldtide, and an extra one for Gordon.
And to any of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children here – happy birthday! May your crayons be tasty!
WITH SCATTER CUSHIONS.
So that’s where the drawer pulls went.
So that’s where the drawer pulls went.
So that’s where the drawer pulls went.
Well, that must be embarrassing.
@David, if you would be so kind as to remove the duplicated comments it would be appreciated.
Responding to, or commenting on, Muldoon’s sallies has its perils.
Oh, I think I should leave them there. AS A WARNING TO OTHERS.
Annoying, certainly.
[ Everyone gathers around, stares, points. ]
[ TV camera crew arrive. ]
Well, you know, Boy Scouts and stuff. The things you learn at a young age…
Someone is fixing to get a call from KPS.
Regarding the above, this came to mind. In which progressive ladies fret about whether having a boyfriend will be perceived as being conservative:
Or, unendearing leftist women try to conjure some elaborate social or political explanation for why they’re so often found unendearing.
Trailing edge.
Semper Fi!
A cluster of Bs, as usual.
“Unpaid [emotional] labor” is just about the most toxic concept to come along since transing kids. Young women are being discouraged from and pre-disillusioned about marriage already, and now we have the idea that normal participation in a relationship is for luuuuuzers, because you’re totally being taken advantage of.
So who, exactly, would be paying you for your emotional labor, if the world were fair?
Maybe you could set up a service where people pay you to remember their birthdays and hold their hands through hard times and give hugs. You know, exchanging money for fake affection.
Don’t we already have a name for that?
You may recall Laurie Penny’s assertions on the matter, including her claim that cooking a meal or remembering a partner’s allergy is “emotional labour” and by implication some unjust imposition.
Presumably on grounds that single people don’t have to cook food.
The Vice article is positively stuffed with wonders.
And then, quite comically, “What women want isn’t complicated.”
As I said the original thread, it does seem possible that Ms Fike, our Vice columnist, is unwittingly telling us more about herself, her peers, and her own social circle than about men and women generally. Which is to say, a subset of rather resentful and self-involved people for whom remembering your Other Half’s birthday, or brushing your daughter’s hair, is akin to the labours of Hercules. Too much to bear.
In fact, with articles of this type, it seems to be the standard pattern.
Perhaps because they lack a father or other strong male figure in their lives whose standards they could/should meet? I mean, I know saying such a thing is wrong and misogynistic…but…just spitballing….
Because they’re malignant narcissists or worse. They are unable to engage in reciprocal relationships because they have nothing to give.
And furthermore, they don’t see others as real people having legitimate needs that ought to be addressed.
So yes, for them a normal relationship is too much to bear. They’re legless men unable to do the 100 yard dash.
The worst of it is that they occupy positions of high status, which means that foolish young women will aspire to whatever these Cluster B nightmares deem acceptable.
Oh, FFS. Really tired of these jujitsu arguments. If anyone has to carry the burden of managing their partner’s emotional life, it’s me men. But dare say such a thing and you will get hit with a tsunami of emotions.
As I said in the post, the term “emotional labour” has connotations of score-keeping, of calculation, of antagonism and something vaguely inhuman. As if the concept of wanting to care, to help, to remember those birthdays, or at least not minding, were somehow alien or offensive.
And then there’s the premise of stoic, heroic women burdened by needy, emotional men. It’s a bold take.
And again, I’m trying to imagine a version of the article from a male perspective, and the likely reactions to it, at least from the readers of Vice.
It’s kind of funny how the intended purpose of the articles is to convince us that the women in question are somehow hard done-by, crushed under intolerable pressures, yet the actual effect is to induce sympathy for the husbands. For being lumbered with these selfish, ungrateful women.
As when the nag from Harper’s Bazaar whines about wrapping paper not being positioned exactly how she wants it to be positioned in the storage closet, as if her husband were some unfeeling brute, and then bemoans the chore of choosing the holiday that her husband is paying for. The same husband who works full-time to keep a roof above their heads, then cleans the bathrooms, prepares dinner and “does dishes every night habitually.” All “without complaint.”
While she, a “freelance writer and poet,” compiles lists of his shortcomings and then gets them published in a national magazine.
Like the awful bitch she is.
Palate cleanser
New comedy trend: trolling AI HR.
Oh, look, a new ring of Hell.
It does seem to be a case of the politics being very much downstream of the personality. And so, as so often, it turns out that they’re just awful people. The progressive rumblings, all the buzzwords, are just a bad camouflage, a cheap rationalisation for their own neuroticism and obnoxious self-absorption.
*Sigh*
Do we have to kick your asses again?
Presumably on grounds that single people don’t have to cook food.
Damnit! You mean in the seven plus years I lived on my own before I got married I didn’t have to cook for myself? I feel cheated!
The Thompson Blog would have helped me know that back in the 1990s-2000s.
I’ve been saying for some time that this place is immensely educational. I should get a badge or a grant, or possibly a statue. On the Moon.