Only the carpet was hurt. || The thrill of modern romance. || How to use your arms. || Hair crisis of note. || It’s called My Neighbour’s Car Alarm. || Dinosaur migration. || When you fancy a relaxing stroll. || Cooking utensil of note. || Playdough surgery, an educational series. || When teeth explode. || Sleep well, dear reader. || A pixelated journey to the centre of the Earth. || “Simulates the texture, elasticity and feel of a real nipple.” || Why aren’t you keeping track of my tedious pretensions? || Playing dress-up, the modern way. || Babysitting scenes. || A basis for deportation. || The body snatcher of Los Alamos, a Twentieth Century horror story. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || Airbag jeans, $499. || And finally, and because you’re all thinking it, does it throb?

Should you feel the urge, you can follow me on Twitter. And yes, of course, feel free to use the tip jar on the right.

For newcomers and the nostalgic, some items from the archives:

His Skin Just Won’t Come Off.

Academic of pallor denounces “whiteness,” flaps his scented handkerchief.

Crumbs Made Her Unhappy.

Atlantic senior editor Honor Jones dislikes crumbs. And so, she got divorced.

Daddy’s Baggage.

Two-year-old boy likes footballs and tractors. Progressive father twitches.

Come, let us peek at progressive academia:

Lower those eyebrows, you cynical bigots.

Stop it at once.

See, multiple art degrees. And moon sessions. And – and – “intuitive energy work.” Why, she’s the fourth emergency service.

Ms Schenandoah, it turns out, is a Faithkeeper of the Wolf Clan, and skilled in ways of healing “negative energy,” with tuning forks and smudging – that’s burning tobacco and sage, obviously:

Apparently, it’s also a tool for enhancing self-awareness.

Though such bleeding-edge healthcare works best in conjunction with other indigenous technologies:

It’s called health-conscious cooking, darling. || Modern dating. And yes, she’s a Guardian contributor. || You know, I’m no expert but I’m not sure it’s meant to do that. || Same deal here. || Today’s word is suddenly. || Classroom scenes. Well, at least it’s keeping the kids quiet. || Incoming. || Look, I’ll tell you when to stop. || “Is mine normal?” she asked. (NSFW) || Neighbourhood of note. || Signalling detected. || Moral conundrum: gum or matches? || More joys of public transport. || It will tock again. || Waiting room scenes. (h/t, Julia) || She was wearing strange clothing and carrying a box. || Zoomable tree of life. || As a lair, this baby has potential. (h/t, Things) || I’m not familiar with the kind of thing I’m seeing. || And finally, not quite a force-field, but I suppose it’s a start.

You can, should you wish, follow me on Twitter.

Well, this is awkward:

Update, via the comments:

Readers are invited to ponder the thought process here. I mean, when you’re an attention-seeking public figure, an activist and a supposedly “genderfluid” being, and the deputy assistant secretary of the Department of Energy’s Office of Spent Fuel and Waste Disposition, and you keep nicking random women’s luggage and then wearing their clothes in public…

Did Mr Brinton assume no-one would notice? Or was noticing his transgression precisely the point? Or was he so lost in his transvestite kleptomania, his narcissistic fantasy, that there simply wasn’t room for any thoughts about real-world consequences? Answers on a postcard, please.

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

Ashlynn Warta on “diversity” versus competence:

Somewhat related, the third item here:

There is a category tag – Problematic Competence – via which you can find many similar items.

Also related, Heather Mac Donald on the stupefying effects of “disparate impact” ideology:

Via the ladies at Reduxx, a tale that begins as farce, but soon veers elsewhere.

Imagine, if you will, a 53-year-old Scottish butcher and advocate for “transgender issues,” a man famed locally, both for his “shockingly bad” customer service and his cross-dressing proclivities, and also for thieving ladies’ undergarments, resulting in the nickname “knicker pincher.” Yes, I know. It does rather have the makings of a 1970s comedy sketch:

Again, all rather farcical.

However, Mr Miller has since been apprehended by the police following the disappearance of an 11-year-old girl:

Artificial eye contact. || I fear suspension may be tested. || A job that calls for teamwork. || Face time. || Ah, yes, the old face-in-scrotum thing. Wait, what? || Mind the wires. || What the magician sees. || Feel the power of Mac OS 9. (h/t, Things) || Assorted starship corridors. Previously and related: The chairs of Blake’s 7, and an impressively thorough study of the chairs of Doctor Who. || The lost episodes of Doctor Who. || The thrill of trimming asparagus. || More joys of public transport. || The progressive retail experience, parts 457, 458, and 459. || More things that never, ever happen. || More than is strictly necessary. || In other news. || “No-one has asked what my pronouns are. What the fuck?” || Injury of note. || Chopper casualty. || And finally, think good thoughts.

You can, should you wish, follow me on Twitter.

For some reason, the words “false reporting” caught my eye.

Via Joan.

Consider this an open thread.

Time for some thoughts on crime. From the pages of the Guardian:

Being a Guardian contributor, the author, Ms Anna Spargo-Ryan, a resident of Melbourne, is of course conflicted. Her feelings, it turns out, are something of a tangle. We’re told of the uncontrollable shaking, the shattered sense of safety, the fear for a missing cat, and the experience of subsequently finding items of stolen clothing discarded in the street. “I am so frightened,” says our columnist:

All understandable, and far too commonplace. And yet, simultaneously, the experience is dismissed by the author as one of being merely “inconvenienced for a few days.” “The relative impact of this one night on the whole of my life is nothing compared to setting up a child to reoffend,” says she.

Messages, I think, that are ever so slightly mixed.

Before we go any further, I should point out that the words child and children, used throughout the piece, may be a tad misleading, as the identities of the burglars – who stole, among other items, knives, keys, jewellery, a wallet, and a car – have, at the time of writing, not been shared, or, one assumes, determined. The culprits, who presumably still roam free, are assumed to be teenagers, out for an invigorating spree of robbery and joyriding.

And the word child is so much fluffier. Ah, bless those rosy cheeks.