In academic news:

Says the website of the University Heath Service:

Much like fatness, in fact.

Weight stigma in athletics. I’d better write that one down. The site also stresses the importance of “body positivity,” which is,

Well, losing some of that excess weight would probably help on that front. Less crippling self-consciousness. Less sweating and wheezing, too. We also learn that “weight stigma” is perpetuated by language. Not, say, by being massively fat and the problems that so often follow from that.

At which point, sharp-eyed readers will notice that the direction of all this effort is away from the actual problem.

Well, again, obesity will do that. Best, then, to keep oneself in some reasonable proportion. Rather than faffing about with five-dollar bits of cardboard that make it clear just how neurotic you’ve become. As a result of being fat.

Update, via the comments:

Svh quotes this from the university’s website:

And adds,

Well, quite. And it has to be said, if you’re unwell and are avoiding going to the doctor because you can’t bear the prospect of being asked how much you weigh, this doesn’t sound like “body positivity.” Indeed, the very notion of “body positivity” will likely be of interest only to people who very much don’t feel “positive” about their bodies.

Say, on account of being fat.

And then there’s this, from the College Fix article:

Because – and I say this will love – you’re too fat for the chairs.

So, at risk of sounding insensitive, a choice comes to mind. You can either try to reorganise your every interaction with the universe – every encounter with chairs, mirrors, small spaces, stairs, and so forth – and drag everyone else into some never-ending drama in an attempt to ease your hangups – or you can, you know, dial back on the carbs and sugar and take a brisk walk.

I mean, the thing you can hope to control is not other people.

Update 2:

This seems apposite. Luana Maroja, a professor of biology at Williams College, ventures into the belly of “fat studies” and reports on what she finds:

There follows much to chew on. Including claims by supposed educators that “a healthy diet is [whatever] you like to eat,” that fat people are oppressed by dieting and by other people not wishing to be fat, and that such preferences are a form of “white supremacy.” Oh, and the desire not to be fat oneself – dubbed “fat fascism” – is all about racism and the “subjugation” of Palestinians.

Also, chairs are discriminatory and a cause of health problems. Unlike being fat.

Among the educators in question, there was, inevitably, a lot of pretending not to understand things.

Update 3:

Commenter Chow Bag quotes this,

And adds,

The participants do seem to be devoting an awful lot of effort to their word salad and contrivance – and blatant lies – all geared towards avoidance and displacement. Again, the direction of the rhetoric is away from the actual problem. They seem willing to perform almost any mental contortion in order to avoid acknowledging the obvious about themselves and their behaviour.

And so, for instance, we’re told that very fat cancer patients shouldn’t be advised to lose weight, as this is “discrimination,” an outrageous emotional injury, even though their obesity has numerous, quite serious, well-documented consequences in terms of treatment options, complications, likelihood of recovery, long-term survival, etc.

It’s not politics. It’s psychodrama. Albeit in bad political drag.

It’s tempting to invert the scenario and to imagine some gathering of the Anorexics Liberation Front. A roomful of alarmingly cadaverous young women complaining about the alienating vastness of chairs, and about how anyone concerned by the attendees’ self-harming behaviour – say, parents, spouses or children – is being oppressive and racist.

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

Pies and cakes available on request.

I bring you the deep thoughts of Ms Lily Kaplan. Or more precisely, the thoughts of her peers and educators, regurgitated wholesale in a Valley-Girl vocal fry:

Angry Leftist woman publishes negative review of a restaurant because she thinks it’s too “White”

She says it gives off vibes of “racism, misogyny, and ped*philia” because two White men own it.

If you live in the Phoenix area, consider supporting this restaurant. pic.twitter.com/wDGr0rKzpf

— Libs of TikTok (@libsoftiktok) June 16, 2026

Quizzed on her assumptions, Ms Kaplan, a “social media consultant,” says,

And so, not knowing or caring, Ms Kaplan felt entitled to smear a local business, for likes and online clout, with a pre-emptively “unfriendly review,” in which she somehow associates the selling of tacos and carrot cake with “racism, misogyny and paedophilia,” and while describing the opening of a restaurant by two white men as representing “centuries of patriarchy,” and “such a bummer.”

For those of you sturdy enough to endure more of her voice, Ms Kaplan replies to her critics here. Albeit in a rambling and immensely self-flattering manner:

Her latest video doubling down. She’s beyond a misandrist and an absolute moron. pic.twitter.com/e2MXMibxXS

— TC (@tcgoldrush) June 16, 2026

Disdaining strangers, especially men, for being white, as if it were some invalidating condition, isn’t racism, you see, all appearance to the contrary. It’s “punching upwards,” and therefore virtuous, indeed heroic. It’s “speaking truth to power.” And white men as a notional group – including unsuspecting restaurant proprietors – are, it seems, in need of some punching.

Those who suggest otherwise are, and I quote, “fucking idiots.”

Readers may wish to try downing a shot of tequila every time she says “white” in a weary, sneery, but in-no-way-racist way. Inevitably, Ms Kaplan is keen to tell us how she’s “so for real.” “I definitely speak my mind,” says she.

Or at least someone else’s.

Update, via the comments:

Chow Bag quotes this:

And adds,

Indeed. Throughout madam’s rote and modish regurgitations, I kept feeling an urge to shout, THOSE AREN’T YOUR THOUGHTS. THAT ISN’T YOUR MIND.

It’s just the programme running.

Though I suppose the fundamental obnoxiousness is quite sincere.

The real deal, as it were.

In the comments, Pst314 and Dicentra steer us to new realms of niche woe:

An exchange of views ensues.

In which, Ms Taylor Lorenz, an “online culture journalist,” struggles with causality. Including the seemingly difficult concept that a heavy reliance on delivered takeaway, and the mindset that implies, may have some bearing on how little cash one has left at the end of the month. And so, via some contortion, we arrive at the conceit that preparing a simple meal, even a packed lunch, is a physical impossibility for those deemed downtrodden.

Readers may note that, during the exchange, the more excuses that Ms Lorenz conjures into being, the more she pretends to care, the less she sounds like an actual person so much as a weird programme that’s been left running.

Despite Ms Lorenz’s pretence of cosmopolitan expertise, there’s no sense at any point in the exchange that the topic has actually been thought about, autonomously, poked at from various angles. Her mouthings merely suggest someone who’s memorised some pre-approved excuses for suboptimal behaviour. I don’t believe that any actual thinking has taken place.

Instead, there’s a sense that Ms Lorenz has merely recalled the mouth sounds that will denote some fashionable stance, an approved position, one selected well in advance of any mental activity.

Should any occur.

Update, via the comments:

Chow Bag adds,

When not dining out, that is.

At risk of sounding insufficiently sensitive, I’d suggest that if your life is so disorganised that you use delivered-to-the-door takeaway services for the bulk of your meals, week after week, in ways you cannot afford, then the problem, the actual problem, is your being so disorganised.

Readers will note how Ms Lorenz has to add implausible and contradictory complications to bolster her assertion.

And so, not only are these weirdly incompetent young people all working double shifts, every day, every week, but they’re also elderly and disabled and unable to operate a hob or reach for kitchen utensils. And they’re so pressed for time, so downtrodden, that they can afford to spend half of their food budget on dining out in restaurants.

As one does.

I doubt it’s ever occurred to Ms Lorenz that, by excusing foolish, unaffordable behaviour and the habitual displacement of responsibility, by encouraging the cultivation of victimhood, she’s making poverty more likely, and more likely to persist.

Her supposedly compassionate philosophy, such as it is, seems to be, “Carry on doing that really stupid thing. Just remember to blame other people for your own bewildering choices.”

Ms Lorenz has subsequently restricted who may reply to her assertions.

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

Meanwhile, at Boston University, enormous thoughts are being had:

The she in question is Professor Megan Elias.

Oh, and she’s talking about food.

Obviously.

The question “what is queer food?” is, we’re told by Professor Elias, “a question that’s coming up a lot lately.” If only among academics desperate for an angle, an excuse for claiming a salary and wasting other people’s time. Academics much like Professor Elias.

Welcome to the bleeding edge of human mental activity.

Quite how one can edit “an illustrated guide to queer food,” complete with recipes, as Professor Ilias has, while simultaneously being unable to define what such a thing is, should it exist, is a question I leave to the reader.

Though a review of said book does offer a clue:

So “queer food,” it turns out, is not in fact a thing. It’s just whatever people who describe themselves as “queer” – a subset of insufferable misfits – happen to eat. While talking about themselves and how terribly “queer” they are.

Specifics of the professor’s course content are, as one might imagine, a little sketchy, beyond the obligatory claims of things being “disrupted” and “interrogated,” albeit in ways not altogether clear, or indeed convincing.

We are, however, informed that the credulous and self-absorbed will be invited to ponder what they might eat on a first date – because that’s totally worth those annual fees of $90,000 – and “how [their] food choice is representing [their] gender identity.”  Which is a thing that food should do, apparently.

Oh, and the aforementioned,

On grounds that being, say, “polyamorous” – i.e., a neurotic slag – may, in ways unexplained, determine how much you like lasagne or carrots.

Such is the sophistication of our times.

Those so inclined – and with nothing better to do – are welcome to reflect on yesterday’s dinner, or this morning’s breakfast, and then explain to the rest of the class how those foodstuffs “represent” your “gender identity.”

I’ll award points for contrivance.

Readers may recall our adventures in “queered” history, which is like history, but less so. And, as above, much more self-involved.

From the pages of Metro, some highly emotional news:

I’ll give you a moment to steady yourselves. What with the brutality of it all. Namely, a supermarket aisle with – and I quote,

Apparently mere proximity to such a thing – again, a shelf of houmous in a supermarket – can traumatise grown men of a progressive persuasion. Including Mr Amro Tabari, whose dip-induced agonising unfolds before you now:

No, the relevance escapes me, too. Perhaps something will be made of this later, given sufficient contrivance.

I go for the red pepper variety, myself. Hey, I’m just sharing, too.

No laughing at the back. This is a tearful tale.

Stunned by houmous options. When not sobbing, I mean, or filled with a sickening outrage. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Mr Tabari’s emotions, or professed emotions, incline towards the operatic. One might say baffling.

I suspect an explanation of a sort may be looming.

Ah, the aforementioned contrivance. Houmous as a political identity. I think this is where the credulous are meant to feel guilty, or deferential, or something.

I would guess that at least some of those baristas, flower shop owners and amateur theatre actors are just being polite. Not everyone needs a sermon with their dip. Even in Brighton.

You see, that’s where we’re going. Because of course we are. He’s had photos done and everything.

This is starting to sound like one of those fabulist anecdotes in which the speaker is supposedly always being asked, “But how do you cope with being so slim and pretty and loved by everyone?”

One more time. Dip.

And finally, inevitably, the demand:

Or you could just, you know, dial back the pretentious, self-involved whining. Three or four notches should do it.

Update, via the comments:

John D quotes this bold claim,

And adds, drily,

Liz asks,

It does seem to involve a lot of needless drama. Such that one can be traumatised and outraged, reduced to sobbing, by the availability of a savoury dip. It all sounds exhausting. And I think we’re expected to admire this emotional self-indulgence and the cack-handed attempt to manipulate.

And ComputerLabRat speaks for many with this:

I suppose we might, in theory, feel sorry for Mr Tabari, whose time in leftist circles has led him to believe that his self-involved dramas are a basis for being taken seriously. As someone for whom houmous is an identity and a basis for attention and deference. Someone who invokes the alleged injury of “cultural appropriation” and consequently bursting into tears, as if this would be a good look. A basis for status and applause.

I mean, to imagine that this is the look to go for, in a national newspaper, where people can see, does suggest a level of loserdom.