From the realm of the tightly-wound and twitchy, how to eat out while being a needy, neurotic, self-dramatising pinhead:

You can go into any restaurant and ask to be served by an ally or trans positive person.

And you can leave if the restaurant is playing Fox News. Most importantly, you can smugly eat chips while you make a video. pic.twitter.com/lq3lcmy5LS

— Dr. Jebra Faushay (@JebraFaushay) February 11, 2025

So far as I can make out, the rules are as follows.

First, you should expect the restaurant’s serving staff to be conveniently categorised by their sexual inclinations or some other “ally” attribute, as if that weren’t presumptuous and intrusive – and, you know, weird. And should a pleasingly downtrodden identity be available – and said person dragged into your luminous presence – then you can bestow upon them your glorious and not-at-all-self-serving affirmation.

Naturally, you should make sure everyone sees. And hey, who wouldn’t want to be wheeled out as a prop, an accessory, for someone else’s attention-seeking project?

Oh, and then – but of course – you video yourself talking, with a mouth full of food, about how morally superior you are, before uploading this proof of your own magnificence to social media. Where applause will surely follow.

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Also, open thread.

Mr Destiny, who is, I gather, some kind of deep thinker, a moral colossus of the left, is apparently unable to make a mug of hot chocolate:

My Uber driver brought me my hot chocolate today on bike. It took 45 minutes to get here, and this is what happens as soon as I pick up the bag to bring it inside.

This is Trump’s America. pic.twitter.com/g4iBNXsQjt

— Destiny (@TheOmniLiberal) November 12, 2024

Needless to say, mockery ensues. 

Update, via the comments: 

Mr Destiny – aka Steven Kenneth Bonnell II – evidently felt that the moment above had some symbolic meaning, some charged political relevance. Which, I suppose, it does, in a way. Though not, I think, of the kind he imagines. In that, it merely tells us something about him.

Mags adds,

Quite. And it’s a world in which your cup of hot chocolate has its own driver.

I did briefly wonder if Mr Bonnell might be trying to make some ironic point about modernity and decadence, but that doesn’t appear to be his style at all. And even if the objective were to say, “Look at how decadent we are,” that doesn’t really work, since the more obvious message is “Look at how decadent I am…” The we being rather presumptuous.

And I suspect that many of us here manage to make it through the day, most days, without being overly decadent. Say, by not having single cups of hot chocolate needlessly delivered to our doors, seemingly on a daily basis. Or by not finding loudly announced amusement in the death of a random stranger who was trying to shield his family from gunfire during an assassination attempt on a presidential candidate.

As Mr Bonnell did.

By all means, consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

And other modern dramas.

First, from the comments, where Clam warns,

Regarding this:

What grates, I think, is the routine overstepping of boundaries, the casual insult. Judging by the transgressive sandwiches, to which the note is attached, it seems the child was prevented from eating and, presumably, publicly embarrassed.

A while ago, one of my nieces received a snotty note scolding her for sending her son to school with a packed lunch consisting of a banana and a peanut butter sandwich, an occasional treat. Apparently, peanut butter, like jam, is a verboten foodstuff. And so, as a result, someone is employed to poke through children’s lunch boxes and to then write snotty notes to parents. A function doubtless enjoyed.

But here’s the thing. If you aren’t paying for something directly, even if you’re still paying indirectly, via taxes, you won’t by default be regarded as a customer, for whom some minimal regard might be shown, and whose boundaries should be respected. Instead, it’s quite likely you’ll be treated as an inconvenience, an irritation, someone who can be insulted and subjected to condescension.

See also, our glorious NHS.

The item linked above recounts, in abbreviated form, my attempt to return a set of crutches to the local NHS hospital – and how an ostensibly simple task became a 45-minute ordeal with farcical overtones. Entailing a trek of a half a mile or so, down endless corridors on multiple floors, from one department to another, then another, then another. An odyssey enlivened by encounters with bizarrely rude and unhelpful staff, and while walking past posters stressing the moral imperative of patients returning their crutches. An undertaking made as impractical, as maddening, and as absurdly complicated, as would seem humanly possible.

And it’s not entirely heartening to realise, as you trek down yet another corridor, that you’re entrusting your wellbeing, perhaps even your life, to an institution that can’t organise a practical system for the returning of crutches.

Oh, and while I have your attention, I bring dating instructions from the land of the badly tattooed and terminally self-involved:

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Also, open thread.

And in woke dining news:

Setting aside the small matter of, er, assault and strangulation, readers may wish to ponder the notion, advanced by Mr Rivera and his numerous supporters, that white people, especially white people with blonde hair, shouldn’t be allowed to serve Japanese food.

At which point, I suppose I should mention this:

A shocking twist, I know. I do hope you were sitting down.

When not harassing people for having the wrong colour skin, and when not strangling women, Mr Rivera spends quite a lot of time blocking those who dare to quote his own social media statements.

Margot, seen below, is a “nutrition counsellor.” She is “root-cause and system focussed.” Oh, and she has some questions:

Turns out you can’t smash capitalism and agitate the proletariat without a solid meal plan.

Tiktok commies are doing revolution meal prep, I am dying 💀😂

You cannot make this up. pic.twitter.com/2OYFD6A2NP

— Right Side of History™️ (@xxclusionary) November 15, 2023

“We can fight with our food,” says she.

Bridge crossed, methinks.

Update, via Mr Muldoon in the comments:

Apparently, the revolution will be fuelled by cashew milk and vegan pseudo-cheese. Because as capitalism is toppled, and amid the riots and burning cars, there will, it seems, be space for neurotic niche cuisine.

Update 2:

NielsR adds,

I suspect that the fantasy of being in charge and important, of correcting others amid some cosmic drama, is very much the appeal. It’s the standard pattern of the type. And Margot, dear Margot, is very much of a type.

And so, while her comrades “break capitalism” and “abolish” prison, and as violent criminals roam the streets unmolested, Margot will be instructing the little people on how to dry pepper seeds and how to wash foraged bin scraps in vinegar to remove any trace of those nasty pesticides. And I doubt that this fantasy, this contrived, absurd mindset, is amenable to realism or logic, or any kind of correction. It’s probably best considered as a case of bad wiring.

Margot and her peers, these psychologically precarious young women – all of a remarkably narrow social class – are, they tell us, the ones who will be “moving the world forward.” And they’ll bestow this gift, this glorious transformation, by “coaching people in how to eat from a revolutionary and resistance standpoint,” and by making endless TikTok videos about themselves and their cultivated mood disorders.

Assuming, that is, that the proletariat are tempted by the prospect of economic ruin, roaming gangs of muggers and rapists, and evenings spent washing other people’s bin contents.

Somewhat related.