For those in search of a lockdown project, how to make toilet-paper moonshine.

“I’m going to be turning toilet paper into drinkable alcohol.”

Via Elephants Gerald. Also, open thread. Share ye links and bicker. 

For newcomers and the forgetful, two items from the archives:

The Blurting. 

A leftist compulsion is pondered.

A more subtle and common example occurred in January, when the family headed out to a Burns Night dinner at a restaurant adjacent to the university. Before the food appeared, we were treated to a brief poetry reading courtesy of a local academic. I was tempted to roll my eyes at the prospect, but he did get the crowd in good spirits. Until a poem about food and good company was somehow given, as he put it, “a political edge.” And so, we endured a contrived reference to Brexit – implicitly very bad – and a pointed nod across the ocean to a certain president, who we were encouraged to imagine naked.

At the time, I was struck by the presumption – the belief that everyone present would naturally agree - that opposition to Brexit and a disdain of Trump were things we, the customers, would without doubt have in common… The subtext was hard to miss: “This is a fashionable restaurant and its customers, being fashionable, will obviously hold left-of-centre views, especially regarding Brexit and Trump, both of which they should disdain and wish to be seen disdaining by their left-of-centre peers.” And when you’re out to enjoy a fancy meal with friends and family, this is an odd sentiment to encounter from someone you don’t know and whose ostensible job is to make you feel welcome.

Trust Me, I’m A Witchdoctor. 

Guardian columnist denounces Western medicine as “outdated,” champions use of bush dung.

Video here, via Darleen. Because recreational sociopathy is very in right now. 

Anything else is an excuse, of course, a lie. The rationalisation – that trashing another random restaurant and menacing its customers, people about whom the aggressors know nothing, will somehow usher in a brighter, more fragrant tomorrow – can be dismissed as ludicrous and self-flattering, a moral non sequitur. But look carefully at what these self-imagined warriors for “social justice” choose to do – repeatedly, by default. See their go-to solution, their way to fix the world.

See how they enjoy it.

Because that’s what it’s about.

Update, via the comments:

As noted before, if someone’s preferred form of activism is to harass and bully random strangers, while feeling enormously self-satisfied about their own imagined radicalism – and while clearly exulting in mob domination – then this tells us very little about any issue supposedly animating them. Again, it’s a moral non sequitur and rather like saying, “I’m troubled by the plight of the Javan rhinoceros, so I’m going to start spitting at the elderly and keying random cars.”

It does, however, tell us just how narcissistic and spiteful these creatures are. And how low a priority their wellbeing should be.

Because you crave one, an open thread, in which to share links and bicker.

Oh, and here’s something savoury. 

Best enlarged. 

For newcomers, more items from the archives:  

The Cupcake Menace. 

Tiny cakes are exploitative, demeaning and emotionally crippling. You didn’t know?   

After telling us at length just how terrible and mind-warping these tiny fancies are, at least among women, Mr Seaton adds, “I don’t want to ban cupcakes.” And yet he feels it necessary to say this, as if banning miniature sponges would be an obvious thing to consider, the kind of thing one does. And after banning them in his own office.

The Humble Among Us. 

Attention, world. Novelist Brigid Delaney wants a nicer flat. 

You see, creative people, that’s people like Ms Delaney, must live in locales befitting their importance, not their budget. You, taxpayer, come hither. And bring your wallet. Creative people, being so creative, deserve nothing less than special treatment. I mean, you can’t expect a creative person to write at any old desk in any old room in any old part of town. What’s needed is a lifestyle at some other sucker’s expense. 

Monbiot And The Morlocks. 

The Guardian’s George Monbiot encounters the underclass. Things go badly wrong.

George believes in sharing, by which of course he means taking other people’s stuff. Yet he’s remarkably unprepared for that favour being returned. Say, by two burly chaps with neck tattoos and ill-tempered dogs. And as these burly chaps were members of a “marginalised group,” and therefore righteous by default, George was expecting noble savages. Alas, ‘twas not to be.

There’s more, should you crave it, in the greatest hits. Also, open thread.