And in ladies’ changing room news:

Trying it on is indeed a phrase that comes to mind.

At which point, readers may note how Mr Firico’s professed “non-binary” status doesn’t mean that he’d be content in the men’s changing rooms, as an option, with either being fine, and instead grants, in his mind, an entitlement to violate store policy and the boundaries of women. He’s “not a man,” you see – and by the same logic, if that’s the word, not a woman either – but apparently, that women’s space is his kingdom now. And ladies who’d rather not get undressed near some random male interloper – whether that man is mentally ill or an opportunist pervert – are expected to shut up and comply. Because his identity, or feigned identity, trumps theirs.

It’s all terribly convenient.

Despite his incongruity, Mr Firico doesn’t appear at all curious as to the preferences of any female customers on whom he might be imposing, and his view of the store’s female staff is perhaps best judged by his willingness to ignore their objections while barging into a space not intended for men:

Views as to which party should feel ashamed may, I suspect, differ. And note that any female customers who might feel uncomfortable or degraded by sharing an intimate space with a bearded bedlamite are, again, expected to keep quiet and defer. In this new, inclusive world, there is, it seems, a pecking order.

Despite a subsequent apology by the store’s manager, we’re told that the experience of not getting his own way immediately and entirely without objection was “embarrassing” for Mr Firico, especially as a sales assistant “rolled her eyes.” Readers are invited to say whether hearing of such unspeakable trauma will deprive them of any sleep.

Mr Firico, complete with stunning gown, can be seen here. The clasping of the hands is a lovely touch.

Via ripx4nutmeg.

Nommy-nommy-nom. || Scenes from Quebec’s Museum of Civilisation. || Strange doggo. || Dogs, as understood by artificial intelligence. || He does this better than you do. || Bathing suit. || Brum brum. || The erotic arts. || Tickle my hindquarters. || Best to give it some clearance, I think. || Romancing detected. || New rules issued by unhappy man. || The fear that men know. || Pretentious guilt will take you to some strange places. || The unspanked at large. || The situation, alas, did not improve. || Stayin’ Alive. || His day at work was worse than yours. || For people who like folding and unfolding their furniture. (h/t, Mark) || A little something for feet enthusiasts. || Fly with confidence, they said. || And finally, via Darleen, have you fiddled with yours in the last twenty minutes?

Should you be tempted, you can follow me on Twitter.

Come, let us dip a toe in the world of transgender Reddit – specifically, rFTMOver30 – where the sexually dysmorphic hunt for slips-ups, pronoun blunders, and tiny acts of transgression. As you might imagine, things can get quite competitive.

First, a little background on the author of this particular woe:

The struggle involves a devilish innovation in the world of “transphobia”:

This inadvertent favouring of factual accuracy is, it turns out, only the appetiser. The main basis for umbrage is about to become clear.

And so,

There we go. New ground broken. Drinks all round.

After the gathering, when the guests had left, apologies were of course extracted from the author’s partner, along with confessions of wrongdoing, for daring to suggest that no harm was intended. Needless to say, and despite the lengthy confession and profuse apologies, and despite promises to “sit down” with Alison and correct her, the author of the piece is, we’re told, “having trouble moving on.”

You see, if friends come over for a pleasant evening and they don’t immediately consider you a potential mugger of women, or rapist of women, this is oppressive, “invalidating,” and “transphobic.” Such that it feels like “a punch in the gut.” It’s perhaps not the most obvious basis for invoking the unfairness of the world and one’s own endless suffering, but hey. In this competition, contrivance equals bonus points.

Quite what the author’s partner makes of this news – that in order to avoid being “transphobic,” she must consider her transgender lover a potential rapist – is, alas, not divulged.

Readers are invited to ponder the prospect of a dinner party at which, in order to be polite and suitably affirming, you’re obliged to insinuate that the host is rapist material. And to do it convincingly. Rather than, say, compliment the cooking or the décor.

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Via Eliza Mondegreen.

Update, via the comments:

A rather tense situation. || His is bigger than yours. || Taste the rainbow. || Not today, baby. || British policing, circa 2023. || Meanwhile, in Germany. || “We don’t use gendered language in this household.” || And how was your day at school? || When getting dressed has to be, like, super-duper complicated. || Today’s word is parenting. || Car park encounter. || Post-shoplifting scenario. || Chicago airport scenes. || Parking is hard. || Apparently, it runs in families. || He has euphoria-inducing stains. || Hello, ladies. || “Love never fails.” || It’s not milk, sir, and it’s not at all nutritious. Also. || Cannot say, must not think. || Side-eye of note. || When you’re not really that keen on tomatoes. || A scale model of time. || And finally, when you turn up at the wrong house but still fancy your chances.

Should you be tempted, you can follow me on Twitter.

From the comments, some items you may have missed. We’ll kick things off with some kicking off, care of commenter Mr Farnsworth M Muldoon:

Curious how when you hear of yet another educator being intolerant, childish, or wildly unhinged, you don’t need to ask what their politics might be.

Speaking of unhinged:

When you get your news from Vanity Fair.

Found via Flappr.

And with near-telepathic simultaneity:

You see, Twitter has “fully assumed the role of a far-right platform.” “It is,” says The Atlantic, “accurate to call [Elon Musk] a far-right activist.”

Remember, dear readers, always respect the media.

Oh, and because I do like quoting myself, we revisited the moral pretensions of Guardian columnist Zoe Williams:

See? If you poke about, you never know what you’ll find.

Speaking, as we were, of the Guardian’s imperious opinionator Polly Toynbee, madam’s latest outpouring finds her reflecting – if that’s quite the right word – on the burden of her own elevated status. The woes, as it were, of the upper-and-upper-middle-class socialist:

Wait for it.

Update, via the comments:

We’re also told that, as a child, Dear Polly “envied” her much poorer friends, with their “cheerful,” noisy, and rather small dwellings, which had “ever-open front doors.” Though, alas,

As a way to conjure gravitas and fish for sympathy, it’s a bold approach.

The point of the piece quoted above, a long and rambling extract from Ms Toynbee’s forthcoming memoir, is far from clear – as is Polly’s way. However, the gist seems to be that class is a terrible, terrible thing, and that our author, a descendant of the Ninth Earl of Carlisle, and whose life is cushioned by multiple homes, here and overseas, and a well-into-six-figure income, is every bit as much a victim of it. What with her fretting so much.

For brevity’s sake, I’ll attempt to paraphrase: ‘I have never known, and will never know, anything approaching poverty. My lack of diligence, or indeed competence, has never been a significant setback, on account of my class and privilege. Therefore, you should listen to me and do exactly as I say.’

Again, bold. Must be that “painful self-awareness.”

In the comments, further thoughts occur.

Update 2:

Regarding Polly’s purported envy of the humble and downtrodden, Mike D asks,

Which reminded me of the reliably ludicrous George Monbiot, a man who agonises over the “isolating” effects of disposable income, double glazing, and TV remote controls, and who believes that we – thee and me – should imitate the peasants of southern Ethiopia, where homes are made of leaves and packing cases, and where, despite Stone Age sanitation and alarming child mortality, “the fields crackle with laughter.”

For Dear Polly, mingling with the working class is somewhat similar, I should think.

Oh, and Mr Monbiot, lest we forget, was schooled at Stowe, an imposing boarding school in Buckinghamshire, where annual fees are a mere £36,000.

At which point, readers may discern the makings of a pattern.

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

For devotees of the farcical and grotesque, a spot of history:

In the following video, quoted above, Professor James O’Flannery concludes his lively, somewhat unorthodox three-part lecture series on the Chinese Revolution. Or, to borrow one of his chapter headings, Our Turn Fuck Up World.

Needless to say, given the subject matter, some dark turns are taken. Notable moments include an explanation of the inevitability of sociopathy in communism; the pivotal role of hysterically self-righteous adolescents; and a lesson in demented street signage. Readers may also detect some, shall we say, contemporary resonance. And do watch to the end.

Parts one and two.

The professor’s lectures on the French and Russian Revolutions, the latter in three parts, are also recommended.

How drunk you should be while watching them is entirely your own business.

Not ideal, really. || Niche dissonance detected. || Incoming. || Incoming 2. || Oh no, not the inevitable, again. || Shadow lag. || How to repel women, part 2. Previously. || Some pleasing trash removal. || Sexual display. || The progressive retail experience, parts 475, 476, 477, 478, and 479. || Quick test, no prep, no phoning a friend. || Leo lives in Portland. || On those vertical lines seen in nuclear explosion test footage. || Three of these are wrong, clearly. || Clackety-clack. || How to clean windows. || “Walking into random houses” for shits and giggles. What could possibly go wrong? And what has already gone wrong? || Today’s word is gaming. || Today’s other word is shenis. || She was affirmed. || And finally, further to this, another thread of adventures in UI design.

Should you be tempted, you can follow me on Twitter.

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

Clown Quarter Contagion.

At Birmingham University, making white staff “feel uncomfortable” is a goal.

Not Boldly, Then.

On politically-corrected space exploration.

Your Failure To Enthuse Is Violence, Apparently.

Roy G Guzmán is oppressed by the “violence” of people not liking his poetry.

Also, open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

In the comments, pst314 shares an uplifting, utopian spectacle for Portland’s commuters.

What’s striking about such scenes, I think, is the eye-widening selfishness on display. Other passengers, other people, including children, are seemingly of no importance. Except, perhaps, as obstacles, or targets. And yet we’re told, often and at length, that those who repeatedly indulge in antisocial and criminal behaviour are creatures deserving of indulgence, and with whom we should empathise. As if the favour would ever be returned.

If you’ve watched the reality series Cops or Live PD, pathological selfishness is very much a staple, a defining attribute of the assorted misfits and predators. I remember one lengthy pursuit of thieves who’d robbed a store at gunpoint, terrorised its owner, and then fled the scene in a stolen car, and whose bid to escape did costly damage to other people’s property, and caused other road users to veer and crash, resulting in serious injury.

When finally apprehended, the thieves, themselves unharmed, were entirely unconcerned by the horror and destruction left in their wake, or the fact that it was all but miraculous that no-one had been killed. Instead, they were loudly indignant, as if they were the victims of the drama, heatedly objecting to the discomfort of handcuffs, and demanding to know why their phones had been confiscated. While, within earshot, injured children were being rushed to hospital.

It’s curious how those who find endless opportunities to declare their own altruism and compassion, and thereby signal their elevated status, are very often determined to excuse selfishness of a sociopathic kind and to perform remarkable contortions while doing so.

Such that, having been burgled, for instance – in the middle of the night, by people armed with carving knives – one should apparently sympathise with the bipedal vermin breaking into one’s home and driving off with one’s stuff – in one’s own car. And then, via incoherent prose in a national newspaper, fret about their wellbeing. Burglars being so deserving of our forbearance and goodwill, you see.

If readers are left somewhat puzzled by the piece in question, by Guardian contributor Anna Spargo-Ryan, this is understandable. Consistency doesn’t appear to be a priority, or indeed an option. What matters, it seems, is that Ms Spargo-Ryan is hailed by her progressive peers as a “beautiful person,” oozing, as she is, with infinite compassion. Albeit not so much for other local residents, also robbed in the night, most likely by the same criminal gang, and whose expectations of justice are deemed terribly proletarian and unsophisticated.

But then, ostentatious displays of sympathy for criminals – rather than for their numerous victims, and future victims – are much more statusful. And hey, that’s what matters.

As seen in the links above, the mental convolutions can be quite bizarre. If another illustration is needed, see also this stern moral lecture from the pages of Vice, in which we’re told, emphatically, that the people we should dislike and disdain, and indeed fear, are the ones who don’t feel entitled to rob us, or beat us insensible, or burn down our homes.