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.