Including unlikely lunchtime scenes; otters versus butterfly (a battle of wits); birds on public transport; a four-dimensional toy box; and everything you need to know about Renaissance fertility weasels.
Including uncanny scenes; a cat’s justified vengeance; a turntable-alarm-clock combo of the 1930s; Angela Lansbury paired with teapots; and a challenging quiz for all the family: Antidepressant or Tolkien Character?
Including a significant yeast surplus; quality time caught on camera; a strange new order in the animal world; the pleasures of rubber; and bad news and good news in close proximity.
Dr Jennifer Cassidy is an Oxford University politics lecturer who has thoughts on what kind of books you’re allowed to have on your shelves. Ownership of Charles Murray’s The Bell Curve is, it turns out, a basis for scolding, like so much else. Readers may recall that the mob that physically menaced Charles Murray at Middlebury College included students, would-be intellectuals, who boasted of never having read his books and who consequently knew almost nothing about their victim’s actual views and actual research. None of which inhibited their self-satisfied enthusiasm for assaulting people and making polite elderly scholars fear for their safety.
We have of late been neglecting the arts, and that simply won’t do.
Probably unsuitable for viewing at work. Or while sober.
In which I attempt to translate a two-word slogan on a makeshift placard.
Including the Movnrovian nightly news; the concept of titty money; inflatable feast inhibitors; a lunchtime drama; and a not-so-brief history of the Roland Corporation.
Assorted oddments for the weekend, including Dr Lecter’s twilight years; an underwater hotel suite; how to remove a wisdom tooth; a lockdown styling crisis; and an illustrated guide to the chairs of Blake’s 7.
What else are we supposed to do with our days besides masturbate excessively and send a flurry of nudes?
Ciara Gaffney, a resident of Los Angeles and a “brand strategist,” is very excited – all but rendered incoherent – by a “cybersexual revolution” that, during the pandemic, is apparently occurring.
Including scenes of forbidden love; the potato game upgraded; the thrill of pond water; music machines of note; and an unlikely rendition of We Will Rock You.
Primitive living, it turns out, is so much easier with an inheritance. And if you’re into Stone Age role-play, then spare cash and pre-built property, complete with solar panels, power outlets and rudimentary plumbing, does seem rather handy, perhaps a prerequisite. Such that our fearless disdainer of modernity can “divide her time” flying between continents as mood suits, from Sweden to France’s Dordogne Valley and back to the mountains of Washington, USA.
Oddments for the weekend, including a moon whale sighting; a witches’ brew; paranormal car crashes; the transparent jigsaw puzzle you’ve always wanted; and a lesson in the proprieties of video conferencing.
It’s been said, here at least, that when someone uses the term “emotional labour” unironically, the person doing the mouthing is most likely a bit of a nightmare. Say, the kind of woman who complains about the “emotional labour” of hiring a domestic cleaner. Or the kind who bitches about her husband and his shortcomings in the pages of a national magazine, where friends and colleagues of said husband, and perhaps his own children, can read on with amusement.
In the pages of Harper’s Bazaar, empowered feminist Gemma Hartley bemoans the “emotional labour” of getting her multiple bathrooms cleaned by someone else.
Assorted oddments for the weekend, including a high-stakes game; hardcore buffet scenes; a guide to the giraffe and its chest butts; how to build your own paper jukebox; and a bad day at work involving fire.
Assorted oddments for the weekend, including how to make a copper bonsai; when your cannon just won’t boom; old-school cloaking technology; scenes of twitching meat; and drive-through in an age of coronavirus.
In the pages of Salon, a slice of psychodrama:
Like many Democrats, I suffer from bouts of Donald Trump Stress Disorder.
Apparently, the progressive mind is a terribly fragile thing and easily broken.
The world of woke crossword-puzzlers – because that’s a thing that exists – is one in which enthusiasts, via social media, grumble about white men, bemoan the insufficient prominence of “queer or POC colloquialisms,” share “off-colour jokes about hypothetical titles for a Melania Trump memoir,” and fret about the exact ratio of male and female names used as clues. Because a lack of “gender parity” in crossword puzzle clues constitutes one of “the systemic forces that threaten women.”
In which we meet a Brooklynite comedian and podcaster named Billy, his girlfriend Megan, and his girlfriend Megan’s other boyfriend Kyle.
When not advocating shoplifting and being titillated by visions of collapsing social norms, Ms Trevino, our communist poet and Antifa Gal, wants us to know how pleased she is by criminals escaping prison and taking hostages. What said prisoners may have done to be there in the first place, and what they may do again now that they’re at large, doesn’t seem to interest her.
See, they’re just like normal people, only horribly broken.