As we’re in the realm of the excruciatingly woke, the terms violence and trauma are of course misused and deliberately misleading.
On reinventing maths teaching to flatter the selfish and disruptive.
As we’re in the realm of the excruciatingly woke, the terms violence and trauma are of course misused and deliberately misleading.
On reinventing maths teaching to flatter the selfish and disruptive.
As Mr Trump unboxes his kettle in the White House, I’m going to offer this reminder of the meltdowns and moon-howling that greeted his election victory. Such were the feats of pretension and competitive neuroticism, some kind of historical document seems in order.
Including visitors from the asteroid belt; a collection of Doctor Who title cards; on mathematics and the Moon; a brief history of arsenic; and eating uranium, circa 1985.
During the lengthy interview quoted above, Walgreens CEO Tim Wentworth hints at the development of “creative” solutions for customers demoralised by unimpeded thieving and the subsequent lockdown status of many stores. Paying customers, a seemingly shrinking demographic, will, we’re assured, be offered a “better… in-store experience” via “new scheduling optimisation logic” and “leveraging our omnichannel capabilities.”
Oddly, Mr Wentworth, whose business is planning to close another 450 stores during the coming year, avoids any use of the words shoplifting, looting, or theft.
Including a notable wind instrument; energetic wombs; how to fly much faster than the speed of sound; and adventures in very large rock relocation.
In terms of ideology, “diversity” seems to be the belief that the less we have in common, and feel we have in common, the happier we will be. An unobvious proposition, to say the least. Yet the word is mouthed as if it were a self-evident good, a “strength,” a moral imperative, a thing of which one could never have enough.
Dear reader, spare a thought for academics rendered tearful by “the undertakings of white people”:
Despite the theatre of “ongoing emotional pain,” the proponents of degree-course “decolonisation” seem quite enthused by their scolding and leverage. Their ability to wring pretentious atonement from fellow players of the game.
Including large objects incoming; a problem depositing keys; adventures in modernity; scenes of alarming wind; and when starfish attack.
A compendium of progressive pretence and odd mental contortions:
In February, we learned, via a Canadian socialist podcaster named Nora Loreto, that habitual car theft is a “victimless” crime, a trivial thing. Even a third conviction for thieving someone else’s car should not result in incarceration or any physical impediment, because the victims of car theft – who do not exist, apparently – “get new cars though.” “I write books and I know things,” announced Nora, who lives in Quebec, where, in the last year, the rate of car theft has practically doubled.
Other topics included an educational effort in San Francisco, in which elementary school children were expected to “disrupt whiteness,” and to have – or at least regurgitate – strong opinions on the Israeli military. Needless to say, this focus on political indoctrination and imagining “a world without police, money, or landlords,” came at the expense of more mundane subjects, with English and maths scores hitting record lows, and with less than 4% of students considered numerate. All in the name of “removing barriers to learning.”
And we pondered the weirdly woke marketing of retailer John Lewis, whose customers were doubtless inspired to shop harder and more often thanks to photographs of store employees accompanied by details of their mental health problems and niche sexual leanings. Among them, Mr Marc Geoffrey Albert Whitcombe, now known as Ruby, who was thrilled by “the chance to express my true inner self,” and who was photographed in an enormous rose-adorned wig and while clutching a cat o’ nine tails. Customers intrigued by this in-store display soon discovered Mr Whitcombe’s social media presence, which consists of hundreds of selfies in which he attempts erotic poses, complete with ladies’ lingerie and while gripping sex toys in his mouth.
He’s Put Tinsel On The Tip Jar.
Or, If You’d Like To Help Keep A Blog Afloat, By All Means Do.
A tale of erotic mollusc-gobbling; some heated powder-room scenes; and a Guardian columnist attempts to “redefine the family unit” with limited success.
Including super-bouncy shoes; a bathroom visitor; how to compress a sofa; and nail-biting scenes from a Japanese bed-making competition.
Again, and let me stress this, most of us don’t want to know about the stains in your underwear. It’s not the kind of information that many of us crave.
Thanks to a “scholar of feminist media,” I bring you radical menstruation news.
In his research, [sociology professor, Andrew] Cognard-Black… reported many college honours programmes do not have “proportional representation” of minority students, especially blacks and Hispanics, compared to the demographics of their student bodies.
And so, in the name of progress, they must be shut down.
On fare-dodging progressives, who freeload altruistically:
“I don’t pay,” said a 35-year-old man wearing an orange puffy vest and clutching a beige shoulder bag and a banana. The man said he earns $75,000 working for an Oakland-based climate nonprofit. “Muni should be free, to make it accessible.”
Or, my activist lifestyle should be subsidised by others, the less important.
A 25-year-old research associate for a Google-owned subsidiary who also earns $75,000 a year said she almost never pays the fare. “I’d say 99% of the time, I just walk on,” she said, adding that she saw everyone else doing it when she moved to the city three years ago. “It’s like a San Francisco thing, I guess.”
Ah, that community spirit, a triumph of fairness over selfishness, in a city of good people. Good people who steal as a matter of routine. Because when it comes to paying their way, well, they’d rather not.
Including the anthropology of unauthorised parking; an interspecies attraction; the tomb of Queen Nefertari; and the Chair Bodgers of the Chilterns, circa 1950.
A tale of women’s shoes, murderous rage, and a small, plastic girlfriend.