The World’s Luckiest Man

This is one-time supermodel (and still-gorgeous) Helena Christensen, from Denmark:

…and this is one-time model and current actress Diane Kruger, from Germany:

So the question of the day is:  Apart from modelling, what do these two examples of extreme pulchritude have in common?

Answer:  Both women have had children fathered by Norman Reedus.

Let that sink in for a moment… and for the math geeks among you, here’s the diagram:

Still in math mode:  Q.E.D.

Definitely No Snowflake

Yikes.  Try this wilting flower for size:

Virginia Hall was fluent in French, Italian and German when she went to work for the US foreign service before World War II but was invalided out of the service after a hunting accident in Turkey.
Her shotgun slipped from her grasp and as she grabbed it, it fired, blasting away her foot.
By the time she got to a hospital, gangrene had set in. To save her life, the surgeon had to amputate her left leg below the knee.
Always able to see the funny side of things, Miss Hall immediately named her wooden leg Cuthbert.

When the Nazis invaded France in 1940, she fled to London, and with her language skills, was soon recruited by the SOE.
After training in the clandestine arts of killing, communications and security, she went to Vichy France to set up resistance networks under the cover of being a reporter for the New York Post.
After the November, 1942, North Africa invasion, German troops flooded into her area and things became too hot even for her.
She hiked on her artificial leg across the Pyrenees in the dead of winter to Spain.
During the journey she radioed London saying she was okay but Cuthbert was giving her trouble.

…and then she got really serious about doing bad things to Nazis.  Read the whole thing.

Define “Dangerous”, Asswipe

Just when I’d got my blood pressure down to healthy levels, this kind of shit (from Britishland) gets published and back we go to 500/400:

Parents who homeschool their children will be forced to sign a register or face possible prosecution, according to government proposals.
The Department for Education plans to hold a register of all children not in mainstream schools in a bid to protect them from ‘dangerous influences’.
The move will help crack down on religious fundamentalists who send youngsters to secret schools where they are at risk of radicalisation.

We all know where this regulation is aimed:  at Muslims who want to turn little Abu Buma into Abu Ben-Bomba.  The only problem, as always, is that the law won’t be used against Muslims, ever  — but it will  be used, often, against conservative parents, Christian parents, and anyone, in fact, who dares to raise their children to be intellectual, inquisitive and independent (precisely the qualities that all state education systems seek to eradicate).  All that is dangerous to the control freaks and nannies who infest our modern-day bureaucracy, and don’t for a moment think that they’ll hesitate to brand it thus.

What time does the range open?

What’s In A Name?

It’s a good thing that the Bard is no longer with us, or else his question might instead read:  “WTF is it with all these stupid names?” 

I’m not just talking about nicknames, where anything goes (e.g. Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino from Jersey Shores  — note:  unless you’re in the Mafia, the word “The” in your name is an infallible indicator of douchebaggery, see below).  Mostly, they’re a play on names — “Elizabeth” becomes “Biffy” and “Edward” becomes “Ned” — or else, in the case of men, they’re affectionate insults:  Booger, Shitbrain, Nostrils, Hairball etc.

First names, especially in the Afro-American community, seem to be in a tacit competition for grotesquery — Jamarcus, Al’iyaa, D’Ante, Shaniquita etc. — but even amongst the Lily-Whites, things have been getting out of hand.  Try to see how many variations you find, just in the ancient and beautiful name “Brittany”, for example;  I ran out of inspiration at six, after — I swear — “Bryttenee”.  (Rough guess is that neither of her parents are in possession of a PhD.)

The latest seems to be inside the rapper fraternity (not the brightest bulbs in the make-up mirror to begin with) who have names like Offset, The Weeknd [sic], 50 Cent and (my favorite name) 6ix9ine, and more.

In the old days — say, in the 1970s — first names actually meant something.  Girls were named after flowers (Rose, Daisy, Alison, Lily etc.), for example, and old names actually had a heritage (“Gwendolyn” means “beloved”).  My own name, Kim, was not even a name, but a title  (“Chieftain” in early Anglo-Saxon) which is why it can apply to both men and women.

These new naming “conventions” (if one could call them that) drive me scatty — literally, I sometimes feel like flinging poo off the balcony at random passersby — because they seem to be just random groupings of letters out of a Scrabble set;  but at the same time, I’m not suggesting some kind of control over name selection.  Just remember that it took the French until the 1970s to drop their restriction on first names — you could have any first name you wanted, provided that it was on the State-approved list of first names — and I’m certainly not supporting that silliness.

Know, however, that naming your little precious Tre’esha Taniqua will have an effect on her future career prospects.  And if all she knows is Ebonics, the “glass ceiling” will turn to concrete unless she becomes a groupie in 6ix9ine’s retinue.  Not that I care.  Someone  has to do that kind of work.