I have this opinion that if women are to be treated exactly the same as men, then when they fuck up bigly, their names should be reported in the news rather than covered up.
Or else, in the above case, we’d all think that the Navy is afraid that the ongoing feminization of their force may be compromised. But perhaps I’m being too cynical.
So we have this situation:
Calif. School Mural Depicted Aztec Warrior Carrying Out Human Sacrifice With Trump’s Severed Head
And in the absence of outrage from just about everyone in the Commie Media, I only have to respond with my favorite cartoon block of all Chris Muir‘s work:
As the title for this post suggests…
Here’s another little snippet which caused me to go cross-eyed momentarily:
The number of coffee shops in Britain is set to overtake pubs by the year 2030, according to industry research.
Some three coffee shops are opening every day adding an extra 21 a week serving up lattes and cappuccinos.
By contrast between 21 and 25 pubs are closing every week, with many turned into homes and convenience stores.
Fhe switch from lager to latte means that the number of UK coffee shops has increased from 10,000 in 2007 to 24,000 today.
At the same time, the traditional pub is suffering with the total down from around 75,000 in the 1970s to around 47,000 today.
Oy. It’s enough to make me want to crawl into a corner and whimper like a little girl. Then again, there may still be a little of the bulldog spirit left:
I mean, I love coffee. But it’s a morning drink — or at least, an after-dinner choice. But nothing beats a good pub. Here’s one that I visited with The Englishman, because the King’s Arms was just too far away for our thirst, and it was a case of “Stand aside, Coffee; this is a job for BEER.”
No doubt it will be gone by the time I get back Over There.
Somebody hide the pills.
And the parade of Train Smash Women continues at Aintree, on the inaptly-named Ladies Day:
…and just to prove my point, here’s my favorite Train Smash Woman of all, the wonderful Lisa Appleton:
Speaking of umbrellas, here’s one who matched her brolly not with her outfit, but with her tattoo:
Amazingly (and unusually for Aintree), not all the women were hideous:
…albeit sometimes quite alarming:
…but “pretty” ain’t the way to bet at the Grand National:
And there was so much more to come when the booze started to flow…
I know, I’m so weak. I just can’t help myself. Moth, meet candleaaaaaargh….
I love them all, these Train Smash Women.
So after the Class of Cheltenham comes the Ass of Aintree (a.k.a. the Great Train Smash Women Pageant):
Okay, okay… there were a couple of sorta-decent specimens there too, although one has to look hard to find them:
(girl needs a suntan, badly)
Best line of the day: “According to racecourse bosses, there’s no strict dress code for the festival as there is for Royal Ascot”, and accordingly the Train Smash Women are just overwhelming (in every sense of the word):
…and it’s only Day ONE !!!!
Try to keep up. There will be a quiz later.
So there’s this police station in Britishland where the concept of fraternization seems to be endemic, and a whole lot of pens are being dipped in the office ink, so to speak. Here goes:
1.) Head Cop (female) is bonking Constable #1 (male) in a full-time kind of situation:
2.) Firearms Instructor (male) is bonking the Phys Ed Instructor (female), also on a full-time basis:
So far, so good.
However, while these “long-term” relationships are going on, Head Cop is also doing some extracurricular bonking with Firearms Instructor, to whit:
“There are allegations of shagging in hotel rooms, shagging in police HQ and shagging in a police car. It’s crazy.”
But that’s not all. Head Cop was previously married to Another Constable (#2) in the same station, with whom she had three children but later divorced.
Amazingly, Constable #1 isn’t bonking Phys Ed Instructor (that we know of, anyway) and nobody seems to be bonking the ex-husband, Constable #2 — although given the nature of this police station, he’s probably having a fling with Desk Sergeant (gender unknown).
One wonders how they ever get any actual, you know, police work done amidst all that intramural bonking; the answer (as former PC “David Copperfield” from the much-missed Coppersblog will tell you) is that they probably aren’t. Doing any police work, that is. Hard to do when the loins are locking and the hips are thrusting pretty much 24/7.
My question is this:
Since when did small British cop shops get to have firearms instructors?