News Roundup

And to help with yer digestion, some news from the Dept. of Education:


...yee haaa.



And speaking of boners:


...of course she wasn’t.  She was just showing a Gen Z pupil the facts of life, all part of a rounded belly  education.


...keyword: Mahinarangi.

And speaking of motherhood, there’s some Election News:


...what, they’re using moms to print the fake ballots now?


...Insty’s being sarky, Insty is.  As is Sarah:


From the Sweet Dreams Dept.:


...meanwhile, over in the U.S.A. on that date:

In the Hearts Of Stone Dept.:


...ethnic background of our amputee not mentioned, but...

Also:


And finally:


...probably because they lead miserable lives?  Just a wild guess.

Speaking of miserable little bitches, here’s the Media News:


...how short do you want the answer to be?

And in the EVERYBODY PANIC !!! News:


...[insert “Islam” joke here]

And in Entertainment News:

...something about being “too figure-conscious” , I think.  Anyway, at least she’s free from all those silly Disney rules and can start to enjoy her life a little:


...keyword:  Dublin.


…and:

...in two words:

And in the latest 

And living in :


...why am I having trouble believing her?  Anyway:

And that’s it for the Roundup.

Quote Of The Day

From uber-feminist Petronella Wyatt, talking about feminism and its aftermath:

“One in ten British women in their 50s has never married and lives alone, which is neither pleasant nor healthy.”

That’s probably because one in ten women (of whatever nationality) is neither pleasant nor healthy herself.  And that rather modest ratio skyrockets if you consider just the feministicals, who are mostly scolds and harridans.

No man should, despite their mid-life realizations and wails.

My Daily Earworm

I am normally an even-tempered man, despite what you may have heard or incorrectly deduced from my feverish rants on these very pages.  But I do have an extremely low irritation threshold, which gives the lie to the above.  Allow me to illustrate the point.

I generally wake up in the morning a little after New Wife leaves for work, or a considerable time later if I had a late night.

Whatever the time, my first activity after leaving the bedroom is to make myself a cup of coffee, and some explanation thereof is in order.

Because I am often concentrating on writing this blog, I often forget about the coffee, yea even though it rests but a few inches from my hand.

So a while back, I decided to take action to remedy this circumstance, and started using an insulated metal mug (cheap, from Academy).  It works really well, but here’s where the problem starts.

You see, after I’ve dumped my sugar in the coffee, I tap the spoon three times on the rim lightly, to shake off any extraneous sugar granules into the coffee.  And the musical sound the spoon makes on the full metal cup is exactly same as the opening three chords of the Kingsmen’s horrible Louie, Louie song.

So those opening chords make it almost impossible for me not to continue humming the whole bloody intro, and that makes:  EARWORM.  Which persists in its brain-rattle until I can sit down and open up a decent song video on EwwwChoob and banish the fucking thing from my consciousness.

Until I make myself a cuppa the next morning, whereupon the whole bloody thing starts all over again.

And of all the songs ever written, I would submit to the jury that Louie, Louie  is quite possibly the worst earworm material of all time.

I know, I know:  “But Kim,”  you may ask (and quite reasonably so), “all you have to do is to stop tapping your spoon on the rim!” 

Might as well expect me not to snarl every time I see Jane Fonda’s face on TV, or not to start playing with my M4 bayonet when Chuck Schumer makes the news.

No, I’m afraid that this particular habit is far too deeply ingrained for me to stop it just like that.  Of course, were I actually awake when I stagger into the kitchen then I might be able to consciously forestall the tapping, but that would be to miss the whole point of making coffee so soon after getting out of bed.

Hence my irritation first thing in the morning.  Don’t blame me;  it’s the fucking Kingsmen’s fault.

I’m getting grumpy just thinking about it.

Not-So Happy Ending

As if women weren’t used to refusing sex because they had a headache… now it appears that they can get headaches after sex as well, with dire consequences:

Doctors have urged Americans to seek help for a little-known sex problem — migraines triggered by sex, known medically as coital cephalgia.

Bloody hell.  It was difficult enough before to get Madame to allow access to her Garden Of Delight, but now it’s going to be practically impossible, with this prophylactic refusal available.

Of course, if she really loved you…  just sayin’.

 

I Have A List

Speaking of demanding women

Paloma Faith is reportedly back looking for love after she signed up to the celebrity dating app Raya.  The singer, 42, is on the hunt for Mr Right, but she won’t be settling for someone who doesn’t meet her needs.  Paloma has created a five point checklist as she set out the tough criteria her next partner will need to meet. 

Before we get entangled in that set of weeds, let me say at the outlet that whatever her “needs” may be, she’s hardly in any position to make demands of this sort.

For one thing, she’s not especially attractive to look at:

…and her figure, especially post-multiple childbirths, is not what I’d call much either:

She has a pleasant-enough singing voice, but her speaking voice is somewhat jarring, having that Cockney-street-urchin screech well to the fore.

Were I in her target market, it would be a strong pass.  No man should.

Clarkson’s Choice

The Greatest (and Sexiest!) Living Englishman loves the Porsche 928, calling it one of the best-looking cars ever made.

I dunno if I agree with that, but it’s certainly the most beautiful Porsche they ever made:

Like most people who live in a hot climate, I’m a little iffy of the big glasshouse back window (also:  1980s Camaro, Jensen Interceptor), but like with any Porsche, there’s no arguing with its engine — Clarkson noting that ii could “sit quite comfortably at 170mph” on the motorway.

Even some modern cars couldn’t have that said about them.

I’ll take the one with the 5.0-liter V8, thankee.