The Whore Of The Bronx may have a point, for once:
Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-NY) on Tuesday declared that “sex work is work”
We need to examine her statement a little. Let’s postulate that “work” is something you do that you’d rather not do with strangers, for money.
Which sounds like every job I’ve ever had in my entire life.
Seen at C.W.’s place a while back, this:
You would have to have a heart of stone not to laugh hysterically. “Diverse rolodex” ?
By the way: the only “beautiful and diverse” thing is an actual rainbow. As a social construct, diversity is unnatural and doomed to failure, but we’ll let the Loonies find that out all by themselves.
As for the title of this post, I have coined it to describe the death process that is intrinsic to Insty’s “Get Woke, Go Broke” expression. So when some organization starts going into the crapper as a result of wokism, we’ll call it “doing the wokey pokey”.
It’s a happy little dance… well, for us, anyway.
As any fule kno, I am partial to the occasional visit to a pub. [pause to let laughter die down]
But not just any pub. I have strict rules for places which charge me far too much for the pleasure of indulging myself, because if I am going to be hit with a $7 (or more) tab for a single beer (!!!), the establishment had better offer me more than just a pint. Here’s a short list of necessities:
Decent beer. Any bar in the U.S. which doesn’t give me a choice of at least three British-ale equivalents won’t see me after a single awful American beer, and never again as well. (Curiously, I find Mexico’s Negra Modelo to be the closest thing to a decent ale, although I do have to pour it from glass to glass a few times to get rid of the appalling and excessive fizz.) If they serve Fuller’s London Pride or Boddington’s, then we can be friends and they can be assured of a follow-up visit (or two, or three). And if the beer isn’t up to snuff, they’d damn well better have a decent selection of single-malts or gins, or else it’s to the door I’ll be heading.
No loud music. I’ve talked before about my hatred for this piece of modernism, whereby the acceptable noise of drunken people having a good time has to be drowned out by music — any kind of music, really, not just the revolting thumpa-thumpa of hip-hop — as though the background noise of simple conversation and occasional laughter are somehow incompatible with drinking pleasure.
Loud TV programs. I can live with this if a.) it’s a “sports” bar or b.) there’s a big game being played (e.g. Bears vs. Packers or Chelsea vs. Arsenal). But if I walk into a bar and there’s a large-screen TV showing ESPN’s SportsCenter (i.e. people talking about sport instead of playing it), I turn around and walk out. Don’t even get me started if it’s CNN, Fox News or (gawd help us) Oprah Winfrey (I had to endure that once — client lunch, so I had no control — and it took me days to recover).
A foot-rail at the bar counter. This may seem a strange one, but it’s a critical part of drinking that’s too often overlooked. Note this otherwise-excellent setup (in a private house, withal):
But the Arrow Of Accusation points to the missing piece, and the whole pub is ruined by the glaring omission.
It’s a simple thing, really. I (and many others) actually prefer to drink standing up, and especially around the bar counter, where space is at a premium. It’s the one time I don’t mind being in a crowd, because I am in the company of people with a common goal, that of getting a good buzz on and enjoying life, and I far prefer a crowded bar to a nearly-empty one, which is depressing. If one is enjoying the company of a lady, standing close to her bar stool makes the whole activity more intimate, too. But if you’re going to stand, you must have a rail to rest a foot on, because otherwise you get tired of standing. (I don’t know why that it, but it’s a fact nevertheless.) Look at this place:
That picture simply screams out that I’ll be there till closing time, or later (don’t ask; I’m still banned from The Blue Cow which, needless to say, served about five excellent ales — all of which I sampled extensively — and had a brass foot-rail).
Decent decor. I hate modernist interior design, as all my Readers know well, but while I prefer the traditional pub style, it doesn’t have to be that. Here’s the inside of the fantastic Randolph’s Bar at the Warwick Hotel in Manhattan:
…and yes of course it has a foot-rail at the counter. And yes, I have been tossed out of that place too, several times, but always gently as I used to be a frequent guest there (hi, Carlo!). On each of those occasions, the company was excellent and much disposed towards trying to finish all the Scotch in the place, but the atmosphere and decor did no harm to the attempt, either.
Here’s yet another of my favorite haunts, the Coq d’Or at the Drake Hotel in Chicago (where I do not have a tempestuous history, albeit not for lack of trying):
It’s a little hard to see (bottom left), but yes, there is a foot-rail, and it’s brass.
All this bar talk is making me thirsty. And now, if you’ll excuse me, my post-birthday hangover needs a little TLC and that gin isn’t going to drink itself.
So much for the Great Diversity Experiment:
As the world watched in awe five years ago, new faces were welcomed into Germany with balloons and banners proclaiming ‘We love refugees’.
More than a million strangers headed there from faraway lands at the height of Europe’s biggest migration crisis since World War II hoping for a new life in the West.
In a rallying cry to her nation, the German chancellor Angela Merkel declared in the autumn of 2015: ‘We can do this. We are strong and can manage it.’
Even as Mrs Merkel’s historic speech was broadcast on German TV, reports flashed up on the screen that trainloads of men, women and children were clamouring to be let in at her borders. And they were.
In astonishing scenes a few days later, thousands of bedraggled, tired migrants turned up at railway stations in German cities to be met by local children blowing soap bubbles and handing over teddy bears as the country threw off its dark, xenophobic past to become the humanitarian face of Europe.
But today the celebrations for migrants are over in this powerhouse of the European Union.
Many of the foreigners who entered Germany in those heady days are being forcibly sent home to Africa, south Asia, the Middle East, Russia and the Balkans on secret flights, marshalled by security officers, after being frogmarched to airports from their beds by armed police.
I wonder why? Oh yes, because they can’t or won’t assimilate, their crime rates are astronomical, and far from being the fuel that would help Germany’s economy, most are pretty much acting as brakes, being totally dependent on Germany’s generous welfare state.
Who could ever have thought this this would happen?
Well, most of us, as it turns out; only we were called “racists” and “fascists” or worse, for the sin of being realists and not starry-eyed dreamers in thrall to the “magic dirt” theory of socialization.
As for “being frogmarched to airports from their beds by armed police”, I just wish we could do the same to our ingrate immigrants, but no doubt someone’s going to have a problem with me saying that, too.
The best thing about November is that it’s no longer October — the latter being the OMG It’s Halloween! season. Let it be known that I hate Halloween: stupid horror movies all over TV, fucking pumpkin-flavored everything (coffee? FFS), “scary” decorations on everything, including rotting pumpkins… it’s enough to make one go
The only decent part of Halloween is that totties get dressed up in costumes (“fancy dress” to non-Murkins). Even that, though, can be a mixed blessing, as the pics below reveal:
Pro tip: dressing up like a hooker is not cute when you actually are one. Then there’s the mother/daughter idea:
Frances Furter?
And finally:
Oh wait… that last one is neither a totty nor a Halloween costume: it’s F1 driver Lewis Hamilton, in all his self-conscious totally-gay wokeness.
