I want to drink in that bar.
All of which makes this a give Rush Limbaugh a feminazi sad kind of post.
Image: Francis William Edmonds Barking up the Wrong Tree, between 1850 and 1855.
This is just too delicious not to share, thus breaking my promise-to-self not to blog till a particular bit of work got out the door.
Seems that the Guardian’s Agony Aunt (advice) column had a doozy of a problem presented a few weeks ago under this headline:
I fantasise [sic] about sex with old, obese men
It then goes on from there in a bit of a NSFW way — and it I’ll leave it to better forensic analysts than me to judge the likelihood there’s a real person behind the query. But the joy of all this is not the mild smut, nor the rubber necking pleasure that comes from watching a sentence start that can’t possibly end well, nor even the studied earnestness of the advice columnist’s reply (“…consider searching for the root…” and so on). No, it lies with picture. A shot of a very nice looking young woman in rather chic PJs, looking …well just about as you’d expect. The catch is the person in the picture does not, in fact, lie back and think of geezers in the midst of her actual passions. The model, Samantha Ovens, had posed for a stock shot a couple of years back, and she was as surprised as any to find out about her supposed illicit desires:
“I opened it up when I was with some friends,” says Ovens, who had been tipped off at the weekend by the Twitter whirlwind. “In fact, I was with my partner’s mum as well. I screeched with laughter and said: ‘Oh. You have to see this.’ There’s me looking very anxious, and I bloody well would be, wouldn’t I?”
Go check out the rest of the piece, also at the Guardian, snarking at the whole affair; harmless fun with which to ring in the cocktail hour.
Image: attributed to Anthony van Dyck, Drunken Silenus supported by Satyrs, c. 1620
Here’s Carlin* on the current impasse.
And now, in the interest of equal time, here is a message from the National Institute of Pancakes: It reads, and I quote, “Fuck waffles.”
How do we know that if God does exist She had her sense of humor amputated? Carlin’s dead while Dennis Miller yet lives.
*Number 70 on that list of comedy gold.
Image: Pieter Cornelisz van Slingelandt, Breakfast of a Young Man, before 1691.
With a hat tip to my science writing friend, the inimitable Steve Silberman, here’s a story about a Czech citizen who has won the right to wear a colander on his head in the photo on his government ID.
The reason? He’s a pastafarian, which makes the issue the Czech equivalent of a first amendment issue:*
Czech officials ruled that the nation’s religious liberty laws required this result. According to a government spokesperson, Novy’s request “complies with the laws of the Czech Republic where headgear for religious or medical reasons is permitted if it does not hide the face.”
As a langiappe: In today’s image — a pasta/founding father connection:
Got some more substantive stuff going for this space, but couldn’t resist this little niblet.
What’s saucing your spaghetti today?
*Full disclosure: the Think Progress piece at the link connects back to the Daily Mail, and I have presumption of distrust at anything from that particular source. But there is a category of journalistic endeavor known as the “too good to check” story — and in my view, this is one of those. You’ve been warned.
Image: Thomas Jefferson, Design for a maccaroni (sic) making machine, c. 1787.
Let’s keep the night alive with this gem:
So what off-coloratura* ripostes do y’all go going tonight?
Yr. Bargain Counter Tenor*
*stolen, brazenly, from the great Herr Doktor Peter Schickele/PDQ Bach, and the cast list from his half-act opera, The Stoned Guest.
This morning I got copied on an email blast intended to encourage our graduate students to finish their theses in the next few days.
Cruel, I call it.
But still, it works for me as a goad to push Monday up the rails.
(Credit where credit is due, dept: the vid came to my correspondent via Gawker, btw)
Chat about whatever, with bonus points for any discussion of impossible tasks to be done by Friday. Mine? Finish version 4 (a conservative estimate) of my damn book proposal.