The Giuliani crime family is doing their best to convince me that lizard people exist

I’m not saying David Icke was right, but Rudy’s son Andrew is running for governor of New York, and he too is something of a sick freak. Would you believe he’s talking about his baby daughter here?

She “made a promise to me on the first day, right? My wife was sleeping, and I’m holding her [my daughter] in my arms. And I get emotional thinking about it, but she made a promise with me. She shook my hand and I said, ‘I’m the only boyfriend till you’re 25 years old, shake hands.’

“Shook my hand. So I have changed the diapers. I have looked under the hood. She’s a woman. I’m gonna be the last guy in a long time that looks under the hood right there. But guess what? She was born a woman and she’s gonna stay a woman, it’s that simple.”

A spokesperson for Andrew Giuliani told The Daily Beast, “while Andrew does not claim to be a biologist, he can tell the difference between a male and a female.”

So he’s possessive and controlling — I hate to break the news to you, Andy ol’ boy, but in less than 16 years she’s going to be talking about boys (or maybe girls) with her friends, and pining for a prom date who isn’t her creepy old man. At some point, she’s also going to get on the internet and discover her dad was talking about peeking “under the hood” when she was 4 months old — or worse, her peers at school learn this — and you will learn about the revenge of a daughter you’ve made cringe.

TERFs are experts in anatomy

I bet you didn’t know that everyone is transgender. No exceptions. At a glance, these discerning experts in what constitutes a real woman can spot them with their TERF vision.

It’s nice that the Restroom Police aren’t going to have to check out your genitals. Now they’ll determine which facility you get to use by your interocular distance, and the length of your neck and thighs.

Uh-oh. I just realized, I remember the 1970s, and I had so many friends who had Farah Fawcett posters in their bedrooms. I had no idea all those teenage boys were actually gay! And all the girls with that feathered hairstyle — all trans!

Jordan Peterson’s motivation? I think it’s wrath.

Peterson is really losing it. Here he is in conversation with disgraceful pseudo-journalist Andy Ngo, explaining why Antifa is so evil and animalistic.

You can tell he’s deep-down angry about the existence of the Left — the way his lips writhe as he’s telling his canned Bible story, like some pissed-off backwoods preacher. It’s all about hating god, wouldn’t you know, and Antifa is just an echo of Cain’s sin. Never mind that it’s the other side that’s driving cars into demonstrators and prowling the streets looking for people to beat up. If anything is being echoed here, it’s the Christian martyr complex.

It’s also an indicator of how far the Right as a whole as lost it that these two pathetic, whiny losers are among their heroes.

I don’t understand a thing linguists say

Oh man, I got lost fast in this discussion. Anyway, there was an old Sumerian joke going around the interwebs a short while ago. It was totally incomprehensible.

Someone who is apparently an expert in Sumerian (I assume, I have no idea, they could be a highly skilled bullshitter) took the original text apart in an extremely detailed fashion on Twitter. I’ll just have to trust them. Follow the thread if you want to see the train of logic and obscure Sumerian grammatical rules. But they do come to a conclusion, an interpretation of the joke that actually makes sense.

I think it might be the oldest known Dad Joke.

The pandemic must end so my father’s ghost can rest

I know, it’s nowhere near ending, especially since policy-makers make stupid policies to appease right-wing nitwits. But I have a personal reason for getting this over with.

I had to shave off the beard so masking is more effective. This means that I have to regularly use a razor. Therefore, I have to use shaving cream. So I’m standing in the bathroom with a can of Barbasol in one hand, I look in the mirror, and instantly I am transported back half a century, and there’s my dad, teaching me how to shave off the unsightly sparse shrubbery sprouting from my face. He’s laughing, because I had no idea how much shaving cream to use, and had a gigantic mass of the stuff I was smearing on in great thick glops, making a big mess.

That memory comes roaring back every time I have to shave. There I am in the moment I’m about to dispense the stuff, and there’s the ghost of my father, hovering over my shoulder, chuckling and monitoring how much shaving cream I’m using. I don’t mind seeing Dad again, but then I have to disappoint him by using only a judicious quantity.

And that’s my personal reason for wanting the pandemic to end: so I can stop shaving, and stop triggering that memory, and stop letting my father down. Alternatively, I suppose I could indulge him and splat a big ol’ cream pie in my face every morning.

I never thought I’d sympathize with a church

This is an amazing photo series of an abandoned church in Ontario, documenting its decay over a decade. I feel ya, church.

It’s got the appearance of an apocalyptically sudden departure — there’s an old open bible in the pulpit, with a pair of reading glasses casually left on top. It’s like one day they were holding services, and the next day every one was gone, never to return.

Also interesting how it falls: it starts with a little water leak in the roof, leading to mold and rot spreading across the ceiling, and then one winter, ka-boom, the roof caves in.

It’s reminding me that maintenance is important. Little problems lead to big problems lead to complete system collapse, so tend to those little problems as you go.

(Speaking of which — this was a bad winter for me, with annoying tendinitis issues basically crippling me for months. I got these new shoes with a good fit and great ankle support two weeks ago, and it’s almost miraculous how much better I feel, walking around fairly freely now with barely a twinge. Appreciate your mobility while you’ve got it, it’s awful when a little problem messes you up. Get good shoes. Patch those roof leaks.)

Joanne! You have a friend!

I’m sure JK Rowling is thrilled to pieces to have such a prominent ally, a world leader no less, who appreciates her so much and even finds kinship with her.

Vladimir Putin is pretty upset that the United States and other Western nations have taken issue with him invading Ukraine and killing thousands of people. The murderous authoritarian took a page from the American right wing to air his grievances on Friday, comparing retaliation against the war to “cancel culture.” He even likened Russia to Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling, who has been widely criticized for expressing anti-trans sentiment — but still, lest we must remind you, continues to publish books and make millions of dollars.

“They canceled [J.K.] Rowling recently, the children’s author,” Putin said after complaining that the Red Army doesn’t get enough credit for defeating fascism in World War II. “Her books are published all over the world, just because she didn’t satisfy the demands of gender rights.”

She’s canceled, just like Putin! Still rolling in the dough, still on the lips of every intolerant authoritarian, but “canceled”, whatever that means.

Putin went on to compare Western nations “canceling” Russian “writers and books” to Nazis burning books 90 years ago. He did not mention reports that Russians are literally burning Ukrainian books, or the nation’s state-run media and longstanding suppression of free speech. He went on to claim there is “no place for ethnic intolerance” in Russia, where “cultural diversity is the pride of our society.” Putin did not mention that the Russian government has been trying to snuff out LGBTQ rights for years, most recently in a lawsuit arguing that an LGBTQ rights group is engaging in activity that goes against “traditional values.”

Man, if Putin said he admired me, I’d be scrambling to disavow it (and rushing to take a shower) and would be seriously reconsidering my life. I wonder what kind of rambling screed Rowling is going to write about this? I halfway expect that she will graciously thank him and express her appreciation. I hope she’s not that far gone.

Peak Atlantic

Burial service for victims of the SS Atlantic shipwreck, April 1873.

At last, I’ve finally reached the end of The Atlantic. I have read one article that is like a flawless, pure distillation of everything that annoys me about waffly liberal writing. Sarah Hepola writes a long rambling pointless essay titled The Things I’m Afraid to Write About. She starts off with a conversation in which she talks about a literary party in New York City that she had attended — already we’re deep into the territory of the cliche. Here’s what bothers her:

“So why were you there again?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to talk to other writers about the things you can’t write about anymore.”

His eyes narrowed. “What things can’t you write about?”

“Gender, sex, politics. The things you and I discuss.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’d think those would be the most interesting things to write about.”

I gave him an exasperated look. “Are you kidding? I’d get killed!”

His look wasn’t judgmental. I’d say it was disappointed. What he said was slow, and careful, and I’ve never forgotten it. “But I thought that’s what writers do.”

Then, the rest of the over-long pseudo-literary noise is Hepola whining about all the things she can’t write about, which she’s writing for a fairly prestigious magazine, and she somehow manages to squander this opportunity by not saying anything about what she thinks, except to say, gosh, here are topics I won’t write about. It is a colossal waste of time.

She ends with a promise to work up the courage to speak up more about her positions on all these vaguely stated topics. You know, the ones she couldn’t speak about in this tedious essay.

Maybe I’ll write something great this year. Maybe I’ll write something lousy. Maybe I’ll meet the love of my life, and maybe come April, I’ll be picking up groceries for the good people of North Texas who need those seven items, pronto. You can’t predict these things; it’s all guesswork. I know this: I’m finally ready to have a conversation with the world.

Ready? But she didn’t. How did this get published? Were the editors deeply impressed with her ability to say nothing at all at such great length? Most writers, when they write, write because they have something to say; this writer wrote because she had nothing to say, and didn’t say it. And The Atlantic published it.