Adam Piggott

Just a quickie today as I have an early start. The Chinese pox continues its monolithic path through our risk averse societies – stay safe, everyone! I bet you didn’t here that inane slogan uttered in the landing boats approaching Tarakan. I mean, really: can you even imagine if a digger had said something of the sort? Would probably have been ditched over the side and told to swim back and join his communist mates on the docks back home.

Anyway, the Netherlands has a government website dedicated to giving us peons information related to how they’re currently screwing up our lives. It has an FAQ section, and I noticed that there is a tab devoted to religion.

So I thought that I would have a gander.

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A guy that I know about but didn’t directly work with is retiring from the mining game in Australia. He posted a bunch of humorous one-liners on social media that summed up his larrikin attitude towards the job. This attitude is prevalent across all layers of the resources industry outside of the stuffy boardrooms.

One line in particular caught my eye.

If someone doesn’t want to do something they will do it as per the safe work procedure.

It’s funny because it’s true. The business of health & safety has exploded across many industries in the past 20 odd years. It is the core industrial mindset of the 21st century. So much so that the initial and much scorned health & safety managers are now the ones leading the same companies that simply put up with them when they first appeared like bespectacled dorks who had somehow wandered away from the set of an 80s John Hughes film.

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The one where I describe how after 30 years I finally arrived at a point of giving zero fucks.

Links mentioned on the show:

Changes reveal weaknesses.

How I discovered that I wanted to be married.

I have no other words. H/T James Higham.

https://twitter.com/HrmQueene/status/1254302500737282048?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1254302500737282048&ref_url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nourishingobscurity.com%2F

The hawt chicks & links comes to you a little late this week, but better late than never, wouldn’t you say, old sport? Old chum? Reminds me of this girl that I once knew who disdained reading Shakespeare because she claimed that he was just a mess of cliches. The girl had a point. She was also a leggy blonde with good shoulders and posture, which is somewhat of a tautology because all broads with good shoulders have good posture. The two go together like gin and lime. Yee gods, another cliche.

She was somewhat dim, which was a plus, but she considered herself to be twee sophisticated, which was not. However, her habit of looking rather smashing while attempting to disdain the plebs let her off the hook, at least for a while. But all things shall pass and she passed faster than a rather unsettling meal that I once consumed in a Chinese restaurant in a back alley off Gabba road in Kampala. Which was fairly close to where I met her.

What she was not was a redhead. There was a plaintive call last week, a desperate and unnerving plea for more redheads to be featured on the hawt chicks & links. I found it strange that we should try to feature more redheads as we have never featured a single one at all. The scientific case against redheads has already been made, and equivocally at that. But from an attractiveness viewpoint I cannot bring myself to smear these beautiful pages with a ginger for the simple reason that they are not attractive.

In a wonderful coincidence of timing, this week Kim published a pictorial servitude to redheads. Viewing the associated images, one gets the impression of women in desperate need to get the most out of their very limited assets. I once described an unfortunate woman as being of the type that wears uncomfortable clothes. These women seem to be of a similar bent. Take the lass lying prostrate on some sort of divan. She is wearing no clothes at all but she looks to be about as comfortable as a bowler being tossed the ball on his first professional cricket match.

Not only will I never show a ginger here, I won’t even show a black and white shot of a ginger. And that is because I have standards. And unlike so many out there, I actually hold myself to them. The rest of you can remain assured that no redheads will grace these pages while I am in charge. We shall leave that chore to the deviants among us.

Enough blathering, on with the show.

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A couple of days ago an accident occurred on a Melbourne freeway where four police officers lost their lives. It goes without saying that this was a tragedy for all concerned, but I’ll say it anyway for the record – this was a tragedy for all concerned.

However, police and the media immediately pointed the finger of blame at the driver of a Porsche who was at the scene. From the initial media reports I was led to believe that the Porsche driver in some way caused a truck to collide with the four policemen. Apparently the Porsche was being driven at over 140 km per hour. But this morning I opened up The Australian newspaper website to discover a headline that would look more in place on your average tabloid website. As it’s behind a paywall I took a screenshot of it.

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In 1991 the Soviet Union collapsed primarily because it was broke and the house of cards couldn’t be sustained for any longer as member states scrambled to get out from under the falling edifice. The West watched with pleasure, arrogantly assuming that they had won the Cold War. But the reality was that far from winning it, all they had managed to do was to not lose it. What followed was three decades of a debt driven spending spree along with a trite assumption that history was over. That Fukuyama-fueled conceit has aged like your average ten trick a day crack whore. And this background is important to keep in mind as we live through perhaps the most bizarre moment in modern history.

Barely a week after Trump announced that he was temporarily suspending US funding for the World Heath Organisation, a motley rag bag of celebrity and not so celebrity performers cobbled together a live 8 hour broadcast to raise money for the globohomo behemoth. The clincher was that they were performing in livestreams from their individual homes. After a short period of cycling through the various performances I came to the conclusion that a good many of these performers were far less talented than even I had previously thought possible.

Still, the bedroom bunch managed to scrounge together $127 million from the entire world.

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This is Aaron Clarey’s new book, except it’s not Aaron Clarey’s new book. Yes, he originally came up with the idea, but for various reasons he decided to pass on the project to someone else, in this case a chap called Vince Barrick. So Barrick is the official co-author, editor and publisher of this book. I admit to being rather bemused by all of this, and I fail to see just why this is a good or even necessary idea, but I’ll roll with it and do what needs to be done in order to write an honest review.

How not to become a millennial is a textbook for Millennials to attempt to recover from the awful fate of being the progeny of the Boomers. It is also a warning and a guide for future generations to avoid the same fate. Because to be fair, when you consider that the older Millennials will soon be hitting 40, it’s probably too late for most of them. If you haven’t got out from under 100K of student loans by that age then you’re just not going to be buying a house. At least, not with the current economic reality, (although in the times of the Chinese pestilence, who knows which way things will jump.)

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The Friday hawt chicks & links is a little late again, so to make up for this tardiness which is unacceptable in account of the massive monthly subscriptions which you all pay, there are not two but three hawt chicks to get your hopes arising. Go on, scroll down and have a gander. I know that’s what you all do anyway. Hell, it’s what I would do if I were the fortunate recipient of something so wonderful as this weekly screed.

A reader asked me recently why is it that I only feature chicks of a European persuasion on the esteemed hawt chicks. Are not women with skin tones not as ours also beautiful and desirable? My answer to that is that of course there are many examples of beautiful women from other races. But I do not and have never found them to be desirable. In this as with all other things, I prefer my own kind. When I lived in Africa I got accused of being racist because I wouldn’t sleep with the locals. That’s right; me not taking advantage of Ugandan women who would have slept with me at the drop of a hat due to their precarious circumstances was racist. A-ha hah ha ha. This is why the accusation of racism flows off me like mercury. I’ve had 25 years playing this game. You have got to get up before you go to bed to catch me out on this particular little trap.

Sovietman reviewed a book this week by a complete moron who not only went to these places and slept with what appears to be hundreds of local women, but that he thought that this makes him somehow special. I saw dozens of these losers in my time in Africa. They were uniformly insufferable douchebags. But none of them took it to the next level of douchebaggery by boasting of their “conquests” in a written tome. But there were other reasons apart from lack of desirability that caused me to stay away from the local beauties.

An AIDs rate at the time of 50%. And if you think that this was the only disease going around then I’ve got a Chinese bat market to sell you.

Getting mixed up with the locals. If you sleep with a local girl you are courting disaster as to her personal circumstances. In Uganda this wasn’t so bad, but in a country in the Central America region I think that this would be a poor idea for your continued health and safety. The menfolk over there tend to get a tad disagreeable at foreigners coming in, banging their womenfolk and posting it on social media. And I can’t say that I disagree with them. If only us whites had a little bit more backbone in this regard. Rutherford, anyone?

So the hawt chicks are white and they always will be.

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One thing that I can’t get used to or even comfortable with during this time of the Chinese pox is the antisocial effect of what is termed social distancing, but which may as well be called; everyone else is out to kill me and I will physically recoil from you if you even look like moving in my general vicinity.

I have just come back from doing the shopping. It’s been a couple of weeks since my last shop as my provisions are plentiful, but I had some small need for fresh items for the pantry. More than that, I had a desire to venture outside, to be among people, those strange creatures that look like you and me. Initially, I also had plans to stop by the local garden center, a gigantic cavernous place which could easily fit inside a sizeable army of illegal immigrants at any one time and still have room left over for the requisite conspiring NGOs. But there was a line of at least a dozen people spaced at intervals outside the doors, and so I passed by without even stopping. I don’t need pots for my tomato plants that badly just yet.

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