The origins and intent of this Festival are a bit obscure: it is not clear whether we are intended to mourn our Lost Socks or ponder the mystery of their disappearance, or if this day marks a covert gathering of Lost Socks, convening in secrecy to celebrate their escape from pedal servitude.

I’ve always been a bit puzzled by the assertion that Kathy Shaidle is a “good writer”. You can’t tell from her blog, in which self-promotion, auto-martyrdom, logrolling, and lengthy excerpts from other sites jostle for space among her paypal links. And I’ll be damned if I’m actually going to PAY to read her. But as it turns out, I don’t have to: here’s a link to a site where you can savour some of her finest prose, AND learn about Ivana Trump. Bonus!

Consultants are like doctors. Everyone waits to call us until it’s NEARLY too late, everyone resents having to use our services, and everyone thinks we’re overpaid. So here are ten proven ways to make our lives utterly miserable.

It’s been a weird old week among the URQs: Kate McMillan’s slapdown and meltdown, Kathy Shaidle’s sudden Declaration of Hate Pride, Mike Brock’s peculiar decision to play lawyer and tangle with the grownups. But Scenty, as alway, deserves a special place whenever the stupidity and hypocrisy of the moronosphere is tallied up.

Air Canada continues the happy trend of charging you extra to actually do the job you expect them to do in the first place.

In one of the shrewdest political analyses I’ve read of current Liberal party woes, Scenty makes a stunning prediction.

In which balbulican generously assists an unimaginative denizen of the moronoshere with a classic lesson in the formulation of insults.

Courtesy of Canadian Cynic, lefty/progressive/whatever-we-are bloggers are today celebrating two brand new holidays: “Be Polite to People With Whom You Disagree Ideologically” Day, and “Refrain From Scraping Your Genitals Across A Cheese Grater Day”.

For some reason, someone named “Larry” saw fit to write to us here at the Bunker, to share some pretty embarrassing personal information.
This is going to sound weird but I was never really embarrassed of my penis size in front of my wife. However, I always wished that I was bigger and I was […]

I like Scenty, with the kind of affection you feel for a wounded puppy or a four-year old at an adult party who announces that she wants to “make a fpeech, Daddy!!” It’s sad, and it’s cute, and as compassionate adult, you listen. Sometimes, though…well, poor, poor Scenty.

Nothing makes one reconsider one’s career choices more somberly than waking up at 5:30 on Easter Monday and stumbling about in the dark, preparing for work, while one’s Federally-employed wife snores in smug, blissful, one-extra-day-off mode.

A note to our readership on the distaff side: Occam is looking for female volunteers to test his advice on “How Men Get Through Shit” for gender transfer.

A month ago we raised some questions about Ezra Levant’s “Union” of Bloggers - little things like its membership criteria, governance, Board, executive, management, objectives, plans, accountability - those little things you wonder about when someone’s asking for money. Curiously, those questions were never published on his “Freedom of Expression”-promoting site - and more than a month after the “Union” began accepting donations, those questions remain unanswered.

In which balbulican introduces two great thinkers who muse upon the Unbearable Whiteness of Being. Or the Unbearableness of Being White. Or…never mind, it’s funny. Just come in and read.

And this year’s Franklin W. Dixon Award for the most horrifically fractured metaphor goes to…the envelope please…