OP is a phaggot
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Let me have it, then!
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OP is a spastic nerd
I think I’m a little mortified, but mostly, amused.
I run a respectable blog. Someone never said.
And respectable blogs are hard-pressed to legitimately cite any serious references to male jumpsuits. Such a travesty cannot be tolerated. “Respectable” and “male jumpsuits” can not be allowed to cohabit under the same blog roof. But alas, I did just this when I posted something called “The senior jumpsuiter” a little over 3 years ago. And, in so doing, I disqualified myself from any measure of respectability I might have ever entertained. In the time this blog has lived, I’ve eschewed respectability in many odious doses.
Writing about old men in jumpsuits in train stations does not exactly meet the standards of lofty thought, but fuck it.
I write about jumpsuits, and when I wrote about them in 2012, I was approaching from the position of mockery and smugness which was further emboldened by my unquestioned assurance that jumpsuits were a scourge which would never plague human civilization again.
Well. Time for another jumpsuit post.
Once I’m down, I’m going all the way down, baby. Screw this respectability illusion.
Respectability is extinct. A vestigial cultural artifact. It is gone, and there is none in today’s culture because it looks like the media is pushing for male jumpsuits to make their long-awaited return engagement!
A fashion trend that jumped from the runway to Instagram popularity may be emerging into the real world: jumpsuits for men.
That’s right. The one-piece is no longer just for mechanics, bee keepers or race car drivers. The 70s-inspired couture that’s now popular among women is also being revived for men.
Andy Cohen, the host of Bravo’s “Watch What Happens Live,” has professed his love for the one-piece, and Jonathan Skow, designer of Mr. Turk, a line of men’s clothing, says the jumpsuit is one of his best sellers.
I haven’t given much thought to the Ashley Madison hacking spectacle. It affects me very little, or not at all, (not because I’m some great saint) as I detailed in a post several days ago.
The lurid nature of the hack and its effects has entertained in a scarily vicarious/train-wreck manner, similar to the rush I might experience as I watch Donald Trump kicking a Mexican reporter out of his press conference. But ultimately, the hack and release of tons of personal data disinterests me; the voyeuristic allure can only hold my attention for so long.
Still, something about the ostensible “hack” has always struck me as…how shall I describe my intuition?
The data dump strikes me as being composed of many tangents that don’t quite measure up to the sparseness of a genuine hack attack, especially against a site such as Ashley Madison which presents such a one-dimensional target of antagonism and attack, and that we’re told by the “hackers” (Impact Team), is owing to the fact that the site’s opt out feature is fallacious.
And many of the items that were released weren’t very congruent with the juicy credit card and identity details of members (dry company business matters, etc) that made it seem as if Ashley Madison engaged in careless cyber practices not befitting a 21st Century website, such as compiling all company data in a central repository in which all matters of company interest shared contiguous neighborhoods of some dormant central server.
Something didn’t seem right, but I just didn’t care enough. Until I read this article by security pimp, John McAfee.
He doubts the Ashley Madison data breach was in fact the work of hackers.
Rather, he suspects it was an inside job and merely the handiwork of good old-fashioned, boring misappropriation by a female employee.
An inside job.
Today, I can confidently claim that the single person is a woman, and has recently worked within Avid Life Media. I have provided IBTimes UK background information and pertinent elements of the woman’s data dump to prove both my access to the data and also to confirm elements of my research, under the strict conditions that it is to be referenced and then destroyed. The data I provided included such delicate material as the decoded password hash tables of every Avid Life and Ashley Madison employee, which I have also now destroyed.
From the data that was released, it was clear that the perpetrator had intimate knowledge of the technology stack of the company (all the programs being used). For example, the data contains actual MySQL database dumps. This is not just someone copying a table and making into a .csv file. Hackers rarely have full knowledge of the technology stack of a target.
Curious. I’d like to hear what further proof and identity information he has on this wayward employee?
It bears out a lot of my suspicions about this “hack” I’ve had from the moment the news broke:
Large companies are heavily departmentalised, in spite of having centralised databases. When a hacker gains access to any corporate data, the value of that data depends on which server, or sometimes a single person’s computer, that the hacker gains access to.
Hackers don’t have all the time in the world, so they pick and choose wisely.
These are just a few of the many strangely included files that would take even a top notch hacker years to gather, and seem to have little or no value. Any reasonable cybersecurity expert would come to the conclusion that only someone on the inside, who could easily gain all of the files through deception and guile, could have done the job.
It all falls into place. Hacking is the new upstart but it can’t compete with a disgruntled insider, the person who is physically adjacent to the company backbone and can wreak Real Life havoc.
I’ve heard several women shriek in glee over the rapid unfolding Ashley Madison saga. It’s as if they are cumming in unison over this sense of retribution against all the disappointment they have experienced at the hands of the Big Bad Man. Women, especially those 50 and under, are deifying this so-called hack as a grand collective payback against man’s evil nature.
But ultimately, it might have just been some vindictive broad with brick and mortar keys.
Life is sometimes too mundane for words.
Here is the epic Facebook rant from a Black woman named Peggy Hubbard.
Sometimes we live for breaths of fresh air like this. I sure do.
With clarity of vision, there is no racism or police brutality: only pragmatism. The greatest failing of the culture of hashtag activism is that everything is reduced to self-serving language of principle which is perhaps the most harmful and destructive. Principle and Survival are frequently at odds in dystopias such as our American cesspool in 2015.
Principles are for fools and dead Black people.
Hubbard’s sentiments, hardly a rarity among Black Americans, need to be drilled into the thick skulls of the MSM which is the fondest of turning a blind eye to pragmatism more than any other group.
There are two types of grammar Nazi in this world.
You have the whiny, annoying loudmouths who must correct all linguistic errors with a dramatic, ostentatious flourish. “Look at me, hear my anal repression roar! I know proper English,” they pontificate.
And then you have the resigned types, those of who have thrown in the towel and realize that the innate state of people, especially on modern social media, is to not care much about how they present their thoughts, and consequently, portray a lackluster practice of the written language.
I belong to the latter group. I don’t even pretend to try any more. Once in a while, if I’m in a good, playful mood (rare), I’ll “josh” someone over a misspelling, but even then, it’s from a goofy place and there is very little obvious castigation or judgment on my part.
Otherwise, I rarely take the time and effort to sincerely correctly people’s bad writing habits with the illusive expectation that I’m actually making a difference. I see such bad English everywhere, from the supposedly intelligentsia at work to the ghetto humdrum refuse on Facebook. Badly written English is now a way of life. It is not a differentiating factor between socioeconomic classes because the plague is equally distributed across all facets of society. Yesterday, a managerial type at work sent an email asking to meet in order to get a “gage” on how another department was performing (or not). I cringed while enthusiastically replying, “Sure!”
It’s everywhere, it’s awful.
I’m waving the white grammar flag. White, Black, Hispanic, Asian, poor, rich…everyone is equally idiotic in the realm of written language.
This morning I saw a recurring English travesty on my Facebook wall. It is one of the worst inaccurate representations of a word out there and its torment is amplified because it is repeated over and over and in all sectors of spoken and written language. It is the dreaded “C” word: conversate.
I first heard this grammatical disaster years ago. I had a Black buddy who was fond of throwing it out there when talking about chicks and hitting them up, and “conversating” with them.
I thought the words was ugly then, and it’s ugly now. Very ugly. And most of the time the speaker/writer is Black. It has an “ebonics” feel to it, but I’ve seen many educated, working Blacks use it as well.
The horror of the word is exacerbated by the fact that its proper form is actually shorter and easier on the tongue, but still people insist on prolonging it for the sake of using the incorrect form.
[anal repression off]