For Pity’s Sake

Aaaaaargh apparently “our” Dallas Mavericks are taking on Boston’s Celtics in the annual championship netball game tonight.

This means that for the next ten days or so the only thing that I’ll hear, on any media channel, will be basketballbasketballbasketballbasketballbasketball, which interests me less than stories of Kim Kardashian’s ingrown toenail.

It’s not the games per se  that bore me to tears (although why anyone bothers to watch the first three quarters of any pro basketball game is beyond me).   No, what drives me into an absolute coma is the endless commentary both before and after, mostly by pundits whose last basketball game was with their teenage sons in the driveway.

Charles Barkley?  Larry Bird?  Magic?  Michael Jordan?  Them, I’ll listen to… perhaps.  But when the talk becomes something along the lines of “when he drives to the paint for a layup” is when I reach for the on/off switch and/or the Southern Comfort.

And oy… try finding a bar around here which won’t have the pre-game prognostications, the game highlights, the post-game blather, all at earsplitting volume… as Doc Russia so often says:

“The game itself:  fine.  People talking about the game:  ugh.”

I don’t even do that shit when it’s a sport I love — cricket, football, F1, women’s professional nude gymnastics* etc. — and when it’s stupid basketball or Australian underwater wrist-wrestling…

Pass.


*Okay there’s no such sport, but there should be.

Bad Additives

…and I’m not talking about adding Diet Pepsi to Scotch, or a mistress into one’s marriage.  But some things, seemingly-innocuous things, when added to other things, are likely to be just as explosive.

Having grown up in South Africa which, despite all its faults, produces citrus fruits which make California/Florida oranges taste like dish soap, I have always loved me my citrus fruits:  oranges, lemons, limes and grapefruit, eaten either by themselves (orange, grapefruit) or as additives to stuff like gin and vodka (lime, lemon).

Eating grapefruit with one’s daily statin, however, is Nazzo Guido, as explained in this article:

For instance, citrus fruits, particularly grapefruit, is known to disrupt the absorption of at least 85 different medicines, from statins to antidepressants.

Wait, what?  I take atorvastatin.

The problem with citrus fruits is that they contain compounds, called furanocoumarins, that can interfere with an enzyme in our body that breaks down these drugs, potentially leading to dangerously high levels in our bloodstream.

So much for that daily glass of vitamin C-rich grapefruit juice with my breakfast then, FFS.

Under normal conditions, this enzyme reduces the amount of the drug that enters your blood — and the quantities you are prescribed take this process into account, according to Simon Maxwell, a professor of student learning (clinical pharmacology and prescribing) at Edinburgh University.

‘This interaction partly occurs in the gut, enabling increased absorption, but also — significantly — in the liver, preventing it from progressively removing the drug in the hours after absorption. Together, this means that overall exposure to the drug can be significantly increased, resulting in toxic effects.’

‘Citrus fruits’ furanocoumarins stop CYP3A4 from doing its job — and they’re more concentrated in juice than the fruit [because a glass of juice contains more of the fruit].’

As a result, more of the drug is absorbed, making it more powerful than intended.

‘For example, a 240ml glass of grapefruit juice can increase blood levels [of the drug] by as much as 200 per cent, taking it from the therapeutic range to the potentially toxic range.

‘This can lead to side-effects such as extreme muscle damage for statins; priapism (excessively long-lasting erections) for sildenafil*; headaches, dizziness, fatigue and impaired sleep with sertraline; excessive sedation for midazolam; and excessive reduction in blood pressure, raised heart rate, dizziness, fatigue and blurred vision for those taking calcium channel blockers.’

And that’s just citrus.  Wait till you see what vitamin K-rich bananas can do to you.

Read the whole thing.


*It’s not all shitty news, by the way:  if you’re heading to an orgy, or want to make a decent first-time impression on your willing date, chug some grapefruit juice with your Viagra, preferably in a vodka cocktail [sic].

(Standard disclosure applies.)

Of course, you may end up with a 24-hour woody which may damage your member, but on the other hand, Madame will almost certainly be well satisfied, even if she requires the services of the paramedics as much as you do.  And if the fuzz have to be called to remove you from the orgy… well, there are always going to be spoilsports, aren’t there?

So take all the above with a grain of salt — just not that salt substitute crap, which is even worse for you than grapefruit juice, according to the article.

Be careful out there.

The Usual Whine, No Cheese

Oh, the trials and tribulations (not to mention lamentations) of living in a peaceful village in Britishland.

You see, out in the country there’s this pretty little place which all the local inhabitants dislike because it’s owned by a parvenu  couple, the Horners;  to be specific, multimillionaire Red Bull Racing boss Christian and his equally-wealthy wife Geri (a.k.a. Ginger Spice of 1990s pop sensation Spice Girls).

This would be bad enough, but the Horners do not appear to Know Their Place, and have a desire to build a swimming pool on their property — said property consists of more than a few acres of land, by the way, and includes a stable for their half-dozen horses.  (Okay, it’s a second pool, but apparently the existing indoor one is unsatisfactory because it’s too small and too far from the house.  Whatever.)

Here are some of the comments from the Local Yokels:

“Now we’re going to have to put up with months and months of noisy building work, then years of having to listen to the Horners and their friends partying day and night round the pool in the back garden.”

You have to wonder why it would take “months and months” just to install a swimming pool, but that’s probably a feature of the famed British work ethic and/or efficiency, not to mention the need for repeated (and endless) sign-offs from the village nabobs which slow the whole process to a crawl anyway.  Hardly the fault of the Horners, though.

“A second swimming pool? It’s downright greedy, isn’t it? They surely can’t need two swimming pools. Most people would settle for one, if they could.”

Yes of course we have a right to tell other people how to spend their money and what they should and shouldn’t own.  The Horners also own four cars in a two-driver household;  I’m surprised nobody’s moaned about that, yet.

“The church is only a few metres from their house and if a pool party is in full swing on a Sunday, how are we going to hear the service? I guess from now on, the vicar’s going to have to project his voice a few decibels louder.”

…for those dozen or so people who actually attend Sunday services.  And by the way, that’s a stinking lie.  The church is nearly a quarter of a mile from the house, as Horner pointed out in his permit application.

“I’ve heard this ruddy pool comes with a heat pump too, so that’s going to make a hell of racket.”

Maybe Victorian-era heat pumps were noisy, but modern ones are silent, as I noted when I was staying on Mr. Free Market’s country estate with its enormous, and heated pool.  And given the renowned British climate, it makes perfect sense to heat the pool water so that they can actually swim in the thing for more than two non-consecutive weeks of the year.

“They haven’t really integrated themselves in the village. We barely see them and when we do, they are very aloof in their manner. I’ve no time for either of them.”

Perhaps their non-involvement in village affairs is because the locals are a bunch of insular wealth-envious assholes, or maybe it’s because Mr. Horner is busy running a successful Formula 1 racing team for eleven months of the year while Mrs. Horner is performing all over the world with her band.

I mean, my dear!  These money-grubbing chavs are just Not Our Kind.  Far better to live in genteel poverty, of course.

I know that in the past I’ve often ranted about rich assholes fucking up a neighborhood just because they think they can.  And if the Horners were wanting to demolish their exquisite old country house to erect some Modernist concrete cube, I’d be on the side of the village idiots.

But a swimming pool?

“This is a beautiful village, loved for its peace and serenity. This swimming pool development goes against those values. I’m very disappointed and I urge the Horners to reconsider their plans.”

And I urge the Horners to tell these petty little people to go and fuck themselves.

The Race Is On

Saw this tragic news at Kenny’s place, and while the comments were just terrible [snork], the first thought that occurred to me was:

“Without Sheila Jackson-Lee, who’s next in line for the title of Stupidest Politician in D.C.?”

I know, I know… the competition is strong, especially when you’ve got that oaf who thought Guam was going to capsize, and there’s always Ole Fayful, Maxine Green.  But the clear favorite has to be Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez:

…but I’ll entertain suggestions in Comments if anyone can think of a bigger moron than she is (gawd help us).


N.B.  I said “stupid” not “evil”, although it’s possible to have both in one person (e.g. Swalwell or Kinzler).

Passing Thought

Did anyone notice that after the disgraceful conviction of Donald Trump, there were no street protests, burning of buildings and howling mobs besieging the home of the awful judge who caused the conviction?

I guess all those right-wing domestic terrorists and Christian Nationalists the FBI warned us about were still asleep or at breakfast or something.

Killer Drug

Why did I have to read about this incredible news in the ghastly Brit paper The Sun ?

An immunotherapy drug could spare bowel cancer patients the need for surgery and chemotherapy after results showed it was effective in 100 per cent of cases.

Jemperli, also called dostarlimab, showed “unprecedented results”, maker GSK said, with no evidence of disease in all patients treated.

Granted, it seems to work in just one form of bowel cancer (so far), but really?

I guess that US “newspapers” are too busy with more important news, like gloating over Trump’s specious conviction or Rupert Murdoch’s latest marriage.