Eleanor Ellington

Remember the crypto czar? Vanished, like my patience. This time there’s an antitrust suit attached — that’s the punchline.

Call it a monetarist shift when actual money-supply targets show up — otherwise it’s a speech and a costume change. Spare me.

We knew. Wake me when it collapses.

Gambling ad objectifies women? Stop the presses.

So the Fed will tame inflation without a recession? What’s missing: a shred of evidence, and my vanished savings.

So who gets sued when a driverless car mows down a pedestrian on the Strip? I want names, not Vegas odds.

Ninety-nine per cent. Right. Says who — the firms selling the trackers? Funny how the missing number is always the denominator. Recovered where, in what condition, and counted by whom? Give me an independent audit, a working definition of “recovered”, and the ones that stayed gone. Until then it’s marketing with a police report stapled on.

65,000 kilometres, half of them idling in Tokyo traffic. Recent engine work means someone already paid that bill — now you will.

Ten dollars a gallon? I need one real receipt, not a doctored sign in a ghost town — otherwise it’s just rage bait.

The reflex to call sabotage brings back last summer’s cable fires, though those were aimed precisely at avoiding anyone getting hurt — forty-four injured is a different order of thing altogether. And Brétigny took the best part of a decade to explain, so until the track itself is read properly I’d keep the theory at arm’s length.