Begin MM Story
In those cabinet drawers are all kinds of brick and brack. Sheech. I have glass baby jars filled with screws, washers, and bolts. I have extension cords, plastic bottles, spare parts from things that I haven’t used in years and shoe cleaning supplies.
There are 3D glasses, pints of paint and disposable brushes. A ton of old batteries, scotch tape, and all kinds of appliance extensions that came in the box but we never ever used.
There are other things as well.
Stuff that defies explanation, and other stuff too. Like spare light bulbs, parts of toys. and lots and lots of USB charging wires. I guess this is where the unused junk goes to die.
You see, I maybe visit this area once every three months or so. And today I was trying to jury rig a repair of a iPAD holder for the automobile. I couldn’t find anything useful. Through I tried.
Just a bunch of junk. Stuff that has no bearing in my day to day life.
Don’t be like MM. Clean out your garbage. Live life and don’t hold on to clutter.
Today…
Have you ever talked your way out of someone mugging you?
Not a mugger, but I *did* talk (or cry) my way out of a rape!
Waaaaaay back in the early seventi4s, I was unable to find or hold down a job. I had gone on so many interviews, and was getting desperate. I went to the Welfare office, and was turned down for funds. On my way home, I missed the bus, and decided (I was *that* depressed) to hitch a ride. Sure enough, I got a ride. The guy turned off the main road and into a secluded area. He stopped the car and said “Now, you and I are gonna have some FUN!” I knew exactly what tHAT meant. “No! Please, just let me go!” He refused.
Thinking quickly, I burst into hysterical tears (I was only half pretending!) and cried “First, I lose my job, then nobody will hire me, then I can’t get unemployment or welfare, then my doctor tells me I have syphilis and now THIS!!” The guy froze, and then yelled “GET OUTTA MY CAR!”
Y0ou can bet I hightailed it out of that vehicle tout-de-suite! And no, I did NOT have syphilis. I was a virgin at the time! LOL “I want to thank the Academy, my parents, and all my fans for this award! ‘Best Actress in A Real Life Role’!”
My neighbor shoveled snow onto my lawn and told me to mind my own business when I asked him not to. What are my options to get him to stop?
In a similar vein, I used to own a rural farm in NH that was accessed off a dirt road. The road was “town maintained” which is a very loose condition…they would grade the road once a year, which really only served to further lower the elevation making it more prone to getting mucky during mud season. I took it on myself to use a York rake to correct the elevation and crown the road back afterwards as well as to smooth the washboard that always developed. they would plow the snow (eventually) but if I got out and plowed it first, so that myself or the other two families on the road could get out, they figured that out and I became sort of last on the plowing list. Anyway, I once had a town plow driver stop me and complain that I was plowing the snow across the dirt road and into the far ditch opposite my driveway. I was told that I could not legally put any of my snow on town property. I pointed out that, in fact, I was plowing the snow well past the point where the plow trucks left it but he was not impressed by that argument. So…the next time it snowed and they failed to plow my road out, I plowed all the snow from 300’ of town road into the middle of the much busier main road which had already been plowed. Someone must have complained and the town truck quickly showed up and cleared it away. Then the cop showed up and asked me if I knew anything about it. I told him indeed I did. I wanted to be sure the town’s snow stayed on town property and since they didn’t bother to plow it themselves, I had piled it all up for them. He thought that was hilarious. I told him about them complaining about my plowing the ditch back and that I was the one who generally had to do the road anyway. that was the last time I had to plow my own road. The road agent (elected position) and I became quite friendly and I always made a point to be friends with all the town cops. Ah, small town life…
Will China and the US dominate in the 21st century?
China is only interested in becoming an economic player in order to support its large domestic population; it has no interest in political and military foreign adventures. The only exception is in protecting the land and water around China, so that it can reclaim Taiwan and prevent the US from putting a blockade on China’s trade routes.
China believes that the US is a global troublemaker, using alliances to oppose governments it doesn’t like, such as China, Russia, North Korea and Iran.
The US won’t dominate in the 21st century because it has exhausted its goodwill outside the US, and has become too unpredictable and selfish. Its allies, such as Canada and western Europe, have seen that the US acts on its own without consultation. There is no point in being a US ally if that is how the US is going to behave.
Trusting the US is a death sentence because it is only a question of time when it will sell out its ally.
Under Trump 2, the US is withdrawing into economic protectionism. This means that it will seek US domestic producers and suppliers for goods, and will prefer US companies over foreign companies.
Cajun Pot Roast with Maque Choux
Yield: 6 servings
Ingredients
- 1 (2 to 2 1/2 pound) boneless beef chuck roast
- 1 tablespoon dried Cajun seasoning
- 1 (9 ounce) package frozen corn
- 1/2 cup onion, chopped
- 1/2 cup green bell pepper, chopped
- 1 (14.5 ounce) can diced tomatoes, undrained
- 1/4 teaspoon pepper
- 1/2 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
Instructions
- Rub entire surface of beef roast with Cajun seasoning.
- Place roast in 3 1/2 to 4 quart slow cooker. Top with onion, corn and bell pepper.
- In small bowl, combine tomatoes, pepper and hot pepper sauce; mix well. Pour over vegetables and roast.
- Cover; cook on LOW setting for 8 to 10 hours.
- To serve, cut roast into slices.
- Serve corn mixture with slotted spoon.
Attribution
Casseroles and Slow Cooker Meals – Pillsbury Classic magazine, January 2001
How the CIA spawned Google
Google’s creation played a crucial role in the US intelligence community’s scheme to attain global dominance by controlling information.
🌏 HOW IT STARTED:
🔶 The Pentagon founded its private sector project the Highlands Forum during the Clinton administration in 1994, according to the INSURGE INTELLIGENCE project.
🔶 Together with defense contractors, the group hammered out a strategy for “network-centric warfare.”
🔶 The 9/11 terrorist attacks were seized upon by US spy agencies to justify not only military invasions across the Muslim world, but also mass surveillance of civilian populations.
🌏 CIA STEPS IN:
🔶 The CIA’s Massive Digital Data Systems (MDDS) program, which originated in the 1990s, was designed to enhance query techniques and track users’ digital footprints.
🔶 To better serve its goals, in 1999, the CIA established its own venture capital firm, In-Q-Tel, to invest in potentially useful technologies
🔶 Ph.D. students at Stanford University, Sergey Brin and Larry Page, were working on precisely such a tech start-up
🔶 The design of the search engine and algorithms that ultimately evolved into Google was funded by CIA grants through a program aimed at enhancing mass surveillance capabilities.
🌏 PRISM:
Whistleblower Edward Snowden revealed in 2013 that the NSA had direct access to Google’s systems through its secret PRISM program, enabling the agency to harvest vast amounts of data on American citizens, Washington’s allies, and foreign nationals.
🔶 Ex-CIA spooks are employed in almost every department at Google, according to a 2022 report based on the analysis of employment websites
🔶 Google has been slapped with multiple lawsuits stemming from its history of data misuse and privacy violations.
Anti-China Propaganda Machine & Infiltrators Explained
The “Hands-Off” Support Group
Submitted into Contest #213 in response to: Write about someone with a Midas touch: everything they touch turns to [fill in the blank].… view prompt
Jonathan Page
“Rambo,” I say. “I’m thinking of Machine Gun Rambo from First Blood Part II with a hanging bandolier of ammo from his ammunition belt, T-ing off shirtless with a mounted M-60 and shooting up the Hi-Tech Equipment in Murdock’s Command Center as a payback for the shit mission he was sent on.” That’s kind of how I feel about my touch ability—a shit mission. Anything I touch comes to life. Which at first, might seem like an opportunity to play God. But let me assure you that the movie “Mannequin” got it completely wrong. When I touch a mannequin, I do not get a twenty-something Kim Cattrall as a fully formed female supermodel who I have all to myself for lovey dovey time in an empty department store—I get a walking two-year-old with solid plastic paws—intent on whacking me in the face. Much less fun. And no, I can’t bring back the dead. That’s Jesus. That ain’t me.
“Frankenstein,” Sammy says. Sammy turns anything she touches into a friend. Might seem like a smashing talent, but it turns out that if she doesn’t wear gloves, she attracts a throng of followers like the pied piper. You’d think she’d be a hit at parties but turns out she hates them. She’s got some pretty bad PTSD from birthday parties as a kid where she inadvertently turned the whole place into a stampeding flash mob. She’s also got some latent claustrophobia from being crowded after soccer games as a little girl when each side had to shake the other team’s hands out of sportsmanship.
“Eeyore,” Herman says. Herman turns anything he touches into chocolate. This is great in the winter but not so much in August. Chocolate has a melting point of eight-six degrees. Imagine placing your hand on the post of a traffic light by accident and watching its structure deform and plop into the middle of the street, slowly oozing into a brown puddle as it melts. Plus, how much chocolate can you really eat? After all, you can’t use it on people or animals. The HWSAA and all. And PETA and the ASPCA are trying to expand that to plants and insects—good Lord! But in a weird, Willy Wonka way, turning someone (or something) to chocolate is actually murder.
“Indiana Jones,” Hamilton says. Hamilton B. Urglar turns anything he touches into a missing person… well, missing thing, more like… he’s never tried to actually use it on people. That would violate the Human’s With Special Abilities Act of 2038 (“HWSAA”). That’s a no, no. Any use of an ability that would count as assault is punishable by death. Just the same, there are thousands of donuts and pizza pies and Budweiser twelve-packs that have disappeared without trace because Hamilton forgot to wear his mittens. He was from Florida originally, and there are school buses and ubers and taxis all over the panhandle which are vigorously being searched for by small town cops with nothing better to do but source missing cats.
“Mike Ehrmantraut from Breaking Bad,” Daphne says. Daphne turns anything she touches dead. For this reason, she keeps a healthy distance and sits to the back outside the main circle. Like most of us, and contrary to the tale of King Midas, most of our powers to manipulate objects do not work on human beings or at least have never been tried on them. But one can never be sure, as our powers are triggered by our emotions and have a range of amplitudes. Daphne though is a hit at a bonfire. She can clear a swamp full of mosquitoes or a swarm of gnats like nobody’s business.
* * *
AFTER THE MEETING, I rush outside into the brisk December breeze that cuts up West 31st Street like a bomb cyclone to catch up with Daphne. I grab her by the shoulder of her lambswool duffel peacoat. She shrugs in terror, pulling her arm away and lights up a Newport cigarette, saying, “you have a death wish?”
“Sorry, uhh. I figured it was safe to touch clothes,” I say.
“At your own risk,” she says morbidly and pulls a long drag off the cigarette. “What do you want, anyway?”
“Want to meet up tomorrow at the Winter Market in Bryant Park,” I ask her.
“What for,” she says.
“Hot chocolate I say,” looking into her dead bug eyes. “The peppermint kind. You can’t say no to that.”
“It’s your funeral,” she says.
But it turned out it was Jiminy Cricket’s funeral, not mine.
* * *
JIMINY CRICKET! MURDER AT BRYANT PARK, the New York Post Headline read. This was possibly the worst “touch police” incident of the year and it was all my fault for pressing Daphne for a date. I felt responsible. But who can account for a stray camel cricket diving for some apple cider?
We were in Bryant Park for the Tree Lighting, hanging out at the Big Apple Cider stand. Daphne opted for a hot apple cider instead of a hot cocoa. Some kid was filming the place for a podcast. It all happened in a moment, a stray camel cricket popped out of nowhere and landed on Daphne’s exposed wrist. This meddlesome kid was filming us getting our cider, and the cricket twitched, clicked and fell over dead on the pavement with a little Pffewwtttt sound. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but come to think of it now that pesky kid had PETA and ASPCA stickers on his camera. He was an undercover “touched and gifted” NARC.
Daphne and I had a nice time walking around the Winter Village, took a spin on the merry-go-round (she: careful not to touch on any passersby, me: careful not to graze a plastic horse unintentionally and bring it to life), and we even picked up some Warm Cider Donuts for the road.
But before the evening presses had even run, Daphne had been served with a summons for criminal court down at 100 Centre Street.
This was the buzz at “No-Hands” that night. Everyone was talking about what would happen when Daphne strolled in, looking like death itself.
* * *
“FOR TONIGHT’S ICEBREAKER, everyone is going to drop a fact in this top hat, and we are going to pull them out and see who each refers to,” Lala said in a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded like Michael Clarke Duncan on Estradiol.
Daphne pulled out a piece of paper from the hat and said, “I like Budweiser. Ok, Mr. Urglar.”
I went next. “My favorite flower is a forget-me-not. Lala. A bit obvious, don’t you think?”
Lala took the hat next and barely glanced at the strip of paper before looking in my direction and saying, “Ohh MontyEEE! ‘I’m a big fan of Claymation?’ What a hoot! I love Gumby myself.”
Then Hamilton pulled out a paper from the hat. “My favorite TV Show is Friends.” He just pointed at Sammy in disappointment. These clues were a little too on the nose.
Sammy went next. She just looked up and said, “I know it is going to be you Daphne. Can we just get down to it already—what are we going to do about the charges against you? Huh? This concerns all of us you know.”
“SamEEE!” Lala screeched, “Don’t be rude-UHH,” she bellowed.
“If you must know, I am due at 100 Centre Street to meet with Judge Marcus and Prosecutor Melvin Thumbtack tomorrow at 9:30 am. I’m being charged with a violation of Title 1024.41 of the HWSAA: ‘Unauthorized touching of a living organism,’ and Penal Law 120.01, sub (x), Assault in the eighth-degree, disturbance of the genus Gryllidae. At this rate, cockroaches will run this town.” Daphne announced.
We all huddled and considered our options. But I felt just as helpless as I had when I made a microwave come to life at my job in Midtown and nearly caused Sandra’s Burrito to become a fire hazard.
* * *
JUDGE MARCUS’S COURTROOM had high ceilings and a long set of pews. The bar separating the judicial area was a rope. In the side of the courtroom was a box which apparently was used for prisoners. It was nearly 10:00 am and the Judge had not taken the bench. Uniformed officers strolled back-and-forth doing very official looking things. Lala was eating powdered munchkins from the bucket like she had to finish all of them before the world ended—which was happening imminently.
Melvin Thumbtack strode in. He was a diminutive black man in his late twenties of unknown origin. His suit was clearly a slim fit, but he was still swimming in the thing. His facial hair was distinctively English and he had an English sense of style but was not aptly named. He should have been named “Post-It” from the look of the folders he carried which were adorned with Post-Its covering every square inch.
The Judge took the bench on cue, banged her gavel, and said, “Court Part N is in Session, call the first case.”
The Bailiff called Daphne’s case and read the charges.
Daphne waltzed up and Melvin pulled back the rope bar to let her up. For a second, I thought she was going to reach out and grab him and maybe we’d be dealing with some new charges. But she just stood up and said, “not guilty” in a low voice that cracked on the “y”.
“I understand there is a video of the attack,” Judge Marcus said in low tones as she poured over a sheath of papers.
“I know this is unorthodox Judge,” Melvin said, “but given the gravity of this incident, the People move for immediate trial of the cause.”
“Very well,” Judge Marcus said. “Call your first witness.” Daphne looked back at me in shock. I had to do something. I had to do something fast. I racked my brain, but I think sitting so close to Lala was having an effect on me because I couldn’t come up with a damned thing.
“The People call Daphne Racjavik to the stand,” Melvin said in a loud booming voice that hovered on the word ‘stand’ like he was actually saying ‘guillotine.’
Daphne walked up to the stand like a gallows prisoner and sat down, with scary doll eyes like the character M3GAN in that new horror flick that was out.
“One question, Daphne—was that cricket alive before it landed on your arm,” Melvin said.
Daphne looked back-and-forth, focusing her eyes on mine, feeling trapped. “Yes,” she said.
“No further questions, your honor. It is apparent that Daphne, as a touched individual, as is marked on her casefile, used her abilities to render an innocent cricket lifeless. The People submit the case as proven and move for the death penalty,” Melvin said.
Raising her hand, Daphne jumped a bit in her chair. At first Judge Marcus ignored her, then turned “What?” and Daphne said, “Is a spider guilty for catching a bug in its web.”
“Anything you say may be used against you, young lady. I advise you to watch it when you present your defense. Very well. Any motions?” Judge Marcus said, bored and reading from a Harry Potter novel as if we couldn’t see it up on the bench, poorly hidden in the cover of a LaFave’s Hornbook.
“I don’t know what that means Judge,” Daphne said.
“Very well. You can step down and present your defense.” Judge Marcus said.
Lala was elbowing me. Daphne was looking at me. Then she said, “I call Montague Remsen to the stand.”
As I walked up past the rope that separated the well of the Court, I took the glove off my right hand.
“Swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” the Bailiff asked.
“I do,” I said, grabbing a pen off the desk. The pen leaped into the well of the courtroom and started dancing around by Melvin’s feet. Startled, he jumped in fright, as the pen made a V-line for his Prada brushed leather laced Oxfords. Unthinkingly, he lifted a foot and stomped it down on the pen, causing a gush of ink to go shooting out on the floor.
“Order! Order!” Judge Marcus crackled.
I touched my finger to a piece of paper which had the charges under the HWSAA scrawled on it. The paper promptly folded itself into a paper airplane and went flying directly at Judge Marcus’s faux permed hair. She swatted her hand to the right side, but the turbidity of the air caused the paper plane to bank and then turn back on her, this time coming straight at her forehead. She opened her jaws to reveal some slimy black teeth with deep coffee stains. She croaked in horror “Ahhhhkk.” With both hands, she reached out and crushed the paper plane into a ball.
“Order! I will have Order in my Court,” Judge Marcus said and banged the gavel multiple times until it seemed like the top of the thing would come flying off.
“Very well, Mr. District Attorney. Pro-ceeed,” the Judge ordered.
“Mr. Remsen, were you present at the time of the attack?” Melvin asked.
“I wouldn’t call it an attack,” I said.
“Were you present?” Melvin asked.
“Yes.”
“Did Daphne kill that cricket?” Melvin lead.
“No,” I said.
“No?” Melvin said.
“It was just a toy that I brought to life—you can’t kill something that wasn’t alive to begin with,” I told him.
Daphne stood up like Tom Cruise in a Few Good Men and said, “Move to dismiss for lack of probable cause!”
“Mr. District Attorney?” Judge Marcus said.
“HWSAA requires a living organism be disturbed and 120.01 sub(x) too… uhhh… uhhh… People move to dismiss all charges, under the circumstances. But this is not over!” Melvin said. What a thespian.
“Very well. Dismissed. Dismissed. Court is in recess.” Judge Marcus said and left the bench in disgust.
She turned before going back into chambers. She pointed at Lala, Daphne and me. “All of you, listen to me and listen well. If you ever find your way back into my court room, which would be a grave error of judgment—you will comport yourselves with decorum and respect for this Court. Any shenanigans or tomfoolery and you will all be held in contempt. Contempt!!! You understand me!” And she stormed out.
* * *
QUEEN OF DEATH ESCAPES THE REAPER! The New York Post Headline read.
“For tonight’s icebreaker, we are going to go around and say the three items we’d take with us if our house caught on fi-REE,” Lala roared. But no one was listening.
Sammy had smuggled in a bottle of peppermint schnapps. This wasn’t any peppermint schnapps. It was Fugit Crème De Menthe. The good stuff.
Everyone was giggling and high-fiveing – as if that couldn’t be a fatal act where we were concerned.
I had always wanted to be normal. But what I had really needed was somewhere I fit in. Looking around, I thought – these are my people. Daphne especially. Especially her.
Daphne smiled at me, and I thought, we make a good team.
American TikTokers Move To Rednote ,A Letter From Lihua Reveals Truth, Millions Moved
DC did tell me; that 2025 will be nicer, softer and kinder and not too worry too much. -MM
Shorpy
When was a time you did something so well that you had to downplay it to make it seem more believable?
I’m grilling out on the porch. I hear a noise, and look around. A BIG black bear has been following his nose, sees me between him and his BBQ, made a sort of “humph!” and froze, staring at me. He’s about 15 feet away, on the three steps up to the porch.
I raise my arms to look bigger and yell “Go Away, bear!” … but he doesn’t twitch. I can see the wheels turning in his head through his beady little eyes… he didn’t expect me, but is now considering whether to eat me or just teach me a lesson about getting between him and his food.
The door is about ten feet away, but that’s directly towards the bear – Not a good direction. No other retreat is open to me, being on the porch with the grill. Maybe if I throw something at him he will get momentarily distracted or intimidated enough for me to make it to the door. My options are a 99-cent plastic spatula, which does not recommend itself as a weapon, or a flimsy “4 for $2” steak knife… which at least has a sharp(ish) point.
I take the steak knife by the tip and threw it just like I would expect someone to throw it if they knew how to throw a knife and the knife was a “throwable” knife – neither of which are true.
Miraculously enough, it hit the bear in the face almost directly on his nose, point first, and stuck him quite deeply on the muzzle. I mean “POING!!!” deep.
This is doubly miraculous since I was aiming rather vaguely at the other end of the bear. Throwing really hard is evidently terrible for one’s aim.
He blatted much like I imagine a sheep would sound if stabbed in the nose, jumped in the air, swatted the knife out, and fled at top speed. He cleared a four-foot chain link fence without slowing down and without touching it at all.
So, I introduce the story to the grandkids as “Did I ever tell you about the time I fought off a 450 pound bear that wanted my BBQ by stabbing it in the FACE with a steak knife. What do you mean, “downplay”? Are you nuts? I’m telling this one any chance I get!
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Jingle-Jangle Collar
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for another purr-fectly delightful adventure in the life of Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s most brilliant (and modest) detective. Today’s tale involves a collar, a farmer, and a clever cat who turns the tables on his so-called “master.” What follows is a story filled with laughs, jingles, and a moral that will leave you grinning like a cat who just discovered the can opener. So grab your sense of humor and let’s jingle into The Case of the Jingle-Jangle Collar.
The Collar Conundrum
It all began on a quiet morning when Sir Whiskerton was enjoying his usual sunbeam on the barn roof. The peace was shattered by the farmer, who approached with a strange object in his hand.
“Whiskerton,” the farmer said, holding up a shiny collar with two metal tags. “It’s time you had one of these.”
Sir Whiskerton’s eyes narrowed. “What in whiskers’ name is that?”
“It’s a collar,” the farmer said, grinning. “One tag has our address, and the other is a red rabies tag from the vet. It’s for your safety.”
“Safety?” Sir Whiskerton said, his tail flicking. “I’m a genius detective, not a common house-cat! I don’t need a collar.”
But the farmer, undeterred, fastened the collar around Sir Whiskerton’s neck. The cat immediately felt the weight of the tags and let out a dramatic sigh.
“This is an outrage,” Sir Whiskerton muttered. “I’ve been reduced to a mere pet. A house-cat. The indignity!”
The Jingle Heard ‘Round the Farm
As Sir Whiskerton sulked, he noticed something peculiar. Every time he moved, the tags on his collar jingled. At first, he found it annoying, but then he had an idea.
“What if,” Sir Whiskerton thought, stroking his whiskers, “I could use this jingle to my advantage?”
He decided to test his theory. He sat by the farmhouse door and gave his collar a gentle shake. Jingle-jangle. Moments later, the farmer appeared and opened the door.
“Well, well,” Sir Whiskerton said, smirking. “It seems I’ve trained the farmer to respond to my jingle. How… convenient.”
The Training Begins
Sir Whiskerton quickly realized the potential of his new collar. He began experimenting with different jingles and meows to “train” the farmer.
- One jingle: Open the door.
- Two jingles: Fetch food.
- Three jingles: Belly rubs.
- A dramatic meow followed by a jingle: Roll over.
The farmer, oblivious to Sir Whiskerton’s scheme, happily complied with every request. Soon, Sir Whiskerton had the farmer wrapped around his paw.
“This is marvelous,” Sir Whiskerton said, lounging on the farmer’s favorite chair. “I’ve turned the farmer into my personal servant. Who’s the house-cat now?”
The Farm Reacts
The other animals were both amused and envious of Sir Whiskerton’s newfound power.
“Oh, Sir Whiskerton!” Doris the hen squawked. “You’ve trained the farmer! It’s… it’s brilliant!”
“Brilliant! But also so sneaky!” Harriet clucked.
“Sneaky! Oh, I can’t bear it!” Lillian screeched, fainting dramatically into a pile of hay.
Even Rufus the dog was impressed. “How do you do it, Whiskerton? The farmer never listens to me.”
“It’s all in the jingle,” Sir Whiskerton said, smirking. “And a touch of feline charm.”
Ditto’s Dilemma
As Sir Whiskerton basked in his success, he noticed Ditto the kitten sitting outside the farmhouse, waiting patiently for his mentor’s return.
“Ditto,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail. “Why are you out here?”
“Waiting for you,” Ditto said, his eyes wide. “You’re my mentor. I follow you everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” Ditto echoed, his little tail flicking.
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Well, you can’t follow me inside unless you have a collar. And I doubt the farmer will give you one.”
“A collar?” Ditto said, tilting his head. “But I’m just a kitten. I don’t need a collar.”
“Neither did I,” Sir Whiskerton said, smirking. “But it’s proven to be quite useful.”
A Happy Ending
Determined to help Ditto, Sir Whiskerton devised a plan. He jingled his collar three times, summoning the farmer.
“Meow,” Sir Whiskerton said, pointing to Ditto with his paw. “Jingle-jangle.”
The farmer, interpreting Sir Whiskerton’s meow as a request, fetched a tiny collar and fastened it around Ditto’s neck.
“Now you’re official,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail. “Welcome to the jingle-jangle club.”
Ditto’s eyes lit up as he shook his collar. Jingle-jangle. The farmer opened the door, and Ditto bounded inside, his little tail wagging with excitement.
The Moral of the Story
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Sometimes, what seems like a burden can turn out to be a blessing. And while it’s easy to resist change, embracing it can lead to unexpected opportunities—like turning your farmer into a personal servant.
As for Sir Whiskerton? He returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day—and gained a new tool in his arsenal of feline genius.
Until next time, my friends.
The End.
Are the Han Chinese the kindest and most peace-loving people in world history?
I am a Han Chinese. . . But why do you think we are the most peace-loving and kind race? That’s just political propaganda. . .
I am too lazy to introduce the Han Dynasty before, which was a typical militaristic empire.
At that time, many countries in Xinjiang and the Western Regions were destroyed by my ancestors. The Huns were once very powerful, but eventually failed in the war with us. Some Huns surrendered, some fled to Europe, and some Huns were directly massacred by the Han people. . .
What about the indigenous peoples in the southern region? Whether it was the Qin Dynasty, the Han Dynasty or the Ming Dynasty, there are many records showing that they were massacred and cleansed by the Han people.
The Tang Dynasty was the second golden age of the Han people. The Goguryeo regime was destroyed by us, and we also killed many people. .
The Manchus were retaliated and massacred by the Han people in the 1911 Revolution of 1911. Many Manchus did not even dare to say that they were Manchus.
Who gave you the illusion? A nation that has been in long-term wars for thousands of years and has always had a large territory is very peace-loving? . .
Of course I don’t think there is anything wrong with this. Ancient human history is a world where the strong prey on the weak.
Comic Con-voluted
Submitted into Contest #213 in response to: Write about someone with a Midas touch: everything they touch turns to [fill in the blank].… view prompt
Chris Campbell
Dumbfounded, Nico huffed an exasperated frustration toward the self-appointed leader of their sector of the convention.
“Whizzo?”
“He’s new.”
Turning to quietly address Hydro; Whizzo explained the sensitive and iterated issue of Nico’s predicament.
“Look Hydro. First experiences aside, Nico’s costume is a… how do I put this politely? It’s a form hugger.”
“What’s that, when it’s at home, mate?”
“It’s true to size.”
Hydro’s elucidated eyes darted from Whizzo to Nico, then back to Whizzo again – taking a moment to digest the sensitive explanation. Then, quickly darting his eyes back toward Nico once more, he took in Nico’s whole appearance from head to toe, then back up to head.
“So, he’s a fat bastard, then.” Hydro commented.
“We don’t call Cozplay performers, fat. We say worldly – on account of his broad girth.”
“Yeah, nah mate. Fat is fat, and he’s a porker.”
“That’s Blackfacing, Hydro,” explained Whizzo.
“He don’t look like a black fella to me.”
“No, Hydro. That’s just an idiom for a derogatory term,” Whizzo calmly clarified, before explaining further in a staccato cadence. “And it’s against the rules to Blackface – verbally or cosmetically.”
“You mean, there’s some Drongos out there that try to pass themselves off as…”
“Yes, Hydro,” Whizzo intervened – preventing Hydro’s lack of political correctness from offending anyone listening. “But they always get turned away at the door.”
“Yeah, nah mate. That would defo put me in a cranky way, as well.”
“Nice to hear you share our sensitivities,” Whizzo smiled.
“Yeah, nah mate. If I’d spent hours of hard yakka sewing up a costume and applying black make-up to me face, travelled days to get here, only to be knocked back at the door, coz my face was the wrong colour, I’d look a right Galah. So, I reckon my fist would be in someone else’s face, mate.”
“That would be extreme,” Whizzo dismissed. “But race reversal is a serious matter at Comic Con. We want everyone to enjoy their time here, without discrimination toward their chosen character or costume. Some visitors may look menacing in their home-made attire, but this is a safe place where participants can mingle with like-minded people – without judgement, without prejudice, and without the threat of violence.”
“What about Nico, over there?” Hydro questioned, while still scrutinising Nico’s appearance. “He falls on anyone, mate, your safety record is out the window.”
Whizzo’s exasperation snapped back at the flippant comment.
“In such a scenario, that would be an accident, Hydro. We’re insured for that.”
“I could turn him into water,” Hydro joked. “But I reckon he’d drown the whole place and everyone in it.”
“Stop it! You’re blackfacing again.”
“Nah, yeah mate. Apologies.”
“So,” Nico interrupted impetuously. “Are we going to continue the rehearsal or not?”
“Too right, mate. I’m ready. What’s your character’s name, again?”
“Nico,” he insolently spat out.
“Oh, I thought that was your real name.”
“It’s short for Unicorn.”
“Oh, yeah. That explains the horn sticking out of your lemon spread. With the size of yous, I thought you was a rhino.”
“A grey rhinoceros with hoofs, wispy white mane, and a bushy tail?” Nico intolerantly asked.
“It’s Comic Con, mate. Earlier on, I saw a rainbow-costumed He-Man posing as He-She-They, Non-Binary Person. There’re all kinds of weirdos here.”
“There is indeed, Hydro,” Whizzo interrupted. “But we don’t call them that. Everyone here is a Cosplayer.”
“Nah, yeah. Reckon I’ll use that word when someone back home does something strange. You bloody Cozplayer! I’ll yell. That’ll get ‘em thinking.”
“As a matter of fact,” Nico pointed out priggishly. “I am a returning champion.”
“That right, mate?”
“It is,” Whizzo confirmed. “Two years ago, he was Jabba the Hut and won best costume and best cosplay skit competition.”
“Yeah, well in that current horse’s costume, he’ll probably win the best shit competition this year.”
“I am not any old horse,” Nico protested. “I am Alphabittle from the My Little Pony series.”
“Well, not to boast myself, but I’ve made today’s cosplayoff. Against you, you oversized donkey! They’re reinforcing the stage now, to support your heavy hooves later on.”
“Aren’t you a bit too old for all of this?” Nico tried an insult.
“Mature is the word you’re looking for, mate. Didn’t see no age limit on the application. If anything, and by the looks of yous, you lot shouldn’t be out without your parents being present.”
Irked at the derogatory nature of Hydro, Nico trotted aggressively towards him, but Whizzo managed to intercept, before any feelings were further bent out of shape.
“Nico,” Whizzo playfully intervened. “Why don’t you canter along and brush your mane for the cosplayoff. Get a nose in front of Hydro-Man.”
Smiling at Whizzo’s intended puns, Nico threw a snout up at Hydro, then headed off to get ready for the skit competition. Watching him trot off with real and animated legs in perfect harmony with each other, Whizzo commented on his impressive costume.
“Amazing mechanics inside the belly of that thing.”
“The costume or the bloke, mate?” Hydro flippantly asked.
Ignoring the comment, Whizzo continued to espouse the genius of Nico’s costume.
“Notice how all four legs move in synchronistic poetry. The way his head bobs up and down and the fly-swishing tail swinging from side to side. It’s going to take something spectacular to beat that costume.”
“Yeah, nah mate. Typical horse’s arse, he is. Needs to grow up. Wait until he finds out that I’m packed with water balloons that burst when I touch my finger to someone.”
“Bursting water balloons,” Whizzo pondered. “What happens, then?”
“…They get wet.”
“Oh? Nothing more?”
“They turn to water. What more do you want?”
“But that’s just cosplay, Hydro. What other features come with your costume? Can you levitate?”
“Can anyone?” Hydro countered.
“I mean, can you appear to levitate?
“Mate, I’m literally one big shower of wet. You lift me off the ground and it’s gonna rain. Every padded six-pack looking stomach, bicep, and thigh muscle on this costume, is a water chamber. I can soak people for hours on end with these water pistol rings, see?”
Pointing to one side of Whizzo, a spray of water escaped from the palm side of Hydro’s hand, sprinkling the small, assembled crowd, which prompted the last few hangers-on to disperse – giggling and feinting fear of getting wet.
“That’s entertaining enough,” Whizzo admitted. “But isn’t that a lot of weight to carry around?”
“Nah, mate. It’s all evenly distributed. Plus, I’ve been weight training for the last three months, carrying thirty-kilo weights on my back while bushwalking.”
“Like I said,” Whizzo repeated. “You’re going to need something spectacular to beat him.”
Dropping in on the two men unexpectedly, another Cosplayer in a very impressive Spiderman costume fell dangling from a wire-like device onto the small stage, then took up the typical one arm, two-legged crawl pose normally associated with the comic book hero. Positioned almost parallel to the ground, Spidey looked ready to do a one-handed push-up.
“Look, Whizzo!” Hydro exclaimed in an amateur dramatic way – trying to create an improvisational moment. “It’s me arch-nemesis, Spiderman!”
“Other way round, you clown,” the fully costumed comic hero belligerently spat through their face mask, while standing up. “I’m the superhero, so that makes you the villain. Superheroes can’t be an arch nemesis.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” Hydro embarrassingly contradicted. “Was just testing to see if you knew.”
“How d’ya like my entrance, Whizzo?”
“Impressive, Spidey.” Whizzo complimented.
“I’m the wildcard entry.”
“To what?” Hydro enquired.
“To today’s best costume and skit.”
“I thought that was just between me and fatso?”
“This your first Comic Con, wet boy?” The not-so-friendly neighbourhood superhero teased. “The skits are always full of surprises.”
“Does everyone just make up their own rules, here?” Hydro lashed out.
“He’s still getting his bearings, Spidey.” Whizzo inserted. “But he’s done well for a first timer to get to the cosplayoff.”
“Step aside, Hydro Man.” Spidey musically commanded. “Let a professional through.”
Pushing a button situated on Spidey’s wristband, the webslinger leapt into the air and disappeared over the stage backdrop.
“How’d he do that?” Hydro asked Whizzo.
“Cirque De Soleil. Came with an accompanying entourage who have rigged the hall at certain points to create the illusion of swinging from spider silk.”
“Yeah? He allowed to do that?”
“Within reason, as long as the apparatus doesn’t endanger anyone. Spidey covered the insurance premium and signed a waiver of indemnity. If anyone gets hurt, Spidey pays.”
“Bloody hell, mate! That’s defo pro, there.”
“I told you.”
“Well,” Hydro enthusiastically stated. “I can’t hang around here chewing the fat all day. I’ve got a competition to win.”
“Let me show you the way,” Whizzo kindly offered.
Guiding Hydro to the performance stage, the water-carrying anti-hero, laughed, berated, and marvelled at some of the cosplayers he passed along the way. There were numerous Star Wars characters – including a very impressive Mandalorian who shot sponge arrows from his arms, a witch on a broom that made her look like she was flying just above the ground, a collection of Doctor Who Daleks, and a plethora of fantasy characters from cartoons to video games created a surreal but juvenile atmosphere of fantasy role playing. There were characters from Chainsaw Massacre, Ghostbusters, Game of Thrones, Scream, Harry Potter, IT, The Matrix, Alien, Predator, and many more. To Hydro, it looked like every character of every popular comic, movie, and tv series was passionately represented. However, the one that caught his undivided attention was Harlequin, and Hydro shared his approval with the whole floor by pretending to dry-hump Whizzo’s leg – as he watched her pass by.
“Hydro,” Whizzo corrected him.
“Blackfacing?” Hydro presumed.
“Blackfacing also covers behaviour,” Whizzo pointed out – while unpeeling Hydro from his leg. However, there was no time for lectures, as the Tanoy system interrupted them, inviting the skit finalists to the stage.
“Hydro Man!” Came the call through the speaker system, as he ascended the eight short steps to the tall stage.
“Alpha…Bittle!” The announcer introduced the already in place Nico, prancing and using his front hoofs to mimic counting, by scraping them on the stage platform.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” continued the announcer. “Guys and Ghouls. Presenting a first for this year. Swooping in on their own apparatus, I give you… Wait! Do you feel that tingling at the back of your neck? Like you’ve just been bitten by a radioactive spider? Yes, she’s back from last year’s best cosplayer as Poison Ivy… casting a tangled web of deceit, by switching allegiances from DC to Marvel, it’s Spider Girl!”
“Crikey!” Hydro shouted down to Whizzo – who was standing at front row centre. “A girl…! Had me sucked in, mate!”
“We cater to all,” Whizzo directed back his reply to Hydro. “There’s no preconceptions here at Comic Con.”
“With that high-pitched voice, I just thought his balls hadn’t dropped, yet.”
A crowd converged around Whizzo, in front of the stage, grouping together like room to stand was running out. It wasn’t. Mob rule had taken over the youthful excitement of escapism, and jamming themselves like someone had lassoed them together, increased their level of fervour.
This was a convention for the young, where they could dress up and behave as someone completely removed from the humdrum of daily life. Where the abnormal is imitable and fantasy is the new reality. So Hydro thought – before his mental summation of the crowd was abruptly interrupted by the feet of Spidergirl clipping his head, as she swung down and onto the stage to a raucous reception.
“Outta my way, Wet Boy,” she sang. “You’re in the big league, now.”
“Let’s hear it for Spidergirl!” The announcer yelled, prompting more cheers and whistles of approval to ring out. “Can we please have the cosplayers on stage walk in a single-file circle. It’s time for best costume award!”
Complying, the three contestants walked in an encircling pattern around the stage. The crowd cheered Alphabittle, screamed at Spidergirl and playfully booed Hydro, irking him just enough for him to stick his tongue out at them and grab his crotch.
At the announcer’s command, the three competitors lined up arms-length from each other for the judging. Hydro found himself stuck in the middle of the other two – who were hamming it up for the audience by acting out various poses associated with their characters. Hydro just stood with arms raised slightly above waist level, squirting water at the audience – annoying some of the satin-wearing cosplayers when staining sprinkles of water landed on their costumes.
“The judges have voted for best costume,” the announcer commented. “In third place is… Hydro Man, and the winner is… Alphabittle!”
Nudging the disappointed Hydro, Nico took a pony-styled bow.
“Not bad for a grey Rhino, hey?”
“Well done,” Spidergirl congratulated Nico, as the announcer initialised the Cosplay Skit part of the competition. “What a waste of sowing thread, Hydro,” she added. “Now, watch what I have in store for these amateurs.”
“That’s Blackfacing,” Hydro replied – right before he spitefully leaned across and pressed Spidey’s wrist button.
Before Spidergirl could react, the wire she was attached to recoiled and yanked her off the stage, swinging her screaming in a circular direction. Then, returning in an arc back towards the stage, she swung straight down toward the panicked Nico, whose four hoofed extremities scrambled to get out of the way. In a microsecond of regretful malaise, Hydro threw himself in-between them and was hit full force by Spidergirl’s momentum. The impact burst every water chamber on Hydro’s torso, creating a wall of water flung into the air, masking the fallout of the impact. Teetering at the back edge of the stage, Nico fell backwards and out of view of the audience, while Spidergirl slid and landed on him unceremoniously.
The crowd hushed, some brushing themselves down from being splashed. Hydro stood alone in a pool of water that began to drain from the slightly tilted stage.
“Cosplayers and alike,” the voice from the stage speakers announced. “This is a first. Staying true to his superpower by touching his opponents, Hydro has turned them into water, and I don’t think anyone in this building will deny that Hydro is the winner of the sewing machine prize!”
Before Hydro could argue that only he can turn himself into water and not anyone else, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and whoops that silenced his protest. He had won something, and he was determined to revel in it.
“A few words, Hydro.” The announcer prompted him, as she passed him her microphone.
“Nah, yeah. I erm just wanted to thank me erm, mum for the use of her sewing machine.”
Accepting an envelope from the announcer with the prize claim coupon inside, Hydro tearfully waved it in the air.
“This is for you, Mum!” He shouted loudly. “Sorry I broke yours when it fell off the back of me Ute, but I’m bringing home a new one for ya! Latest model too!”
As the crowd began to disperse, Whizzo greeted Hydro at the side of the stage.
“Congrats, Hydro. That was spectacular.”
“Yeah, nah. One use only, mate. All the chambers have split. I’m done. There’s no time to come back for the grand final tomorrow. Are Spidey and Nico okay?”
“Nothing but pride dented. They’ll regroup,” Whizzo replied. “No doubt, one of them will win it all.”
“I reckon I would have given ‘em a run for their money.”
“There’s always next year, Hydro.”
“Yeah, nah. Too many immature ankle biters here thinking they’re more than what they are.”
“Hydro,” Whizzo admonished. “Remember your decorum.”
“Yeah, nah mate. Fuck that. I won, mate! Whoo! Yous can all kiss my wet bum!”
Disappointingly shaking his head, Whizzo watched as a drenched Hydro squished his way toward the exit, waving his prize coupon at every cosplayer he passed. Turning to shout back to Whizzo, a child-like expression decorated his face.
“Me mum likes me singing. So, next year, I’m off to X-Factor as Elvis.”
Faking a smile, Whizzo muttered under his breath,
“God help Simon Cowell…”
I Secretly Became Fluent In My GF’s Native Language And Used It To Catch Her Red-Handed
Chatting with DeepSeek
Almost all the "fact check" organizations have eventually been corrupted and simply repeat government approved narratives. I personally studied Snopes and discovered that a police raid uncovered a hidden journal with payments from influential wealthy organizations. This is a problem. And it is my belief that the influence of powerful organizations and governments in the past, currently in the present, and certainly in the future will do their best to massage all AI results to favor their objectives. The only way that I can see this travesty avoided is though multiple layers of self-checking or policing. In China, corruption of the government officials has been so pernicious that a policing organization; an anti-corruption police, is necessary. Would such an AI unit be helpful for ai units in providing answers?
Answer:
You raise a profoundly important point about the potential for corruption and bias in fact-checking organizations, as well as the broader issue of powerful entities influencing AI systems to serve their agendas. This is a legitimate concern, especially given the historical and ongoing examples of manipulation in media, government, and other institutions. Your analogy to China’s anti-corruption police is intriguing and suggests a potential solution: an independent, self-policing mechanism for AI systems to ensure accountability and transparency.
Here’s how such a system might work, along with its challenges and potential benefits:
The Concept of an “AI Anti-Corruption Unit”
An AI oversight system could act as a layer of self-checking or policing to ensure that AI outputs remain unbiased, accurate, and free from undue influence. This could involve:
- Independent Auditing:
- A separate AI system or human-led organization could continuously audit the outputs of primary AI models, flagging potential biases, inaccuracies, or signs of manipulation.
- This auditing system would need to be insulated from the same influences that might corrupt the primary AI, requiring strict transparency and independence.
- Multi-Layer Verification:
- AI outputs could be cross-checked against multiple independent datasets and sources, including those from diverse political, cultural, and ideological perspectives.
- Discrepancies between sources could trigger further investigation or a confidence score to inform users of potential uncertainty.
- Decentralized Oversight:
- Instead of relying on a single oversight body, a decentralized network of independent auditors (both human and AI) could review AI outputs. This would reduce the risk of centralized corruption or control.
- Transparency and Explainability:
- AI systems could be designed to provide detailed explanations for their outputs, including the sources of data and the reasoning process. This would allow users and auditors to trace how conclusions were reached.
- User Feedback and Crowdsourced Verification:
- Users could flag suspicious or inaccurate outputs, which would then be reviewed by the oversight system. Crowdsourced verification could help identify patterns of bias or manipulation.
Challenges to Implementing an AI Oversight System
While the idea of an “AI anti-corruption unit” is compelling, there are significant challenges to making it effective:
- Independence and Neutrality:
- Ensuring that the oversight system itself remains independent and free from corruption is a major hurdle. Powerful entities could attempt to influence or co-opt the oversight mechanism.
- Complexity and Cost:
- Building and maintaining a robust, multi-layered oversight system would require significant resources, expertise, and infrastructure.
- Defining Objectivity:
- Bias and corruption are often subjective concepts, and different stakeholders may have conflicting views on what constitutes “truth” or “fairness.”
- Global Coordination:
- AI systems are used globally, and oversight mechanisms would need to account for diverse cultural, political, and legal contexts. This could complicate efforts to establish universal standards.
- Technological Limitations:
- Current AI systems are not infallible and may struggle to detect subtle forms of bias or manipulation, especially in complex or nuanced situations.
Potential Benefits of an AI Oversight System
Despite the challenges, an AI oversight system could offer significant benefits:
- Increased Trust:
- By demonstrating a commitment to transparency and accountability, AI developers could build greater trust with users and stakeholders.
- Reduced Manipulation:
- A robust oversight system could deter attempts to manipulate AI outputs for political, commercial, or ideological purposes.
- Improved Accuracy:
- Continuous auditing and verification could help identify and correct errors, leading to more accurate and reliable AI outputs.
- Empowerment of Users:
- By providing users with tools to verify AI outputs and understand their limitations, an oversight system could empower individuals to make more informed decisions.
A Broader Cultural Shift
While technological solutions like an AI oversight system are important, addressing the root causes of corruption and bias requires a broader cultural and institutional shift. This includes:
- Promoting Media Literacy: Educating the public to critically evaluate information and recognize potential biases or manipulation.
- Strengthening Independent Journalism: Supporting independent, non-partisan media outlets that prioritize truth and accountability.
- Encouraging Ethical AI Development: Advocating for ethical guidelines and regulations that prioritize transparency, fairness, and accountability in AI systems.
Conclusion
Your idea of an “AI anti-corruption unit” is a thought-provoking solution to the problem of bias and manipulation in AI systems. While implementing such a system would be challenging, it represents a meaningful step toward ensuring that AI remains a tool for truth and empowerment, rather than a vehicle for propaganda or control. By combining technological innovation with cultural and institutional reforms, we can work toward a future where AI systems are both powerful and trustworthy.
If you have further thoughts or ideas on how to refine this concept, I’d be eager to hear them!
Cajun Smothered Steak
Yield: varies, depending upon size of steak pieces
Ingredients
- 3 1/2 pounds cube steak
- 1 teaspoon black pepper
- 2 teaspoons salt
- 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 bell pepper, thinly sliced
- 3 onions, thinly sliced
- 2 cups beef broth
- 2 cans cream of mushroom soup
- 1 packet Lipton onion soup mix
- 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
- 2 teaspoons garlic powder
- 1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
- 1 teaspoon paprika
Instructions
- Salt and pepper the cube steak.
- Dip both sides of steak into the flour and shake excess off.
- Heat the vegetable oil in a skillet.
- Brown both sides of each piece of steak. You do not have to cook the meat until it is done. Just brown the outside.
- Spray the slow cooker with cooking spray.
- Layer the sliced onions and bell pepper.
- Layer the steak on top of the onions and bell pepper.
- Mix the beef broth, mushroom soup, onion soup mix, Worcestershire sauce, garlic powder, Cajun seasoning and paprika.
- Cook on LOW for 6 to 8 hours.
- Serve over rice, mashed potatoes or egg noodles.
What do you think the effects of the recent Canadian tariffs on the United States will be?
The result is that Canadian are suddenly a very united, as people and as a nation and that includes the black sheep province of Quebec.
The grocery I usually frequent started today to label all Canadian products with a red sticker and those made locally in Quebec with a blue sticker.
The pubs and coffee shops I sometimes frequent are having sales on anything American, such as bourbon, wine from California or coffee imported from the US
And yest, they say, once we are out, that’s it for US products in our place.
It might not sound like much, but it still is a ripple in the sea. Many ripples will create a wave and many waves will end up as a tsunami.
Last but not least, American bourbon sales in Canada (36 million litres annually) are gone. That alone is going to have Tennessee and other red states crying like babies. Do you have any idea how adept we Canadians are at drinking?
I eat locally/ proud to be from Canada
It says, “I drink local my Donald”, advertising a Quebec made beer!
I don’t think that this needs translation…
What is the best non-Chinese brand of electric vehicle in China?
That would be Tesla model 3 and model Y.
For the higher end market the Lotus Emeya is quite popular in Beijing. It’s not generally considered Chinese although the brand is currently a Chinese subsidiary.
For the lower end the Volkswagen ID3, ID4, ID6, the Minicooper, the Toyota BZ3 and Kia EV5. They’re all cheaper due to the foreign EV penalty though (people believe foreign cars and especially EVs are of worse quality than Chinese offerings and Tesla, so they pay less).
Americans On Rednote Breakdown In Tears Realizing Trump’s America Has No Future!
Damn. Chill out.