Back in the day, my brother stumbled upon a 1920’s “piggy bank”. Only this bank was painted cast iron.
It was a pretty unique item. He “found it” inside a locked credenza that was “protected” under a huge oil stained canvas tarp covered with all sorts of misc junk, in a dark alcove in the sub-basement of our paternal father’s home.
My paternal grandparents, had a basement, then a sub-basement underneath that. And in that dimly lit place were alcoves; basically caves cut into the limestone rocks. And stuffed in those were very old piles of junk.
It was a mechanism where you would put a coin in a slot, pull a trigger or button, and the coin would fly into an opening at the other end of the mechanism.
It was a fun and unique mechanism, that was probably worth some money. Sort of like these other designs that I found on the ‘net.
It took him years to be able to open the bottom and get the coins out.
And when he did he ended up with all sorts of coins, most were dated to the 1920’s and 1930’s. All sorts of interesting coinage.
And you know, shoved inside was a faded note with some numbers that we could not decipher for the life of us.
All in all, an interesting mechanism and it was a lot of fun. What happened to the USA? Why aren’t people taking the time for simple fun mechanisms any longer?
Well, anyways…
Today…
What was the strangest fraudulent transaction made on your credit card?
I used my mastercard to take a client to lunch. The server brought a portable machine and swiped my card, I entered my pin.
He then said that the machine battery was dead and went to fetch another machine. This time the transaction went through normally.
Before I got back to the office less than 20 minutes later, I got a call from fraud intervention.
They asked if I had made several thousand dollars worth of purchases in Edmomton and Toronto in the last 10 minutes, I was in Winnipeg at the time.
For those not familiar with Canadian geography, those cities are 1500 and about 2500 km’s away and in opposite directions.
I told them the restaurant charge was valid, told them about the last purchase I made and confirmed a recent automatic payment made through PayPal for my Netflix.
They were very interested about the “dead battery “ at the restaurant. A few days later I read in the local media about employees from a unnamed restaurant, that was in the general area, being involved in a credit card scam.
They cancelled the card, sent a new one to my local bank that I got in a couple days and the fraudulent charges never showed on my statement.
Great service from Bank of Montreal MasterCard.
Trump Administration’s bold plan to revive US shipbuilding will kill American exporters instead
What is the present generation’s mindset? Is it bearable by the previous generation people to adjust with the current generation?
Let’s see the various generations :-
1923–1944
Traditionalists
British Era Born, Rigid Disciplinarians, Hard on Education and Emphasis on Education
1944–1965
Baby Boomers
Also called “Boomers” derogatorily as “Boomer Uncles”
Myself, Awdhesh Singh, GV, Nagarajan Srinivas, Satya Parkash Sud and a number of others belong to this generation
Congress Generation, Experienced Shortages for Milk and Vegetables and saw them die out with the Green revolution and Operation flood, Socialist Generation,
1965–1980
Generation X
Saw transformation from Socialism to Capitalism, Secular Generation, Regional Nationalists with pride in Language or State being more prevalent than previous generations, Electronic Generation
1980–1997
Millennials
Computer Generation, Email, Chat, Twitter, Instagram, Social Media, Work Life Balance, Financial Freedom, Vajpayee Era
1997–2012
Generation Z
Modi Generation, Religious Mania, Akhand Bharath Delusions, Admirers of Mediocrity, Brainwashed by Social Media, Haircutting Apps
2012–2027
Generation Alpha
Mahakumbh Mela, Akhand Bharatha, Grandeurs of Delusion
The differences between the various generations in US, China, India , Japan have all been very minor and exclusively a result of the economic status of India and these other nations
For instance the Generation X in India and China had similar traits
Are Indian Gen Z comparable to other Gen Z ?
Absolutely not
Other Gen Z are busy with AI, Robotics and technology while Indian Gen Z are busy with Kumbh Mela and Bharath and Hindu Rashtra and Politics
So if they can’t be compatible with Gen Z of other nations, how can they be compatible with previous generations in India
The Indian Gen Z have a misplaced sense of nationalism that makes them ostriches and build a cocoon around the truth
The result is an insane sense of optimism fuelled by religious mania, bigotry and online hatred
Can they spearhead national development?
God no
The best of them will leave India the moment they can
The worst of them will make India worse than India already is, bringing in elements of hate, division and brainwashed propaganda
Our only hope is , like a viral infection, the stupidity, bigotry and hate should run it’s course through the Gen Z and Gen Alpha and by the time the Gen Beta comes around, they can finally begin seeing sense and start the damage control
Pennsylvania Dutch Cabbage Rolls
Ingredients
- 12 large green cabbage leaves
- 1 1/2 pounds ground beef
- 1 cup cooked rice
- 1 small onion, chopped
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1 egg
- 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
- 2 (8 ounce) cans tomato sauce
- 1/2 cup water
- 1 tablespoon brown sugar
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice or vinegar
Instructions
- Pour boiling water over cabbage leaves and soak until limp, about 4 minutes.
- Combine beef, rice, onion, salt, and egg and mix well. Divide mixture into 12 equal portions and place one portion on each leaf. Roll up, tuck ends in and fasten with wooden picks.
- Heat oil in heavy skillet or Dutch oven and brown the cabbage rolls for 10 minutes.
- Combine tomato sauce, water, brown sugar and lemon juice and add to skillet. Simmer cabbage rolls for 1 hour, covered.
- Serve hot.
TRUTH! TIKTOK REFUGEES Broken their Silence – America Vs China
Have you ever witnessed a judge go completely ballistic and “lose it” in court?
I was a child welfare worker for a Native American tribe and often appeared in the courtroom of a local county judge. She was a fair but strict judge, but she did have a reputation for her temper. I often worked with the state child welfare caseworkers, and tried to be an extra set of eyes because we all knew how underfunded and understaffed the state Department of Human Services was.
On my way to court one day our tribal adoptions investigators stopped me and handed me a single sheet of paper, on state DHS letterhead. It outlined 6 counts of sexual misconduct charges against the potential adoptive father centering around his own children from around 15 to 20 years prior. I had been fighting most earnestly to get this family approved for adoption, as the little child had been in the system since the age of 17 months and had some sever emotional attachment issues, I wanted to find a suitable home before permanent mental and emotional damage had been inflicted by the system. The state DHS had assured me this family had been properly vetted and were totally suitable and a good fit for the child. I am very glad our own tribal adoption investigators had discovered the truth! I was also furious this loving “Christian” man had pulled the wool over our collective eyes, this adoption case had been going on for over a year.
We were already in the trial period where the little 4 year old was spending 2 or 3 nights a week with the adoptive family to ease out of foster care and into a new adoptive family life! I quickly made several copies of the paper to give all involved parties, child’s attorney, state’s attorney, D.A. Judge, CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocate for children volunteer), and ironically enough, the DHS caseworker.
When court convened I was called to testify. I called a halt to the proceedings, to the shock of all involved. I had been the biggest champion of the adoptive couple, now I was saying “No way!”. I immediately requested a sidebar to speak with the judge. I gave her a copy of the damning paper and she sat there stone cold silent. She then called all of the other official parties up to the bench and told the bailiff to clear the courtroom. Even the CASAs were told to leave. I was terrified, because I knew her reputation for temper. We even had a fund back at the office to bail out our workers in case she lost it and one of us were given an overnight invitation to the county jail. I was already working on what I would tell my supervisor in my one phone call. My heart was in my shoes and my stomach was filled with cold lead.
The DA, the child’s attorney, the DHS worker, and her supervisor all gathered at the bench staring at me as if I has sprouted a third eye or something. I quietly handed each of them a copy of the paper. They each took a moment to read it and all eyes turned toward the DHS worker and her supervisor. That is when all hell broke loose. The judge exploded! She screamed at the DHS supervisor, not the worker, “HOW IS IT POSSIBLE YOU DID NOT FIND THIS WHEN IT IS FROM YOUR OWN RECORDS!?!?!? THIS IS ON YOUR OWN LETTERHEAD! HOW INCOMPETENT ARE YOUR PEOPLE?!?!? Why is the tribal worker giving me information you should have found months ago?!?! That is not their job, that is YOUR JOB!!!” She then stood, picked up the case file (which was very thick) and threw it across the courtroom, nearly hitting the court reporter in the process. She then spent the next 10 minutes or so yelling like a banshee at the state worker and her supervisor, who cowardly threw her own worker under the bus.
I felt horrible. But I had protected the child from a possible bad life, and that was my first priority. The judge put me in charge of finding and vetting the next potential adoptive family and told the state to follow the tribe’s lead. I had a state worker shadowing me for the rest of that case. That was a very strange turn of events. A suitable family was found and the little child is now a lovely teen in high school, doing well, involved in sports and extracurriculars. I get regular updates and even saw the child on a billboard advertisement, as they have become involved in some local modeling. The family stays in touch with me and I am very glad a potential travesty was averted.
But I will never forget the day I witnessed first hand someone get “POSTED”, the term everyone in that county used for when judge Post would fly crazy in court.
American TikTokers Angry After Joined Chinese App RedNote
Very good summary of what is going on.
What was the worst gift you ever received?
My mom died during childbirth, so for 10 years of my life all I had was my dad, until he told me that he had been diagnosed with cancer and wouldn’t have long to live. He gifted me a flash drive with videos I was supposed to open up on each of my birthdays so he could be there for me in spirit. He sent me to live with my grandparents, saying he wanted me to remember him as he was. I was heartbroken, but felt so loved that my dad put so much thought into making sure I never felt too far from him. Last year was my 27th birthday, and I went to watch the video with my grandparents, just like every year, when suddenly my grandpa said he couldn’t do it anymore. He said he had something to tell me and revealed that I was old enough to know the truth, that my dad never actually had cancer. He felt like it was too much to raise me by himself, so he lied about his sickness to make sure I let him go. I refused to believe him at first until he literally called my dad and put him on speaker. He sounded so much younger in the videos, but I would recognize my dad’s voice anywhere. My grandpa gave me his address and told me that he had made a new life for himself, and I shouldn’t take whatever I found personally. I showed up at his front door and met his wife. She knew who I was instantly and told me I wasn’t welcome inside. I begged to just speak to my dad and she threatened to call the cops. Just as I was leaving, I saw my dad pull up into their driveway. As soon as he saw me, he backed out and took off. I went straight home and deleted every single birthday video.
REACTION TO Simple Minds Someone Somewhere In Summertime Live 1983 | THE WOLF HUNTERZ REACTIONS
Could the US pull ahead of China in the automation of maritime supply chains, or has China already solidified its lead?
The United States is almost Insignificant and not ranked in the industry of maritime supply chains, let alone in the automation aspect of it.
Essentially, the maritime supply chain involves ships that carry goods across the sea, machinery that transfers goods between the shore and the ships, and equipment that moves goods around the terminals in the ports. Below is a rough illustration.
My job involves the sales and service of components supplied to the shipbuilding and port machinery industries for over 30 years. Throughout this time, I have been closely monitoring the trends and changes within these sectors.
Nowadays, the U.S. is not even in the running in these fields.
In 2024, China delivered 58% (51% in 2023, as shown in the chart below) of the world’s ship, while the U.S. only 0.1%.
In the harbor machinery and equipment sectors, China has maintained approximately 70% of the global market share for many years. Chinese companies ZPMC and SANY have delivered around 70% of the world’s STS (ship-to-shore) cranes, RTGs (rubber-tired gantry cranes), RMGs (rail-mounted gantry cranes), reach stackers, and straddle carriers. In addition to these two, there are also another 4–5 smaller Chinese players.
European companies such as Liebherr, Konecranes, and Cargotec etc. are also major players in the industry.
I have attached some photos of one of ZPMC’s factories to give you a sense of its breathtaking scale. I still remember my visit to this factory in 2010, together with a CEO from a European port crane manufacturer. As we viewed the colossal setup from a high-rise watchtower, the CEO shook his head and remarked to his colleague: ‘There is no way we could beat them.’
Bite Me
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Write a story from the POV of a zombie, mutant, or infected creature.… view prompt
Murray Burns
Bite Me
“All those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
-Fredrich Nietzsche
Shady Lawn Hospital for People Who Have Gone Woo-woo
“Doctor Flang, your next patient is here. Mr. Z. Omby. He has insurance and his appointments are fully covered.”
“Good, good. And what’s his problem, Becky?”
“He thinks he’s a zombie.”
“Wow, the guy must really be off his rocker. Show him in.”
Mr. Omby shuffled his way into Dr. Flang’s office. He was a tall man, with weathered skin and shaggy hair. He walked stiff-legged with his arms raised above his waist. His eyes were wide open.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Omby. Would you like to sit down or would you prefer to lie down on the sofa? It’s quite comfy.”
“Thank you, but I would prefer to stand.”
“You want to stand… like that, with your arm raised in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a little unusual, but I want you to feel comfortable during our session.”
“Thank you.”
“So, Mr. Omby, I see here that… Mr. Omby, would you mind not hovering over me like that? It’s a little… intimidating.”
“Of course.”
Mr. Omby took a step backward.
“Uh, another step or two back…”
“Certainly.”
“So, Mr. Omby, I see here from Becky’s notes that you think you are a zombie. Is that correct?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. Identity transference can be challenging.”
“No identity transference going on here, Doc. I am a zombie.”
“I see. I’ll give you this, Mr. Omby, you certainly look the part.”
“Thank you. We zombies pride ourselves on our appearance.”
The being before him was a disheveled mess- dirt on his forehead and both cheeks, dusty brown hair darting out in all directions, a sport coat torn at the shoulder and three sizes too big, trousers cut off at the knees, and barefoot.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Thank you.”
“So, can I assume you came to us to rid yourself of this delusion that you are a zombie?”
“No, sir. I am a zombie. I thought you could help me cope with the way the world treats me. Just because I’m a little different people fear me. I’m shunned out there, Doc. It’s hard to make friends. Getting girls to out with me is darn near impossible. It’s not easy being a zombie.”
This circumstance was not covered in Med School, nor had Doctor Flang encountered a case where a patient believed he was a zombie. During his twenty-seven years of practice, he had three Batmans, two Chuckles the Clown, and one chicken… but no zombies.
“Mr. Omby, part of what I do here is try+ to get my patients to face reality. In your case, we will work on getting you to understand you aren’t really a zombie.”
“Doc, do you think I’d look like this if I weren’t a zombie? Seriously. No, I’m a zombie alright.”
Doctor Flang glanced at Becky who was making circular motions near her head with her index finger.
“Well, let’s try this. What do you think a zombie is?”
“Half dead, half alive, not quite dead, sort of dead, dead but making a comeback. Me.”
“I see.”
“Part of the problem is the way we’re portrayed on TV and in the movies. It all started back in 1968 with the movie Night of the Living Dead. They portrayed us as a bunch of soulless monsters in search of warm human flesh to munch on. Ridiculous. I’d rather eat spinach and Brussel sprouts the rest of my life than rip a chunk of meat out of your neck, chew it up, and suck every ounce of blood out of your body.”
“That’s comforting to hear.”
“The Walking Dead sealed it. A whole generation got their impressions of zombies from that show. Zombies are always portrayed as the bad guys. And they always have hideous characters playing the roles of zombies. You never see someone like George Clooney, Brad Pitt, or Matt Damon cast in the role of a zombie. No, they take no-name, nondescript men and women, slop some dark eye shadow all over their faces, and have them walk around like they’re asleep. They don’t even have any lines. You don’t get to know them. No character development. No insights into their backgrounds, their families, their work, their likes and dislikes, their favorite color. I can understand why we are so misunderstood. I’m just having a hard time coping with it.”
“I’m beginning to understand. I can see where life as a zombie would be tough. I feel for you.”
“Thank you, Becky. Everyone worries I’m going to grab hold of them and bite them. It’s the other way around. Every nasty look I get hurts. It’s like these people are biting me.”
Doctor Flang was thinking. Does he follow a plan to convince Mr. Omby that he is not a zombie, or does he assist the poor fellow in coping with his life as a zombie? He often sought the advice of his trusted assistant, Becky.
“Becky, could you please join me in the other room? Mr. Omby, you wait right here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Doctor Flang and Becky sat down in the conference room.
“I’d like your opinion on this one, Becky. Crack the shell of his delusion, or help him to better cope with his life of a zombie?”
“Either way, the guy is bat-shit crazy. He’s kind of cute in an odd sort of way, but bat-shit crazy for sure. If he really believes he’s a zombie, it might be dangerous to shatter his delusion, so I think it would be better to help him better adjust to his zombie identity. Besides, it’s kind of funny to be dealing with a guy who thinks he’s a zombie. This could be as good as the old geezer who thought he was a chicken.”
“I agree. Let’s rejoin our zombie friend.”
“So, Mr. Omby, what kind of problems do you encounter out there in the world?”
“For starters, when people see me, they laugh, point their fingers at me, and call me names.”
“Don’t let that bother you. Ignore them. I know words can be hurtful, but remember, sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.”
“Well, the children do throw things at me… sometimes sticks and stones.”
“I see.”
“And when I get closer, everyone runs away screaming. It doesn’t do much for my self-esteem.”
“Well, Mr. Omby, you do look a little… shall we say… different. A lot of times people have a negative reaction to anything that is different. It may make them feel uncomfortable, even afraid. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s their problem, not yours.”
“It sure feels like my problem. It’s like people don’t think zombies have feelings.”
“And what other troubles do you encounter as a zombie?”
“Loneliness. I don’t like being alone. I think that’s the main problem. There are stores on Main Street with a sign on the door that says ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service… and No Zombies.’ I have nowhere to go to meet people. There used to be a zombie bar in town, but that closed down years ago. It’s not so bad at night. That’s when a lot of people are alone. It’s the daytime hours that hurt. I see people walking on sidewalks, talking, smiling, laughing, even holding hands. That’s when I wish I weren’t… different. I feel like there’s something wrong with me. It’s no fun being alone.”
Doctor Flang’s demeanor turned serious. Becky’s mood turned sympathetic.
“Becky, into the conference again, please.”
The two puzzled professionals sat in silence at the large wooden table. Becky’s “bat-shit crazy” comment had lost some of its humor.
“What do you think, Becky?”
“I feel bad for the guy, Doctor.”
“So do I. I just don’t know what we can do for him. I feel like I’d be violating my professional duties if we would accommodate his delusions. Maybe we should go back to Plan A.”
“I’m not so sure. It seems like he’s been hurt enough. I don’t know that we should hurt him anymore. He thinks he’s a zombie. So what? Who’s hurt by that? Let him live in his world. Let’s just make life better for him. I’m sure we can come up with some coping mechanisms. That’s your specialty, Doctor.”
“I’ve already got something in mind.”
“What’s that?”
“Extreme Makeover, Becky.”
Arlene’s House of Beauty
“Thanks for taking me here, Becky.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Omby. Besides, I’m on the clock. I’ll get Arlene. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Becky found Arlene in the beauty shop’s backroom.
“We’re here, Arlene. I brought the guy I told you about. Do your best.”
“Of course.”
“And, Arlene, he’s a little sensitive about his appearance so be gentle. Don’t show any reaction. Just treat him like any of your customers”
“No problem. I judge no one.”
Arlene stopped dead in her tracks when she entered the salon.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell is that?! The guy looks like a freaking zombie!”
“Dammit Arlene!”
Mr. Omby lowered his head and headed for the door.”
“I should probably just leave. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Arlene recovered, partly due to her basic sense of humanity and compassion, and perhaps even more likely because of the promised $100 makeover fee.
“I’m so sorry. That was rude. Please sit down, Mr. Omby.”
Another sympathetic look from Becky. Hearing about Mr. Omby’s plight upset her. Seeing it first-hand touched her heart.
City Sidewalk
A smiling Becky and an awkward Mr. Omby walked down the sidewalk. Mr. Omby’s face was clean, his hair neatly trimmed and slicked back, and he was dressed in a three-piece dark blue suit. His awkward gait was barely noticeable.
“Mr Omby, you look downright dapper.”
“Thank you, Becky, but I do feel a little out of place.”
“Did you notice, Mr. Omby?”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve walked by a dozen or so people, and no one was laughing.”
Doctor Flang’s Office
“Mr. Omby! I hardly recognized you. You look terrific.”
“Thank you, Doctor Flang. I guess I look better, but I feel a little funny in the new clothes.”
“You’ll get used to it. Becky, you’re doing a splendid job. Now we just need to work on… let’s say… some of your physical movements. I mean we can’t have you walking around with your extended in front of you. I think good manners and proper behavior will help the cause. Becky?”
“I’m on it, sir.”
Francine’s School of Proper Etiquette, Posture, and Grace
“No, Mr. Omby. Get those arms down lower, hands at your side. Now when you walk, swing her arms ever so gently.”
“Like this, Francine?”
“Better, but you still move like your body has been doused in starch, and your feet are encased in cement.”
“Sorry, Francine.”
Becky watched the exercise with a questioning look of concern, empathy, and worry.
“Now, let’s do the ‘set the table’ exercise again. And try not to screw up the placement of your salad fork again.”
“Sorry, Francine.”
Doctor Flang’s Office
“Another big step forward, Mr. Omby. That Francine is a freaking magician. This is just like Professor Henry Higgins and Eliza Dolittle. We’re going to make a sophisticated gentleman out of a zombie! Another good job, Becky.”
“Uh… thanks, Doctor Flang.”
“Let’s see the walk one more time, Mr. Omby. And a little slower on the turn.”
“Yes, sir Doc.”
“Becky, he’s still a little stiff. His movements just need to be a little more natural… relaxed. See what you can do.”
“Yes, Doctor Flang.”
Lenore’s Dancing School for the Clumsy
“Alright, switch partners, and let’s try it again. Mr. Omby, loosen up a little. Bend at the knees, and turn your hips a little. This isn’t a walk of the zombies.”
Ouch. Mr. Omby lowered his head and looked down at the floor. Becky’s heart ached and a tiny little tear started to form in the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry, Lenore. I’ll try to do better.”
Doctor Flang’s Office
“Tonight’s the big night, Becky. Dinner at Henri’s, the fanciest restaurant in town. The result of all of our work… mostly yours. Mr. Omby, the former zombie, will come across as a refined gentleman. What time are you meeting him?”
“Eight o’clock, in front of Henri’s.”
Outside the Front Entrance to Henri’s
Becky paced in front of Henri’s. Eight o’clock, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. Finally, out of the shadows and under the glow of a street light, a figure emerged, tall, with disheveled hair, walking stiff-legged, and with his arms extended in front of him. A stunned Becky watched him approach.
“Hello, Becky.”
“Uh… hello, Mr. Omby.”
“I’m sorry, Becky. I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t me anymore. Are you mad at me?”
“No, Mr. Omby, I’m not mad at you.”
“I’m a zombie, Becky. That’s who I am. World, take it or leave it. Mr. Omby is a zombie.”
A slight smile appeared on Becky’s face.
“So, I guess I better be heading home. Good night, Becky.”
“Hold on there, Mr. Omby, we have a dinner date. I made a reservation, and we’re going in there for dinner.”
“You’d go in there with me looking like this, like a zombie?”
“Zombie or not, you’re Mr. Omby to me, and we’re going to dinner.”
“You won’t be embarrassed to be with me?”
“If anyone doesn’t like it, well… they can just bite me.”
Mr. Omby smiled for the first time in years. As they walked up the steps, Becky paused and looked at Mr. Omby.
“Mr. Omby, I do have one question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
AMERICAN APOLOGISES FOR NOT LEARNING MANDARIN SOON ENOUGH|BREAKTHROUGHS IN CHINESE LANGUAGE REDNOTE
Cool.
Sir Whiskerton and the Scarecrow Strikes Back: A Tale of Hypnotized Hay, Pranks, and Feline Diplomacy
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of mischief, magic, and one very confused scarecrow who decided to take matters into his own straw-filled hands. Today’s story is one of hypnotic hijinks, farmyard pranks, and a cat who proved that even the most unlikely adversaries deserve a little respect—if only to avoid chaos. So, grab your sense of humor and a bag of popcorn (for snacking), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Scarecrow Strikes Back: A Tale of Hypnotized Hay, Pranks, and Feline Diplomacy.
The Hypnotic Scheme
It all began on a quiet morning when Edgar the crow, ever the bold and brazen trickster, decided to have a little fun. “Watch this,” he cawed to his fellow crows, his beady eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m going to hypnotize the scarecrow into thinking he’s alive. Then we’ll sit back and watch the chaos unfold!”
The crows cackled with glee as Edgar swooped down to the scarecrow, who stood motionless in the middle of the cornfield. “Listen carefully, my straw-filled friend,” Edgar said, his voice low and hypnotic. “You are not just a scarecrow. You are alive. You can move. You can think. You can… prank!”
The scarecrow blinked his button eyes and tilted his head. “I… I can?” he said in a creaky voice.
“Yes!” Edgar said, flapping his wings dramatically. “Now go forth and cause some mischief!”
The Scarecrow’s Reign of Pranks
With his newfound sense of life, the scarecrow set out to make his mark on the farm. His first target was Doris the hen, who was busy pecking at the ground. “Boo!” the scarecrow said, leaping out from behind a hay bale.
Doris squawked in alarm, flapping her wings wildly. “What in the name of cluck is going on?!” she cried.
“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.
“Head!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of straw.
Next, the scarecrow turned his attention to Rufus the dog, who was napping in the shade. “Wakey-wakey!” the scarecrow said, poking Rufus with his straw-filled hand.
Rufus yelped and leapt to his feet, his fur standing on end. “What the—?!” he barked, looking around in confusion.
The scarecrow’s pranks continued, each one more elaborate than the last. He tied Porkchop the pig’s tail in a knot, filled Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow’s love beads with mud, and even convinced Ferdinand the Duck that he had been cast in an opera about scarecrows.
Sir Whiskerton Investigates
As the chaos unfolded, I knew it was time to intervene. “This is getting out of hand,” I said, flicking my tail. “We need to find out what’s going on.”
I enlisted the help of Sebastian the tomcat, the farm’s mysterious and centuries-old feline. “Sebastian,” I said, “we need to break the spell on the scarecrow before he starts demanding snacks.”
Sebastian, ever the enigmatic figure, nodded solemnly. “Very well,” he said, adjusting his bowler hat. “But be warned—this may require… unconventional methods.”
Breaking the Spell
With Sebastian’s guidance, we confronted the scarecrow in the cornfield. “Listen here, you overstuffed haystack,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Your pranks have gone too far. It’s time to put an end to this nonsense.”
The scarecrow crossed his arms (or at least tried to, given his limited mobility). “Why should I?” he said. “I’m alive now! I can do whatever I want!”
Sebastian stepped forward, his extra claws glinting in the sunlight. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But true life comes with responsibilities. And respect. If you continue down this path, you’ll only alienate those around you.”
The scarecrow hesitated, his button eyes flickering with uncertainty. “But… but Edgar said I could do whatever I want!”
“Edgar is a trickster,” I said, flicking my tail. “And tricksters rarely have your best interests at heart.”
The Moral of the Story
As the scarecrow pondered our words, the animals reflected on the day’s events.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Even straw brains deserve respect—if only to avoid trouble. Whether you’re a scarecrow, a crow, or a cat with a knack for solving mysteries, treating others with kindness and understanding is the key to harmony. And while a little mischief can be fun, it’s important to know when to draw the line.
A Happy Ending
With the spell broken, the scarecrow returned to his post in the cornfield, his button eyes once again staring blankly into the distance. The animals, relieved to have their peace restored, returned to their usual routines. Even Edgar, though initially disappointed, admitted that the scarecrow’s pranks had been a little too much.
As for me, I returned to my favorite sunbeam on the barn roof, content in the knowledge that I had once again saved the day. The scarecrow was back to normal, the farm was at peace, and all was right in the world.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new pranks, and hopefully, no more hypnotized scarecrows. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Do you leave a tip if the service is bad?
I don’t remember all the tips we left but the one that comes to mind was we left a $0.01 tip. Yes, you read that right. Here’s what happened.
We went for a vacation down in San Diego and we went to a Mexican restaurant. I ordered the chicken fajitas. The meal comes out with no rice and beans. I asked the waitress she tells me it doesn’t come with it. Odd, I thought. It usually comes with this.
My oldest son, probably 8 at the time, happy kid, was also served his food. He got excited for some reason. The waitress very rudely said “wow. I never seen anyone get excited over a meal before.”
Oh mother fucker you don’t go there with my family. I got up, grabbed that plate of food and smeared it right in that bitches face and said “I bet you think that’s funny don’t you?” — Ok that never happened, but I wanted it to. We were surprised by what she said and when the check came, we left a one cent tip.
Cryptids Vol. 3: The Antarctic Cover-up | Predators Beneath the Ice
Shorpy
Love Is The Drug – Roxy Music | Andy & Alex FIRST TIME REACTION!
So Australia, how are you liking our new muscle cars such as the Mustang and Camaro? Do they remind you of your great now long gone auto industry in any way?
Well I’ve got to say, I’m not impressed. And I own one of these:
First of all, the seat is way too hard. For a so-called grand tourer, I expect a very comfortable seat. Instead my bum is aching after about 40 minutes. After an hour, I’m more than happy to be heading home. I never feel refreshed after a long drive unlike a Mitsubishi Ralliart I had before the Mustang.
Second the seatbelt is horrendous as it digs into the side of my neck. As if the hard seat isn’t bad enough, the seatbelt is even worse.
And I had none of these problems with an Australian made car – ever. Sure there may have been minor irritations, but nothing like these.
Now sure, the 0–100 kph time of the Mustang is great, the handling is just as good, and it is surprisingly economical on the open road, but these things hardly make up for the two issues which really annoy the crap out of me. Honestly I prefer driving my old 1966 Hi-Po Mustang instead.
Which of Mao Zedong’s teachings have most influenced your worldview?
Let’s skip the usual talk about independence and resilience.
Instead, I’d like to share a lesser-known aspect of Mao Zedong, one that many Westerners might not be familiar with: his lifelong advocacy for reading.
Mao Zedong was a voracious reader.
The breadth and depth of his reading rivaled even those of scholars who dedicated their entire lives to books.
He once said, “My greatest passion in life is reading. I can go a day without food or sleep, but never a day without books.”
He also remarked, “If I had ten years left to live, I’d spend nine years, eleven months, and thirty days reading.”
True to his words, even on his final day—September 8, 1976—while hospitalized with IV drips in his limbs, cardiac monitors on his chest, and a feeding tube in his nose, he insisted on having books and documents held up for him to read.
He did this 11 times that day,September 8, 1976.
He passed away at 0:10 AM on September 9,1976.
His room housed 100,000 books.
His bed, though large, was half-covered with volumes so he could read comfortably while lying down.
（Pictured above: Mao Zedong’s bedroom）
Here’s an ironic anecdote: Something he could easily do as a poor young man became complicated after he rose to power.
In 1954, hearing that Peking University Library had acquired a rare edition of Dream of the Red Chamber, Mao Zedong sent his secretary with a special request to borrow it.
The librarian refused, citing strict rules. (The library later made an exception, lending it for one month. Mao Zedong returned it in 28 days.)
Why was this easier for him as a youth?
Because he had once been the librarian at Peking University Library when he was young.
I often wonder: Had he not pursued his mission to save China, he might have happily remained a librarian his whole life. (My uncle worked as librarian at Peking University Library his entire life—a simple, book-filled existence he cherished)
Mao Zedong’s reading ranged astonishingly wide and deep.
He famously annotated China’s Twenty-Four Histories—3,296 volumes chronicling dynastic rises and falls—with dense marginal notes.
These annotations, now a national treasure, reveal a world-class mind dissecting our history.
Some notes are surprisingly candid.
For instance, after historical texts praised Emperor Taizong of Song as wise, Mao Zedong scribbled: “But incompetent.”
He later summarized the emperor’s military failures: “He knew nothing of warfare. The Khitan repeatedly lured his forces into traps, yet he never learned.”
With those words, Mao Zedong cemented Taizong’s reputation as a militarily inept ruler—a judgment historians still cite today.
Few Chinese ever finish the Twenty-Four Histories.
Even at 50, I’ve met only a handful who’ve read them all.
One high school teacher who did so became legendary among students.
Yet Mao Zedong read them while leading a revolution and governing a nation—likely multiple times, while adding commentary.
He also read the 294-volume Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Governance 17 times in his life.
Even obscure regional chronicles, like the Reading Notes on Historical Geography—a massive work few Chinese today know—received his attention.
His global reading informed his uncanny foresight in international affairs.
This aspect of his was inherited from our ancestors and had a great influence on later generations.
During the Long March, soldiers carried wooden boards with characters strapped to their backs.
Each day, troops marching behind would learn the words ahead.
By journey’s end, they’d mastered thousands.
Later, Mao Zedong’s literacy campaigns lifted 80% of China’s population from illiteracy—even in remote areas like my hometown.
I once reflected on my childhood, when my family was poorer than many in Africa.
We couldn’t even afford a thermos and instead used straw insulation—a method invented by the ancients 2,000 years ago.
（This thing is impossible to find now, I found something similar, woven straw, a simple insulation measure.）
Yet, even as a young child, I knew some rare and obscure Chinese characters.
Why?
One crucial reason was that even in the desperately poor small town where I grew up, there were three libraries.
They weren’t large, but their collections were surprisingly substantial!
A children’s library card allowed borrowing two books at a time, while an adult card permitted five.
But, as is often the case in China—a society built on personal connections—my father approached the librarians at all three libraries, likely offering some small favors.
As a result, I could openly use his library card to borrow books, making a round trip to check out 15 books at once!
I dare say that while raising an American child at the time might have cost 1,000 times more than raising me, but,the gap in access to books between us was nowhere near that wide.
It wasn’t until many years later that I came to understand: this was all thanks to Mao’s benevolent policies.
In a remote and impoverished area, he had built three libraries.
I hope my answer gives you something new to think about.
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Easter Egg: Stealing Books…
First, I must admit, this is utterly wrong. But…
“窃书不能算偷……窃书！……读书人的事，能算偷么？”
“引得众人都哄笑起来：店内外充满了快活的空气。”
“Stealing a book is not theft,” which means “taking a book without permission isn’t considered stealing” (Chinese readers will surely smile knowingly here, and the air will be filled with a lively atmosphere).
Forgive me for struggling to translate this into English; it’s a little secret that makes my compatriots and me share a knowing smile ：)
Again, I admit it’s wrong, it’s a crime. But books are precious, and everyone wants them. For example, “The New World of Mr. Tompkins”.
(The New World of Mr. Tompkins)
I liked it so much, but other kids liked it too. So, there was a simple solution: claim it was lost after borrowing it! The rule was to compensate five times the price. Some kids, coming from wealthy families, could afford to do this. But it was almost half a month’s salary for my father, and my family was poor, so we couldn’t manage that.
Finally, I “borrowed” it… I invented a method: walk in, hands in my coat, thumb and forefinger gripping the book through the fabric, and then walk out naturally…
Life was like that, worrying about being caught, being beaten, trembling with fear, “borrowing” books.
In Jack London’s “Love of Life,” the protagonist, even after being rescued, still steals bread and hides it under his bed.
I understand him.
Many years later, while browsing on Taobao, I came across a set of books that I had loved dearly during my childhood but couldn’t afford at the time.
Back then, I borrowed them from a friend and asked my mother for money to buy paper so I could manually copy them.
When I saw that the set was only 17 yuan (about 3 dollars) on Taobao, I lost all reason and bought all five sets, each in over 95% new condition.
……
Later, one year, a very good friend of mine became the administrator of the largest library in my hometown. He was handsome, girls liked him, but he didn’t like reading. I helped him with his work—he has time to date girls, and I can read books at will!
This was great for both of us, a win-win!
Then, that year, after a flood hit, the higher-ups asked for a report on the library’s losses. For those few months, he didn’t come to work; it was all me during my summer vacation. I asked him how to report it. He said, just report 500 books, soaked by the flood, gone.
I said, no, not a single one, I defended our library with sandbags!
He said, are you stupid? Don’t you like books? Then take 500, and I’ll tell the higher-ups that this year’s flood was super big, but after our bloody battle, we only lost 513 books! As for which 513, take whichever you like, just make sure the total is 513.
So, my collection grew by 513 books…
(This friend is my best buddy, we have a great relationship. But, honestly, the Chairman opposed people like me and him all his life… T_T)
Gas Station at the End of the World
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Write a story from the POV of a zombie, mutant, or infected creature.… view prompt
Asia W
You are unclean.
Neither of you are clean in the ways which matter.
Her tongue globes through the flesh of her cheek, pearled and sunburnt. Here she is, backlit, a messiah in the buttery sunburst of the open door. She shuffles down the collar of her aviator jacket and bares her throat. Skin the colour of burnt almonds, the colour of coffee and milk. No marks; nothing to see here. You lift your hair, present your throat to the boy behind the counter, hold your palm over the greening nape of your neck.
You are the only thing that marks Marie.
She leans against the counter and shoots a smile with too many teeth, a scattering of pebbles.
“That good enough for you, captain?”
“Sure.” He nods once, then twice. The traffic mirror in the corner of the shop chokes down your reflections and spits them back up a little bloated, a little faded. Seeing yourself is always like this these days; like staring down the dead. Seeing yourself is always like this these days; too near to swallowing glass.
——
The evening is the colour of an unripe plum and swallowed in the stench of motor fumes. Pools of gasoline smile up at you from the kicked-up pavement, raked through with purple and gold. Everything is quiet, unmoving. The boy sits down on the curb and you and Marie follow. He slaps three sweaty cans of Pepsi down by the toes of his roughed-up combat boots and gestures at you to take them. The tab slips under your fingertips and the drink goes down your throat like half-dead stars, a little flat in its violence. Sugar grits behind your molars, leaves your bottom lip rough and sticky.
The boy struggles with the pocket of his red plaid jacket, long hair curling over the grey hollow of his left under-eye. He places a joint between his lips where it hangs like a cut of straw. The boy cups his hands, ignites a match, and paints his jaw golden.
“I grow it in the back,” he nods at Marie, “Got a neat set up. Proper mattress, VCR, food, clearly.”
Marie stretches out her legs,
“Cool it Romeo, we’re not truck stop hookers. Just proper poor, poor, starving ladies.”
“Ha. You’re hardly my type,” He ashes his joint against the curb, “And we actually call ‘em ‘lot lizards’.”
He blows out a plume of silver smoke that curls over his hooked nose like the strokes of the Van Gogh paintings that you studied tirelessly in art class. He pulls a chapped, red-covered notebook from his back pocket and thumbs his way to the middle of it. He takes a pen from behind his ear and clicks it.
“You two gonna talk or what?”
——
In the beginning, you stole the car from her father’s impound. A Chevrolet the colour of spoiled salmon, scraped to ribbons of silver at the bumper.
“This is a bad idea,” You’d said, the mark at the base of your neck not yet the size of a fingertip and your fear of loneliness the only thing bigger than your guilt.
“There are no bad ideas,” she said, a lollipop bleeding sticky red over her bottom lip, “Only lame-ass bitches.”
She dangled the key under your nose,
“Come on, Thelma. Let me be your Louise.”
She wasn’t a film buff, so you didn’t say anything; omitted the detail of a car swooping over the Grand Canyon, of certain death blacked out only by rolling credits.
Fear makes monsters of us all.
At school, folded behind gum-stuck English desks, you’d studied a book about sailors, so from the stretch between your hometown and Nashville you played at being pirates. The static cracks of Billy Joel songs pushed through the radio became sea shanties. The silver insignia welded to the front of the truck became a sirenesque figurehead. You covered one eye with your palm and took from whoever you crossed paths with; dimpled cans of pears like minute treasure chests.
What you don’t tell the boy is of the chapter on gangrene, how the sailors would lop limbs off at the base to stop the swirling spread of disease. You don’t tell the boy of the joke, whispered through a cicada-heavy night, Marie’s fingers tracing your neck.
“Hack it off,” You’d said, “And we’ll end this mess once and for all.”
“I’d keep it on my mantle.”
But things felt different after this, and Billy Joel sang alone through the radio.
You tell the boy about the family Nashville, their slow-working faces, their mold-coloured skin. The girl, her child’s eyes reduced to hollows, her fists like rotted stone fruit, her teeth rusted with blood. What you don’t tell him is how in them you’d seen yourself and Marie had to settle you, palms at each side of your skull like a cage. You tell it through a different lens, keeping the three swift kills at the end of a snapped-off bedpost, the tins of food and bars of soap stolen away into a yellowed pillowcase, omitting the pale recognition of what was to come.
In the story “You have to leave me, I can’t have you end like this,” becomes, “They can’t be left, not with the disease spreading the way it is. There’s only monsters here.”
It’s true, really, if only sparing a few key details.
But he wants a better story and he tells you this, his fingernails planted between cracks of ashy asphalt, his heel crushing down on an empty Pepsi can. So you tell him the story about the girls kissing in sharpie-ridden bathroom stalls, hands locked under math-class tables. You tell him how you climbed your neighbour’s fence and stole into their pool, floated on your back in the water that did not belong to you, imagining that your eyes were someone else’s. How, at your first party, you drank too much and kissed a boy who was not a girl and felt like your lungs were burning. How, two years later, she kissed you behind a paint-peeled milk bar, and you felt like you had the final piece to a puzzle you didn’t even know you’d been solving.
Or should you say how these days memories come to you backwards, slotted into reverse?
Your father coughs blood into a handkerchief and then smokes twelve cigarettes, ashing them into his own urn.
You run away from something you cannot outrun with the girl and end up back in your bed, where the air is soapy clean and nothing has ever hurt you.
A newborn crawls back into her mother and makes a white-picket life in the gap before living.
Do you say how your own humanity is unravelling, but you won’t tell?
——
The boy leans back onto the cement, plaid-clad arms hoisting up his frail body. He looks at you, then Marie. In the melting sunlight, his eyes are bleached clementine. He flips his notebook shut and removes the ballpoint pen from between his lips, where it has left behind a bruise of watery ink. He stands and, one by one, kicks the cans standing before you. They roll off, scraping asphalt as they go, until they land and come to a stop in the middle of the vacant lot.
“I’m thirsty,” he says, “Wait here.”
As he leaves, he tosses the ballpoint pen in the air and catches it without looking, again and again. Sunlight scabs the red plaid of his shoulder blades. Once he’s swallowed up by the red and white haze of the gas station, Marie turns to you, takes your chin between her fingers. You clamp down on her wrist and try not to notice the press of bones, the sinews pressing against her skin like they might break away. You push her hand away.
“I’m poisonous, darling, don’t forget.”
——
The boy returns with one can of Pepsi, a buckknife, and a look in his eyes that spells ‘survivor’ like the scar under your skin spells ‘death.’ He is quiet, stripped of boister, and it takes a moment for you to register the press of a blade at the nape of your neck, pushing at your collar. You reach up to grab at his arm.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Marie moves to speak and he holds out his hand, pulls the bandana back up his crooked nose.
“Sorry ladies,” The knife-tip bites hard enough to draw blood, “You seem a nice pair but ‘nice’ isn’t worth my life.”
Marie’s hands move inside her jacket. The boy jerks his head, and the knife digs deeper,
“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.”
——
Here is a story the boy won’t hear; here is the story of why you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.
Here is the story where the boy is laid dead on the asphalt with a bullet buried between his barn-owl eyes, and all you can do is cover his face with his own bandana, ransack his home, and get in the car.
Here is the story where you slip pills tight between your molars and and the girl beside you says,
Spit, spit goddamn it. I’m not doing this alone.
But you both know you’re running on borrowed time.
Here is the cherry-coke air freshener penduluming from the rearview mirror. Here is the revolver set back in the glove box. Here are the fists beating the sun-singed dashboard, the ache of your fresh pearl knuckles.
You’re an asshole, you’re an asshole. Don’t talk, just drive.
He was going to kill you, you idiot, you sentimental moron.
Just drive.
Marie thinks that in order to be clean one must first be dirty. Marie thinks holiness is worth jack unless it lives first as sin.
Marie thinks a lot of things.
Here is the story where the girl holds out her hands as a saint and you spit mushy pills into her cupped palms like milk teeth, because you’ll do whatever she tells you, for better or worse. Here is the part where she pulls a coin from the dead boy’s wallet and places it face down on the back of her hand.
Heads or tails? Win or lose?
I don’t want to play anymore.
We’ve got a long way to go until the end, Red. Just play the game.
Can the “job destruction” effects by AI exacerbate deflation and further weaken China’s economy? Or will job losses eventually be replaced by jobs in other sectors as Goldman Sachs predicts?
China is not in deflation. The economy is not declining, but vibrant. Businesses are not retrenching, but expanding. Employment is stable and rising, the annual jobs creation steady at 11 million. Household income and savings are rising. Consumer expenditure is rising. The society is in the state of confidence and jubilance, not malaise.
What it is is an economy growing at 5%, twice the US pace and 4 times the other rich countries. CPI at +0.5% to +1%. No inflation as it did not need to pour trillions into the economy during Covid-19 to salvage it. These are the signs of an economy growing at a sustainable pace, not the signs of a weak economy. If these were US numbers, it would be hailed as an unprecedented achievement.
China has a dynamic growth economy that is in transition to a high-tech/green-tech economy. Jobs creation and jobs destruction are the essence of this process. The transformation of the traditional industries by new technologies and digitalisation has speed up.
AI is new. DeepSeek’s open-source has democratized it. For sure this would generate wide applications, greater power, algorithmic efficiencies, innovations, and ever rising uses. Already there are collaborations of AI with EVs, smartphones, other consumer electronics, and manufacturing. There would be productivity gains and new demands will be created. The net result may well be jobs creation rather than jobs destruction, bearing in mind that China’s is an industrialized economy.
Meanwhile, the level of confidence is high. On 17 February, President X Jinping met with leaders of tens of China’s high tech companies. He told them – the opportunities are immense. It is time they use their talents.
Pennsylvania Dutch Cherry Pie
Ingredients
- 1 pastry circle from 15 ounce refrigerated pie crust
- 2 (21 ounce) cans cherry pie filling
- 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon grated orange peel
- 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
- 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/3 cup butter or margarine
- 1/4 cup unblanched almonds
Instructions
- Heat oven to 425 degrees F.
- Fit pie crust into a 9 inch pie plate. Lightly dampen underside of crust and turn edge under pressing firmly to rim of pie plate.
- In a large bowl, combine pie filling and orange peel. Spoon into pie crust. Set aside.
- In a small bowl combine flour, sugar and cinnamon. Using pastry cutter or blender, cut in butter until it resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle mixture over cherry pie filling, covering completely and evenly.
- Bake for 20 minutes until filling is hot and top is golden brown.
- Sprinkle with almonds.
What is the saddest thing you’ve ever seen?
WARNING!!! ELDERLY DUMPING IS QUITE COMMON PLACE!
An elderly woman, wheelchair bound. Nursing Home could no longer keep her, no one’s sure if it was family or relative, but they came and picked her up and at night dropped her in the rear end parking lot of a church and left her there.
The storms came in, torrential rain, throughout the night. Then came the morning, when one of the church volunteer stopped by. They found an elderly woman, (estimated age – approximately 89 to 94) bound to the wheelchair, soaking wet, her diaper was soiled, with the blanket wrapped around her (that was also soaking wet).
She could not talk, she showed signs of possibility having Alzheimer’s. There were no form of identification at all. No markings, not a single clue where she came from, who she is, why she was placed here. If she was on medication, there were no way of knowing.
She was not capable of moving (in other words, she couldn’t use the wheelchair, she needed help).
I was called because the Church’s Senior Pastor was on vacation and the assistant Pastor was out of town, and all the Elders were at work, and one of the Elders told the person to call me and gave him my telephone number.
When I arrived, the Office personnel already took the woman to the Gym, to give her a bath. The Men went into the storage to pull out “yard sale items” for the upcoming Church Yard Sale. The Elder’s wife was rummaging through them trying to find a dress and some “PJ’s”. The other women (Ladies Bible Study group), were already in the gym – found her some diapers, and were clothing her.
Then one stated, that we had no idea what happened, the Maintenance men were reviewing the cameras, and it doesn’t show anyone being there before the power outage (power went out for almost 7 hours), then around 3 in the morning, there’s a woman in a wheelchair sitting there in the parking lot. I mean, no one even bothered her to put her by the sidewalk where she could at least have overhead shelter from the storm.
One found a hair dryer, and a couple of women were blow drying her hair. As for this elderly woman’s reaction – remained “neutral”.
At that time, I had rapport with just about ALL Nursing Homes, Assisted Facilities, and Specialized Homes. No one had a woman removed, like several had remarked, she might not be from this area. (Which I would term this “Out of Range”.)
Yes, I am fully aware that Nursing Home Administration “lies” just to cover their backsides.
Once that woman was all dolled up, I spied a Baby Bib, and told them to “Give her Baby food” – I wanted to see how she could eat (If she could swallow). They fed her squash, applesauce, and decided to give her “chicken noodle soup”, which she slurped that happily. She is not able to feed herself, someone has to feed her.
The Law Enforcement Elder Officer was present, we were going through laundry lists. There were some females (and males) that were evicted and put out in the streets (yes, that’s 100% legal), but none of them were her.
She does not talk. At least she had most of her teeth (I was hoping if she had dentures, her name would be etched on her dentures).
She was taken to be under the State Custody, marked as where the person was found. (Example: Calvary Church Parking Lot).
Why do families do this? I do not understand. When all overhead resources have been exhausted, there’s other programs. Yes, it’s frustrating because they’re often with long waiting lists. One would have to be with the Elderly person 24 hours a day and night.
I would rather that someone would pin a note with a name (example: Ada Doe).
Is Elderly dumping common? Far more than you realize!
I’ve seen people abandoned elderly men and elderly women:
At the park
At the Stores / Malls
At a Library
At a beach
At a bank (we had 2 that were dumped there)
At a bus stop
At a Hospital grounds or near it
While yes, it’s true, some Elderly are able to move about – but of course, they have no idea where they are! There’s been some that walked for miles and miles, confused, in a daze.
Nursing Homes and Facilities – even State Owned ones too – are just equally guilty of evicting patients! They take them outside on the sidewalk and leave them. (When family members are not able to accomplish anything and/or aren’t able to pick them up, or worst, they have no family members.)
To me, personally, it is sad! The world will blow up if someone did this to a helpless baby, but yet, the world is completely SILENT when someone does this to a helpless elderly person!
Why Western Hegemony Is Crumbling: China’s Rise & the Global Power Shift!
AI generated, but really, REALLY, good.
